The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  He knew he had to summon aggression up from within himself if he wanted to accomplish showing Maya the door. For reasons that remained fully unclear to him, however, he couldn’t find a hint of rage inside. He found only sadness and resignation. And helplessness.

  Franca dreamed she was hammering a nail into the wall to hang a picture. She hammered with all her strength, but the nail did not want to breech the concrete.

  Maybe you can’t hammer nails into concrete at all, she thought, and at the same moment she woke up and looked around her, dazed. She realized pretty quickly that she had been dreaming, but she didn’t understand why the hammering would not stop. It thundered throughout the whole house, and only after a few seconds did it become clear to Franca that someone was at the door and wanted to come in.

  She got up and as she did so stifled a pained moan: all her limbs hurt from her balled-up posture in the chair, and her neck had gotten stiff, she could hardly turn her head. The book that she’d been reading had fallen to the floor, lay open on the carpet. In spite of the warm day, she was shivering. No wonder she felt awful.

  She walked into the hallway just as Beatrice was coming down the stairs. She looked sleepy and disheveled.

  “What’s going on?” she cried. “Why didn’t anyone wake me up? It’s almost twelve o’clock!”

  “I fell asleep again too,” Franca confessed. “I think we all drank a bit too much punch.”

  “I’m afraid of that as well.” Beatrice tugged the belt of her bathrobe tighter around her waist and looked irritably at the door. “Good lord! Whoever’s there is hammering away like a madman!” She tried to fix her hair somewhat in the mirror. “Would you mind getting it, Franca?”

  Franca went to the door and opened it. Michael stood before her.

  “My god!” he cried, furious. “I was beginning to think there was nobody here!”

  “Michael!” Franca said and stared at him in astonishment.

  He had a small suitcase which he had set down next to him. Now he picked it up again. “May I come in? I’ve been standing here for a while already.”

  She took a step back. “Yes. Of course.”

  Michael came inside, and it was as if in an instant the bright light of day had been switched off. Franca was more aware of her body shivering and sensed again that tight ring around her throat that had accompanied her in the last years. Breathing was a bit more difficult, her chest seemed to rise and fall more heavily. A vague fear spread within her. A fear that wasn’t fitting for her age, not for a grown woman. A fear that reminded her of a little girl, and that she knew she really shouldn’t feel anymore. But it crashed down upon her so sharply that she had no chance to defend herself.

  “Good day,” said Michael, when he noticed Beatrice. “I’m Michael Palmer.”

  “Beatrice Shaye,” Beatrice said, her voice friendly.

  Somewhat thrown, she turned to look at Franca. “You never said you were expecting your husband.”

  “She wasn’t expecting me,” Michael explained. “I decided on the trip spontaneously.”

  “I see,” said Beatrice. Franca got the sense that the emerging tension had not escaped her notice.

  “Franca, you and your husband can go into the living room. Take what you like from the kitchen, coffee, tea, water or whatever else. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

  Franca sensed the childish wish to ask her not to go away, but she of course restrained herself from speaking it aloud. So all she said was, “Kevin was here earlier, Beatrice. We’re all invited to dinner at his house — you, Helene, and I. At seven o’clock.”

  “Astonishing what a flurry of visitors have already been here so early,” said Beatrice. “Are you sure it was Kevin? Normally he doesn’t extend these invitations on weekdays.”

  “Well, he wanted to on account of Helene …,” Franca began, but an impatient cough from Michael made her fall silent. “In any case, it was Kevin,” she said unnecessarily, since of course Beatrice had not doubted that.

  “Is there another room here in the house that I could rent for the night?” Michael asked. “Otherwise I’d have to look into finding a hotel room.”

  “The room your wife is currently staying in is the only one we rent out,” Beatrice explained.

  “You can put your suitcase there for now of course,” said Franca hastily. “I’ll show you the way.”

  “After that I’d like to go get something to eat,” said Michael, and followed her up the stairs. “Our conversation doesn’t absolutely have to take place here, does it?”

  “No … as you like … sure, we can go somewhere …”

  Michael brought his suitcase into her room, and there it seemed — though it was just a small one — like a large, black intruder. Then he went off to the bathroom, to “freshen up.” Franca wiped her damp palms on her jeans and stared as if mesmerized into the mirror in the hallway. Did her T-shirt have stains? Were her pants crinkled? Why hadn’t she washed her hair that morning? She tugged at the strands, pinched her cheeks to bring a bit of color into them, and pronounced herself unattractive and dull. Fleetingly the thought occurred to her that in the past fourteen days she had in fact been quite satisfied with her appearance, and that it was just Michael’s showing up that had driven her to feel this insecurity.

  He hasn’t even said anything, she thought, and still it doesn’t take five minutes for me to turn into a pure bundle of nerves.

  “You should take a healthy pull of liquor,” said a voice next to her. Beatrice had been about to go into her room, but had then turned around again. “And then you should remember your strengths. Don’t get that look on your face like a hunted rabbit in front of a gun barrel. You don’t need to, you’re better than that.”

