The Greenhouse

Ten

I ring Dad from a phone booth on the way out of the hospital. I clear my throat several times while the phone is ringing and tell him as nonchalantly as possible that I unexpectedly had to have my appendix out. I do my best to strike a casual tone, but my voice is all husky and weird, as if some total stranger had stepped in to dub the first chapters of this brief autobiographical film of my life, and all of a sudden I’m almost crying.

Dad wants me to come home on the next plane. When I tell him it’s out of the question, he wants to fly out himself and take care of me while I’m recovering. I can hear he’s worried.

— Your mother would have wanted that, he says. Actually I’ve been wanting to take Jósef abroad for some time, he adds. He likes flying.

I tell him how things are, that I’ve been loaned an apartment.

— A student’s cubbyhole way up on the sixth floor, with no elevator.

— Well then, Jósef and I will just stay at the inn.

He talks like someone out of an old book, as if there were only one inn in the entire city. As if they half expected to be given no shelter because the guesthouse would be full and they’d have to sleep in a barn.

It takes me a good while to convince my father, who is just three years away from being eighty and on the point of hopping on a plane with his handicapped son, that I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I struggle to revive my voice and tell him not to worry, that I’m going to be staying with my friend who is studying archaeology here.

— You remember Thórgun, I say, the girl who was in my class for the whole of primary school and often came home with me, the one who played the cello, with glasses and braces.

She was also actually in secondary school with me, too, but had stopped coming home with me by then. Then I’d bumped into her in a flower shop when she was back in the country on vacation; I needed some fertilizer and she held a viola cornuta. On the way out she informally invited me to come over and stay with her.

— It’s a very nice apartment she has, I now say, having previously given him the impression that it was a student slum — I’ll be quick to recover there. She’ll definitely cook for me, I quickly add to appease my father, who’s always protective of his twins, his only children. What I don’t tell him is that the archaeology student is, in fact, away for a week, looking at graveyards in two towns and broadening her horizons.

— You can always come home, he says. I haven’t touched anything in your room, it’s just as you left it, except that I tidied it up a bit, changed the sheets, and mopped the floor. It took me a whole evening to iron the sheets.

— We’ve been through all that, Dad. I’ll be here for a few days more until the stitches are removed, then I’m buying a secondhand car and driving down south to the garden, which will take me a good few days.

I can feel how tired I am and simply don’t have the stamina for a long dialogue. Although I’ve yet to thank him for the pajamas. Winding the conversation down requires both concentration and energy.

— Thanks for the pajamas, they came in very handy.

Then I give Dad the phone number of my old confirmation mate — as he calls her — who is lending me her bed while she’s away digging up two graveyards with a trowel and gaining some experience that will presumably be a revelation to her and broaden her vision of the world. He says he’s going to call me again this evening to find out how I’ve managed.

It isn’t far to my friend’s place, but the stitches hurt when I walk. As I’m walking there, I take in the buildings and the people. Most of the women definitely have brown hair and brown eyes.

The keys are in the bakery on the ground floor, although the apartment itself is on the sixth floor at the top, a loft, and no elevator. There are four keys in the bunch, and the woman in the bakery explains to me what each one is for: one for the hall door downstairs, the others for the cellar, mailbox, and my friend’s apartment. The staircase creaks; each step is a challenge for my newly stitched wound. The apartment is cold, but everything is clean and well ordered. The bed has been neatly made, and I’m assuming that under the bedspread there is the duvet that I’ve been loaned for a week, while my schoolmate, whom I’ve actually lost all contact with, investigates tombstones. It’s obvious that a female lives here; it’s full of small, unnecessary objects, candlesticks, lace tablecloths, incense, cushions, books, and pictures I have to be careful not to bump into. She’s obviously bought everything in an antiques market. The nano apartment has an antique desk on which there is an antique lamp, and then there’s an antique bed, antique candlesticks, and an antique mirror in the hallway in which I catch my reflection as I enter.

The height of the mirror is clearly intended for a female of average height, and I have to bend over considerably to be able to contemplate myself.

I run my hand though my thick, bristly hair, one of my striking characteristic gestures. There is no question about it: I’m eerily pale, even when you consider the fact that many red-haired people look drowsy all their lives. Despite my boyish appearance, I feel like a decrepit old man, who’s seen it all but is trapped in the body of a young man. From now on I guess it’s just a question of killing time until I reach the grave; can anything surprise me anymore?

I place the rose cuttings in the hospital cups on the windowsill and try adjusting the temperature of the radiators a number of times without success. I’m hungry, but since I didn’t think of buying anything in the bakery, I can’t muster up the energy to go traipsing down and up six floors. Instead I sprawl out on the bed and bury my head under my leather jacket. A moment later, I slip out of my jeans and sweater and crawl under the duvet. I sniff the duvet, but the smell doesn’t trigger off any particular associations. I toss and turn under the borrowed sheets. I’m either cold or sweaty; I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d developed an infection in my wound and were running a temperature, that’s all I need. But I stop myself from sinking into a state of shameless self-pity. Although I do miss Dad. In fact, I haven’t left home yet, and my mind flashes back to my old light blue duvet cover with the pictures of boats on it. I wonder what Dad is eating. He might be boiling the life out of some potatoes at this very moment; then later, when the windows are all fogged up, he’ll drop some fish into the pot. Although I don’t exactly miss Dad’s culinary efforts since Mom died, I somehow always associate Dad’s presence with mealtimes. At any rate, I wouldn’t say no to some salted cod with spuds and butter. When I was a kid, it was always Dad who used to make the fish palatable for me by taking the bones out of it, putting butter on it, and mashing it into my potatoes. I used to watch him build the yellowish-white hill. He wouldn’t spread the food around the plate, because that would make it go cold. It could take quite some time to smoothen all the sides of the volcano, to sharpen the rough and exposed landscape with Dad’s razor-sharp knife. I would only eat two mouthfuls and then I’d be full and have to go off and do something else. Dad would patiently put me back on the stool and continue spooning fish into me. And where’s my brother? Why isn’t he at the table with me? Yes, there he is, sitting still opposite me. He eats whatever is put in front of him without any fuss. He doesn’t make any remarks, he isn’t inquisitive and curious the way I am, he doesn’t sink under the table to see what lies below the surface of the world.

— One for Daddy…