The old man was loiter­ing around the crowd. People made a show of being busy, though some were merely mov­ing along with the rest uncon­sciously, almost help­lessly, while oth­ers strode with pur­pose and resolve. The crowd surged to and fro, and in coun­ter­point the old vendor with the fur­rowed face was present as an out­sider. That is the best word for it: he was present. In his own inner peace, in his time­less­ness, he took part in the scene. He both took part and did not. Though the crowd surged and the old man drif­ted in one and the same square, they did not live in one and the same world. Could the old man have been an angel­ic appar­i­tion – or a spir­it that had mani­fes­ted here, in the mar­ket square? He dis­guises him­self so well that his airy spir­it-nature does not show, but if I look more closely, I see he is here, and yet he is not here. A truly mys­ter­i­ous fig­ure in the pic­ture.

The old man was selling figs. Hung round his neck on a make­shift rope was a broad, flat wick­er tray, and on it dried figs in clumsy little bags, and other treats. Pack­ets large and small, figs wrapped in trans­par­ent paper, a little change, slips of paper. Most of the crowd paid the old man no heed, and he was not much bothered either. True, he would address someone now and then – After all, I am sup­posed to be a vendor! – but he did not mind that they hardly noticed him. And yet I have the feel­ing that he sees everything. His eyes squint now, as old men’s do, but noth­ing lim­its his clear sight. The non­des­cript exter­i­or con­ceals a mys­ter­i­ous interi­or, and the faraway eyes of the old fol­low everything and every­one with an attent­ive gaze. This is the par­tic­u­lar mark of the great ones – they are present in such a way that no one even notices them, yet they see everything.

His face is fur­rowed. His coat is worn. His gaze is search­ing. Feebly, or rather hes­it­antly, he steps up to someone, with no hope of response or atten­tion, says his piece as he offers his wares, and is glad if a buyer or two turns up. Per­haps the figs are not the point at all. What if the slips of paper carry some time­less mes­sage, and the lucky buyer is enriched not only with a sweet treat, but with the ambro­sia of the gods, the mes­sage of wis­dom? The pur­chase is a secret ini­ti­ation. It is not the wares that change hands; instead, a mys­tic­al, sac­red bond is formed, reach­ing from soul to soul. The old man’s eyes see fur­ther than any­one’s in the bust­ling crowd. It is as if he were look­ing for a can­did­ate, or a novice, one who is fit to receive the teach­ing, one worthy of the divine secrets. Surely he also knows on which day he will meet the can­did­ate who bears the sign, invis­ible to oth­ers, of being chosen, of being anoin­ted. He knows this is not the day, and yet here he is, stand­ing, loiter­ing, step­ping up to someone, mov­ing on.

And how strange it all is?! The fig… a fruit of para­dise, the gift of the gods, per­fect just as it is. Like a money pouch tied shut, it hides its sweet interi­or. Its many seeds seem to stand for the count­less gold pieces of holy wis­dom, of the divine secret, seeds in which everything lies hid­den, seeds that may one day sprout, seeds that may come to bear fruit. No mat­ter if hardly any­one buys today, the seeds are wait­ing for the worthy and fit can­did­ate.

The group that had gathered into a crowd sud­denly dis­perses. The crowd faded back into tran­si­ence, the old man remained in etern­ity. Only a hand­ful of people still linger in the square, and the old man, turned inward, in inner serenity, counts and recounts his mea­gre tak­ings. He pushes the coins this way and that, but they grow no more for it. I sense this is not why he does it at all.

I too was part of the group, and I too had already moved on. And only now did I under­stand the mis­take I had made. I bought no figs. I had no need of the figs, and it may be that the old man would have had no need of me either, as a cus­tom­er. It seems I am not the chosen one, and what I bear is not the sign of being chosen but the seal of tran­si­ence…

But what if it were my own fath­er stand­ing all day long in the mar­ket square? Or my grand­fath­er scrap­ing the pen­nies togeth­er? I bought no figs…