The Illegal Gardener gv-1

by Sara Alexi

  “He was one lucky man to bump into you,” Michelle says.

  “I think he blamed himself for his brother dying in the fires. His programming fulfilling both their lives, exorcising demons. It was the only thing that would account for such intensity, as if his life depended on it. Which, potentially, it did I suppose. Υou know what I mean?”

  “A bit like your intensity to study Greek all these years because Greece and its attitude remind you of your dad.” Michelle pauses slightly between the last few words, the final word comes out almost like a whisper.

  “What?” Juliet says.

  “Well, the Irish are quirky and warm and humorous, and the Greeks are quirky and warm and humorous. At least they were when we were there twenty million years ago. Don’t you remember, you even said at the time that everyone you met reminded you of your dad? You even said, ‘It’s like southern Ireland, but warm.’” Michelle laughs. “We had such a good time. Do you remember that barman who just kept giving us shots and then he ended up dancing on the bar? Remember? He banged his chest and said, ‘Life depends on what is in your heart.’ And we cracked up laughing.”

  Juliet laughs. “That was such a good holiday. I never thought that it would lead to where I am now.” Her tone drops and a sadness enters her voice. “His intensity will get him the job though.”

  “And after he gets the job?”

  “I suppose he will go to the village." Juliet can imagine Saabira running to greet him, his mother kissing him all over, his father shaking his hand, and the whole village gathering around him. Some will say, “Did you get the money?” Aaman will ask, “How much is the village short?” Someone will tell him. “Not any more, I will cover it all!” he’ll cry. The village will cheer. A real hero’s return. Juliet laughs as she cries.

  “Aw, Juliet, I don’t know what you guys had together but am I getting the feeling, maybe, that it wasn’t such a good idea. Do you regret it?”

  “Absolutely not! He is the most spectacular thing that has happened to me since my dad rescued me from the fire. He has opened my mind, my prejudices, and my heart. It is easy to think you’re OK if you don’t know what you’re missing. He showed me so much, Michelle. I feel a different person for meeting him. A better one.”

  “Sounds like love to me.”

  Juliet blows her nose.

  “Juliet, you’ll be OK. It’s not as if he left you because of you. He would have stayed if he wasn’t married, by the sound of it.”

  “Yes, it is more like he has died in a way, you know, because nothing has changed between us.” There has been no falling out and no change of heart. “But then again, he is not dead because we could write, or email maybe. I am hoping at some point he’ll get Skype so I can see him.”

  “And his wife?”

  “You know, that is strange, I do not feel jealous of her at all. In fact, from what he has said, I think I would like her. His was an arranged marriage and he has worked hard to make it a happy one. I was not an arrangement. I was a choice, of sorts.”

  “What do you mean, ‘of sorts’?”

  “Well, he worked for me and the relationship grew because we spent so much time together, and, as you pointed out, I had no-one else and he had no-one else. So how much was choice and how much was proximity and human nature?”

  “Good idea, Juliet. Take all the romance out, dissect it until it cannot hurt you and it becomes worthless. Pick it to pieces until you have nothing to run from. Go on then, time to slam the phone down.”

  “No, I hear you.”

  Michelle clears her throat, a short contemplative sound.

  “But do you see what I mean?” Juliette asks.

  “No, you’re talking rubbish. You’re saying that with any man you invite in to do your garden, you’re going to find this connection. If that were the case, they wouldn’t advertise Date Line, they would advertise Garden Line. Get real, Juliet. These connections are rare. I wish I had had such a connection to someone. All I’ve ever had was lust, familiarity, practicality, and divorce. No, treasure it, and be thankful he was not around long enough to spoil it.”

  “A little bit longer would have been nice. Like ten years or so.” Juliet tries to laugh.

  “You are open to it so maybe it will come by again. It is like the rich. If you make one of them poor, they just get rich again because they know how. Well, see yourself like that. See life like that and then everyone you meet has potential.”

