NIGHT MARKET
A short story of 1800 words
© David Lowe, January 1992
Winds buffeted the palm trees along the Esplanade as a woman walked briskly through the night towards the wharf. The tide was out, and gulls pecked at hopping creatures left naked on the mud. As usual there were tourists complaining about the missing beach, arms crossed and shivering in their holiday clothes, but Miriam Loosely stepped past quickly with her eyes down, ignoring them as she ignored the cold wind whipping in from the sea. Under a streetlight the woman stopped to light a cigarette. In the flare from the match one could see she was neither young nor old, but forty-something, hair tied into a plait, and eyes set defiantly apart. An Egyptian pendant hung on her breast, and a vaguely Indian shawl poked out beneath a man's overcoat over well-worn sandals.
It was the off-season in the coastal town, and electric signs outside the new hotels winked out as Miriam stepped on to the wharf. She walked past working and pleasure boats creaking side by side, half-beached yet trying to float. In the gusts their flags waved and snapped. At the end of the wharf Miriam stopped. For a moment the moon glinted through the clouds and a tear glistened in her eye, but then the woman turned on her heel and was off again, striding back to the shore.
She took the long route home, past snoring blacks in the park and nervous flying foxes in fig trees. The old part of town was silent. Houses leaned against each other as if for warmth or comfort. In the distance - the sound of laughing people gathered somewhere. Chatter and arguments. A flute and jangling coins. Someone with their TV turned up loud, thought Miriam, until she turned the corner.
The sign was strung between two old gums in garish red and yellow: 'NIGHT MARKET!' And so it was. As Miriam walked closer, she saw stalls and people of all descriptions crammed into what had been a vacant lot that very afternoon. Children chased each other between rows of stalls as wandering buskers competed for the attention of the crowd. A delicious smell of frangipani, frying kebabs and tropical fruit filled the air. But what was the market doing here in the middle of the night? Why hadn't the neighbours complained about the noise?
With delight Miriam stepped inside, turning away shyly as a small man proffered a hand-made kite with a smile. Overhead were strung saris and swathes of silk. A bare-chested boy with long blonde hair walked past strumming a guitar. How funny that all the old hippy era things had come back into fashion! Behind curtains were painted women telling fortunes, and men giving massages. There were people buying and selling almost everything that could be bought or sold. Miriam took off her coat, noticing herself sweating in the suddenly humid night air. In a happy daze she drifted this way and that among the laughing young people. Occasionally she bumped someone accidentally and apologised, but no-one seemed to mind.
Suddenly, a glimpse of a familiar face beyond a jewellery stall. Owen! Miriam blinked and he had vanished. She ran to the end of the row. Was that his back? Under a watermelon counter she dashed, colliding with a clown in mid-routine. Frantic now. A flash of his shirt near the wall. Miriam ran to the edge of the market and saw a shadow disappear behind a house. Leaving the market behind, she sprinted, panting, down the dark street. She stopped. Looked. Nothing.
Defeated, Miriam finally walked back to her empty house, breath ragged and lungs hurting.
As she made herself coffee between walls lined by cookbooks, Miriam's mind whirled. Owen. It couldn't be. Her lover had been dead for nearly twenty years.
In 1969 they had been hitch-hiking up the coast from the south, she doing waitress work and a bit of cooking, he working where he could. Both running from their families, after a couple of years they stopped at the sleepy northern town. Prospects looked good, and the couple rented a garage at the back of an old house. Owen got a job with the life guards nearby and Miriam cooked for a guesthouse.
The accident had happened while she was shopping. Died instantly, they'd said, head hit by a spinning propellor while he was trying to save a fisherman. The surf was big that day, and Owen's body was never found. With nowhere else to go, Miriam stayed in the little town. She did a course, and taught domestic studies in the local high school as tourists began to arrive and the town grew to service them. The coastal town changed, but Miriam remained, dreaming of the past.
That night she soon fell asleep, confused and yet buzzing with excitement.
The next day was Saturday. Miriam was woken by jets flying overhead, full of Southerners looking for sun. The day was hot, and the blue sky outside her windows just made the events of the previous night seem even more unreal. Eating breakfast, Miriam's eye fell upon a photograph of Owen grinning around a huge piece of birthday cake. He'd always liked her cakes best. But there was no-one to cook for now. Not anymore. Feeling sad and weak, Miriam went back to bed for the day.
That night and the next there was no sign of the market in the vacant lot; only a family of stray cats near the fence at the back, eyes glinting green.
