Rue des Rosiers

by Rhea Tregebov

  In the rooming-house room on Palmerston, Sarah sets the glass of water down, wipes her mouth. Fills the glass again, swallows all its water. A car’s headlights go by, their light travels across the bed. The clouds have moved off and she can see the moon, almost full, above the street. She needs to go back to bed now, back to the bed empty of Michael, of anyone.

  ~

  HARDINESS ZONES

  winnipeg is zone three, too cold for any but the hardiest hybrid apples, though the crabs do well. Sarah’s never seen cherries grow there, no apricots or peaches either, the soft fruit too tender for Winnipeg. Toronto’s zone six. Magnolias dropping saucer-sized blossoms onto the lawns in spring. Gorgeous Bing cherries in people’s front yards. Peaches, with some coddling; plums.

  Sarah’s even heard of expat Italian families growing small fig trees. To winter the trees over, they dig a trench next to the trunk, dig around to loosen the roots and then tip the tree sideways into the trench, bury it in soil. And wait for a resurrection in spring. So much trouble. Such a long dark wait for the tree.

  But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid.

  Where did that come from? Loh-yissah goy el-goy kherev veloh yilmedu ohd milkhamah: The song from Passover Seders: and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more. The promise of peace, and a garden, or at least a blossoming field. The verse goes on: But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid.

  Fig trees, grapevines – in the Winnipeg of her childhood they had seemed iconic and impossible, symbols of that unimaginable land of milk and honey. No – not unimaginable, the much-imagined new State of Israel, the promise of the map on the wall in every classroom, a delicate pale yellow country surrounded by delicate pale green. Lopsided little dagger pointing south. And the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.

  How much does it cost to grow an exotic fruit in a place it wasn’t meant for? And how did anyone ever first think of forcing its growth, then continuing, over years, to cultivate it?

  “You look preoccupied, Sarah.” Mrs. Margolis is wearing her usual gardening uniform: faded khakis and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, both over-sized on her slim self. The shirt could be a cast-off from her husband, though Sarah’s sure Mr. Margolis never wears anything remotely rumpled to the bank. He’ll wave genially at Sarah as he heads for his BMW, briefcase in hand, always pressed and ready. Maybe that’s what Michael will look like in twenty years.

  Mrs. Margolis is Sarah’s favourite customer, and Mrs. Margolis’s backyard in Forest Hill her favourite garden. The front yard of the house is restrained, a well-kept lawn, white impatiens in a ring under the shade of a huge basswood. But the backyard is where Mrs. Margolis makes herself felt. She and Sarah spent weeks setting up a Gertrude Jekyll-style perennial bed in the middle of a sunny spot in the backyard lawn, figuring out the design, which plants would bloom when, at what height, in what colour. Now they’re working on plans for a water feature farther back, near the little flagstone patio.

  “Well, Sarah? A penny for your thoughts.”

  Sarah’s penny is safe in her front jeans pocket. “I should be turning over this sod for you, but I have fig trees on the brain.”

  “Fig trees? Not for me, I hope. Too much trouble.”

  Sarah shakes her head.

  “I remember eating the fruit right off the tree in Provence. Teddy and I lived in the south of France for three months… That was ages ago, before the kids were born.”

  “I saw fig trees in Israel, but I didn’t have the nerve to pick them.”

  “Israel.” Mrs. M. shakes her head. “I don’t want to think about Israel right now.” The bombing in Lebanon hasn’t stopped and the count of civilian casualties goes on, more injury, death, to add to the ledger.

