Missing Rose (9781101603864)

by Ozkan, Serdar

  Her silence and the possibility of her leaving made Mathias uneasy. To get to know her better, not only had he changed his schedule, but for days he’d had to stay in a cheap motel—the kind where the shower runs cold, the toilet doesn’t flush and the bed is lumpy and narrow.

  “Well,” Mathias said, “as you can see, I lack inspiration today. I was thinking of going for a coffee at the café over there for a change of scene. Would you care to join me?”

  Diana hesitated, before saying with an air of indifference, “Well, I suppose I could. I need a break to catch my breath anyway.”

  Mathias placed his brush carefully into its slot on the easel. “Let’s go.”

  WHEN THEY GOT closer to the café, he realized it was a much fancier place than he’d initially anticipated or would have wished for . . .

  17

  THEY ARRIVED AT a café with leather-topped tables, torches lit with special lighting effects and copper-coated fire extinguishers in the corners. The kind of place where customers would be eager to pay $25 to drink a cup of coffee and perch on uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs while listening to the hubbub inside. Mathias couldn’t imagine himself coming to this place even if he stayed in Rio for a hundred years. But unfortunately, he’d seen no other café nearby.

  They had hardly sat down at a table by the window when a waiter appeared.

  “How may I help you?”

  After they had sent him off quickly with an order for French vanilla coffee and an espresso, Mathias looked around the room. “What a place for inspiration!”

  “Mmmm, inspiration,” Diana said. “I used to paint too, once. But I must admit, inspiration never visited me. I guess that’s the difference between a painter and someone who just paints.”

  “I don’t think inspiration is essential.”

  “You don’t?”

  “For me, inspiration reveals itself in the time it takes to finish a painting rather than in the painting itself. Some paintings take only a couple of days; others I can’t call finished even after working on them for a few years. And there’s not that much difference among my paintings, either.”

  “Oh, right, I was going to ask you about that—why do you always paint the sea? Don’t you ever paint anything else?”

  “No, not lately. I went through a stormy time a few years ago and, since then, I’ve just painted the sea.”

  “Is it all right if I ask what kind of a storm?”

  “It was strange. It all began with the breakup of a relationship. One day I would feel like chasing away anyone who came near me with a baseball bat; the next day, I couldn’t do without people. In the end, I decided to pour out my ‘waves’ onto the canvas as seascapes, hoping that they’d help me understand myself.”

  “What about the seagull?”

  “Long story. I doubt you’d want to hear it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Do I really have to tell it?”

  She looked at him insistently, so he began to tell her about the day he’d witnessed the flight of the two seagulls. He didn’t go into detail, but Diana could work out the significance of the lone seagull in his paintings.

  Placing their coffee carefully on the table, the waiter inquired if that would be all. When they nodded their heads, he bowed and withdrew.

  “You’re still painting the sea; hasn’t your storm come to an end yet?”

  “Well, it has, but in the meantime I’ve realized something: I’ve realized that I always like painting different things.”

  Diana looked confused. Just a few minutes ago he’d said he only painted seascapes, but now he was saying that he liked painting different things.

  “As I went on painting scenes of the same shoreline one after the other, I realized the thing I thought changed the least actually changed the most: the sea.”

  “Like you?” Diana asked, remembering the connection Mathias had made earlier between himself and the sea.

  “Well, like everyone. We all think we see the same person when we look in the mirror each morning. Our friends think they see the same person even when we meet after several years.”

  “True,” Diana said. “And even if they do notice a change, it’s usually about things like your weight or hairstyle . . .”

  “Exactly. They never consider that the person in front of them might have become somebody new . . . I personally think we can change in even a few days.”

  Diana lowered her gaze as she thought of how much everything recently had forced her to change.

  Mathias gently touched her arm. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

  “No, no. What you said reminded me of something, that’s all.”

  Leaning forward on his elbows, Mathias drew closer to her. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “Well . . . Maybe later.”

  The waiter reappeared to ask if there was anything else they would like. Diana turned to Mathias. “What would you like? I’m going to have the chocolate cookies.”

  “Yes, that sounds great—I’ll have chocolate cookies, too.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the waiter said. “There are only two chocolate cookies left, and that only makes one serving. How about I divide the chocolate cookies between you and add a vanilla one each to complete the portion?”

  Reluctantly, they both agreed.

  18

  THE COOKIES STILL hadn’t arrived, but both of them had been too deep in conversation to complain. Nevertheless, Mathias decided to remind the waiter so they wouldn’t lose the remaining chocolate cookies to another customer. Just then, the waiter came to the table carrying two plates.

  Taking a bite of her vanilla cookie, Diana asked Mathias, “What are your goals? For your painting, I mean.”

  “I’ve only the one goal and that is to paint.”

  “I thought goals were about the future, aren’t they?”

  “The future,” Mathias smiled. “Well, there’s a saying I like: ‘As long as time flows forward, the future which we are so mesmerized by is nothing but an untouched past.’”

