The Greenhouse

Fifty-nine

I try to be up and have the sofa bed folded back before the girls come in. We’ve divided our time so that I’m with the child until two o’clock, while Anna is at the library; then the girls are together in the afternoon while I go to the garden. So basically we’ve split the day into three shifts: mornings, afternoons, and evenings.

Flóra Sól is sitting in the cot looking at a picture book and does not therefore require my undivided attention. This gives me a bit of time to think things over, to have a better look at the plan I found in the library during the week, to organize and draw up a list of tasks for the next few days. If the original drawing is anything to go by, the garden was created with symmetrical patterns that subtly blended in with the soft lines of nature; the essence of the botanical art was the interplay between light and shadow. Then it seems that the rose beds were organized in octagonal plots around the pond and a lot of potherbs and healing herbs were planted in a special herb garden. The drawing also shows various types of jars and tubs that were used to store the healing herbs and spices.

I nevertheless glance at Flóra Sól every now and then, and she sometimes looks up from her book at me. It’s a volume of biblical parables for children with a picture on each page and very few words. She manages to browse through the book by herself, carefully peeling back each page with her thumb and index, and always stops on the same picture of a king brandishing a sword and holding up a child that two women are claiming as their own. I wonder if the book is too violent for the child. I was touched by the gift, though, and surprised when I saw Brother Matthew appear with a book under his arm while I was planting.

Innumerable quarters of an hour go by in this manner. I change my daughter, dress her, talk to her, build a tower out of letter cubes with her or assemble a thirteen-piece jigsaw, sing with her, feed her, wash her face, put her into her outdoor clothes, and off we go to buy some food and take a stroll. Or we go to the café and keep our eyes open in case we meet Anna. Then we go into the church every day to look at the picture of baby Jesus. We always follow the same routine and don’t walk straight up to the painting, but rather approach it slowly. First we take one round and look at the other paintings and light a candle for Joseph. My daughter bounces with excitement and joy in my arms; she knows what’s coming. I get the feeling she’s put on weight since she and her mother moved in, she’s starting to sink in my arms. Has Anna put on some weight, too, I wonder?

The same thing always happens when we get to the painting of Mary on her throne with the baby Jesus; the child stops bouncing in my arms, becomes serious and perfectly still, and looks at the child in the picture with big eyes.

I’m not a strict father and am incapable of scolding a child, although I realize I have to growl every now and then to prevent Flóra Sól from doing herself any harm. Still, I feel my daughter is totally guileless and shows the world an unnecessary amount of affection; she wants to pat and caress every single creature she meets on her path. I have to admit her fearlessness and boundless kindness are a source of concern to me.

— No, no, I say in a deep, responsible voice when a skinny, raggedy alley cat approaches outside the church.

— Aaaaaaaaah, says the child tenderly, stretching out her arms toward the animal and signaling me to release her from my arms so that she can be on the same level as the wild animal. She wants to hug the cat the same way she hugs strangers. The child shows all living and moving creatures nothing but warmth and trust. Considering how precocious my daughter is in other areas — she already has a considerable vocabulary in her mother tongue and a few words in Latin, in addition to several words she’s picked up in the local dialect, like how to say hello and bye — I’m a little bit irritated by the fact that my nine-month-old daughter isn’t a better judge of character when it comes to being friendly with strangers and wanting to be good to scraggy alley cats.

The cat has big green eyes and rubs up against my leg.

— No, no, not allowed to touch.

And next you say:

— Didn’t I warn you, my little darling, that wild cats scratch, didn’t I? Didn’t I warn you four times before I was forced to put you in the carriage again?

A father’s worries about his guileless daughter are not unnatural when there are wild animals involved. I pick up the child and say:

— No, no, ugly cat, in a grave voice.

My daughter has stopped smiling; she looks at me with her big, deep, calm eyes and pale porcelain face. She seems fearless but baffled. I feel an immediate rush of guilt.

The animal looks at me with her sensitive feline eyes.

— OK, be good to the pussycat, I say with mixed feelings and little conviction, as I kneel down beside the scruffy cat with my child. Let’s give pussy something to eat, I say, reaching into the shopping bag for some appropriate cat food.

— Come on, I then say to my daughter, I’ll show you the distinction between good and bad.

I go back into the church and place her on a high chair in the semidarkness so that she can see the pictures high up. I can’t see her expression, but I know she is focused on the sculptures with serious and concentrated eyes, that she understands that at the top of every pillar there is a representation of the final conflict between good and evil, the fight between angels and demons, guilt and innocence, it’s all there clearly carved in stone: horns and hooves, halos, cowering faces, and benign expressions.

— Do you understand now, child, the evils of the world and man?

At first she clenches fistfuls of hair in both of her baby hands, then she slides her small palms over my forehead and holds them over my eyes a moment. She has a grip on my ears now, and finally I feel her patting my cheeks, first one and then she caresses the other.

When we get home and I’m folding the carriage, and my daughter is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, I notice that there are two women waiting for us on the landing, our elderly neighbor with a visiting friend, a woman of the same age. Her friend has asthma and wants to meet my daughter because she’s heard my neighbor talk so much about her. She’s told her the story of the vanishing eczema and now the friend wants to see the child. I’m given no peace. I’d rather Anna didn’t find out about the interest strangers are showing in her daughter and that people are slipping me jars of jam and dried spicy sausage every time I take her out.

— Were you buying cat food? my child’s mother asks me when I come home and she pulls three cans out of the shopping bag.