  “I know,” Sarah says. “The TV footage is –”

  “Distressing,” Mrs. M. says, her face severe. “Did you watch the news yesterday? That clip of a young woman running with her toddler in her arms; the child had on a bright blue party dress. I keep remembering the flag of that dress. The mother was so young. And her face – she could so easily have been a young Jewish mother.” She turns to Sarah. “When you read the Jewish press, it’s all ‘an attempt to obliterate a dangerous enemy.’ Obliterate. They use a word like that to talk about other human beings. Up till now I’ve always wanted to stand up for Israel, but this…”

  Sarah nods. She’s had her own knee-jerk responses about Israel – after what was done to us during the Holocaust, now the Arabs say they want to push us into the sea! But now these images, the ugly tally… Now her blameless good guys, the heroes of the kibbutzim who made the desert bloom, the Davids who beat Goliath, they’re not Davids anymore. If you were a Jew, what kind of Jew would you be? What can a Jew be?

  “Oh, look!” Mrs. M. is pointing. “See my feeder? Ruby-throated. They’re quite common here, but they still always give me a thrill.” Mrs. M. is standing with her head tilted back, hand shading her eyes.

  “It’s the males, of course, who have that showy red throat. And the hovering, it’s actually a kind of sculling motion.” Mrs. M. seems to know everything about birds as well as plants. She turns to Sarah. “Sometimes these hummingbirds remind me of you. So much concentrated in such a small package.”

  If you were a bird, what kind of bird would you be?

  “Oh don’t wrinkle your brow at me, Sarah Levine. They’re amazing creatures. To keep their engines running at such a high rate, they have to drink so much nectar so consistently that they’re always only a few hours away from starvation. A fine balance. Oh! Look at that.” Two birds approach the feeder, but with a drumming whoosh one dive-bombs the other. “Hummingbird dogfight! They’re territorial and that one’s trying to keep the feeder to itself.”

  “Mrs. Margolis,” Sarah says. “I’ve got that copy of Jekyll’s Colour Schemes for theFlower Garden that you lent me in the truck. Should I bring it in?”

  “Hang on to it if you’re still reading.”

  “It gives me ideas.”

  “You’ve no shortage of ideas, Sarah. Have you had a chance to check into those Ryerson courses on landscape design?”

  Sarah doesn’t even need to turn the penny in her pocket. No. It will say no.

  “Well, I’m sure there’s a lot you know already without going to school, but these kinds of courses will solidify the ideas you do have. Do think about it.” And then Mrs. M. is off, brisk strides around the corner of the house.

  These feisty, ferocious little birds fighting to keep what’s theirs. A miniature war. The feeders are their territory, but so are nests. Paradoxically, they fight less when food is scarce. Living in that economy of starvation, calories in, calories out, they can’t afford the energy spent in aggression when the balance gets particularly tough. Such a precise equation, but one they nonetheless seem to have control over. At will. At will they can curb being so territorial.

  When Mrs. M. comes back into the garden, where Sarah’s busy digging, turning up the worm-rich soil, she’s brought two tall glasses of iced tea. They move onto the wrought-iron bench Mrs. M. has set into the shade of some lilac bushes. “I’ve been wanting to run something by you.” Mrs. M. lays her gardening gloves on the bench beside her. “I’m quite serious about this. I’d like you to think about starting your own landscaping company. It would be such a positive change, working for yourself, having more control over design. It’s a waste, you doing all this donkey-work for other people. I like the way you think about gardens. If you took a couple of those Ryerson courses first, I think it would build your confidence. And you’ve got the smarts to make a business work.”

  Sarah turns the penny inside her pocket. No.

  “You haven’t said anything.”

  “I…I need to think about it.”

  “Of co
urse, of course. Here I am, nattering away. Enough nagging for today.”

  “It’s not nagging. It’s very kind of you.”

  They get up from the shade into the dazzle of sun, go over to the plot Sarah’s been working on.

  “I want a whole bed of bee balm here,” Mrs. M. says. “I love the scent. Did you know it’s a natural antiseptic?” She looks at Sarah. “I’m dithering again and you’ve got work to do. How’s your sister doing?”

  “Rose is having a hard time.”

  “I’m so sorry. The baby blues aren’t easy.”

  There was no baby. “They’ve got her on antidepressants now, so we’re hoping that will help.”

