The Green Market could hardly deserve its name: the paint of its metal stalls had long been stripped down by the rain, the heat, and the infinite number of hands and goods wearing it down in the long years of its existence. The canopies of the stalls seemed like a domino game of rusty blocks contracted to occupy all space in the irregular square between the buildings. The continuous murmur of its inhabitants, the sellers and the buyers, rambled on with an even tempo. Occasionally, a voice would rise to advertise a good buy, to tease a pretty girl, or simply to disrupt the monotony of the selling business. Disarray was a normal state of affairs, and perpetuating it seemed like the duty of each visitor.

People came to the market for various reasons, and trade was merely one of them. There were other sorts of exchange going on over and behind the stalls - the black market was guilefully entwined with the official trade: dubious deals were negotiated, illegally acquired items changed possession, while policemen received gifts and harassed shady and less shady characters. It was not a place where well-off people would come to shop, so no one bought excessively. The market was the place to enter the vivid charade of human community, and amidst that velocity of changes and exchanges, a cunning mind and invisibility stood for the fundamental art of survival.

Incessant commotion whirled between the stalls, with occasional bottlenecks piling up colourful clews of faces and limbs. One summer day, a Saturday noon, the buzz of the market had already diminished under the exhaustion of the sun-stricken town. The heat had made attention listless and pointless; even the most cautious eyes were dropping. It seemed as if everyone was doing no more than necessary, in the general lack of curiosity or will to move, which all in all, kept things, even some potentially heated arguments, steadily in their tracks.

Suddenly, there was a shout: “Thief!... Thief!”

The commotion lost its shapelessness and it centred on the clearly agitated voices. Eyes turned toward the source of alarm, and people started assembling around one particular stall.

A short bulky woman was frantically yelling, tightly holding the hand of a small girl. The girl was desperately trying to release the grasp - it was obviously hurting her. The woman started calling for the police. At last, a policeman approached, languid and sweaty.

“What’s going on?” he asked with a tired voice.

“She’s a thief! I caught her! She was trying to snatch my fruit! Do something! Take her away! Thief!” she screamed again at the little girl.

The policeman quickly assessed the girl. Skinny and unkempt, her short brown hair was roughly cut and uncombed. Less than ten years old, he guessed, and already a thief. The girl was still trying to break free.  The policeman took hold of her other hand and asked the woman to step back. The woman, breathing heavily, moved away but stayed close, glaring at the girl.

The officer looked at her coolly.

“What did you take?”

“I… I didn’t take anything. I was just… just trying to see if… if… if the fruit was alright,” the girl stuttered and started crying.

“What’s your name?” the policeman asked her. The girl just gazed at him, blinking with tearful eyes, but her gaping mouth did not utter a sound.

“Is anyone here with you?” he asked cautiously.

“I was with my granddad, but I lost him. I don’t know where he is,” she looked askance.

“Don’t lie to me,” said the officer sternly. “Where do you live?”

“I’m not from around here,” she said, bravely trying to look into his eyes. Her voice wavered: “Please, if my granddad sees me like this... Please, let me go.”

The policeman checked her pockets. They were full of plums, which he pointedly showed to the crowd. Some people erupted in disapproval, but most of them simply gazed at the girl resentfully. She seemed to be dissolving under their gaze, contracting her shoulders as if trying to vanish on the spot.

“You little liar!” exhaled the policeman. “I am not letting you go. You’re going to the police station.”

“I am not lying, my granddad was going to pay for them.” The girl burst into tears. ”I’ve never stolen anything in my life,” she sobbed.

“Right, and I’ve never arrested a thief in my life,” drawled the policeman and dragged the girl away.

The crowd started to comfort the woman seller and praise the policeman for ridding them of a thief. The excitement was almost pleasant.

Meanwhile, still a short distance away, the girl had stopped crying and pleading. Her face turned resolute and dark. Her eyes glazed coldly, as of someone years older. Walking behind the officer, arm locked in his hand, she measured her step by his pace. She bent slightly and her tread became noiseless. The policeman, feeling no resistance from her, relaxed his grip. Suddenly, she dropped to the ground and bounced aside. Her arm slid away from the officer’s sweaty fingers and she darted off in the crowd. It took a few seconds for the policeman to realise that he was not holding her anymore. He jumped after her yelling at the top of his voice.

The girl ran, taking advantage of her small height to dash through the crowd. A seller grabbed her. She slipped away from his arms, but another caught her and held her firmly. Seeing her now safely held, the policeman, fuming with heat and anger, slowed down.

“Stop!” a man’s voice cut through the scene.

The policeman turned in the direction of the voice, eyes half closed. He already hated the man who had shouted, the girl, the woman seller, the heat, and the entire market crowd.

“Stop, I say!” bellowed a man with white hair, rushing from a side path between the stalls.

“Mary! What is happening here? What are you doing with my girl?” The white-haired man resolutely approached the seller who had got the girl and forced her hands free from his grasp. He held Mary firmly by her shoulders and turned her around to face him.

“Mary! What have you done?”

“She stole some plums,” answered several voices, timid now in this surprising turn of events. The policeman arrived, breathing heavily.

“And who are you, sir?” he said with all the sarcasm he could muster under the sweat pouring over his face.

“I am John Gilmore, sir, and I demand to know what you have done to my girl,” answered the old man out loud.

Arrogant, thought the policeman. Dressed expensively, well-spoken, he recorded automatically. Caution, the internal alarm sounded, something is wrong here.

“This girl was caught stealing,” the officer answered in a humbler voice. “I was taking her to the police station to locate her parents and home address.”

“I am her grandfather,” the old man cut him short, and turned to the girl. “Mary, have you stolen anything?” he asked her in a stern voice.

The girl was just shaking in his arms, looking at him with a wide-open mouth. He winked at her almost imperceptibly and his lips suddenly revealed a playful smile.

“Mary,” he asked her again sharply, “have you stolen anything?” The girl still did not respond. “I’m asking you, now answer me.” His head tilted slightly as if telling her ‘no.’

“No, no, I didn’t,” the girl suddenly repeated the motion, “I just wanted to try the fruit…” she stuttered again.

“Again? And you didn’t ask me before taking it? I told you to wait for me by the cheese shop. Alright, we’re off, no more shopping for you, and,” his voice altered into a low and distinct tone, “keep… silent.” He changed again to a stern voice. “We shall discuss this at home.”

Keep ... silent, echoed through the girl’s head. All other impressions, the sweat of the officer, the fat palm of the woman-seller, the dark colour of the plums, whirled around her head in disarray. Keep … silent. She obeyed.

John Gilmore held her hand lightly. He turned to the officer, reaching in his pocket with his free hand:

“Here, something for that seller for the trouble and something for you, officer. You were just doing your job,” he said in a calm voice. He pulled out a note. “I consider this all finished,” again he changed the tone of his voice at the last word. Finished, echoed in the minds of the onlookers. They walked away finding their interest deflated. The policeman stood still looking at the single banknote in his hand.

“That much money?” he thought to himself. “How should I split it with that hag? If I have to split it at all…”

John Gilmore took advantage of his distraction and quickly strode away through the side paths of the market. The girl followed him, her eyes smeared with tears and dust.

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