The Greenhouse

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.