  “Once she’s feeling a bit better, see if you can get her to go outside. Takes you out of yourself. And exercise. Even if it’s just walking.” She touches Sarah’s shoulder. “She’s going to be okay, Sarah. I know you want to help, but you can’t necessarily make her well. It’s not up to you. She has to make herself well.”

  But it is. It is up to Sarah.

  “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

  Sarah nods.

  “She’ll be fine. She will.”

  Everyone’s so sure Rose will be fine. How can they know? Every night Sarah waits for the phone to ring, for a call she won’t know how to answer. She isn’t doing anything.

  “And Gail? What’s she up to?”

  “She has a lot to say about the Lebanon situation.”

  “I can imagine. And is she working on that feminist collective you mentioned?”

  “Several. Fund-raising for a rape-crisis centre. A bunch of her friends are starting a magazine. And she’s doing some volunteer work for a feminist press, helping them draft their contracts properly.”

  “That Gail. She’s a firecracker, your sister.”

  “She makes me tired, Mrs. Margolis. She’s just so angry so often.”

  “Still. I admire the force of Gail’s conviction. I missed that boat. Feminism.”

  Another hummingbird zips by them, wings a blur, that dizzy hum.

  Mrs. M. puts her garden gloves on, takes them off. “Here I am, 56, a kept woman with an indulgent banker husband, who amuses herself by playing with garden design. I’m a dabbler.” She’s playing with the fingers of the gloves. “It’s too late for me. But you young women. You could do anything.” Mrs. M. stoops to bundle up her garden tools. “Teddy will be home any minute. I should get cleaned up. See you next week.” And she’s gone.

  Sarah has another hour to go and about 50 square feet of sod to turn and soon her mind has been dug clean. She’s still bent over the shovel when a van pulls into the driveway. It’s Jim, the handyman who washes the windows, clears gutters, shovels snow in winter for the Margolises. He does some rough yard work, mows the lawn, but leaves the real gardening to Sarah.

  “Hey, Jim. What’s up?”

  “Windows.” He’s hauling his equipment out of the van. Lanky, maybe six foot four, slim but strong. “Mrs. M. loves her windows clean. Other folks get them done once a year at best, but this place, I do ’em March, June, October.”

  “Must be a million windows…” Sarah says.

  “I don’t mind. The more the merrier. I like my job, especially this stuff. Things start out dirty and then they get clean.” He stops unloading for a moment, looks down at his hands. “I used to be a social worker, did I ever tell you that?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Yeah. Ten years. Children’s Aid. A caseworker. The trenches. I figure, for every thousand people I touched in that job, I helped one. One. Got so I couldn’t take it.” He starts unloading again. “So now, I wash windows. And when I’m done, everybody’s happy. The windows are clean.”

  ~

  There’s a short hissing sound as the needle catches its groove and the schmaltzy violins swell. Then this throaty woman’s voice comes growling into the living room in Michael’s apartment on Howland, singing in French, infiltrating the smoke from Michael’s cigarette. He’s getting himself ready for Paris. Last week he learned he’d made the cut; the trip is on. Too bad Sarah can’t come, her French is so much better than his. She’s got a good ear for languages. He’s pretty damned excited. The office administrator that he met in Paris, Laura something, a Canadian who’s stationed there, even got him a place to stay. A small place, just one big room, really, in the old Jewish quarter, which is also kind of the Arab quarter, lots of Moroccan restaurants, really funky, down to earth. It’s called the Maquis or Marois or something, Michael can’t remember the name. The Marais, maybe.

  The Jewish quarter. Sarah didn’t know Paris had a Jewish quarter. And she doesn’t know that she wants it to. There can’t be a Jewish quarter in Paris because Paris isn’t Jewish. The categories are confused. Paris should just be Paris.

  Edith Piaf. That’s the name of the songstress. Sarah’s come straight from Mrs. Margolis’s, hasn’t washed up yet, but Michael sits her down on the sofa. He’s always steering her places, sit here, listen to this, drink that, like this. But when he stubs out his cigarette and takes her hand, she softens, tucks her head against his neck. His skin, above the muscle – she’s never been with a man with such soft skin. His hair soft, too, baby-fine and blond. Soft Michael.

