Autumn is coming, and the market is full. The aisles are packed with people. Some of them are local; some of them I know. A great many are tourists, and I am unsure what they are going to do with all the food they seem to buy. Most of the kitchens in this place are jealously kept. There are also those who stand between the camps, obviously not from here, but somehow at home. Juliet says that as the season winds down, they stay longer.

There is the food, too; great heaping mounds of it, fruits and squash piled together in pyramids as tall as a man, requiring the deft fingers of the shopkeep to judiciously pluck out just what the old woman wants without sending the entire pile down around her ankles. Under a sunny and cloudless sky there are vast open bins of grains and flours, buzzing with young boys earning pennies by shooing away old and portly men who waddle through the market on the ends of fat cigars. The smells from the fishmongers cart are clean and fresh. The smells from the bakery are enough for lunch. We have brought Jacobo to the market.

Juliet was also determined to bring Mr. Shen, but found the thought of the third floor unpleasant. I still do not know what he does up there, or if she knows it. She sent me. I was unable to find him. I had the notion that he was there, somewhere, perhaps that he was moving around the third floor at my pace, in the same direction, keeping as much of the route between myself and him as he could. As I moved up there, I was suddenly taken by the urge to laugh and run after him, or stand still in a quiet corner and perhaps wait for him to pass me. I did neither of these things. After tracing the route once, I stood lamely at the top of the stair and called to him, told him we were going, and we would be back soon.

We have left Jacobo at a draughts table. Rather: he has decided to stay there. He is playing draughts for oranges, and playing very fast. His fingers whip forward to move pieces, and his eyes are calm. There is a line of takers waiting to challenge him, and the box of oranges at his feet is growing heavy. I think Juliet is impressed.

We did not take the red car to come here. Earlier, Juliet and I had stood before it, close together and breathing, the key in her hand and hers in mine. We had come instead in a sensible sedan. I do not think we chose so because Marco would have known, but rather that we would have him know something else. Juliet shows me the chopsticks she has bought for Mr. Shen, and I look up into the warm light of the afternoon at market. We will need food for tonight.