A sponge peddler, a huge sack slung over his shoulder, peered anxiously at the rain.

From Spies of the Balkans by Alan Furst. A wonderful word sketch of a time (Greece, October 1940) and a place (downtown Salonika).

Entering the vast street market on Aristotle Square, Zannis furled his umbrella and worked his way through the narrow aisles. Rain pattered down on the tin roofing above the stalls, fishmongers shouted to the crowd, and, as Zannis passed by, the merchants smiled or nodded or avoided his eyes, depending on where they thought they stood with the Salonika police that evening. A skeletal old woman from the countryside, black dress, black head scarf, offered him a dried fig. He smiled politely and declined, but she thrust it toward him, the mock ferocity of her expression meaning that he had no choice. He tore the stem off, flicked it into the gutter, then ate the fig, which was fat and sweet, raised his eyebrows in appreciation, said, "It's very good, thank you," and went on his way. At the far end of the market, a sponge peddler, a huge sack slung over his shoulder, peered anxiously at the rain. Marooned, he could only wait, for if his sponges got wet he'd have to carry the weight for the rest of the night.