The Greenhouse

by Olafsdottir, Audur Ava

  He notices me staring at the tapes.

  —Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m a bit of a film buff, although I never go to the cinema. My acquaintances from around the world know of this weakness of mine and have sent me some precious films over the years; I have about three thousand now. There are movies from all over the world in here, in many languages, everything really except Hollywood movies. I’m bored by war heroes and all that artificial gimmickry, says Father Thomas, drawing out a chair for me and inviting me to sit.

  Then he apologizes and says that he can only just about handle basic text in my mother tongue, but that he has no experience of actually speaking it; he’s probably only ever seen one film from my country.

  —But it was beautiful, he says. Very unusual. Very green grass. Big skies. Beautiful death.

  I discover that Father Thomas watches films in their original language without subtitles.

  —It’s very good practice, he says. Then I’ve got my books in the monastery, I’ve also got a room there. Here I can watch films. Some people have a cat, I watch movies.

  Father Thomas stands up, pats me once on the shoulder, fetches the lemon vodka bottle, and fills the glasses.

  —You’re welcome to come over if you fancy watching a film. I normally watch a movie every night. Over the past few weeks I’ve been looking at some forgotten directors.

  He grabs a video case and brandishes it in the air:

  —The special thing about this director is his deep sympathy for hapless people.

  Thirty-three

  The restaurant I have an account at for the evenings is beside the guesthouse; everything is beside everything here. The woman is aware of who I am; Father Thomas has announced my arrival. It’s actually just a small room with four tables and tablecloths. It has a rather special smell to it, both sweet and acerbic, like shellfish and rose water. The woman receives me from the kitchen, enveloped in a deep-fry mist and brandishing a spatula that’s dripping with fat in her hand and which she now points at a table to tell me where to sit. I can see into the kitchen through the corner of my eye, where she is standing over the stove and slowly lowering the fish into the boiling fat. A brief moment later she raises the fish again, sizzling in a crunchy golden brown batter—crispy calamari—scoops them on my plate, slices some lemon with a razor-sharp knife, casually chucks that on my plate as well, and hands it to me. The woman gives off a scent of rose water through the frying vapors. Later she dumps a bowl of vanilla pudding in front of me and pours some hot caramel sauce over it from a jug.

  Once I’ve finished eating I can go off to take a look at the village. It’s actually starting to get dark, but nevertheless I take two trips up and down the main street. After two rounds I’m already starting to meet the same people again. The street is bustling with life. I imagine all the villagers stroll up and down this main street after dinner. The language is totally alien to me. I literally don’t understand a single word; it all goes over my head.

  My perception of the passersby as mere bodies disturbs me, and if it doesn’t change it could become a real barrier to me developing any normal communication with these people and prevent me from learning their language. I carefully make sure I don’t bump into anyone, though; I wouldn’t know how to apologize to anyone in this new language. Mom was all into physical contact and always held some part of me when we were talking together. I found it difficult to stand still as a kid, always on the go.

  —You’re so restless and sprightly, she might have said.

  I think I must have established eye contact with about eight women on my four strolls up and down the main street, with maybe one or two of them that I could think of sleeping with, if the opportunity were to present itself. These thoughts are more like precocious impulses, however, like faulty fireworks that refuse to go off.

  In the square in front of the church, two steps away from the guesthouse, there’s a phone booth. I decide to see if it works and find out how Dad’s doing and just let him know I’m still in one piece.

  Talking to Dad isn’t easy. I’ve barely said hello to him and he’s already worried about the price of the call and starting to say good-bye to me.

  —Are you all right there, Lobbi?

  —Yeah, fine, I just wanted to let you know I’ve reached my destination.

  He doesn’t beat about the bush.

  —Do you not like the town?

  —No, it’s fine, a bit remote maybe, but I’ve got my own room.

  —Is it a reliable room, Lobbi?

  For a moment I ponder on what Dad might mean by a “reliable room,” if it’s in a solidly constructed building with a secure lock or that kind of thing. Whether it can withstand an earthquake maybe? He rewords his question:

  —Is the landlord trustworthy? I hope he’s not trying to con a young foreigner out of his hard-earned money made from braving the elements in the clutches of the sea?

  —No, no, it’s fine. I’m staying in a guesthouse owned by the monastery and have free food and lodging. The priest lives in the room next door.

  —Is he a trustworthy person?

  —Yes, Dad, very trustworthy, he’s very interested in films and speaks every language under the sun.

  —So you’re not homesick then?

  —No, not at all. Of course, I’ve only been here three hours.

  —You’re not broke yet?

  —No, no, I have everything I need.

  —You still have your mother’s inheritance money.

  —Yeah, I know that.

  —I looked in on your daughter and her mother the other day.

  —Really?

  —You don’t mind me popping in to see my granddaughter?

  —No, I say.

  I feel a bit uneasy about it, but can’t say I’m against it.

  —She’s beautiful, the little girl, the spitting image of your mother. Same birthday.