  Franca sighed. “Is it really that noticeable?”

  “You’re a completely different woman than you were a few minutes ago,” said Beatrice. “And to be honest, I liked the woman you were before a lot better. The way I see it, that was the real Franca. What I see in front of me now is a frightened creature who is quick to slip into the role of a little girl, trying to make her angry daddy more merciful. Little girls are treated with caution. That’s what you’re hoping, anyway.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. Somehow …”

  “Show him your teeth,” said Beatrice. “And stop pulling at your hair. He made the surprise visit. He can’t expect that you stand here styled like the queen, ready to receive him.”

  Franca couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “You really can’t call me styled. Oh god, my nerves are all over the place. I believe I really do need a drink. Kevin asked for one this morning too. What’s the matter with us?”

  “There’s a general nervousness here,” said Beatrice. “Something’s in the air. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. It’s as if a whole bunch of emotions had gotten dammed up.” She took a deep breath. “Do I call Alan?”

  “Why not? It’s May 1st. Wish him a good summer.”

  “This afternoon, maybe,” said Beatrice. “I might have more courage then.”

  Franca went downstairs, took the bottle of cognac from the shelf for the second time that morning, poured herself a glass, and emptied it in one go. The drink burned like fire in her throat, but it did her good. The tension eased a little. She drank a second glass and took deep breaths.

  You shouldn’t make a habit of it, she thought, but every now and then you just need it.

  “It’s noon and you’re drinking already?” said a cold voice behind her. “I’m a little bit surprised by that.”

  She turned around. Michael had come into the room without her noticing and was observing her with disapproval. He had that analytical look of his that she knew all too well, that she had feared ever since they had first been together. Under this look, the effect of the alcohol fled as quickly as
it had set in. Before she could stop it from happening, the little girl was back. What had Beatrice said?

  “Show him your teeth!”

  She wanted to show him her teeth. She didn’t want to be the little girl, not for anything in this world. She wanted to be a strong, adult woman.

  She couldn’t do it.

  “I just needed a drink,” she said softly.

  Michael took the bottle out of her hand, placed it back on the shelf with emphasis.

  “It’s best you don’t start with that. And by the way, I took a look at the room upstairs. I ask myself how you could pick out such spartan accommodations! I’d not be able to get through a single night there!”

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I knew the name of your host. Beatrice Shaye. And this island is like a little village. I asked after her at the airport in St. Martin and they knew her at once. I got a rental car and drove over here.”

  She nodded. It hadn’t cost him too much effort.

  “Why did you come?” she asked.

  He made a face, impatient. “Do we have to discuss this here? I’m hungry and I’d like to go somewhere where it’s comfortable and we can talk. Would that be possible?”

  “It is possible,” said Franca. She took her car keys from the dining room table. Michael shook his head. “I’m driving,” he said.

  Really it wasn’t of any significance who drove, but this question seemed suddenly important to Franca somehow.

  “No,” she said. “I’m driving.”

  Something in her tone of voice must have stunned Michael. He looked at her, a little surprised, and then nodded.

  “Alright. Fine by me. You drive then.”

  They sat on the terrace of the Chalet hotel overlooking Fermain Bay. The lush flower gardens on the hotel grounds stretched down the slope to the sea. The May sun was warm, already they had to seek out the shade of a sun umbrella. A fine mist now lay spread out over the ocean; at midday it was no longer as crystal clear as in the morning, but rather beset with haze. A very faint breeze picked up, blowing salt-filled air up the slope.

  “It’s as warm as in summer,” said Franca.

  Michael stirred his coffee. They had eaten quiche and salad and drunk a Guernsey beer each, and now they had gotten to coffee and had still not spoken of anything other than insignificant matters. Michael had told her about problems at the office and of his best coworker leaving, which, he said, was a hard blow for him. Franca had spoken of her walks around the island and about how fifty-five years ago, on May 1st, Erich Feldmann had committed suicide. Michael didn’t seem even slightly interested in this, but at least he listened politely.

  He won’t remember a word of what I’m saying, thought Franca, but then again, he of course didn’t come here because of Erich and Helene.

  She had regained a small bit of self-assurance. Michael had praised her choice of restaurant, and that was more recognition than anything he’d let come her way in the last five years.

  “Ok,” he was now saying, “we should really have a serious talk with each other, don’t you think? You hurried off to Guernsey and are refusing to give any kind of explanation for your behavior or to at all address the question of where things are supposed to go from here. On the phone, anyway, it was impossible to get anything out of you. That’s why I came here.”

  He sounded offended. Naturally he considered it an imposition that he had had to make the long trip.

  What did he tell his mistress, Franca asked herself. It’s a fair bet she wasn’t excited about his plans to chase after his wife.

  “I already told you on the phone that you were the one who had to come to a decision,” said Franca. “You’re having an affair. Or pursuing a serious relationship even, I don’t know. At some point you’ve got to figure out how it’s supposed to go from here on your end.”

