The Greenhouse

Thirty-nine

After two weeks I’ve discovered a small bookshop down an alley off the main street, a few yards away from the guesthouse. I’m mainly looking for reading material on this peculiar local dialect, but I also find a postcard of the main church that Jósef might like to have. I glance at a few books lying on the table, open one or two, and browse through a few pages. It’s then that I spot a violet cover with a pink flower on it; the peculiar shape of the crown is reminiscent of Mom’s eight-petaled rose. When I open the book there are no pictures inside, just text.

— Gardening? I ask a girl who is pottering around the shop and keeping an eye on me. She might be the daughter of the owner who is sitting by the till; they have similar profiles.

— No, a novel, she says, blushing. This is the first local female in my age group that I’ve had any personal interaction with.

I’ve been pondering on ways of getting to know the villagers and learning their dying dialect, although the problem, of course, lies in the fact that I work alone and in silence in the garden and there are therefore no opportunities to practice the language.

Should I put up an ad in the bookshop asking for private lessons in this endangered language? Maybe the owner’s daughter would tell me straight away, before she’d even pinned up the notice, that she could take on the task herself on Wednesdays after work.

— We close at six then, instead of eight.