The Greenhouse (16 page)

I feel uneasy and also sense some insecurity in the voice of my daughter’s mother. She says she’s going to go abroad to take a postgrad in human genetics, but she has to finish her thesis first, after which she has to go to the college for an interview and find some accommodation for herself and the child.

She was wondering, she says—and her voice suddenly grows so faint that I think I’m about to lose the connection—if I could be with Flóra Sól while she’s finishing her thesis and preparing herself. It might be for like a month, she says in an almost tapering voice.

—She’s a very sweet and easygoing child, I hear her say.

Her request throws me completely.

—I also think it’s good for you two to get to know each other, Anna continues. After all, she’s your daughter, too, and you have to bear your part of the responsibility.

She’s right, I was partly responsible for the conception of the child. I’ve replayed that scene in the greenhouse hundreds of times in my head and think it must have been some stranger, some other man that must have done the deed.

—I can’t come home, I say, I’m stuck here with at least another month’s work.

—I know, she says quickly, I’d bring Flóra Sól over to you. Your dad tells me that you can pretty much set your own timetable, that you’re learning some rare dialect and thinking things over.

So that’s what Dad is saying, that I’m thinking things over. My gardening doesn’t even come into the equation.

I try one last card:

—The place isn’t exactly on the beaten track and it’s quite complicated to get here. I don’t think it’s a very suitable journey for an eight-month-old child.

—Almost nine months now, says Anna.

—Yeah, for an almost nine-month-old child, I say. After the flight, you’ve got to change trains four times and then take a bus from the next town because there are no trains here. There are two buses a day.

—I know, she says in a low voice, I’ve looked it up on the map. Flóra Sól won’t be a problem, she’s a very manageable child, as you’ll get to realize. It’s no bother traveling with her, she eats when she’s hungry, sleeps when she’s tired, and always wakes up happy. She also likes observing people and following what’s going on around her. She’s never been abroad, says Anna, as if this were a vital ingredient for the development of a nine-month-old child.

I somehow get the feeling that the decision has already been made, that the mother of my child will come with my roughly nine-month-old Flóra Sól and that I won’t be given any chance to think the matter over. She’s obviously thought this over inside out; Dad must have surely given her his backing in the decision and encouraged her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d even planted the idea in her himself. I can almost hear him say it:

—Sure, it’s a piece of cake, Dabbi.

Just as my life is starting to flow effortlessly, the garden having undergone a great transformation, and I am beginning to be able to exhale simple phrases in a new language, this has to happen. There are only two options for me: to say yes or no. I’ve never been any good at final or categorical decisions that rule out any other possibilities. Or at least not when there are people and feelings involved.

—Could you think about it and give me a call tomorrow? she asks. I sense her unease; she seems to be worried, as if she were already starting to wish she hadn’t called me. I don’t feel particularly good myself. That’s women for you. They’re suddenly there in front of you, on the threshold of a new life with a child in their arms, telling you that you’ve got to bear responsibility for a poorly timed conception, an accidental child.

—I’ll pick you up at the station, I say as if someone else is speaking through me, it’s too complicated getting here by bus.

There’s silence on the line, as if my response had somehow thrown her.

—Don’t you want to think it over and call me tomorrow?

—No, there’s no need, I say and feel how unlike myself I am. Without having any idea of what role Anna has just cast me in or what taking care of the child entails, I don’t want to disappoint the mother of my child or let my daughter down. It’s only fair that I should share responsibility for the child with her mother. I was even present at her birth, although it would be too far-fetched to say that I delivered her or that I was of any use.

—Thank you for taking it so well; to be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. I had no other choice, she says finally, almost in a whisper, as if she had written me the letter as a last resort.

—There’s just one other thing: I’ll bring everything but a bed; do you think you could get a cot for Flóra Sól? Just for a while, it can be secondhand.

After my conversation with Anna I knock on Father Thomas’s door. He’s started to watch the movie without me, because I was late, and pulls a chair out for me. I get straight to the point.

—Something’s come up, I say. The thing is, I have to take care of a child, my nine-month-old daughter, in fact, just for a while, probably for three or four weeks. Could she stay with me in the guesthouse and be with me in the garden during the day? I’d probably have to reduce my workload a bit.

Father Thomas turns off the TV and stares at me in disbelief, as if he were wondering if he’d heard me right.

—I’d find a bed for her, I say; it would only be temporary, I add.

There is a prolonged silence in room number seven. Father Thomas finally speaks.

—There is no space for a child within the framework of monastic life. It would disturb the tranquility and prayers.

—I wouldn’t exactly be taking her into the monastery, I say, just to the garden. Her mother says she sleeps three hours after lunch, so she could sleep in the carriage while I work in the rose garden.

—No, no, and no. The child would disrupt everything. When a baby babbles, it can be heard. What do you think Brother Jacob would say?

—It would only be temporary, I say, starting to repeat myself and sensing that my arguments bear little weight. I don’t know why he specifically mentioned Brother Jacob.

—Are you going to take a babbling child to the refectory? For soup and a jar full of baby food? He looks at me with a mixture of horror and amazement. This isn’t a hotel, it’s a monastery. The men who are here have renounced family life to serve God. Are you going to set up a nursery in that world? Only Christ comes first in here.

—But didn’t Christ say come all you…, I hazard feebly, but immediately sense my sarcasm is out of place. I feel like I’m rapidly losing ground.

—Christ said and Christ didn’t say, are you so infantile as to think you can argue theology with me?

—There now, he says in a milder tone. Let’s have a drop of apricot liqueur.

He grabs a bottle and glasses.

—You never mentioned you had a child. Just that your mother had died and that you were pondering about death and the body.

—One can’t always cover everything. I thought I’d told you about it, though, when we were discussing death.

—It isn’t always easy to know what you’re getting at.

Although the matter is formally closed, I attempt to play my final trump card by showing Father Thomas a photograph of my daughter. I choose the older picture, the one of her straight out of the tub in her bath gown, because I think it’ll have the greatest impact. She has a cordon tied around her waist like a monk and wet curly locks on her forehead. The bare toes that protrude from the hem of the gown are the size of peas.

He examines the photograph, impossible to decipher what he’s thinking.

—To be honest, I thought you weren’t interested in women. It even occurred to me that you might have a crush on me, he says with a smile. I’m relieved that’s not the case. I was going to shake you off, but I don’t have to now, says the priest, leaning back on his chair. The matter is settled, as far as he is concerned. He tells me I’m welcome to stay on and watch the rest of the film with him; he can fill me in on the story so far, the first twenty minutes. The theme is faith this time for a change, a quarter-of-a-century-old picture by Godard.

—We don’t just have a need to know everything, but also to believe, says the priest, setting the tone for the content of this masterpiece. If a girl who is expecting a child says she hasn’t slept with anyone, it may well be true. It is by no means necessary to see to believe. Unless she defines the act differently. And the word became flesh, as the text says. Thus every woman carries the mystery of genesis within her, the light of divine conception.

I slip my daughter’s photograph back into my pocket. There is little else to add. I watch the film distractedly for half an hour, then stand up and say good night.

—Don’t worry, you’ll find a solution to your problem with God’s help, he says, the Lord be with you and your child.

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.