  “Is there a jury present for this summary?” Juliet digs at Michelle’s profession.

  “I mean it, Jules. I sometimes think I’m all shrivelled and dry inside. I would love to be back watching that medallion-encrusted barman dance on the table again because this time I would understand what he was saying, be up there with him and seize the moment!”

  “And seize him?” Juliet laughs.

  “Too right! Everyone has potential, even Mr Medallion Man.”

  “Michelle, you are doing me the world of good. Do you fancy coming over for Christmas? We’ll find you another medallion man.” The cat jumps up on her knee. “Hello Aaman. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Is he back?”

  “No, no it is the cat. I thought it was about time he got a name. His lady cat has had kittens.”

  “Let me guess. She is called Saabira and what have you called the kittens?”

  “No, she is called Juliet.”

  “I’m not sure if that isn’t a bit sick.”

  They agree upon dates over Christmas that Michelle will visit and they both get excited and giggly. They finally say a protracted goodbye, before Juliet wanders, Aaman on her shoulder, into his room. She has not been in it since he moved in. The door no longer squeaks. It vaguely smells of him. He has changed the sheets and everything is neat. There is a book of Greek verbs by his bed, the one she bought when she returned to England after her first trip to Greece. She opens the built-in cupboard. It is empty, the board at the back not quite in straight. She saw him once, when he had left the door ajar, using it as a place to hide his money. She takes a five euro note from her back pocket and slips it behind the board. For Aaman. The cat jumps off Juliet and onto the bed. He sniffs and settles down to sleep.

  Juliet wanders through the sitting room and kitchen to the back door. The garden looks beautiful. She makes a decision to get a bench for under the pergola. No, better still, a hammock. Actually what would be really nice would be a pond, a natural, overgrown-looking pond next to the pergola, and behind maybe a summer house. It could be her office, way in the back corner behind the vines, looking back at the house.

  The tools are all lined up on his homemade shelves, his thick gloves on top. Juliet strokes the gloves. She picks them up and slips her hands inside and hugs them to her face. The gloves dangling on her small hands, she meanders to the vegetable plot. It needs weeding. She bends and pulls some of the weeds. They come out easily. She sits in a squat like Aaman would do and weeds the row. It is a pleasant job. With the sun on her back, time becomes irrelevant, the afternoon passes and the vegetable plot looks better for the attention. Juliet drops the gloves on the ground, but thinks better of it and picks them up and returns them to his shelves.

  The gravel drive needs a bit of a weeding too but she feels she has done enough for today. She trips over the kittens battling in the doorway. The wine opens with a worthy pop and glugs loudly into her glass.

  Aaman finds the aeroplane a little bit frightening, and it takes a long time to get to Lahore. They serve food on little plastic trays with knives and forks in plastic bags. Aaman feels like he is in a film. He looks about to see if the other passengers are equally impressed with their individual portions, but most are asleep, others are reading, no-one shows much interest in the food offered.

  Aaman carefully unwraps the food and lays it on the ingenious drop-down table in front of him, which he raises and lowers several times for the joy of it. However, he is soon disappointed by the food as it does not taste of anything. Pushing it to o
ne side, he takes comfort in being surrounded by people mostly speaking his mother tongue and he rests his head back, catching familiar conversations here and there. He closes his eyes for the landing.

  The open space inside the airport building at Lahore impresses Aaman equally to the one in Athens, but here the ceiling is lower, supporting it are strong hexagonal pillars at regular intervals. The other difference, which helps Aaman feel he is home, are the people sitting on the floor everywhere he looks. Family clusters, groups of businessmen, people waiting in line for boarding passes. It is natural, it is acceptable to use the floor here.

  There is a mix-up at the airport with the bags and the weary travellers move three times to different places to await their luggage.

