In the beating, melting heat of the summer afternoons, there would be silence. The cattle were a sea of heaving hides, and the street dogs were passed out in the shade of trees and boundary walls, their tongues lolling as they dozed. Even the breeze came to a halt, afraid to rustle a leaf and awaken the creatures that nestled quietly within. And we, we would sleep with the rest of our families in the deepest room of the house on the cool floor where the heat couldn't catch us. We would sleep unwillingly at first, as all children do, but relieved with the knowledge that there was no one outside to play with. We would sleep because we knew the streets of the village were dead in the peak afternoon hours. We would sleep because we knew he would be there when we awakened.
He would come dragging the sunset with him, his little cart wobbling over the cobbled streets as the ringing of his bell drifted gently on the near-silent breeze. He would come and chase away the heat. The cattle would shudder, the dogs would stretch, and the little birds would chitter as they flitted out from their canopies. And as he neared our street with his sweet bell tingling, we would emerge. We could crawl out of the cool rooms and coerced siestas, out of doors, windows, and courtyards. We could crawl down the steps and off the porches, emerging from every crack and corner like little spiders in someone's nightmares. The street would go from empty to swarming in seconds as we all rushed out, half asleep, crowding around him as he drew to a halt.