The Melon Seller
'The Watermelon Seller', Albert Morocco, 1995
Watermelons have been very dominant in my life recently, especially in the month of July.
I've actually had a minimum of one slice a day since March 27th of this year.
The most prominent imprint of the watermelon in my mind is this one:
It was the one of the first weekend's of the heatwave in Prague. No AC, besides one small one by the closed window which only recycled the hot air that smelled rank and of death. The hospice was in an old grand villa on the outskirts of Prague called the Japanese Palace, as it's owner from the 1930s travelled to Japan and married a Japanese woman. The Communists took over and gutted it, removing its decadent wooden charm. Now the only remnant of its history is a few old paintings and photos of the villa in the entrance of the hospice. "Fucking Commies." mum exclaims as we walk through the sterile white spaces, or at least she said something along the lines of that, she doesn't really cuss.
I cut up the watermelon we brought you in tiny pieces, smaller than Bibi's as you complained that they were too big. I put one slowly towards your lips as they trembled, you munched on them, and eventually spat them out into the palm of your hand, where you eventually collected many of these munched-on bits of watermelon.
You didn't like any of them. Mum says it's because they'll never be as good as they are in Serbia, his Yugoslavia, the Balkans, his Mediterranean. I was sad to know I'll never be able to give you a slice of Balkan watermelon in time.
Before we left you, I opened your hand slowly and gathered them into the bin. I felt bad for not liking doing this. It was the last time I saw you.
I don't think I'll ever have as much watermelon as I've had the last 6 months. Where will I get my reddened water & fibre supply from?
I'm going to Italy end of September with Rudi, hopefully watermelons will be in season and I'll buy a big juicy one, and enjoy it for you.