“Come, dear,” Zeynep Hanim said, “you do the same.”
Assuming the same attitude she’d had when going to the fountain, Diana took off her shoes and did as she was told.
“I know asking this won’t make any difference, but I still want to know why I now have a pair of dirty feet.”
“The roses are always wary lest the beauty of a gift should make them forget the giver.”
“Of course!” Diana said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Roses never, not even for a moment, forget that their existence and beauty are gifts from the earth. They are well aware that when their time comes, they’ll fade and fall to the earth as seeds, and that the earth will only accept the seeds of the roses which haven’t forgotten where they’ve come from. By touching the earth with our bare feet, we show the roses that we haven’t forgotten the earth, either. Roses appreciate this.”
Zeynep Hanim put her sandals back on.
“Everything we’ve talked about so far has only been a preparation for the quest to hear roses. Up till now, all has been about us, the seekers. But in the garden, the seeker must no longer exist but become completely absorbed in the roses. We must give them all we have, our minds, our hearts, our souls—everything. So, Diana, if you’re ready, we can begin.”
Diana nodded.
“Very well, then . . . What do you know about roses?” Zeynep Hanim asked.
“Nothing, from the way you see them. Absolutely nothing.”
“Excellent. That’s always the best start. So now I can tell you the golden rule for hearing roses.”
“Golden rule?”
“The golden rule says: Know thy rose.”
Zeynep Hanim delicately caressed the petals of the orange rose on her left before continuing. “One can only learn about a rose from a rose. That’s the only way to truly know her.”
They began to walk toward the center of the garden. After a while, Zeynep Hanim stopped suddenly and bent down toward the yellow rose in front of her. “What’s the matter, Yellow Flower? I’ve never seen you cry before. Why are you weeping in the garden of happiness?”
Diana watched Zeynep Hanim closely. The rose didn’t utter a sound, but Zeynep Hanim seemed to listen to it intently, nodding her head from time to time as if in agreement.
“I’m so sorry, I had no idea, Yellow Flower,” she said to the rose. “If our guest agrees, I’d like to hear your story from the beginning.”
Zeynep Hanim turned to Diana. “Yellow Flower is very sad today. Would you mind staying for a little while and listening to what she has to say?”
“What do you mean? You know I can’t hear it.”
“I’ll tell you what Yellow Flower is saying as she tells me her story.”
“Well, I’ll feel a bit strange, but okay.”
Diana sat down on the ground where Zeynep Hanim pointed, tucking her legs underneath her. What did she care if her white jeans got dirty if by sitting there she could offer some emotional comfort to a rose!
Zeynep Hanim turned to the rose. “She’s Diana, Mary’s twin.”
“Glad to meet you, Diana,” Yellow Flower said, speaking through Zeynep Hanim. “I’d have thought she was Mary herself if the little nightingale hadn’t told me otherwise.”
“Glad to meet you, too,” Diana said, as if talking to herself.
“Well, Yellow Flower,” Zeynep Hanim said, “tell us what’s making you so sad.”
“I’m so sorry,” Yellow Flower said. “I know you’re used to seeing roses happy in this garden, but today is the anniversary of the day my old friend Venus lost her scent. I get like this once a year, forgive me . . .”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Yellow Flower,” Zeynep Hanim said. “Sometimes happiness expresses itself best through the tears shed for a friend. But tell us, how did this happen? I would never have thought that a friend of yours could lose her scent.”
“Well,” Yellow Flower said. “Let me begin by telling you about the first scented rose, the one from which our kind originated, since this is closely related to the tragedy Venus lived through.
“One day, the Sultan of our kingdom wished to create a rose which would carry his own special scent. So he sprinkled the soil of his garden with the royal perfume. Later, he watered the garden with the elixir of life, so that his rose would never fade. And when it finally bloomed, he called it ‘The Rose of Nothingness.’ Our Sultan chose this name deliberately, so that his rose would never forget it had no scent independent of the Sultan’s perfume. Because where I come from, a rose is a rose only because of its scent.