  The last time Aaman was in Lahore, he had been overwhelmed by all he saw and the pace of life. He had longed for his village, the open spaces, the wandering animals. This time it doesn’t occur to him he is in a city. It is just part of his journey.

  He feels a pang of loneliness as the other passengers are greeted with hugs and handshakes from waiting friends and relatives. Maybe he should have told them he was coming? He catches a bus into town and walks to the hotel he has booked online at Juliet’s. It will cost him six euros a night.

  The hotel looks a lot like the immigration centre where he was detained but without the fence. Concrete, square, encompassing a courtyard of cars. It is very central, which is most important for the many interviews he has lined up.

  There is noise all night. People shouting and banging doors. The city doesn’t sleep. He is reminded of his days on the streets in Athens and takes pleasure in the width of the bed and plumps the pillows, smiling into them.

  The next morning, he dresses carefully and arrives at his first appointment half an hour early. He waits in a glass hall on an aging leather sofa. He runs through in his head the questions they may ask and is startled when his name is called.

  He is offered this job with a hearty handshake. The man declares that it isn’t often international programmers apply for jobs with his company and that his English employers spoke very highly of him and how travelled he must be to have worked for a British company in Greece. Aaman momentary thinks he has him confused with someone else but when he mentions Greece and A.J. Software House he feels his cheeks colour. The man chats on switching from Urdu to English in the same sentence and Aaman realises that, despite his dual tongue, his view of the world is confined to Lahore. Aaman thanks him for the offer, tells him he feels very honoured to be given such a chance but would he mind if he takes a day or two to think about it. The man laughs heartily, shakes his hand again and tells him to take all the time he needs.

  In the following days, he goes to all of the interviews he and Juliet have pre-arranged to see what the different places are like. Many times he is greeted in the same way as the first interview. As the offers of jobs grow so does Aaman’s confidence. Some ask if he would keep in touch as all positions are currently filled but they would be very interested in him in the future.

  Near the end of the week, Aaman is sitting in his hotel room trying to decide which job he will take when he thinks of his family. They are still some distance away. It is a three-hour bus ride to Sialkot alone and then farther to the village. If he takes any of these jobs in Lahore, he will not be able to return to his family home at the weekends.

  He takes Juliet’s laptop down to reception where he is able to access the Internet and sets about emailing software houses in Sialkot. There are five that he finds online. One replies immediately and offers him an interview the following day.

  As he cannot afford any of the hotels with Internet access in Sialkot he briefly wonders if he had made a rash decision whilst on the bus that takes him there that evening.

  On arrival, he finds his budget room is next door to a shiny, glass-doored five-star hotel. He books into his hotel and then sits on the wall outside, his laptop under his arm and watches the porter at the hotel next door. The porter opens the door for a lady who is being led by a small dog. The dog takes her onto the immaculate narrow lawn that slopes down to the road. Once it had finished its business, it takes the lady back inside. A man draws up in a car and jumps out. He hands his keys to the doorman without even looking at him. The doorman times the opening of the door so the guest does not miss a step. A young man appears and takes the keys from the porter and drives the car around the back of the hotel. Someone comes out. They too do not acknowledge the doorman.

  Aaman smooths his hair and walks purposefully along the road to the drive entrance of the five-star palace. He strides up to the door as if he intends to walk straight through the glass. The doorman’s timing is perfect and Aaman continues on to reception, where he asks where he might wait for his colleague. The lounge through an arch is indicated.

  The chairs are deeply padded, and Aaman thinks he might sink through to the floor. He was right. There is Internet access here. Two more emails have arrived both offering interviews the next day. Aaman juggles his times and arranges to see them all in one day.

  That night he doesn’t sleep despite the comparative quiet. He wonders if he has been rash to turn away from the job offers in Lahore. Dawn comes, and Aaman’s eyes refuse to open. Consequently, he is late for his first interview.

