The wine at Christmas markets can be way too sweet, and it can make you feel sick, but this wine is pretty much perfect. The snow blows all around Saskia, and around the huts, and up in the sky above the church. I switch my mug from one hand to the other, which has been warm and in my pocket, so I can put my cold hand in my pocket. The wine goes cold quickly, so you sip it for a bit, until you finish half, but then you must gulp the rest. Another? Saskia asks. No, I say, better not. I switch hands again with the mug. You need some gloves, she says, and takes the mug, so I can put both hands in my pockets. We leave the fountain and find a table under the large awning of one of the huts, and she takes the newspaper out. Okay, she says, and flattens out the page in front of us. See how much smaller the apartments section is on Saturdays? It’s true. There are only two columns that run down half a page, whereas on Thursdays there are four full pages of ads. She runs her index finger down the columns as she reads. Here’s one, she says. It’s in the centre. I try to read it but I can’t understand it. Looks good, I say. She takes her phone out and pulls off her glove. She dials the number, holds the phone to her ear and unbuttons the top of her coat. It’s a grey wool coat with a thick collar and large buttons, and it falls just below her knees. It makes me want a new coat. Soon after I arrived, I walked into a disconsolate little shop by the train station, just a white room with coats on rolling racks, and a fat guy with a moustache started throwing coats at me, piling them in my arms. I didn’t like anything. I tried to leave but he wouldn’t let me. He kept dropping his price. He spoke English. He was an Arab. He’d made me as an American, and was telling me he wanted to get to America and see the West. There is nothing to see in the West, I said, except sky and dirt, though everybody there seems to be satisfied with that. People will tell you it’s beautiful, and I suppose it must be, if it is to them. I told him I’d rather look around some more, that nothing in his shop was exactly what I wanted, and he grabbed me by the arm and told me I was making a mistake, that there was a coat for me there. He stood between me and the door, still with a creepy smile on his face, and I knew I would have to really assert myself to get away without buying something. I let him win. From now on, I am going to let everyone win. I picked up the most boring coat in the place and gave him his final offer. I put the coat on, zipped it up, and walked out the door, and the next day I walked by and the shop no longer existed. Mr Pyz explained that this is common – these guys are just traders who sell out of spaces they use illegally for a day, or even a few hours. There are a lot of Arabs in the city, and a lot of Africans, and a lot of Roma, and everyone here seems to think they fill the place with stink and depravity – even Mr and Mrs Pyz, who are nice and decent people. Nobody in rich countries wants to face responsibility for the lives of people in poor countries. They just want cheap groceries. But now I am going on about something I don’t want to think about. Everything human beings can imagine has been thrown at injustice, and injustice just absorbs it, and enlarges. Saskia is still on the phone. I stop thinking and watch her. She winks at me. The news must be good. The man on the trumpet finishes and there is soft and sustained applause. I look over at him. He takes off his hat as a salute. A good musician treats a small audience the same way he treats a large one, with humility and grace. A good musician does not play for glory. He plays to thank fortune for his ability. He plays to honour his predecessors. Saskia hangs up. Good news, she says. We can see it at two. She checks the time on her phone. We have a few hours, she says. I’ve decided I’d like to get a coat, I say. She likes this idea, and for the first time I understand that she doesn’t like the coat I’m wearing, not at all. There are some department stores on the way to the apartment, she says.
The trumpet begins again. The music is faster now and people start dancing. Whatever makes people want to dance makes me want to stand completely still. This is how I appreciate good music. It makes me feel calm. I think Saskia is like this too. Her eyes are calm. She and I are just standing. It’s nice to just stand and listen to music, to a single instrument. In the evenings, at the larger markets, big bands play. They belt out huge polka versions of pop songs, or sentimental old Christmas tunes, and those are a lot of fun too. The crowds stand around contentedly, drinking and listening to the music, and I walk slowly through them, politely making way for anybody crossing my path. The apartment has a terrace, says Saskia, and a big kitchen. I’ll take it, I say. You haven’t even seen it! Doesn’t matter, I say. I think you should see it first. It could be full of mice. I’ll get a cat, I say. It’s expensive, she says. Well, then it probably doesn’t have mice. I thought you said you weren’t in a rush, she says. I have a good feeling, I say. She is weighing the risk of asking me another question, one that is much larger, but she resists. Do you really want to get a coat? she asks eventually. Yes, I say. We return our mugs to the drinks hut and get some money back. There is still dancing in front of the stage. Adults are dancing with their children and grandchildren. There you go, I say. What? she says. Now that’s a picture, I say. Yes, but it’s a pity when Christmas passes, and all we have left is the cold. I don’t know, I say, I think I’d like a long winter. You’ll get one, she says. Don’t worry. We leave the market and the little square in front of the church, and the fountain with the saint of seafarers in it, and we press upward. From time to time, the centre appears above and ahead of us, in the snow and fog and dimness, through spaces between building tops, spires, arches. We are heading for the interior. There is a cathedral there, and a fortress, but from here they are just faint shadows.