“Sometime later, the Sultan willed his perfume to be known by all his people, so he allowed his rose to be planted outside the imperial gardens. His rose, no longer watered with the elixir of life, would one day fade, but in time, its offspring would carry the Sultan’s perfume to every corner of the kingdom.
“Venus and I were both its descendants, and we were planted in a small village square. We bloomed for the sole purpose of making the Sultan’s perfume known to everyone, and thus, we wished to be loved only for the royal perfume we carried.
“There were two kinds of people living in our village: ‘Those Like Mary’ and ‘Others.’ Those Like Mary were the ones who could recognize we carried the Sultan’s perfume, and so they were more interested in our scent than in anything else. Unlike them, Others only placed importance on our colors, our stems, our petals, anything that is visible to the eye . . .
“One day, a merchant arrived in the village to sell artificial roses. Fake, lifeless, scentless roses . . . We could never have imagined that anyone would be interested in them. But within a short time, Others began to whisper: ‘That merchant has such pretty roses. Their petals are of silky cloth, their colors never fade and, best of all, their stems have no thorns.’
“Before long, the merchant sold so many ‘roses’ that our village soon turned into a village of artificial roses. Those Like Mary couldn’t bear this and gradually left the village. And in the end, Venus and I were left with two things: a need to be loved and Others.
“At that time, we couldn’t foresee the disaster this situation would lead us to. Soon after Those Like Mary had all gone, little by little, we began to metamorphose into what Others valued in the hope of earning their love. And because it was only our external features that they valued, we became more and more concerned with our looks. We strove to stand up straight like the artificial roses; we tried to extend the time our leaves stayed on us. We didn’t even weep during emotional times so our petals wouldn’t become wrinkled. And soon, out of neglect, our scent started to fade away.
“We fashioned ourselves to meet the expectations of Others, taking one shape after another. We re-toned our colors, one hue after another. Others said, ‘Grow taller,’ so we grew taller. They said, ‘Orient yourselves to this direction and to that,’ so we did in a silent rush. First they were shaping us the way they liked, and then showering praises on us.
“But, in spite of all this, deep inside we felt we weren’t loved. Only those who were interested in our scent could really love us. Because it is its scent that makes a rose a rose. The feelings that Others had for us could only be admiration at best.
“I was conscious of all this, but Venus behaved as though she was unaware of the situation. I tried to warn her. I told her that Others were like an invisible worm which had found out our bed of crimson joy, destroying our lives. I said to her, ‘We must immediately escape from here to a place where Those Like Mary live.’ But she paid no heed to my words. ‘You’re not normal,’ she said. I couldn’t blame her for saying that; she was right. There were so many artificial roses in our village by then that a rose had to be scentless to be normal.
“As I was trying to convince her, a swarm of ants appeared on the ground beside us. They formed themselves into these wo
rds: ‘Object to Others.’ Venus glanced at them scornfully and muttered, ‘Damned ants, they’re all over the place!’
“In the end, I realized I wouldn’t be able to help Venus, so I decided at least to take care of myself. I had to leave the village as soon as possible, but I had no idea how to go about it. Roses have no feet, you know. So, I began to wait for someone to come along who’d uproot me and take me away.
“At last, they came: a bulky man, a thin child and a gray donkey. Although both the man and the child seemed quite exhausted, they weren’t riding on the donkey but walking by its side. It was so odd, I couldn’t make anything of the situation.
“They sank thankfully to the ground under a nearby tree. The boy turned to his father. ‘Dad, I’m so exhausted, we almost died along the way. Where did we go wrong?’
“‘Shut your mouth,’ the father said, giving the boy a cuff around the ear. ‘Traveling on foot is always like that.’
“‘But we have a donkey, Dad! And a strong one, too.’