  He doesn’t mention the date of her death.

  —There’s a long history of blond hair in the family. Your mother told me that your great grandfather was very blond, with golden locks. They were slow to change color, which gave him a boyish look, with delicate facial features well into middle age. So the girls didn’t really fancy him much, not until later in life.

  —So my daughter takes after her father’s side of the family?

  —Yeah, you could say that.

  Once I’m in bed, under clean sheets with a book about the language that’s spoken around here, I feel terribly lonely. To be honest, I don’t know what possessed me to come to this forsaken village. I adjust my pillow and lie down so that I can see the black night through the window. It’s a full moon as far as I can make out. I check out the celestial vault: as to be expected, the moon is terrifyingly big and too close. My home stars have vanished from the sky and aren’t shining anywhere; they’ve been replaced by shooting stars and unknown constellations, new incomprehensible patterns in the black firmament.

  Then I start to make out a peculiar sound coming through the headrest, an engine noise like that of a boat, very muffled voices, a silence, and then people talking rapidly together in disagreement. It’s followed by beautiful music. I sit up and try to locate the sound, I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the room next door. I prick up my ears but can’t identify the language; I think it could even be Chinese. In any case it’s clear that Father Thomas is watching some gem of a movie in his room.

  Thirty-four

  I must have fallen asleep too early because it’s only six a.m. and I’m wide awake. Resounding peals are announcing the early morning mass, and I can see the centuries-old bell right outside my window. What seemed like a quiet guesthouse turns out to be located right next door to the main building of the church.

  I slip into my trousers and sweater. I might as well go out, since I’m awake anyway. I pull up the top of my hooded sweater and step into the violet dawn. There isn’t a soul in sight, and the café is closed. A peculiar red-bluish mist hangs over the village. I walk toward
the source of the ringing coming from within the building that I now realize is attached to the guesthouse. The church entrance looks like any other door on the street. The facade gives nothing away of what lies within. In retrospect, I think the beggar was kneeling there somewhere in the dark last night. Did I give him some coins or not? Did I use all my change to call Dad from the phone booth or did I give it to the beggar then? It’s suddenly important to me.

  I glance around and there’s no one around. I squeeze through the door where I follow a maze of corridors and twisted passageways until I reach another door. I open it and suddenly find myself in a large church; the stone gives off a cold, moist smell and an enormous space opens up before me, an entire vault of colored lights that makes me gasp and remove my hood. It’s like stepping through the narrow mouth of a cave and discovering an entire palace of stalactite and Iceland spar. I step out of the twilight of the alleyway straight into the sunrise in the church. A mass is beginning, and a shaft of sunrays tighten on the chancel in a glowing golden light. Father Thomas glances at me; there are another eleven monks in the church with him dressed in white robes. An agonizing Christ hangs on a dark wooden cross high above the altar, and colorful paintings adorn all the walls. I take one tour and look around. Even though I can’t figure out all the scenes depicted in the paintings, I recognize some of the saints. I pause a moment in front of a statue of Saint Joseph and then move toward a painting of Mary on a throne with the baby Jesus. What draws my attention to it is that the infant has golden hair, three blond curls on its forehead, not unlike my daughter’s, fresh out of the bath when I was saying good-bye to her and her mother. Examining the painting even closer, I can’t help seeing other similarities between my daughter and the child in the picture: the shape of the face, the big bright eyes, the same flowery mouth, nose, chin; even the dimples are the same, no matter which way I look at it. The painting looks old; there’s a crack in it and one of Mary’s sleeves has probably recently been restored, the blue color isn’t the same below the elbow.

  When I step out of the church again, two tables have been set up outside the village café. I sit at one of them, and the owner brings me a pastry with some yellow custard in it for breakfast, which he tells me is a specialty of the region.

  I combed through the village in half an hour yesterday so I can’t really think of what I can do today. There obviously isn’t much going on in the village on Sundays; people are eating at home and resting after their meals. So I decide to give Dad another call to see how he’s doing. He’s used to waking up at the crack of dawn and has finished fixing screeching hinges and gluing loose tiles at that hour of the morning. He might be surprised that I’m calling him two days in a row, but I make sure that my voice doesn’t betray any doubts about the place and my position here, or he might start urging me to come home and go to university. When he’s finished asking me about the weather and I’ve told him it’s pretty much the way it was yesterday, except that instead of a yellow mist there was a bluish-red veil of mist this morning, he tells me the days are getting brighter back home.

  —The day was two minutes longer today.

  I’m suddenly tired of Dad. Before the spring arrives, another hundred twenty depressions will cross the country and Dad will be giving me reports on every single one of them.

  —Yeah, and then it’ll start to get dark again, Dad.

  —If we survive that long.

  —Yeah, if you survive that long.

  —Your mother should never have gone before me, a young woman, sixteen years younger, fifty-nine years old, that’s no age.

  —No, she shouldn’t have left before you.

  We both shut up and I dig into my pocket for more coins. Then he tells me that he’s been invited to Bogga’s for glazed ham tonight.

