The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  “God, Alan, do you always have to draw me into an interrogation? Here we sit, it’s a wonderful spring evening, outside there’s the roar of London traffic … it could all be so nice, and you just make problems again. I’m here!” She gave him a challenging look. “Hello! Did you even realize? I’m here! I did what you always wanted. I came to you! I want to stay with you!”

  He couldn’t control himself any longer, he had to touch her. Carefully he stroked her cheek with his finger. She felt soft.

  “If only I didn’t know you so well,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine that you’d do anything without some other motive in mind. I think you want to be in London, not with me. You only thought of me because you needed somewhere to stay.”

  The towel slid off her body; he could not have said if there was some intention behind it or if it happened by chance. She had wonderful breasts, and he knew exactly what it felt like to touch them. He saw her narrow waist, the thin arcs of her ribs, the soft curves of her hips.

  “Maybe it would be better,” he said, “if you put something on.”

  “I’d have to unpack my suitcase. I don’t know if that’s allowed …”

  He sighed. “Of course it’s allowed. In any case I’d prefer it to you running around all night like,” he gestured towards her naked body, “that.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “Really? Is it so unpleasant for you?”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “For you or for me?”

  “For me. I’m the weaker one.”

  She put the towel back on, knotted it above her breasts, stood up.

  “Will you take me out to dinner? Then I’ll put something on right now.”

  “Of course. Gladly.”

  He watched her as she left the room. He knew she had already won, and he could see it on her that she knew it too.

  He was surprised at how the rest of the evening had gone. The way Maya looked when she came out of the bathroom, where she had been getting dressed, already had him unsettled. Normally her get-ups had always embarrassed him a little. She favored too-short skirts, low-cut tops, high-heeled shoes, a lot of jewelry, and makeup by the pound. But apparently she’d begun to change her style. She surfaced in a navy blue pantsuit with a high-necked white silk blouse underneath; she wore no jewelry aside from small, white pearl earrings and a gold bracelet, and she also wasn’t teetering around on neckbreaking heels. Her lipstick was — at least by her standards — very decorous. She looked ladylike and adult; strange, new, and at the same time familiar.

  Oh God, he’d thought, I love her. I will always love her. The thought had horrified him. He’d heard nothing from her in three months, hadn’t contacted her, had believed he would gradually be able to forget her. Now he realized that his feelings for her were as alive and strong as ever. Nothing had changed. Maybe it had all gotten even more intense, what with her looking the way she did today. She was different.

  But of course mistrust resounded loudly and violently within him. He had known Maya for years. He knew that she was calculating and wily when it came to working something to her own advantage. Why had she come to London? On his account? Or was she simply lured by the big city and using his apartment as a free place to stay?

  “You look good,” he’d said.

  Her answer had been a matter-of-fact thank you. She hadn’t fluttered her eyelashes, hadn’t tried right away to use the situation to her advantage in some way. She had added, “Should we go?” and he had nodded and trotted after her in something of a daze.

  He had suggested a small Italian place “around the corner,” and she had happily agreed — the next surprise of that evening. Maya liked it pricey, fashionable, and flashy. She wanted to see interesting people, and she wanted to be seen herself. He would have sworn she’d had her mind set on the Ritz at the very least.

  Instead, she was actually quite content with the Italian place, she ate a modestly-priced lasagna dish, drank some pinot grigio, and declined dessert, citing calories. She spoke about Guernsey without touching on any kind of love affairs, gave reports of Mae, Beatrice, and Helene.

  “That woman from Germany is staying at your mother’s again,” she said. “What’s her name again? Franca. I ran into her and Helene in St. Peter Port. Grandmother says she wants to stay longer, apparently. Seems to be having problems with her husband. Do you know her well?”

  “I offered her a ride in my car last year. Something had gone wrong with her hotel reservation, and I took her to my mother’s. We talked for a while, but of course I can’t say I really know her.”

  He thought of the shy, nondescript woman with the German accent and the pretty eyes, whose gaze was too insecure to truly be able to captivate him. She had avoided his own gaze, had made him think of a fearful deer. He remembered having wondered what someone could have come up with to do to this woman to give her such a difficult attitude towards herself.

  “Grandmother has of course tried to squeeze something out of your mother about her,” said Maya. “You know how she is, she takes an interest in simply everything that happens on the island. Even if it’s got to do with a person like this Franca woman, who nobody, try as they might, can find out anything exciting about.” This was the old Maya, in whose critical eyes hardly any other woman could find mercy.

  “She always has this look to her, like a cow in a thunderstorm, and she has absolutely no charisma, don’t you think?”

  He wouldn’t have said it so harshly, but he didn’t disagree. At the moment he wasn’t interested in Franca in the least. Second by second he sank deeper into Maya’s pull.

  “Well, anyway, Beatrice is never especially talkative, and poor Mae still doesn’t know anything for certain, but she says that from what she could gather, dear Franca has run out on her husband.” She laughed. “So. Now you know everything. Try as I might, there’s really nothing more to report from Guernsey.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully from across the table. It had gotten dark by then, and only the light from the many candles illuminated her face. She looked very young and — in this almost makeup-free state — almost innocent and fragile.