  The r’s are trilling like crazy: Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. Is that why Michael can’t ever say he’s sorry, not because he doesn’t trust her, but because he regrets nothing? How does anyone do that? A boy or a girl, an eight year old ghost. Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait. Ni le mal; tout ça m’est bien égal. Piaf wasn’t her real name; it’s Parisian slang for sparrow. Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien.

  Michael wants her to translate the lyrics for him. She is good at French, somehow the texts on all those cereal boxes and milk cartons sank into her head. And she took a couple of courses at university. Though, other than her teachers, she’d never even met anyone who actually spoke French till that first trip to Paris. She never figured she’d have the chance to use it. At least she can help Michael with this. The words go something like: No, nothing at all. No, I regret nothing. Not the good that’s been done me. Nor the bad; it’s all just the same to me. Michael’s running his finger along her rough knuckles. Sarah closes her eyes. C’est payé, balayé, oublié. Je me fous du passé. It’s paid for, swept clean, forgotten. I don’t give a damn about the past. Avec mes souvenirs, j’ai allumé le feu. Memories are matches to light a fire. The orchestra’s playing a see-sawing carousel tune in the background of Piaf’s voice.

  Screw the past. Don’t look back.

  The Little Sparrow. If you were a bird….

  “Do you think hummingbirds are anxious?”

  “Huh?” Michael’s nibbling on her fingertips now, dirt or no dirt.

  “D’you think they’re anxious? They have to work so hard to stay in one place.”

  She can feel him straighten beside her. She opens her eyes.

  “Hey. You. You feeling stuck?” he asks. “Is it Rose?”

  “Yes. But – it’s work too.” She feels him tighten, start to close against her, the fight rising back up. How much he hates her job. Piaf keeps singing. No regrets. “Look at my hands. I haven’t even washed up. Should I go take a shower?”

  “No. Tell me what you were starting to say.”

  She drums her fingers along his knuckles. His hands are so clean, nails trim. Is Mr. Margolis one of those men who get manicures? Would Michael do that? She can’t tell him about Mrs. Margolis’s idea, going back to school, starting a business, because the penny’s already decided for her, or she’s decided for the penny. No. Her running a business. Where would she get the money? She’d need some sort of capital, tools, a truck. She can barely cover the rent on her room.

  Michael would help. Michael would love to help. Mr. Fix-It. He’d love to come to her rescue. Save her from herself. Michael the knight in shining armour.

  And he does shine. There was that time he saved them from a crash. They were heading back into town on a Sunday ev
ening on a two-lane country road when Sarah saw a car coming towards them in their lane. Head-on. In the sharp shard of a second before they crashed, faster than he could possibly have formed a conscious thought, Michael turned the wheel smoothly and swerved onto the shoulder, braked, his body thinking for him. And they were safe, though they could hear the thud and crash of a collision behind them.

  One minute Michael had his hands on the wheel, his clever, clever hands, which had saved them, and the next he was out of the car, shouting to Sarah as he closed the door, Don’t get out of the car! Then he was gone, running towards the crash. Of course she got out. The first thing she saw was Michael kneeling beside the driver, checking if he was all right. In the end, it wasn’t that serious. Sheer luck, but no one was badly hurt. Later, after the sirens and cops, on the slow shaky ride home, she asked Michael why he didn’t want her to get out of the car. He was scared, he said, of what he’d see. What she’d see. He didn’t want her to see dead bodies, people mangled. He wanted to spare her.

  And now he wants to fix her, fix her life with his good advice.

  “I wish you’d quit that stupid job,” he says now. “Are you going to keep working at the frigging Centre till the end of days?”

  The end of days. He’s let the usual irritation come into his voice, but she doesn’t mind, his body is saying something else. It wouldn’t be so bad to spend the end of days like this, her mouth against Michael’s neck, his hand pressing lightly against her belly.