  He wondered what Diana would make of this as he took his first bite out of his chocolate cookie.

  After a moment of silence, Diana said, “I suppose what you mean is that a day in the future becomes the ‘past’ with respect to the day that follows. And that following day is sure to come, because time flows forward. So, in reality, each day we see as the ‘future’ is nothing but a delayed ‘past.’ A past that isn’t yet touched by time . . . Did I get it right?”

  “I’ve never met anyone who put it better.”

  “But all that seems too philosophical, and I don’t think it has any practical value in everyday life.”

  “Hey,” he said smiling. “I just tried to answer your question.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Actually, all I want to say is that I’d like to achieve my goals in the only time which really exists—that is, in the present. And that’s why I’ve chosen painting as my only goal.”

  “But you must surely have some long-term plans?”

  “Yeah, I do have a plan. I’m planning to work my way back to the small town I live in, near Paranaguá, by painting scenes all along the coast. At the end of the summer, I’ll hold an exhibition at one of the places I’ve painted.”

  So Mathias wasn’t from Rio . . . Actually she’d already guessed that. Yet the way Mathias said “the small town I live in, near Paranaguá” just like that—as if he were saying something of no importance—awoke a familiar feeling in Diana. Loneliness.

  “And,” Mathias said, interrupting her thoughts, “I’ve even planned the name for the exhibition: ‘The Changing Seas of Brazil.’”

  “Sounds good.”

  “But I don’t really know if I’ll be able to finish this pr
oject on time. And there are many other things I don’t know . . . If I finish the project on time, will I have enough money for an exhibition? And if I do, will I be able to find a suitable place for it; if I do, will I be able to get permission from the relevant authorities; if I do, will I be able to afford the publicity for it; if I can, will anyone show any interest in my paintings? If they do, will that satisfy me? Even if everything goes perfectly as planned, will I be happy? If I am happy, for how long will it last? Even if it lasts a long time, will I be able to overcome the fear that someday I’ll lose it? And the list of things I can’t know goes on and on . . .”

  “And on . . .” chimed in Diana.

  “You see, that’s why I’ve decided that to paint is my only goal.”

  “So, let’s say the exhibition actually happens, where’s it going to be?”

  “I don’t know yet; I’d decided before I set out that I’d have it wherever I painted the best painting.”

  They’d each finished their first cookie. Diana was left with a chocolate cookie on her plate and Mathias with a vanilla one. The order in which they’d both chosen to eat their cookies had attracted Diana’s attention. She had kept the one she liked best till last, whereas Mathias had eaten his favorite one first.

  It’s my turn now, thought Diana. “Look,” she said, pointing at the chocolate cookie left on her plate, “this cookie also shows that the future mesmerizes me. Ever since I was little I’ve always kept the food I liked best till last. But then, most of the time, when I come to eat it, I find I’m too full. That’s what’s happened today, too, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re too full to eat it? So I guess your chocolate cookie is left in the past as ‘untouched’?”

  They both smiled, looking at each other until each felt the need to turn their gaze away.

  Diana glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s getting late.”

  Mathias asked for the bill.

  “Diana, it’s up to you, but if there’s anything you’d like to talk about, I’m here to listen.”

  Diana’s eyes clouded over for a minute. Then, regaining her composure, she began to summarize what she’d been living through during the past few months.

  Mathias listened with full attention as Diana told her story. When she was finished, he didn’t know how to respond. All he could say was, “I’m so sorry.”

  “What upsets me the most is the idea that my mother doesn’t exist anymore,” Diana continued. “It’s even worse than being left without a mother. I wish she still existed somewhere even if I never saw her or heard her voice.”

  Mathias noticed the tears in her eyes.

  “Diana,” he said softly, “I can never realize your suffering. Nobody can. So whatever I say won’t mean much. I know it’s not the same, but after my grandmother passed away, I was quite upset. I just didn’t know how to accept it. But then I read a little story in a book. It really touched me.”

  Diana, remembering the stories her mother used to tell her, could hardly hold back her tears. “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Well,” Mathias said. “There was once a wave in the ocean, rolling along, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the swiftness of the breeze. It smiled at everything around it as it made its way toward the shore. But then, it suddenly noticed that the waves in front of it, one by one, were striking against the cliff face, being savagely broken to pieces. ‘Oh God!’ it cried. ‘My end will be just like theirs. Soon I, too, will crash and disappear!’ Just then another wave passing by saw the first wave’s panic and asked, ‘Why are you so anxious? Look how beautiful the weather is, see the sun, feel the breeze . . .’ The first wave replied, ‘Don’t you see? See how violently those waves before us strike against the cliff, look at the terrible way they disappear. We’ll soon become nothing—just like them.’ ‘Oh, but you don’t understand,’ the second wave said. ‘You’re not a wave. You’re a part of the ocean.’”

  The story and the compassion she’d seen in Mathias’s eyes as he’d told it gave Diana a glimmer of comfort. She suddenly felt like reaching out her hand to touch his where it rested on the table. But she stopped herself and gave an appreciative nod instead.

