by Mickey Brent
*****
Like a surfer lugging her board through the waves, Hélène raced her plant toward the register. She blinked to keep the leaves out of her eyelashes as she ran; they tickled her face, and some entered her nose, but she didn’t care. Sooner I’m out of here, the better.
There was a shuffle behind her. Next, she heard a loud “Aaaiieee!”
Before she knew it, Hélène’s arms encircled the Greek goddess’s waist. Grunting like a sailor, she righted the young woman. Thick, green branches dug into Hélène’s ribs, but she didn’t mind. She held on tight.
Chapter Two
It began with her olfactory system. Hélène’s nose noticed a subtle yet delightful scent emanating from the Greek goddess. Is it her hair? Or her skin? Something about this striking woman inspired images of all the exotic trips Hélène had planned but never took. As a child, she had dreamed of voyages to faraway islands, tropical paradises—places where she would do nothing but lie on the beach and stuff herself silly with lavish dishes bursting with forbidden spices.
Forbidden…Hélène’s mind lingered on the word. With her hands clenching the goddess and her nose burrowed in her soft hair, a sea of foreign sensations swept through Hélène’s body, invading it like a tidal wave, sweeping away all that wasn’t secured. Hélène struggled to keep her feet firmly on the ground.
Then a burst of warm air caressed her cheek.
“Merci,” uttered the goddess, whose shiny lips were millimeters from Hélène’s.
“No problem!” exclaimed Hélène, awkwardly removing her hands from Sylvie’s waist. “You’re sure loaded down,” she added, trying to sound casual.
“At least I’ve got a car.” Sylvie took off her heavy backpack.
“Allez-y, go ahead,” said Hélène, lugging her plant behind Sylvie. “I’m not in a hurry.” She winced at her quivering voice. I’m such a bad liar.
“If you insist.” Sylvie moved her plant in front of the cash register.
“That’ll be fifteen euros, Mademoiselle,” said the florist, a sturdy man with tiny round glasses. Sylvie fumbled in her backpack. As she pulled out her surfer’s wallet, her keys dropped to the ground. She turned to the blond woman. “Au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” replied Hélène, blushing as the Greek goddess marched off with her plant. Like a camera, her mind recorded Sylvie’s athletic silhouette. The woman’s youthful body radiated excellent health, with an intriguing blend of feminine and androgynous traits. Her slim waist and broad shoulders created a unique impression on Hélène, who wished she could have said something more to her. But what? she wondered, watching the young woman’s nimble legs stretch across the cobblestones before disappearing into the crowd.
“That’ll be fifteen euros for you too, Madame.”
Hélène hardly heard the florist. Her mind was still in overdrive. “Eh bien.” She glanced at her plant. Right. I’m buying a plant. “How often should I water it?” she blurted as she handed him the money.
“Voyons. How often do you take a shower, Madame?” The florist chuckled so hard he grabbed his chest. Normally, Hélène made an effort to laugh at his remarks. Today, she stared blankly at him.
“About half as often, d’accord?”
“Thanks.” Hélène took a step but stopped when she saw a shiny object nestled in the synthetic grass at her feet.
“Excusez-moi. Is this yours?” She held up a silver keychain in the form of a fish, with the word “Greece” etched into it. Several keys hung from its metal ring.
“Hmmm.” The florist scratched his balding head. “Never seen it before. Might be your friend’s.”
“What friend?”
“The one who was just here with you.”
The Greek goddess? Hélène stammered, “I…I don’t know her.”
“C’est bizarre. You sure seemed like friends. She’s here every Saturday, just like you.”
Hélène’s heart thumped. “Ah bon?” she replied, clutching the keys.
“I was certain you knew each other. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Just give me the keys. She’ll come back for them sooner or later.”
Hélène contemplated the florist’s outstretched palm, which resembled an heirloom tomato, with deep ridges and reddish, calloused skin.
Then she heard a tiny voice whisper: Keep them.
“Non,” she stammered. “I’ll…I’ll go find her. She can’t have gotten very far.”
The florist looked at her quizzically as she lugged her plant away.