  Maybe, he thought, she really has changed.

  “Why,” he asked, as they were making their way home, walking arm in arm along the nighttime street, “did you really come to London?”

  She was quiet for a long time, and he almost thought she hadn’t heard the question, but finally she said, “I thought things over, Alan. My life is progressing in this way that … no, actually, it’s not progressing in any way at all. That’s the problem. For me, days have no beginning and no end. Every week, every month, it’s all so totally pointless. I just take things how they come, enjoy the moment — and I don’t waste any time thinking about the future.” She stopped. “You know, for a certain phase that was okay. For the time when I was young.”

  It sounded very solemn, and he had to laugh. “My God, Maya, if you only knew just how young you are still!”

  She furrowed her brow slightly. “Yes, maybe. But I’m past twenty. You said yourself back in January that I should gradually start bringing some structure into my life.”

  Alan could hardly believe it. She had been listening to him, and more than that, his words had found fertile ground. His breath caught. “Maya …”

  “I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but I thought, if I’m here at least, then maybe I’ll find a way. I thought …” She paused. “I thought you could help me. Find a way, I mean. ‘Cause after all … well, there’s not really any person, I don’t think, who knows me better than you do.”

  He suddenly felt older than usual. The term “father figure” came to mind. Somehow it seemed like this was the role she had picked out for him, and he wasn’t completely sure if he was comfortable playing the part.

  “You mean,” he said, “that I c
ould be a good advisor for you. That’s why you came.”

  She smiled slightly. Naturally, his careful attempt to beat around the bush had been all too transparent.

  “Advisor,” she said. “No, I don’t really see you as that. More … as the man I love. Is that something you’d be interested in? Or is it too intimate for you?”

  She had spoken of love sometimes before. Mainly in the early days of their relationship. But at some point he had noticed how carelessly the word came off her tongue, how casual and uncommitted she said it and, most of all, that a great deal of men had known the pleasure of being loved by her. Her “I love you” wasn’t worth a thing, anyone could have it who was reasonably good-looking and earned a salary larger than average. He hadn’t stopped longing to hear her speak these words, and at the same time hated himself for wishing for such an inflated good.

  But this time, it seemed to him, she said it differently. Her voice sounded at once gentler and more earnest. The expression on her face showed warmth and honesty.

  A last remnant of caution remained, of mistrust. Of course. He was forty-three years old. He no longer tipped from one emotional extreme to the other. He reached out his hand, cautiously stroked her cheek. “We’ll just have to see what happens,” he said.

  They hadn’t heard anything from Michael in a week, but then suddenly he called on two consecutive days. The first time he only reached Beatrice. She let him know that Franca was at the beach taking the dogs for a walk, and he said she should return his call when she got back. Franca tried to reach him that evening, but he wasn’t home.

  “He’s probably with his mistress,” she said to Beatrice, bitterly.

  “Does it hurt very much?” she asked, watching her closely.

  Franca thought about this. “A little. Not so much anymore. It’s far away.”

  Michael called again the next morning. He sounded ill-tempered.

  “Did you not get the message that you were supposed to call me?” he asked in place of a greeting.

  “I did call. But you weren’t at home. Good morning, by the way.”

  “Good morning.” He said nothing further to the matter of his not having been at home. “All I really wanted to know was, when are you planning to come back?”

  Franca found it remarkable that he asked this question so casually. “I’m amazed that you’re even interested,” she said.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Michael asked, surprised.

  Franca knew that Helene was sitting in the kitchen with her ears pricked up, not missing a single word, but really it was all the same to her.

  “You’ve turned your attention elsewhere, I should think,” she said. “There’s another woman in your life. What else do you want from me?”

  Michael seemed legitimately confused by what she said. “But you’re my wife.”

  “That seems to have slipped your mind most of the time in the last few years.”

  He let out a sigh, annoyed. “Ok, you want a fight. Or wait, that’s not actually what you want, it’s never what you want. You’ve always ducked out of arguments. Too afraid that somebody might tell you an unpleasant truth, right?”

  “Michael, I …”

  “Let’s just stop all this pussyfooting around. I’ve admitted that there’s another woman. You’ll not be able to dispute that you’re not completely without fault in this.”

  This just can’t be true, thought Franca.

  “In any case, this arrangement really won’t do,” Michael went on. “I’ve already told you once that you can’t get away from your problems by running away. I would very much appreciate it if you would come back as quickly as possible.”

  “And then?”

  “What do you mean ‘and then’?”

  “Michael, how’s it supposed to go on from there? Once more I sit at home and wait for you to come home from your jaunts out with your mistress, and you’re gone all night and don’t even consider it necessary to tell me beforehand if you’re coming or going. Do you think that’s a good arrangement?”

  “But you can’t just sit around on Guernsey for weeks!”

  “I have to sit around here for as long as it takes me to figure out what direction my life should take from here. Michael, I’m still a relatively young woman. My life can’t be limited to sitting cooped up in a house and waiting on a man who doesn’t even notice me anymore!”