“‘Shut up, I said! Didn’t you hear what people said when we were both riding on the donkey? Didn’t they say, “See those heartless brutes, two people on one poor donkey!” Heaven knows what others will think of me if they hear this in the village.’
“‘Yes, that’s when you told me to get off. But, Dad, at least you were comfortable.’
“‘But then, I heard someone else saying, “Look at that cruel man! He’s riding on the donkey like a king while his poor child can barely walk.” I know that man. He’s a real blabbermouth. Heaven knows what others will think of me if they hear this in the village.’
“‘Well, Dad, that’s when you got off the donkey and put me on its back, instead. But at least I was comfortable.’
“‘And later? What did people say? “See that disrespectful boy, sitting there on the donkey when his poor father can only drag himself along.” I won’t have anyone saying a child of mine doesn’t respect his father. Heaven knows what others will think of me if they hear this in the village.’
“‘But, Dad! Then we were both left to walk!’
“‘Be quiet, foolish boy. At least no one can speak badly about us now.’
“Right then, a man nearby turned to his friend, saying, ‘See those fools! They have a donkey, but they walked the whole way to the village on foot!’
“Hearing this, the father flushed red to the roots of his hair. The boy was smiling. It seemed he’d understood what his father had not. Indeed, children do understand things.
“To attract the child’s attention,” Yellow Flower continued, “I used all my strength to release the remainder of my scent. As soon as the royal perfume reached him, the child turned to me, because children always love the Sultan’s perfume.
“When darkness fell, he tenderly uprooted me and placed me on the donkey’s back.
“Before leaving, Venus spoke to me one last time. ‘Yellow Flower,’ she said. ‘You say you’re leaving to preserve your scent, but I see that it all faded away long ago.’ The moment she said that, a tear trickled down my petals as I realized Venus had completely lost her scent. Because a rose is a mirror to another rose; when one looks at the other, she sees either her own scent or the lack of it.
“The next morning when the boy’s father noticed me, he warned his son not to load the donkey with ‘useless things.’ He then took me to the market and sold me. After traveling in the hands of many, I was finally brought by a rose-lover to your garden to reclaim my scent. I’ve been so happy here, but I can’t help thinking about Venus on every anniversary of our parting.”
There was a short silence.
“If she’s finished telling her story,” Diana said, “there’s a question I’d like to ask Yellow Flower.”
“Go ahead, my dear,” Zeynep Hanim said.
“Yellow Flower, real roses like yourself must be bothered by the existence of artificial roses, isn’t that so?”
“Why should we be?” Yellow Flower said. “Artificial roses exist only because there are real roses. Their existence only proves our value. Who would make an imitation of something that wasn’t valuable?”
Diana nodded.
“I’d like to ask you something, too,” she said, turning to Zeynep Hanim. “When Yellow Flower was talking about the father and the boy, it seemed like a story I’d heard before. If I’m not mistaken, a long time ago, my mother might have told me a similar story. Is that possible?”
“Why not?” Zeynep Hanim said. “The experience Yellow Flower had with the father and the boy is known as a Nasreddin Hodja story here. But our Hodja doesn’t resemble the father Yellow Flower encountered at all. Hodja is much kinder and more loving.”
Diana, puzzled, looked at Zeynep Hanim as if she was waiting for an explanation.
“Why are you so surprised, my dear? Nasreddin Hodja was also a gardener and naturally his stories were inspired by the roses.”
Zeynep Hanim got up. “So, Diana. That’s all for today. Tomorrow’s lesson will begin at 5:57 a.m.”
31
THE NEXT MORNING, Diana was up early again, though still feeling sleepy. Thinking about her first lesson had kept her awake until very late. Her mind was full of thoughts about Zeynep Hanim, the garden, Yellow Flower’s story, the mathematics of hearing roses . . .