Hélène elbowed her way through the crowds. I’ve got to find her.
Twenty minutes later, after checking all the stands, she stopped to catch her breath. Squinting, she inspected the silver fish’s worn edges. This thing is ancient. Wonder how long she’s had it? She flipped it over. A few words were engraved on the back. It’s in Greek!
After wandering aimlessly around the market, Hélène finally gave up. She headed back to the florist’s stand. But when she got there, her face fell. All that was left was an empty concrete space. She glanced at her watch. Ah non, Marc’s going to kill me!
Just then, Hélène did something she never, ever did. She had always loathed exercise, even in school. Not only was she the slowest runner, she couldn’t throw, hit, or kick a ball. Due to her uncoordinated efforts, the kids christened her Hélène la Boulette, which translated to Chunky Hunky Hélène in English. Not surprisingly, she always concocted clever excuses to escape éducation physique classes. Today, however, Chunky Hunky Hélène grabbed her hefty plant and, huffing and puffing, dripping and slipping, ran, ran, ran as fast as her chunky legs could carry her.
*****
When Hélène’s boots finally skidded to a stop at Marc’s table, her face had taken on the features of a frenzied dog. Pursing her lips to hide her frothing saliva, she thrust her hand over her pounding heart.
Hélène’s dramatic arrival amused the café locals relaxing outside, sipping espressos or Belgian beers, and munching on frites and mayonnaise. Conversations paused when Marc, crouched at a small table littered with empty Stella Artois beer bottles, sat up, erect as a pencil. His pupils shrank to pinpoints as his eyes drilled into his wife’s.
Marc’s eyes reminded Hélène of a feverish monkey she had once seen at the Antwerp zoo. She took a step back as her plant hit the ground.
“C’est pas possible, Hélène! I’ve been waiting for at least an hour!”
Hélène collapsed into a plastic chair and wiped the sweat off her face. Marc leaned forward. The pilsner beers had reddened his eyes and soured his breath. His angry eyes zoomed in on his wife’s precious plant. He shook the trunk violently as if to strangle it.
Hélène shuddered as orange flowers flew past her nose. Glad that’s not my neck.
“How much did this pile of weeds cost?” hissed Marc, flinging bits of shrubbery onto nearby tables, to the coffee sippers’ delight. Ignoring him, Hélène salvaged the discarded bits at her feet. Before Marc could make more of a scene, a young waiter appeared. He had bushy eyebrows, black eyes, platinum hair, and a tiny bone pierced through his left ear.
“What can I get you, Madame?” he asked with a slight foreign accent.
“Un grand café au lait,” replied Hélène, arranging the flowers in a neat pile. “And a croissant with jam and butter, s’il vous plaît.”
“We just had breakfast!” protested Marc, downing his beer.
Hélène peered at the lifeless flowers on their table. Stifling her anger, she blurted, “It’s Saturday. Might as well live it up!”
“D’accord. Let’s celebrate, then.” Marc rose and swaggered into the café. “I’ll start by taking a piss.”
Instead of soaking up her husband’s insults, Hélène purged them from her thoughts. She took out the silver “Greece” fish keychain and fingered its strange inscription. Wish I could read this. The silvery fish, resting on her pile of discarded flowers, shimmered in the sunlight. Just like a holy shrine, she mused. But in honor of whom? Hélène’s eye
s scanned the marketplace. The crowds had thinned. She felt her cheek twitching again. How can I find her?
Sneakered feet shuffled behind Hélène as the waiter appeared with her breakfast. He swept aside the pile of flowers and set down the tray.
“Tiens, I’ve got one just like this!” he exclaimed, grabbing the shiny keychain.
“M’enfin! What the heck are you doing?” Hélène jumped up. “Give that back at once!”
Ignoring her, the waiter squinted to read the worn Greek letters.
“‘To my dearest Joanna, with all my love forever. Théodoros.’” He cocked a pierced eyebrow at Hélène.
“You speak Greek?” she asked, surprised.
“Ain’t Yiddish, Madame. I’m imported. Direct from the islands. Don’t tell me you’re Joanna?”