  The pay is slightly less, but the cost of living in Sialkot is lower than in Lahore. The work is fascinating in all three of the offers he received. The last interview, in Urdu alone, culminates in him being taken around every department and introduced as the international programmer who will be coming to work for them. Workers stand to shake his hand. Aaman feels a fraud but also enjoys his status. It is a long way from how he felt as an illegal immigrant.

  He takes the second job offer of the day. The people seem most interested in their work, and there is a feeling of excitement that he too feels about programming. He begins work the next day and the following evening he finds a flat where he can live during the week and maybe, if she still wants to be near him, his wife, Saabira, can join him. He hopes his decisions would please Juliet.

  He finds working in an office more difficult than he had even considered. There is much he does not understand and he makes some mistakes. One involves the changes he made in a programme on one website going live, but he forgot to close down all the other connections that he opened to the database on his office desktop, and it caused many problems. The site has to be taken off the Internet for some hours to fix it. This is the worst mistake. But the boss declares there isn’t a person in the office who hasn’t done this at some point and tells him not to worry. Nevertheless, he does worry. He has learnt from this, and it will never happen again.

  His flat is not far from work, and his days consist of work, food, and sleeping. At the end of the second week, his days take on a routine, and this gives room for him to think about Juliet and Saabira and his family. Saabira feels so far away. He feels like Juliet is with him. He tries to involve himself in the life around him. Tea with his colleagues, cinema with his boss one time. He throws himself into this integration the same way he dedicated himself to programming, singlemindedly. The result, after a month, is he is very popular at work and is known by his name at the places he visits. His confidence soars.

  But he knows he has to complete his journey by returning home. It would be easier not to. But he longs to see his Ma and the oxen.

  Chapter 20

  September, for Juliet, brings some relief as the temperature drops. The Greek cogs begin to turn and tourism dwindles. It is more noticeable in the town, but the village seems to continue on its perennial path, methods of a hundred years past still holding strong. The goats still taken out to pasture, left to roam along the hillsides, and brought home to be milked and fed and bedded down. Their protective dogs unleashed and allowed the free run of the village in their time off. The shepherds tend to the goats in their makeshift shacks, on land that is unusable for anything else. Too rocky, too sloping, too out of the way.

  Juliet
gets a trickle of work through the British Council and she secures the deal to translate the book. She feels excited about the book. She keeps her working hours to the mornings and early afternoons as she has finally learnt that she is more productive for the routine. As the heat of the day passes, she dons Aaman’s gardening gloves and potters about in the garden, most of the time not knowing what she is doing but learning gradually. Evenings are hard. What words of wisdom had she passed onto Michelle? Just adjustment, nothing bad is happening. It does not feel like that.

  For a time, Juliet waits to hear from Aaman but as the weeks turn into months, she stops waiting. Hope remains, silent, unspoken, and unsought, occasionally popping up to tear open the wound.

  October is glorious, warm but not hot, with gentle rain cooling the earth. Droplets hit the parched soil with an audible sigh, bringing confused kittens in wet coats inside. The vines that had grown at an incredible speed during the spring and had produced tiny buds of grapes in the early summer, now hang weighted down with clusters of tight-skinned, white-dusted, purple balloons.

  Juliet discovers a small vine, which Aaman had encouraged up one of the supports of the pergola. Each white, seedless grape is no bigger than her fingernail, and yet each is packed with the flavour of a whole bunch. The passion flower has grown at a phenomenal rate and produced flower upon flower and, as they faded and died, new flowers came, hidden pockets of intense colour amongst its trailing thin leaves.

  November has Juliet unearthing her lighter jumpers and wondering what to get her boys for Christmas. The big celebration in Greece is Easter, but some indication of Christmas shows here and there in the shops. In the village shop, Marina has a four-inch tall silver Christmas tree for sale on the top shelf by the bottled wine. Juliet has long since discovered that the local wine, in unmarked plastic bottles at an eighth of the price, is just as good as the labelled glass bottles, but lighter, less hangover.