Diana felt a little overwhelmed by all these thoughts. Yet, at the same time, she was somewhat consoled by the equation she’d learned. It was applicable to any question which had an innumerable number of possible answers and which couldn’t be answered by the five senses. Therefore, the answer to the question of what had happened to her mother could only be as correct as the answer to “What song are the roses singing?” Thus, the chance of her knowing what had happened to her mother was zero—or at least a “special zero.” So it wasn’t correct for her to decide that her mother didn’t exist anymore. She was glad that her first lesson had at least helped her to realize this.
Putting on a red shirt and a pair of blue jeans, she hurried to get ready in time for her second lesson. At least today she didn’t have to bother with her hair.
Realizing she was about to be late, Diana ran down the stairs to get to her stool by 5:57. When she arrived, she saw that Zeynep Hanim was already waiting there.
“Good morning, Diana. May I ask what time it is?”
Diana was somewhat relieved to see that the hand on her watch was only one minute past the scheduled time.
“Oh, good morning. It’s 5:58.”
“I thought so. Our lesson for today is over.”
She’s got to be kidding!
“Forgive me,” Diana said. “You did warn me. I know I shouldn’t have been late, not even by a minute, but—”
“There’s nothing to forgive, dear. I already know how to hear roses. This time was for you. We’ll postpone the lesson till tomorrow evening at 6:19.”
“You can’t be serious!”
Zeynep Hanim didn’t respond.
“I can’t believe this. I get up at 5:30 in the morning, do nothing to my hair just as you’d wish, get ready at lightning speed and rush down here. And believe it or not, I was even looking forward to the lesson. But now you tell me it’s canceled just because I’m one minute late.”
Zeynep Hanim took Diana gently by the hand and led her to the entrance of the garden. With a wide sweep of her hand, she embraced the whole garden. “Look at the dozens of rose-bushes, Diana; hundreds of roses and rosebuds. Rose scent everywhere, more than the air itself . . . Isn’t it a magnificent sight?”
“I agree, with all my heart, but I don’t quite understand what you’re trying to—”
“It can take only a minute to spread the seeds that make a garden. You know, even the longest dreams we have take less than a minute. Perhaps they’re trying to tell us that it doesn’t have to take a whole lifeti
me to realize our dreams. What they certainly do show us, however, is the power that every minute holds. You’ll never be able to regain the minute you’ve just missed. Who knows, maybe this minute which connected 5:56 to 5:58 on 21 May was the very minute you’d hear a rose.”
AS DIANA WALKED back to her room, she thought that perhaps the lesson had not been postponed after all.
32
DIANA WASN’T BORED by being confined to the guesthouse for a day and a half; her mind was preoccupied with her twin. Mary had told Zeynep Hanim that she would be arriving that week, so Diana should be meeting her very soon—perhaps today or tomorrow, or, at the most, within a few days.
Her time in the garden, and especially the things Yellow Flower had said, forced Diana to think deeply about herself and Mary. This was making the meeting with her twin harder rather than easier; however, in spite of that, she was impatient to meet Mary.
AS USUAL, Zeynep Hanim arrived exactly on the minute.
“How are you this evening, my dear? We can go straight into the garden—you must be keen to find out about the surprise I promised you in our first lesson.”
When they’d strolled a little way into the garden, Zeynep Hanim stopped before a peach-colored rose. “Oh, no, this isn’t her.”
After walking a few steps away from the rose, she turned to Diana. “She wanted to know if you were Mary.”
“It seems as if everything in this garden revolves around Mary,” Diana said. “I was going to ask you yesterday when we were with Yellow Flower, but it slipped my mind. How can the roses recognize someone who came to your garden so many years ago?”
“Even though a rose blooms for only a few weeks at the most, many of the rosebushes you see in this garden were here when Mary came. She made such a great impression on them that they all said Mary was like water. In the language of roses, to say someone is ‘like water’ is the highest compliment a rose can pay. That’s because roses are also like water; what they are on the inside is what they are on the outside. And they expect the same from us. The roses felt that Mary could fulfill this expectation in every way.
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