Hélène gave him a blank look as she contemplated the words “With all my love forever.” Wonder who wrote that? Who’s Théodoros?
The waiter dangled the silver fish in front of her. “Alors, are you Joanna or—” he began in Greek.
“I said give it back! It’s my friend’s.” As Hélène snatched the keychain, her elbow hit something hard.
“Putain!” yelled Marc, clutching his ribs. Stella Artois suds flooded the pile of flowers. He swiped the shiny keychain from Hélène’s fingers.
“Alors, who’s your friend?” he demanded, dangling it before Hélène’s nose.
“Ah, nobody. I found it.”
Marc cleared his throat. “And I’m Father Christmas.”
“Vraiment, chéri.” Hélène grimaced at her café-drenched croissant. “I found it at the—”
“I’m not deaf, Hélène,” hissed Marc. “You said it was your friend’s!”
Hélène leaned away to escape her husband’s brewery breath.
“So who’s this friend of yours?”
“I told you. I found it at the flower—” Then something colorful caught her eye. “Ah!” she squealed. Her stomach grew queasy. The Greek goddess in a tie-dyed T-shirt was standing before their table, beaming at her.
“Super! I’ve been looking all over for that!” gushed Sylvie.
Marc looked at the young woman in shorts, then at his wife, and back at the young woman. While his neck was busy swiveling, Hélène snatched the keys from him. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. All she could do was keep from swallowing her tongue.
“Je…” she stammered, avoiding Sylvie’s glossy brown eyes to focus on the younger woman’s muscular thighs. Underneath her khaki shorts, tiny blond hairs grazed their smooth, tan surface. How could these be blond if she’s Greek? My legs are as white as aspirin and as flabby as… She gulped. I’d die for a pair of legs like these.
Sylvie’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“When I saw the florist was gone, I flipped. But I had a hunch I might find you here. And I was right! I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
Hélène clenched the keys in a futile attempt to control her facial muscles. The tic was making its rounds again. She tilted her head sideways.
“I…I looked everywhere but couldn’t find you,” Hélène stammered, forcing a diagonal smile at the beaming goddess. She thrust out her hand. “Voilà.”
Sylvie lifted the keys from her sweaty palm.
“How sweet of you. I’m so relieved!”
Hélène nodded. “I bet you are. You couldn’t go home without them.”
“Comment? The keys? I couldn’t care less about those.” The goddess chuckled. “My car’s a junker. This is what I was worried about.” Sylvie held up the silver fish with “Greece” written on it. She hugged it to her chest. “I’d die if I lost it!”
Hélène heard a snicker. Directly behind the goddess stood the waiter. He’s ogling the goddess. Makes sense. She’s stunning. Then Hélène remembered his words as he read the Greek message on the keychain: With all my love forever. Inexplicably, she started to feel queasy.
*****
Sylvie could feel his eyes on her body. She could always tell when guys were checking her out, even from behind. It made her skin crawl. I should have put on the Bermudas.
After the waiter had fully examined Sylvie’s firm backside and shapely calves, he addressed her in Greek. “Hey, Joanna…” When she didn’t respond, he tried, “Joanna, my sweetheart…”
Sylvie pretended she couldn’t hear him as she gazed at the woman who had found her keys. She tried to ignore the stream of negative thoughts running through her mind: I’m so sick of guys. They’re such scavengers, scrounging around for a tasty morsel of anything female. She averted her eyes from the man whose eyes were red from drinking. He seemed to be glowering at her. This jerk wins the prize. She flashed an apologetic smile at the woman.
“Eh bien, I’ve got to go. Merci encore. Kalí óreksi!” Sylvie said, skirting past the waiter before he could call her any more ridiculous names.
*****
Hélène watched the goddess’s nimble figure skip over the cobblestones despite her grocery-laden backpack. She can’t be real. When she shut her eyes, time skidded to a stop. Yet her heart continued to beat, furiously, like a powerful African drum. A mysterious force drew her in as her mind went into a trance. Matching the tam-tam beat, her chest’s jerky movements swelled, inflating her blouse. A tender spot surfaced beneath her heart. Through her soft pink eyelids, she saw an oblong blob. It turned into a tree—a familiar tree, a hollow tree. She understood the message: I am the tree.
