The Greenhouse

Forty-five

The girls are arriving in five days. Why did I agree to take the child, what on earth was I thinking? Here I am in a dream garden where literally everything I plant in the earth grows, and my life is taking on some shape. Although I’m a father I’ve no idea of what’s best for a child; I don’t even know what’s best for me. You could say that I ended up having a child before I even got a chance to figure out if I wanted one or not.

I decide to go to the garden later than usual today and to have a haircut instead, while I try to rethink my life from scratch. It says barber on the sign, but it also seems to be a hair salon for ladies, with three archaic hair dryers. The woman in the salon washes my hair. She takes a long time to spread the shampoo and very slowly massages me around the ears and all around my scalp. She has black hair and tells me that there are two of them working there in shifts. Then she says I have thick hair and that she’s spotted me a few times on the street and looked at my hair. Finally, she asks me how short I want it to be. Meanwhile I’m thinking of Anna, whom I only saw for ten minutes about two months ago when I was saying good-bye to her in the hall, and before that, but only kind of, in the maternity ward. That isn’t altogether true either, because I popped in to see the child between my trips out at sea; the last time I brought a doll and tomatoes.

And yet, to be honest, I wouldn’t be able to describe the mother of my child in any way that would enable a stranger to recognize her from my description, let’s say to the police, for example, if something came up and the girls didn’t get off the train.

— What kind of a nose does she have?

— I’m not sure. Feminine.

— Can you describe her in detail?

— Not much.

— And her mouth?

— Average size.

— What do you mean by average size? What kind of lips does she have?

— Thick, I think. Should I say a cherry mouth? I try to remember her sleeping face in the maternity ward.

— Color of her eyes?

— Not sure, blue or green.

Instead I try to conjure up that private memory, the light in the greenhouse and her leaf-patterned body.

I feel the need to rehearse the new situation that has unexpectedly cropped up in my life so I tell the woman that I’m expecting my daughter, about nine months old, and her mother on a visit. The woman nods, full of understanding. I immediately regret divulging this unnecessary information, which could just as easily have been left at the bottom of the ocean as far as I was concerned.

I stand out in the sun in the square with my newly cut hair while it dries and also to give myself time to recover from the emotion. People are staring at me; maybe they’re unused to seeing men with wet hair on the street. In just a few days’ time, I’ll no longer be the rose boy but the foreigner with the baby carriage.

When I get back to the guesthouse that evening after working in the garden, Father Thomas is waiting for me in the hall. Do you need an apartment for you and the child? he asks without hesitation.

— I’ve spoken to a nice woman and put in a good word for you. She can give you a apartment just here on the next street, he says.

— It’s only temporary, I say.

— Yeah, exactly, temporary, that’s what I told her. How long did you say the child would be staying for, four weeks?

— Yeah, at the most.

— It’s furnished. It’s normally empty, you just have to pay for the gas and cover a few minor expenses.

— I can take a look at the apartment tomorrow.

After I’ve thanked him, Father Thomas has something else he needs to get off his chest. He tells me that the monks are very happy with everything I’ve done with the roses so far; they also fully understand the temporary changes in my situation and hope to get me back when my circumstances permit.

— You can come to the garden if you find someone to babysit the child. Weren’t you saying that the little one takes a snooze in the afternoon? Brother Martin, broadly speaking, approves of the ivy plants but shares the same concerns that Brother Jacob has, that it might carry bugs into the building. He asks me to remind you that his room is on the southern side, the same side as Brother Stephen’s room, who is allergic to pollen.