On Monday, Miriam mentioned the night markets to some other teachers in the staffroom, who looked at her strangely.
'There's no market anymore,' they said. 'Hasn't been one here for years.'
Owen she mentioned to no-one.
That afternoon Miriam rang the town council. They had never heard of the market, and asked who was calling. Miriam hung up, feeling sick in her stomach.
That night the market was not there. She went back Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Nothing. On Friday it was a full moon, and Miriam went to look at the lot for one last time.
Behind the tourist strip all was quiet in the town. Television sets flickered behind venetian blinds. She turned the corner.
'NIGHT MARKET!' announced the sign. Miriam's heart leapt to her throat. It was back! Joyfully she ran inside. All was as before - Miriam recognised the faces of some of the stall-holders. This time the buskers were silent, but an old Bob Dylan album played through a scratchy PA. Suddenly the little kite man was at her elbow again. Before she could say anything, he shoved the kite into Miriam's hands and vanished into the crowd. She sat down on a bench, noticing the beautiful dragonfly design of the kite for the first time. It tugged at her hand in the warm, incense-laden breeze. Beyond a leather-goods stall, a man licking an icecream winked at her. Owen! Casually he sauntered away. Miriam leapt up and after him, tugging the kite behind her through the crowd. Once again the maze of stalls blocked her way as she pursued the tall figure.
'Have you seen him?!' she demanded of a boy selling spinning tops, 'A man with an icecream?' The boy shrugged and turned away. It was hopeless.
Finally Miriam gave up and sat down on a stool. The kite had been broken and lost in the chase. Head in her hands, she cried in frustration, eventually looking up through a break in the crowd to see where she was.
The stall was unattended. Home-made cakes and slices were laid out beautifully on an improvised table, and there was a sign hand-written in coloured pencils propped up near the coin box, 'Miriam's Cakes'.
Curiously, Miriam stepped forward just as the crowd surged like a flood and bowled her along towards the exit. In surprise she tripped over a kneeling man playing an electric sitar. She sat up. He smiled a mouthful of green teeth at her. In horror Miriam leapt up and made for the exit.
That night she swore to herself she would not look for the market again.
The next week at work Miriam said nothing to her colleagues about what had happened. She behaved as if all was normal. Instead of smoking one cigarette a week, it was now two packets a day.
She packed up all her photos of Owen and put them in a box in her cupboard. Noticing the yellowing paper lining the kitchen shelves, Miriam decided to distract herself by replacing it. The job was dusty, and it took several trips to the bin to collect all the old newsprint. Carrying the final load, a fragment fluttered free. Miriam was about to add it to the pile when her eye saw the headline: 'Markets Burn Down!' The article described a terrible fire that had occurred in the town in 1965. An open air night market had been utterly destroyed, and many people, mostly hippies gathered for a nearby festival, had perished in the blaze.
Miriam sat down, her head spinning.
The next day was Thursday. Miriam went to work via the old part of town. By day the street with the empty lot looked innocent and mundane. When she arrived, the entire lot had been fenced off, and two workmen were nailing up a big glossy sign advertising a high-rise development to be built on the site.
'What's going on?' Miriam asked one of the workmen, a knot of fear forming.
'Progress, love.' shouted the man in the hardhat. 'Digging starts tomorrow.'
The rest of the day was a blur of confusion. Friday passed in seconds. Forgetting her promise, that night Miriam went to stand on the street opposite the lot.
The high construction fence glinted blue in the night. Inside, the market was going on as normal. Miriam crossed the street and yelled through the wire, 'You're not real! It's all a lie!' Some of the stall-holders nearby looked at her, bemused, and then went back to their work.
Miriam began climbing the fence. Her skirt caught on the barbed wire at the top and she landed roughly on the other side with a thump, face gashed and clothes torn.
'You're not real! You're not real! You're not real...' The shout became a whisper.
Miriam picked herself up. She threaded her way through familiar sights and smells. Naked children splashed in a wading pool. A young girl picked out a tune on a tin whistle. All around her the crowd flowed.
Suddenly, Miriam stood before the cake stall. 'Miriam's Cakes' Again the stall was unattended. An eternity passed. Laughter. Music. The smell of jacarandas blooming.
Miriam made her decision. Firmly, she parted a way through the crowd and took her place behind the stall. Tall legs strode up to the counter. The man held up a cake. 'How much?' said a soft voice. Miriam looked up into smiling eyes. Owen.
Miriam Loosely was never seen again.© David Lowe, January 1992