I remember the market in summer.
The stalls were full. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Onions. Bread. Cheese. Flowers. The air was thick with smells. Wet earth. Fresh dill. Sour pickles. Sweet bread. And something else. Something sweet. Something heavy. Something that was not from the market. Something that was from somewhere else.
It came from the corner. The back corner. Where the light was dim. Where the stalls were old. Where the old man sat. He was small. His hands were dark. His face was wrinkled. His eyes were brown. Light brown. Like the honey in the jars in front of him. The jars were glass. Small. Some were clear. Some were dark. The honey was different colors. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown. The jars stood in rows. On a wooden table. The table was old. The wood was worn. The edges were soft.
I passed his stall every day. Going to the old woman's stall. Coming back. I did not stop. I had no money for honey. I had no use for honey. I had bread. I had soup. I had tomatoes. I did not need honey. I passed. I did not stop.
I remember the first time he spoke to me.
It was hot. The sun was high. The market was loud. The old woman was not there. Her stall was closed. The cloth was over the basket. The tomatoes were underneath. Waiting. I walked to the back corner. To the old man's stall. I did not know why. I stood in front of his table. The jars were in rows. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown. He looked at me. His eyes were brown. Light brown. Like the honey.
"You come from far," he said. His voice was low. Rough. Like bark on an old tree. "I see your face. Your hands. Your shoes. You come from far."
I did not answer.
He reached for a jar. The small one. The clear one. The honey inside was light gold. Like the sun. Like the wheat in the fields. He opened it. He took a spoon from the table. A wooden spoon. The handle was smooth. Worn. He dipped it in the honey. He held it out to me.
"Taste," he said.
I did not move. I had no money. I had no reason to taste honey. I had bread. I had soup. I had tomatoes. I did not need honey.
"Taste," he said again. "No money. Taste."
I took the spoon. The honey was thick. It did not drip. It hung on the spoon. Heavy. Golden. I put it in my mouth. It was sweet. Not like sugar. Not like fruit. Something else. Something that was not from the market. Something that was from somewhere else. From the fields. From the trees. From the bees. From the old man's hands.
"Good," he said. Not a question.
I nodded. I gave the spoon back. He put it on the table. He closed the jar. He put it back with the others. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown.
"Where are you from?" he said.
"China," I said. "Chongqing. Far. Very far."
He nodded. He looked at the jars. The rows of jars. The honey inside. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown.
"I have not been far," he said. "I have been here. In Warsaw. In this market. In this stall. For many years. Before the war. After the war. Before the factory. After the factory. Before the change. After the change. I have been here."
He looked at me. His eyes were brown. Light brown. Like the honey.
"I was young once," he said. "I wanted to go far. I wanted to see the mountains. The sea. The cities. The places where the honey is different. The places where the bees are different. The places where the flowers are different."
He picked up a jar. The dark one. The honey inside was deep amber. Almost brown. He held it up to the light. The light was dim. The honey was dark.
"I did not go," he said. "I stayed. My father stayed. His father stayed. The bees stayed. The flowers stayed. The honey stayed. I stayed."
He put the jar down. He looked at me.
"You will go," he said. "You will go far. You will see the mountains. The sea. The cities. You will taste honey from other places. From other bees. From other flowers. You will go. I will stay. That is how it is."
I remember the honey.
He gave me a jar. One day. Not the light gold. Not the deep amber. The one in between. The one that was not too light. Not too dark. The one that was just right. He put it in my hands. The glass was warm. The honey was warm. From the sun. From his hands.
"For you," he said. "No money. For you."
I tried to give him money. Coins. From the restaurant. From Lin. From the extra hours. He shook his head. He pushed my hand away.
"No money," he said. "You take. You go. You remember."
I put the jar in my pocket. It was heavy. Warm. I walked back to the restaurant. The honey was in my pocket. I did not know what to do with it. I had bread. I had soup. I had tomatoes. I did not need honey.
I remember the day I opened the jar.
It was night. The basement was dark. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed. The pack was almost empty. I sat on my bed. I took the jar from my pocket. The glass was cold. The honey was dark. I opened it. The smell came out. Sweet. Heavy. Like the fields. Like the trees. Like the flowers. Like the old man's hands.
