I should’ve said no. Or at least asked where, exactly, this cousin lived. But Carmen just handed me the bag like we were mid-conversation, like it was all already agreed. “Take it up to my cousin’s house—just past the fig tree. She’ll be there.”
She didn’t even look up from her phone.
There were courgettes inside. A couple of tomatoes rolling around like they were trying to get out. The bag had a faint smell of warm herbs. Basil maybe. Or just age.
I waited a beat. Nothing more from her. No address. No name. Just: the fig tree.
And I went. Obviously. Like an idiot.
It was mid-afternoon. Too hot, too quiet, too late to turn back. That part of the day where everyone else vanishes indoors and the whole village feels like it’s been switched off. Even the birds slow down.
I passed what I thought was a fig tree. Then another. Possibly a third. All of them looked smugly identical.
The first house I tried had a green door and a pile of firewood so neatly stacked I hesitated to knock. A man in a vest came out before I had to. Offered me a plastic chair before I even opened my mouth.
Tried to explain about the cousin. He nodded like he understood, then poured me a beer. Not water. Beer. Warm. I held the bag up. “Carmen sent these.” He took one look, sniffed, and said, “Ah. Not me. Try the Molina place.”
Molina place. Not a clue.
Further up, two more houses. No doorbells. Just dogs that barked like I owed them money. One woman waved at me from a distance, then said something about a cousin who’d left “because of the owls.” Or maybe “howls.” Her accent was thick. I didn’t ask for clarification. She seemed pleased I didn’t.
There was a donkey standing under a tree. Might’ve been the original fig tree. Who knows. He started following me. Not closely. Just… present. Like he was monitoring the delivery.
After another half hour I gave up. The courgettes were sweating through the bag. My shirt was soaked. I sat on a low wall and stared at the dust.
It wasn’t about the cousin. I knew that by then.
By the time I got back to the village, the sky had turned that pale orange that means everything’s about to stop again, just for a moment. Carmen was at the fountain, chatting to the ukulele bloke from the veg swap. (See: Lettuce, Lies, and the Local WhatsApp Group).
She looked at me like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
“Find her?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No one knew anything. Except a man who took a tomato and told me to follow the owls.”
“Sounds right,” she said. Took the bag from my hand like I’d completed a task. Didn’t even check what was inside.
That was it.
I walked home through the empty streets, half-hoping Rosa would be waiting in my kitchen again, chopping onions without asking. (See also: Cooking Lessons from Rosa).
That night, Carmen sent me a voice message.
“Gracias por el paseo.”
Thanks for the walk.
Not ‘thanks for trying.’ Not ‘sorry about the mess.’ Just: thanks for the walk.
I didn’t reply. I just listened to it again. The tone in her voice. Like it wasn’t really about the vegetables.
Maybe there was no cousin. Or maybe I just wasn’t meant to find her.
Next day I walked the path again. No bag. No instructions.
The donkey was there. Waiting like I was late.
So I brought an apple. Just in case.
