Subtitle

An occasional series of flash, or sudden, or short-short fictions

Monday 20 December 2010

A Conversation in Sunshine

'Do you know, you can't buy a decent olive in this city?'
'I'm sure you're exaggerating, Anna.'
'No, it's true. You remember that stunted little olive tree Seyit Bey spent so many summers watering and watering, while the dust covered his ears and eyebrows? You remember the hard, bitter, shrivelled things he used to present in a bowl and beg us eat? Even they were better than the best you can get in this city. The people here don't know how to cook. It's probably just as well considering what they have to cook with.'
'It was a fig tree, Anna.'
'Figs, olives, who knows? The point is that nothing ripens here, there's no sun. The water falls, and it rises up. I've never felt warm, not truly warm, here.'
'Is there nothing you like about this place, Anna? I like the trains.'
'You always liked trains, dear. There was that wooden train set that Baba brought home for your birthday when you were, how old? Five? It went in a circle, round and around, round and around…'
'No, that was Hamid's. Hamid's train went round and round.'
'Ah, was it, dear? Hamid's? I'm sorry. Poor Hamid. I'd forgotten, you see. I'd forgotten it was Hamid's. You're not upset, are you, dear?'
'No, Anna. I'm not upset. How are these olives, did you say?

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