I dipped my finger in. The honey was thick. It did not drip. It hung on my finger. Heavy. Golden. I put it in my mouth. It was sweet. Not like sugar. Not like fruit. Something else. Something that was not from the basement. Something that was from somewhere else. From the market. From the corner. From the old man. From the bees.
I put the jar on the shelf. Next to my bed. Next to the cloth from the priest. Next to the envelope for the shoemaker. I did not eat it. I kept it. For later. For when I needed it.
I remember the day he told me about the bees.
It was autumn. The leaves were yellow. The market was quiet. The old woman was at her stall. She had tomatoes. Red. Round. Firm. I had them in my pocket. I went to the back corner. The old man was there. The jars were in rows. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown.
"The bees," he said. "They come from far. They fly. They go to the fields. To the trees. To the flowers. They collect the nectar. They bring it back. They make the honey. They work. They do not stop. They do not rest. They make the honey."
He picked up a jar. The light gold. The one like the sun. He held it up. The light was yellow. The honey was gold.
"They are small," he said. "They are many. They are not strong. One bee cannot make honey. One bee cannot fill a jar. One bee can only carry a little. A drop. A tiny drop. But many bees. Many drops. Many days. Many flowers. Many fields. Many trees. Then there is honey. Then there is a jar. Then there is a jar full of honey."
He put the jar down. He looked at me. His eyes were brown. Light brown. Like the honey.
"You are like a bee," he said. "You come from far. You work. You carry. A little. A drop. You do not see the jar. You do not see the honey. You see only the drop. The tiny drop. The day. The work. The bread. The soup. The tomatoes. The cracks on your hands. You do not see the jar."
He picked up the jar again. The light gold. He put it in my hands. The glass was warm. The honey was warm.
"But there is a jar," he said. "One day. You will see. There will be a jar. Full. Heavy. Golden. And you will know. The drops were not nothing. The days were not nothing. The work was not nothing. The cracks on your hands were not nothing. There is honey. There is a jar."
I remember the last time I saw him.
It was winter again. The snow was falling. The market was empty. The stalls were closed. The old woman's stall was covered. The cloth was white with snow. The tomatoes were underneath. Waiting. I walked to the back corner. The old man was there. His table was there. The jars were there. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown. The snow was on them. On the table. On his hands.
He was sitting on a stool. Small. Wooden. His hands were in his lap. His eyes were closed. I stood in front of his table. I did not speak. He opened his eyes. His eyes were brown. Light brown. Like the honey.
"You come," he said.
"I am leaving," I said. "Warsaw. Poland. I am going."
He nodded. He looked at the jars. The snow was on them. The honey was underneath. Waiting.
"You will go far," he said. "You will see the mountains. The sea. The cities. You will taste honey from other places. From other bees. From other flowers. You will go. I will stay. That is how it is."
He reached for a jar. The one in between. The one that was not too light. Not too dark. The one that was just right. He put it in my hands. The glass was cold. The honey was cold. From the snow. From the winter.
"For you," he said. "No money. For you. You take. You go. You remember."
I put the jar in my pocket. It was heavy. Cold. I stood there. The snow fell on my shoulders. On my hands. On the jars. On the table. On the old man. He sat on his stool. His hands were in his lap. His eyes were on the jars. The rows of jars. The honey inside. Light gold. Deep amber. Almost brown. Waiting. For someone to buy. For someone to taste. For someone to remember.
I remember the honey.
I took the jar with me. From Warsaw. To Berlin. To Paris. To Naples. To Amsterdam. I did not eat it. I kept it. On the shelf. Next to my bed. Next to the cloth from the priest. Next to the envelope for the shoemaker. Next to the postcard from Daniel. Next to the seeds from the sunflower. I kept it. For later. For when I needed it. For when I remembered.
I remember the old man. His dark hands. His wrinkled face. His brown eyes. Light brown. Like the honey. I remember his words. "You are like a bee. You come from far. You work. You carry. A little. A drop. You do not see the jar. But there is a jar. One day. You will see."
I do not know if I have seen the jar. I do not know if the jar is full. I do not know if the honey is golden. I do not know. But I remember. I remember the taste. The honey on the spoon. The wooden spoon. The smooth handle. The thick sweetness. The taste of something that was not from the market. Something that was from somewhere else. From the fields. From the trees. From the bees. From the old man's hands. From Warsaw.