  He moved his spoon a bit more forcefully. He was uncomfortable with the subject, but he also knew that he couldn’t just sweep it under the rug.

  “This affair, as you call it,” he said, “you are not completely without fault there. I’ve told you that once already.”

  “Of course,” said Franca. “It’d be just impossible for you to take sole responsibility for it.”

  “It would be impossible because it wouldn’t be fair. The way you’ve behaved, I had no choice but to …” He paused, searching for a way to phrase what he was trying to say.

  “… but to crawl into bed with another woman,” Franca finished his sentence for him. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”

  “You can’t simplify it that way,” Michael objected at once. “I wasn’t looking primarily for a sexual relationship. I was looking for something else — I wanted a woman I can do something with. Go to the movies, to the theatre, to the opera. Someone I can visit friends with, and invite them over. Who has self-confidence and strength and lends me some of it if I’m ever lacking. I just wanted to live, Franca. Is that so hard to understand?”

  It hasn’t been simple for him either, thought Franca. Of course not. A wife who cries so often, who’s so neurotic, who reacts to large groups of people with fits of panic … that made his life hard too.

  “I can understand that,” she said. “Anybody would understand it. But the way you’re presenting it — and I’m sure you’ve also been telling yourself this is how it is — you’re simply leaving out a large part of the truth. I can’t put all the guilt on you, Michael, but from the day we met right up to today you’ve always behaved in a manner that was certain to make me insecure. I just couldn’t do anything right. I was never alright just the way I was. You were constantly finding fault with something about me. Don’t you think that in a situation like this a person’s self-confidence gets undermined? That it gets smaller and smaller until eventually it’s completely worn away?”

  “Hey now, don’t you go putting your self-doubt and your neuroses on my shoulders!” Michael said angrily. “This was all set off in the first place by your failure at school.”

  She flinched. She too considered it failure, what had happened at the school, but it was something else entirely to hear this word from him.

  That’s it exactly, she thought wearily. That’s the manner that’s made me so worn out. Why can’t he find another way of putting it? Phrase it such that it would be less hurtful? Why must he always make it harder for me instead of easier?

  “That’s right, I failed,” she said. Her voice sounded very calm. Maybe that was another mistake, the thought shot through her head, always this damn “maintain composure” stance. Never scream, never show rage or fear or pain. Maybe he couldn’t ever grasp how much he was hurting me.

  “But,” she continued, “did you ever consider that this failure was also helped along by a husband who even before my first state exams would tell me constantly that the way he saw it, I could never last in this profession? Who persistently made it clear to me that I was too timid, too weak, too incapable, to really hold my own? The first time I stood facing a class, before I said one word, I was already convinced it would go wrong.”

  “Oh — now Madame wants to go easy on herself! You’re going to claim, in all seriousness, that everything would have been wonderful for you if I hadn’t given voice to a few well-intentioned warnings beforehand?”

  She hadn’t put it that way, and she knew he knew it too. The conversations of the last few years had failed all too often for this reason, that he twisted facts and intentionally misunderstood her. It had always ended with her directing all her strength and energy towards fighting these misunderstandings, instead of focusing on the subject they had begun with. In the end, all she was concerned with was justifying herself, and thus she fell deeper and deeper into exhaustion.

  “I don’t think that it would’ve all gone well if you hadn’t influenc
ed me,” she said, “but it might have gone a little bit better. I’d have been set up differently, if you’d given me some encouragement every now and again. But,” she raised her voice, nipping his objection, for which he’d already opened his mouth, in the bud, “that’s not important anymore. We could spend hours, days, weeks, counting off from our respective viewpoints what each of us did wrong to the other and when. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. We have to think about what should happen now.”

  “Our future is bound up with our past,” Michael persisted. “We’re in the spot where we are now because we made mistakes in the past.”

  At least he says we, Franca thought.

  He paused. They heard only the sound of the wind in the branches and the crying of the gulls. Then a woman at a neighboring table laughed, and all at once the conversation resumed at all the tables, and the air was abuzz with different voices.

  “I got on a plane and came here in order to talk to you,” Michael said finally. “That should show you that our relationship means something to me.”

  Franca said nothing in reply. She looked at him in expectation.

  “If you could change,” he went on, “if you would seriously try … this relationship with the other woman isn’t important to me, really. I’d be prepared to end it.”

  A soft pounding began at her temples. A pain that almost couldn’t be identified as such, that rather resembled an unpleasant disturbance.

  If you could change, if you would seriously try …

  It won’t work, she thought, and it was astoundingly cool and objective, the way she grabbed hold of this realization, thereby declaring the bankruptcy of her marriage: it will not, and it cannot. There’s no use. Any further attempt would be a waste of time.

  “Oh, Michael,” she said, resigned. It didn’t even hurt. The end was too obvious to be painful. It came a number of years too late, but it was fully clear that it had had to come.

  “What’s that mean: Oh, Michael?” he asked aggressively. “Don’t you have anything else to say? I made you an offer. I gave a suggestion. There might be something else to say in response besides Oh, Michael!”