After dinner at that little place where in the summer one sits outside on the terrace under the stars to stare up at Orion the hunter and Cassiopeia and the Dippers Big and Small, so that one barely looks at the flowers and the candles; and a girl goes from table to table asking to read your fortune in her cards; and the waiters discreetly pour your glass but leave the bottle—, he had fruits of the sea (with mollusk, oyster, prawn, and crab) and she the pomegranate soufflé; and then a movie (that war epic; a big hit at the box office) during which in the darkness when he put his hand under her blouse she nearly burst out laughing; and then back to the hotel for dessert (Schokoladeneis—already melting but no less sweet or bitter or delicious—) and Turkish coffee in cups painted with the faces of saints; it was late or maybe it was early. There was time for all things. There was time yet for some talk of you and me, and Eloise asked him to tell her a story. He said, “A story?” He said, “You are making this far too difficult. It’s easy. It’s very easy. It has been a story all along. It has been nothing but a story. El, it’s just the kind of story that you like: the good are rewarded and the bad will be punished. That’s what you like, isn’t it? Don’t I know you?” he said. “Don’t I know what you like?” Louie touched her cheek. She kissed the palm of his hand. She said, “Let the black flower blossom as it may.”
In a place to which you will never go; in a city to which you have never been; in a house on a side street where the shadows are the only relief; up the steps—a door is open, and a cat sleeping in the doorway out of the heat; there is a girl in the kitchen. She is singing along to a song on the radio, but you don’t know the song. She is boiling milk on the stove. She pours the milk into a bowl, and puts the bowl on a tray, and fills a small pitcher with cream, and there is a dish of sugar cubes and almonds, a jar of honey, and a spoon; and bread and butter on a plate; she carries the tray up the narrow staircase to a room on the second story. He is at the window. She speaks low; you don’t know what she says. It isn’t a language that you know. She sets the tray on the table. And while he watches, she places—the bowl, the plate, the pitcher, the sugar and almonds, and arranges them on the faded cloth. She waits for him to say something, but he says nothing. You will never see her face, so it doesn’t matter what she looks like; only that she is young and strange; she is wearing a flowered dress; and he likes to look at her. He sits at the table—before him: the bread and honey; a knife; a spoon; volumes of poetry by dusty old authors whom you once vowed to read, but have not as yet gotten around to it; caramels, a key; there are coins, scissors, and a box. He opens the box. The room overlooks a garden. The girl has gone into the garden. After a time, he hears the girl in the garden talking to a little boy. The boy throws a ball against the garden wall. Then the evening is quiet. It seems almost wrong—it does not seem entirely right—to break the silence with words; and he sets his pen to a sheet of paper. Roman Stone is writing a book. It is a story about a brother and a sister. He writes by hand. He writes from memory. He makes it up as he goes along. He writes for a long time. It is dark. It is night. Later: the girl comes back to him. She smells like flowers and licorice; like smoke and chocolate and oranges. In the darkness—she turns her back to him. She takes off her dress. She is naked on the bed. He imagines, perhaps: the world.
Susu in a black string bikini stares up at the sun on a white sand beach. She begins to write an address on a postcard she found in that little curio shop; do you know the place?—where the bright green parrot called Balzac sits in the window reciting dirty limericks and at closing time mournfully coos: Perdoo, Perdoo—
Upon the postcard is a picture of the talking parrot.
He is something of a local celebrity.
The day is hot. A dog runs along the shore. The dog runs loops and circles. Susu laughs. She leaves her postcard in the sand. And she runs after her dog. Susu runs to the sea. The water is so warm one could stay in it all day. She doesn’t even mind the salt.
COLOPHON
Let the Dark Flower Blossom was designed at Coffee House Press, in the historic Grain Belt Brewery’s Bottling House near downtown Minneapolis.
Fonts include Bembo and Copperplate Gothic.
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