  —Right, is she doing OK?

  —Fine, although I’ve never really been into glazed ham or pork in general.

  —Have you turned into a Jew?

  —Don’t know what to bring her.

  —Can’t you give her some tomatoes? Doesn’t she have four grown-up children?

  —That’s an idea, Lobbi.

  He pauses a moment before asking me if I’m running short of cash.

  —No, I don’t need anything.

  —You’re not lonely, are you?

  —No, no, not at all. I’m going to the garden tomorrow.

  —The rose garden.

  —Yeah, right, the rose garden.

  —I imagine it’s at least better than being at sea, says Dad. He seems to be unmoved by the fact that I’ve driven all this way, had a close shave with death at the beginning of my trip, and that I’m now on the threshold, so to speak, of one of the most famous rose gardens in the world, where one is likely to encounter the greatest variety of roses in one spot than any other place around the globe. It was Mom who showed me the first book about this garden when I was a kid, and practically every book I’ve read about rose cultivation ever since seems to refer to this remote monastic garden, far off the beaten track. Few of the authors knew the garden from personal experience, however, but rather through other written sources, and I’ve noticed that the wording is even taken directly from the descriptions written in the old manuscripts.

  —Right you are, son. You just tell your dad if you’re ever short of cash.

  In some ways I’m more content with my lot now that I’ve spoken to Dad and it’s killed my longing to go home.

  Thirty-five

  The monastery is within walking distance at the top of the hill and accessible from several steep paths from the village. Who would have expected a rose garden in this place, so high above sea level and on a rock? I can’t see the garden at first because it’s enclosed within the monastery walls on three sides and only open on the side facing away from the village. The hills are also terraced with the vineyards that produce the monks’ wine. Brother Matthew receives me; he’s supposed to show me around the garden and fill me in.

  —Father Thomas told me about you and said that I would recognize you straight away, he says with a smile. He said you stand out in a crowd, tall with ginger hair. We’re very happy to have you.

  The most famous rose garden in the world is a shadow of its former self, as Father Thomas warned me three times. The paths and paving stones are buried under weeds, the rose beds seem to have grown together into a single tangle, and once upon a time there was a pond in the middle of the garden here and lawns with benches. Despite the uncultivated state of the garden all around me, I immediately recognize it from the pictures.

  —Yes, that’s right, the garden has been neglected and fallen into a state of disrepair, Brother Matthew explains. We’ve been concentrating on wine production and the library. We still have another thousand manuscripts that need to be classified. And our numbers have been shrinking in the monastery. The younger brothers of our order prefer to work on the manuscripts than to be out in the garden; they mainly step outside to smoke, says Brother Matthew, who looks like he could be in his eighties.

  We walk around the garden; there are a number of things that surprise me, and it turns out to be even bigger than I had imagined. Even though it needs to be built up from scratch, I can see how it can be restored. Most of the rose species are still there. I can’t resist the temptation to touch the plants, feel their soft green leaves; I find no traces of lice.

  —Yes, that’s right, says Brother Matthew, most of the species are still here. But you can’t see them all because roses blossom at different times of the year; in fact, there aren’t many in bloom right now, probably no more than seventy.

  We break our way through the thick undergrowth along the old path hidden below it, and farthest in the distance, I can make out fruit trees that seem to encircle the garden.

  —Rosa gallica, Rosa mundi, Rosa centifolia, Rosa hybrida, Rosa multiflora, Rosa candida. Brother Matthew lists them off.

  As I walk around the garden with Brother Matthew, this magnificent celestial rose garden, as it’s r
eferred to in the old books, gradually begins to take shape in my mind. I will have to start by weeding it and pruning the plants, which could take me up to two weeks if I work ten hours a day; then I’ll have to thin the soil and do some replanting to give the flowers enough elbow room to grow in. I’ve already selected a sheltered and sunny spot in my mind for the new species of rose I’m going to add. It may not be very visible at first and it won’t blossom straight away, but this spot has the right conditions and light for a new unknown rose species planted in fertile soil to grow. The plastic hospital glasses are no longer to be trusted; you can’t go on breeding life in cotton wool forever. I decide not to delay bringing up the subject of the eight-petaled rose that I’ve left on the windowsill in the guesthouse, and pull out a photograph of the rose in full blossom in the greenhouse.

  —No, I’m not familiar with this species, says Brother Matthew after a moment’s silence, I don’t think there are any like that in our garden. It bears some resemblance to the rare white rose, Rosa candida, but the color is different, rather unusual. What did you say it was called?

  —Eight-petaled rose. There are eight petals growing together at the base of the flower, then another eight around it, in triple layers; altogether there are twenty-four petals forming the bud, which is almost always dewy, I explain. It’s true that it’s related to the Rosa candida, except that this one isn’t white. This one comes from a more resilient stock, probably the only of its kind in the world, I say. Although I’ve looked at many books about roses, I’ve never come across this species anywhere else.