  “Oh, and now that’s all supposed to be my fault!” Michael said indignantly. “Who kept herself cooped up in the house? That wasn’t my doing! I never said you should give up your career. I never said you shouldn’t set foot out the door ever again. I never said you should flip out at the thought that we could have guests over. I never …”

  He rattled off one point after another, full of self-satisfied rage. The essence, as far as Franca could grasp it, was that nothing was his fault and everything was hers. But that, she thought wearily, was already clear beforehand.

  “When are you coming back then?” Michael asked finally, when he apparently couldn’t think of anything more to throw in her face.

  “When I’ve come to a decision about my future,” Franca answered, and once more she hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

  When she walked into the kitchen, Beatrice came up to her, said nothing, rather just pushed past her with a stony expression and left the house, slamming the door rather loudly behind her as she went.

  “What’s going on with her?” Franca asked, stunned.

  Helene sat at the table and stirred an overwhelming amount of sugar into her tea. “Mae was here earlier,” she said, “and she reported that Maya has gone to London and is now living with Alan. Beatrice didn’t say anything, but since then she’s been keeping to herself and has had this strange look on her face. And now she’s suddenly gotten up and run out the room. I’m guessing she’ll go to the beach and go for a run to get the rage out of her system.”

  “Why is she so angry?” Franca asked.

  She stood there a bit indecisively, still dwelling on her conversation with Michael. She had to work through the words that had been spoken and she didn’t rightly know how she was supposed to manage it.

  “Have a seat now,” said Helene. “But grab yourself a cup first. Drink some tea with me, it’ll do you good. You look rather pale. There was more strife with your husband, right?”

  Franca sat and poured herself some tea. It was hot and smelled of herbs. It really seemed to be just the thing for her at that moment.

  “My husband would like for me to come home,” she said. “But I can’t imagine doing so. What’s got me frightened at the moment is I’ve realized I can’t imagine ever doing so.”

  “You’ll have to reach a decision and let him know what it is,” said Helene.

  Franca nodded. “But I need time. This is about my future. In certain respects … this is about my life.” She took a sip of tea. It tasted just as comforting as it smelled.

  “What’s the deal with Maya and Alan?” She asked. For the moment it seemed better to her to put aside Michael and all thoughts about him.

  Helene let out a deep sigh, but the glimmer in her eye made it clear how much she liked gossip like this.

  “So, Maya and Alan have been in a relationship for a number of years,” she explained. “Strictly speaking, it’s a relationship that is always being called off, because Maya has never really made a commitment to Alan. Maybe she’s just too young to do so.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-two. Alan is forty-three. So a rather large age difference. But, well, you know, love finds a way …”

  “It doesn’t necessarily seem to be love on Maya’s end, though, right?”

  Helene shook her head. “Maya can’t love at all. Just between us, she’s a little slut. I believe she’s slept with practically every man on G
uernsey, aside from Kevin, and only because he’s docked on the opposite shore. Then there are the tourists … So the girl has been enjoying herself, and there’s really no reason to think she’ll change in the foreseeable future.”

  “Why has Alan gone along with it for so many years? I only got to know him in passing …” She thought back on her encounter with him on that warm September day last year. “He’s a good-looking man. He’s intelligent, and I think he’s also successful. Certainly there are a lot of women who would be happy to be involved with him. He surely doesn’t need to let some nymphomaniacal brat lead him around by the nose!”

  “Alan has plenty of admirers,” Helene agreed. “But he has a drinking problem, did you know this? Even that, however, doesn’t scare off most women, just the opposite. They all probably see themselves as angels swooping down to save him. But Alan …” She shrugged her shoulders. “In the end, he never wanted anyone else but Maya. She snapped her fingers, and he came. And he suffered agonies whenever she started taking up with others again.”

  “Why is she with him now?”

  “Beatrice is asking herself that as well. She suspects nothing good. She told Mae to her face that the way she sees it, Maya wants to make a nice, easy life for herself in London, and Alan’s the dope who gets to pay for it. Now Mae feels offended, and Beatrice is worried.”

  “Has she spoken with him?”

  “He’s an adult. He’s over forty, he wouldn’t let her tell him a thing. She knows it, so she doesn’t bother to call.”

  “Maybe Maya has changed.”

  “That’s what I said, too. But Beatrice just laughed. She doesn’t see much good in Maya.”

  “And how do you see it?”

  Helene reflected. “I fear that Beatrice is right in this case. But you shouldn’t judge any person once and for all. Naturally even Maya can change. I think, though, that no one on the island would consider it at all likely.”

  Franca drank her tea in small sips. She was tired, and she had the sense that this weariness had sunk over her like a lead weight since her conversation with Michael. When she really thought back on it, in the past number of years she had always been tired whenever he had spoken to her, or even just been sitting across from her. It seemed like he was sapping the energy and the will to live right out of her. Whenever things might have been looking better for her, whenever she felt a little stronger, then along he came, and it was like sticking a nail in a balloon. The air drained out, and all that remained was a limp shell.