Max and the strawberries
I remember mornings at the market with Max when we opened our stands. I ran the cozy corner coffee shop, and Max worked at the juice stand next to us. We’d shout to each other about how we spent yesterday evening and our dreams from last night. We’d meet every morning at the corner of the market and Hashomer Street, embracing tightly like Siamese twins, and then each go about our business. In this early hour, the market is still vacant, clean, and gleaming in the bright morning sun, with a refreshing sea breeze wafting through the streets from the nearby shore. I always played cheerful music on the coffee shop stereo, and we’d start the day.
“Well, did you finally go out to have fun last night?” I set out the chairs and tables of the café onto the square.
“Yes,” Max said, unlocking the colorful juice stand. “We went to Port Said at the end of Allenby Street. There were new dishes and palm trees in big pots. The place was packed and noisy. We played dominoes all night long and laughed a lot.” He went to the storage to bring out the fruit crates. I started up the espresso machine and began preparing sandwiches.
I’ve got a soft spot for Max. Despite our differences — I’m gay, he’s straight — he’s as close to me as a little brother. A proud, muscular, and handsome Eritrean, he arrived as a foreign worker two years ago, but today, he’s Israel’s Thai boxing champ. Yet, in this country, titles like that often mean little beyond a plastic belt and a fleeting ceremony. No fame, no fortune. I remember the mornings after his fights when Max would arrive at the market with bruises and bandages, sometimes even a broken tooth, yet always with a resilient grin. On those mornings, I’d always ask about his well-being and the toll it took.
“How do you keep doing it, man?” I asked as we wheeled the fruit-laden cart from storage to the stand. “And why? Who wants to endure those beatings for a meaningless title?”
Max chuckled, sidestepping a direct answer. Together, we unpacked the crates and arranged the boxes of sliced fruit.
“And women boxing?” I continued. “That’s even less understandable!”
Max laughs. ‘Itai, your life is strawberries. I’m perfectly fine. I was a bit banged up and sore, but I clinched first place. Fix me a strong black coffee. Later, we’ll sit down together, and I’ll tell you all about what happened at the championship.”
But Max never tells me what happens during the competitions or how he got that black eye. After he finishes setting up the juice stand and comes for his coffee, we sit down for a tight conversation, sharing our dreams, leisure experiences, and the women and men we slept with last night.
“So, how did you take that sucker punch?” I hand him his coffee cup and stir it well, creating the crema. “How does a champ like you handle such a blow to the face?”
“Nah, forget about it,” Max chuckles. “It’s painful. I’ve got something better to share with you.
“Something better than a black eye?”
“Absolutely. Without a doubt. The dream from last Sunday.”
“Alright, spill,” I say, aiming an imaginary movie camera at him and starting to crank the handle.
Max’s dream from last week:
“I find myself in Eritrea, surrounded by strawberries. I stroll through the familiar streets of my childhood village, which seem larger and emptier. African music fills the air in vibrant stereo, and every house is overflowing with strawberries. Usually, we’d embark on long bus rides to distant corners of Eritrea to savor fruit, rice, and vegetables, but this time, my village was bursting with strawberries. They are pouring out of the windows. I walk toward the big path to the beach, excited and amazed that my house is filled with strawberries. When I reached the waterline, I saw that even the sea foam was made of strawberries. White strawberries. I start picking them up and think, when I go to the market in the morning, I’ll be able to squeeze strawberry juice at my stand and sell it to people for one shekel and ninety cents.”