  The waiter appeared with the bill tucked inside an oyster shell. When Diana motioned to take it, Mathias said, “Please, I invited you.”

  AS DIANA ACCOMPANIED Mathias to the park, she suddenly remembered the words of the beggar. “That girl who’s just like you, she’ll meet that artist someday,” he’d said. For a moment, she thought of telling this to Mathias and warning him not to mistake Mary for her if their paths should ever cross. But she didn’t want to involve the beggar in this, so she decided against it.

  When they came to his easel, Diana held out her hand. “I had a lovely time this evening, Mathias. Or Jon. Thanks.”

  “No, thank you.”

  For a second, Diana thought of asking him when he was leaving Rio. She would also have liked to tell him that he could contact her through the hotel further down the road, and even save him from the cheap motel by offering him a room. But she said good-bye and left without doing any of those things.

  19

  IT WAS PAST midnight when Diana came down from her art studio. She threw herself carelessly on the bed without a thought for the blue paint spattered all over her. As she’d expected, the bedding became streaked with blue. It’s a fair price to pay for painting the sea, she thought.

  Actually it wasn’t the theme of the painting that was to blame for the mess, but rather the new way of painting she’d tried. She’d begun by throwing aside all the rules she’d ever learned from the art lessons she’d once taken. She’d squeezed a whole tube of blue paint onto her palm and, accompanied by the mystical melodies of Loreena McKennitt, had spread it with both hands in random circles onto the canvas.

  Diana felt in some way indebted to Mathias for prompting her to paint again after such a long time. More important, the story he’d told had made her feel a little better. She didn’t want to lose this feeling and even wished to add to it by doing something that would please her mother.

  She reached for the green envelope lying in front of the bedside lamp, and read Mary’s second letter once again.

  LETTER 2:

  “THE PATH IN THE GARDEN”

  22 February

  My beloved Mother,

  In my childhood years, in spite of Others, I was able to preserve my dream of finding you. But as time passed, I could feel my strength fading in the face of their never-ending attempts to turn me into an “Other,” too.

  Then, one night, I had a dream. I saw myself in a little wooden boat being carried by the current across the ocean. I was wearing a white nightgown and an orange hat. The horizon was clear, but the boat had neither sail nor oars to take me there. As I was waiting helplessly, you spoke to me from behind the gray clouds:

  “Mary, return to me.”

  “Where are you, Mom?”

  “You have not lost me; I’m always with you.”

  “Then why can’t I see you?”

  “Because you are not with me.”

  “How can I be with you?”

  “See me in yourself.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then try to see me in my gifts.”

  Suddenly there was a deafening crash as the heavens split open. A hand of light came down and took off my hat, replacing it with a crown of white roses. That hand was your hand, Mom. And that crown was the most beautiful gift I’d ever received.

  Looking at its reflection in the water, I admired the beauty of your gift for some time. Then, a huge storm broke out. As the boat rocked this way and that in the middle of towering waves, I crouched down in the bottom of the boat and started to sob, “Help me, Mom!”

  A little later, the wind ceased, rain began to fall and the sea calmed.

 
When I looked at my reflection in the water again, I saw that my crown was no longer on my head. At that moment, I felt as if everything I had was lost. I felt like a dry river, a wingless bird, a scentless rose . . . Yet I was still a river, a bird, a rose. I had to search for my crown immediately.

  I searched for it in the boat. I searched for it in the distance, on the sea and in the sky . . . But I failed to find it.

  I called out to you: “Mom, where is my crown?”

  “Bow your head, Mary.”

  As soon as I bowed my head, I saw from my reflection that my crown had merely slipped to the back of my head. Then, you spoke to me again. But this time, your voice was not coming from the sky, but coming from the roses in my crown.

  “Mary, my child. So that you never think you’ve lost it, don’t search beyond yourself for that which you already have.”

  Right then, a palace emerged from the middle of the ocean. Near the palace was a garden; its walls were overgrown with roses and from behind them came the singing of nightingales.

  You spoke to me once more:

  “If you want to hear my voice, walk the path in the garden. Hold the gardener’s hand and listen to the roses.”

  “Oh, Mom, it’s so far away. There’s a whole ocean between us and I don’t know how to swim!”

  “Don’t be afraid, just walk. If you leave your baggage, the water will bear you.”

  “But I don’t have any baggage.”

  “Believing that the water won’t bear you is heavy baggage. So put it down and walk.”

  “But, Mom, where will this path lead me?”

  “To me.”

  “So I can really be reunited with you in this world?”

  “Yes, in this world.”

  I could never get this dream out of my mind and lived with the hope of it coming true. Three years later, when I was traveling with a friend and her family, I noticed a rose garden hidden at the back of the guesthouse where we were staying. A little further on I could see Topkapı Palace, which seemed very much like the palace I’d seen in my dream. As soon as I saw that garden and the palace, I felt this was the place you’d wanted me to visit. I wasn’t mistaken.