The Greenhouse

Eleven

Although the apartment is on the top floor and the window is closed, the hubbub of city life reaches my bed — beeping cars, shouts, and calls — it all seems so close. Dusk is quick to fall, the sky turns blue at around six, and the city plunges into darkness.

The window overlooks a narrow yard, with a view from the bed of a lit-up neighboring apartment across the way, a kitchen with no curtains, and a dining room, which I guess must be about only twelve feet from my bed. It’s like looking at a doll-house from which the front wall has been removed, offering a sample view of the family life inside. This is the third time in one hour that my female neighbor on the other side of the yard appears in the kitchen dressed in nothing but her underwear. I watch her butter two slices of bread and put cold cuts on them. It’s as if the absence of curtains has never even crossed her mind, and at least once or twice, she seems to be looking straight at me. Her panties are a violet red, and she’s holding the slice of bread in one hand. Then she briefly steps out of frame, and when she reemerges she’s in a dress and there’s a man standing with her in the kitchen, taking stuff out of a shopping bag. The girl could be my age, and I immediately substitute myself for the boyfriend. Assuming I could make a miraculously rapid recovery, I would be open to the possibility of getting to know her better if the opportunity were to present itself. Not that I can imagine the opportunity ever arising, though. Nevertheless, I entertain the fantasy of an encounter with her. I might, for example, need an egg — because I do know how to fry an egg — so I might knock on her door. That would mean, of course, having to go down the six floors of my building, out onto the street, passing the shop that sells eggs, and then into her building. And since I don’t have a key to my neighbor’s front entrance I’d have to find a way of hopping in with one of her unsuspecting neighbors when they were entering and then climb the six flights of stairs to knock on the door to her apartment. I conjure up other ways of approaching her. The simplest thing, of course, would be a chance encounter in the bakery.

— Come on, she’d say, dragging me by the hand across the paved courtyard. Let’s go up to my place. Once she strokes my hair in the same way that she stroked her boyfriend’s a few moments ago, I’m not sure I’d have anything to say to her. I ponder on whether my experience of six women is a lot or a little for a man of my age. Is it above average, just average, or way below average?

I open the window and the smell of food whets my appetite. I decide to rummage through the kitchen to see if there’s anything to eat, and I look into two cupboards. My brief search reveals some rye crackers and packets of asparagus soup. I grab the rhubarb jam from my backpack and eat three crackers with jam while the soup is boiling. I’m taken aback by the quantity of kitchen implements my friend has; she seems to have four of everything. Then I open the cupboard where the crockery is kept and look for some drink receptacle. The cups have floral patterns and gilded rims; I’m scared of dropping her precious china and root through the bottom of the cupboard until I find a plastic cup to drink water from.

What would my home be like? — It takes two to make a home, Mom would say; the only thing I couldn’t live without is plants, although I picture myself more out in a garden than standing indoors. I’m not like Dad, who is a born handyman. He doesn’t wander into the garage without a tie or a phillips-head screwdriver and reducer close at hand. I’m not one of those DIY guys, like those family men who can do everything: lay pavement, do the electrical wiring, make doors for the kitchen cupboards, build steps, unblock drainpipes, and change windows, or smash a pane of double-glazed glass with a sledgehammer — all those things that a man is supposed to be able to do. If I put my mind to it I could probably do some of those things, if not all of them, but I’d never enjoy them. I could put up some shelves, but putting up shelves could never become a hobby of mine, I wouldn’t waste my evenings and weekends on stuff like that. I don’t picture myself screwing some shelves together while Dad does the electric wiring. My future father-in-law could turn out to be an expert floor layer, so the two fathers-in-law could plan things together, each with his own coffee thermos resting on my shelves. Or the worst thing would be if it were just Dad and me and he’d be teaching me things like I was his apprentice. The more I think about the idea of founding a home, the more I realize I’m not cut out for it. The garden is another story altogether; I could stay in the garden for days and nights on end.

Dad phones me as I’m finishing the asparagus soup. He wants me to confirm that I’ve eaten. Then he wants to know what was for dinner, so I explain to him that they advise you to eat lightly after an appendix operation and that I had asparagus soup. He tells me that he was invited to Bogga’s for lamb soup. Then he asks me about Thórgun and I tell him she’s just popped out. He wants to know if I’m recovering and I tell him I’m feeling a lot better. Then he asks if it always gets dark at the same time.

— Yeah, at around six.

— How’s the weather? he asks.

— Same as this morning, cloudy and mild, spring weather really.

— What’s the electricity like there?

— What do you mean? The lights work, I say.

I know zilch about electricity. Dad tried to teach me how to change a plug on the morning of my ninth birthday, and I remember how stunned he was by my lack of interest. It was as if I were telling him that I had no intention of becoming a man. When he asks me about the electricity, I get the feeling that he’s checking my manhood levels.

— I’ve never liked the darkness, Lobbi lad, says the electrician before wishing me good night.

After saying good-bye to Dad and sending my regards to Jósef, I get into the pajamas they both gave me and lie under the girly duvet. The sleeves and legs are a bit on the short side. Since my operation I’ve been thinking a lot more about the body, both mine and the bodies of others. When I say the bodies of others I mainly mean the bodies of women, although I notice men’s bodies, too. I wonder if my increased awareness of the body might be a side effect of the anesthetic I had four days ago. My tummy is still sore, but nevertheless I feel incredibly lonely under this quilt. The best thing I can come up with is to grope myself, check my body to feel I’m still alive. I start off by feeling its individual elements, as if to persuade myself that they’re still a part of me. Although I’m clearly condemned to a period of solitude while I’m recovering from the appendix operation, I can nevertheless tangibly feel the longings of my male body. I can’t sleep, and my mind begins to wander. I even wonder if I should have gotten a phone number from the brown-eyed nurse who took care of my rose cuttings and helped me into bed on that first night, the one with the butterfly in her hair. Or the one who helped me into the shower and changed my bandage afterward.