The Greenhouse

Five

It’s precisely at the moment when the plane is lifting off the runway and shooting away from the frosty pink snow that I feel a distinct jab of pain in my stomach. I lean over my neighbor to catch a final glimpse through the porthole, of the mountain below, like violet mounds of meat splattered with streaks of white fat. The woman in a yellow polo presses herself back against her seat to give me the full view of her window. But I soon grow tired of measuring her breasts against the string of craters and lose interest in the view. Although I should be feeling lighter, the pain in my gut prevents me from full-heartedly appreciating the sense of freedom that is meant to accompany being above everything that is below. I’m conscious of — rather than actually seeing — the black lava, yellow withered grass, milky rivers, corrugated terrain of tussocks, marshes, fields of wilting lupin, and beyond that an endless stretch of rock. And what could be more hostile than rocks; surely roses can’t grow in the middle of broken rocks? This is undoubtedly an extraordinarily beautiful country, and although I’m fond of many things here, both places and people, it’s best kept on a stamp.

I stretch into the backpack shortly after takeoff to see how the rose cuttings are faring at an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet. They’re still wrapped in the moist newspapers, which I adjust around the green shoots. The fact that I accidentally chose an obituaries page is no doubt apt, considering my current physical state, and also a demonstration of how coincidences can work in subtle ways. At the moment in which I’m detaching myself from the earth below, it’s not unnatural to be thinking of death. I’m a twenty-two-year-old man and bound to sink into contemplating death several times a day. Second comes the body, both my own and that of others, and in third place there are the roses and other plants, although the exact order in which I ponder on these three things may vary from day to day. I put the plants down again and sit in the seat beside the woman.

In addition to the pain, which is now turning into a throbbing ache, I feel a mounting nausea and bend over, clutching my stomach. The sound of the engines reminds me of the fishing boat and how nauseous it made me feel in those four months of constant seasickness. I didn’t even need a rough sea; the moment I stepped onto the boat my stomach started to surge and I lost all my bearings. As soon as the steel hull started to amplify the sea’s vibrations and sway to its rhythm against the wharf, I’d burst into a cold sweat, and by the time we’d raised the anchor, I would already have thrown up once. When I was too seasick to sleep I’d go on deck and peer into the fog, watching the horizon swell up and down, as I tried to steady the waves. After nine fishing trips I was the palest man on the planet; even my eyes were a floating, watery blue.

— That’s the snag about being red-haired, the most experienced crewmember had said, they always get the worst seasickness.

— And they rarely come back, said another.