Hélène’s body quivered in the midst of a flourishing grove, squeezing back the tears, braving the elements, camouflaging her emptiness. A gust of wind erupted. Her outer crust—the bark of her soul—scraped against her skin, like flimsy plywood flapping at a timeworn façade. Her roots, dry as ashes, had forgotten their purpose in life—to soak nutrients from the soil.
C’est ça. I’ve hit rock bottom. That’s why I feel all flaky and rotten inside. She could feel her body struggling to face the world. I’m a limp twig. And I can’t even float. A shiver ran down her spine.
Whenever Hélène felt the truth, the raw truth, about something important, her spine would tingle, like someone flipped a switch. Sparks of electricity would rip from the nape of her neck through the soles of her feet, toward the core of the earth.
Hélène’s eyes snapped open. Her face was still tingling. She had never seen that Greek woman before, but somehow she seemed so familiar. She watched her glide over the cobblestones like a potato chip floating in the wind. That’s it—she’s my exact opposite. I’m heavy and bland; she’s light and flavorful. I’m a lump, and she’s a goddess.
Just then, as if the goddess had heard Hélène’s thoughts, she turned and waved. Hélène wiggled her fingers timidly at the tiny figure on the horizon.
As soon as the goddess was out of sight, Hélène took a bite from her soggy croissant.
A gruff voice jolted her from her reverie. “Who the heck was that?”
Hélène swallowed. “Nobody.”
Marc’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, nobody? You seem to—”
“Name’s Joanna,” cut in the waiter as he removed Marc’s empty beer glasses.
Hélène glared at the young man and flashed a coy look at her husband.
“Pardon, chéri. Did I forget to introduce you?”
Chapter Three
It had been ten painful years. Ever since Maman had died, Hélène could no longer pick up the phone to release her troubles. She missed their long, intimate phone calls and endless chats over steamy cups of café au lait in Maman’s kitchen. Only flowers could comfort her now, drowning out these absurd scientific translations. Buried under piles of botany books, Hélène thrived in this secret world of poetry. Her innocent, flowery prose soothed her soul.
She had been writing her poems for years, yet she shared them with no one, and certainly not with Marc. She had a few friends but was more of a listener than a reciter of wants and woes. To make up for this, Hélène resorted to flower worship and clandestine poem dedications
to exalt their beauty. This was her only real source of happiness in life, along with Chaussette, her dear cat.
Hélène chewed on another cookie as she perused her latest literary creation at work. She whispered as she read her latest poem: “The flower, a poem in itself, hides behind the dark, tangled leaves of life. It remains shy about who it is, never truly revealing itself but for great, unexpected moments. It envies the butterfly, free to roam…”
I’m no Keats, d’accord, but still…Hélène focused her attention on her orange flowers, whose wrinkly petals were finally perking up after their cramped journey in her purse. Suddenly, her eyes blurred. The yo-yo became a go-go as the petals danced before her eyes. The petals’ circular swirls hypnotized Hélène while her mind drifted back to the market café.
The Greek goddess was standing before her, hugging her keychain to her chest. “I’d die if I lost it!” she exclaimed, smiling warmly at Hélène.
The pitter-patter of footsteps in the hall roused Hélène from her daydream. Monsieur Lamie, Hélène’s pudgy boss, poked the tip of his waxy mustache into her office. Hélène’s nostrils sensed the familiar odor of old cigars and cheap toilet water. Swiftly, she switched screens. The aphid text, which she was supposed to be working on, popped up again. Hunching over her keyboard, she pretended to translate; her fingers churned out a strange concoction: “xjioptezomqhtoeirupqkm jkeopqthqmlsdtjçszem…”
This charade always satisfied Monsieur Lamie, whose chunky glasses wore a perpetual coat of mustache wax and dust. He trusted his ears; as soon as he heard Hélène’s fingers tapping the keys, his handlebar mustache folded upward, and he tiptoed away.
