Simplicity of Life
A crisp, sugary, meaty watermelon is a taste of paradise on a hot day. Yet, even after you bring it home, a watermelon remains a stranger—until it faces the knife. Here is the moment when two complete strangers finally meet: your watermelon and you. This moment is sacred; you are either a winner or a loser in front of the whole family. You do not want to hear that painfully familiar sigh behind your back—“Awww!”—caused by the sight of a greenish, “unsweetened” fruit, because what you truly anticipate is a “wow!” at the sight of scarlet insides peppered with glossy black seeds.
As for me, I place the watermelon elegantly on my right shoulder next to my ear, then I knock on the opposite side with my knuckles and wait for the echo. My mother taught me this. If the sound is dry and cracking, then the watermelon is sweet and red. You still wait nervously for that cracking moment at the touch of a knife, but that is a different anxiety—the anxiety of a definite winner.
When I was about twelve, my mother sent me one day to buy a watermelon. She told me to buy the best watermelon, of course.
“Look at the remaining stem, like a piggy’s tail—it should look and feel dry. Knock first, and only if you hear the right sound, then buy it.”
“Oh, Mama! I know this! Yes, yes, smell first, then knock.”
“Did I say smell? I said, look at the ring around the little tail, and then, if it is dry, knock and listen. This is so simple.”
“The ring? Did you say anything about the ring before? Mama! You said nothing about the ring! Ah, that ring! Not to worry!”
I was about to close the door in a hurry when I heard, “Money! You forgot the money!” and then again, “Pick out the big one! Oh, girl!”
The grocery line in the former Soviet Union was a visible sign of invisible corruption. In our naivety, we called it our “fair distribution system,” which was “fair” toward only those who made it to the top. The rest had to wait at the bottom of the pyramid, where the lines were the longest. My family was somewhere in the middle of the pyramid, but when it came to watermelons, the pyramid principle didn’t work during the short summer seasons: everybody had to stay in line for melons, peaches, and cherries.
Watermelons were placed on top of each other on the ground in the shape of a hill. My eyes started wandering up and down the hill. I tried to estimate if there were enough watermelons for every soul and began counting from the bottom. Nobody wants to see a “sold out” sign after two or three hours of waiting. Then, I started from the top but lost count even faster after a saleswoman in her dirty apron sold three watermelons at once.
“Only one watermelon per person!” someone from the back tried to push one of the major principles of socialist justice, but it was all in vain. Our appetites were going up. I didn’t panic yet; the watermelon hill was still high.
I remembered two things: to pick up the best one and to knock on it to find the right sound. My eyes picked out a fine-looking, middle-sized watermelon with stripes. I got excited; someone told me once that the best watermelons have stripes. After forty minutes under the molasses-like heat, my mouth began to thirst for a sip of cool watermelon juice. The closer I got to the head of the line, the more I remembered my mother’s commandment: “Pick out a big one!”
I did not want to stay in line again tomorrow, so I put my eyes on a monstrous watermelon—not only to impress my mother but also to reward myself for the punishment of waiting. I found a forty-four-pound watermelon, as the saleswoman announced later. It was so huge that I had to check the sound of its belly’s echo on the ground. The sound was just right. It echoed from the cork to the middle of the watermelon and back to my ear. I was thrilled, especially after all the people around me breathed out, “Wow!” I proudly got my watermelon from the clerk, and immediately, it pressed me down to the ground with its weight.
“How is she going to carry it home?” I heard whispers around me in my current squatting position, and it gave me the power to stand up with the watermelon on my tummy. I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of the enviously curious crowd. Slowly, I started moving toward my house, catching the eyes of people around me and counting every step.
After crossing two major roads, I ended up pushing the watermelon with my foot like it was a huge football, and I got an extra kick out of my achievement. I felt smarter than anybody else. My only concern was how I would carry this monstrosity up to the fifth floor without an elevator.
The answer came in an instant: I pushed the watermelon with my foot one more time, and—boom!—the watermelon tragically cracked into a hundred pieces, generously showering our elderly neighbors, who were sitting on a “neighborhood watch” bench, with bright, punch-like syrupy liquid. My mother’s advice was right: I picked the best watermelon.
In awe, I stared at the sugary red chunks that smelled delicious while the red juice ran down the street. Even those habitually grumpy women from the bench showed compassion—“Ohh!”—immediately followed by a warning: “And now clean the pavement! This is communal property!”
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