— Or are you still growing? she’d ask, gazing up at her lanky son with a smile. She was always worried about the three men in her life wasting away and that I in particular didn’t eat enough. Then I didn’t hear from the expectant mother of my child for another two months. It was just around the New Year that she phoned to ask if we could meet in a café.
Fourteen
I can’t really say that I’m in a decent enough physical state to be able to sleep with anyone at the moment. To be honest, I’d probably prefer the gardening book to take precedence over the girl right now. But can I say no, I’m sorry? Wouldn’t that offend her and make what follows pretty awkward?
— Did you bring plants? she asks pointing at the rose cuttings in the hospital cups on the windowsill.
— Yeah, those are rose cuttings from the greenhouse back home, I say. I’m taking them to the garden.
— Does it have a special name, the rose?
— Yeah, eight-petaled rose.
— Where does this interest in plants come from? she asks.
— I was more or less brought up in a greenhouse, I feel good in flower beds.
I imagine her interest in gardening is limited and realize that, since I can’t really think of anything else to talk about, I might be forced to take our communication to another level, beyond words. I’m facing two options here: to do or not to do. The question is, when exactly does the decision time run out? In five minutes, ten minutes, or has it maybe already expired? I take off my watch and stretch over her to put it on the bedside table. My confirmation mate is awake and staring at me with big eyes; it’s difficult to actually figure out what’s going through her mind. Not that it makes much difference, my mind is just as foggy and unclear.
Fifteen
Then there’s also the fact that one can’t always remember everything one does, so that when one wakes up and sees a head of curly hazel hair on the other side of the bed, one has to start off by checking who’s under the quilt. Not that I’d like to give the impression that I often get into the situation of not remembering exactly who is lying under the covers with me. In the case of my childhood friend, however, my recollection of yesterday evening and night are quite clear. She is still asleep, but I manage to climb over her and slip out of the bed without waking her. I feel dizzy when I stand up but manage to swiftly get into my trousers. Then I go down to the bakery to buy some breakfast for Thórgun. I also feel the need to thank her, so I buy some flowers, a pink potted plant. After that I really need to get going.
She’s already up by the time I get back and sticks her head out of the kitchen. She’s in a semi-long patterned skirt garment over her blue jeans and wearing a coat, as if she’s about to leave at that very moment. She’s put her glasses back on so I feel secure again. I have to admit I was a bit surprised she was about to leave without saying good-bye. I hand her the bag from the bakery and the potted plant. It’s a dahlia.
— I got something to eat with the coffee, I say.
— Thanks, she says, sniffing the plant.
It’s almost odorless; maybe I should have chosen something with a stronger scent.
— It should be OK on its own for a few days, I say, while you’re digging up graveyards.
— How’s your wound? she asks.
— Much better, almost normal again, I say. I speak the truth, although I still have to be careful when I’m zipping up my fly.
My schoolmate says she has to dash. Still, she peeks into the bakery bag and chooses some kind of glazed doughnut, although she says she doesn’t have time for breakfast.
— I have a class to get to, she says, still holding the pot, so I’ll just say bon voyage and all the best on your journey to the promised garden with your eight-petaled roses.
— Thanks a lot for putting me up, I say. I take the potted plant from her and place it on the kitchen table. Then I put my arms around her and pat her once or twice down the back. Finally I adjust her scarf, wrapping it better around her neck.
— Thanks again, I repeat.
— I don’t want to hold you up, she says, quickly getting her things together, shoving books into her bag, and fetching something from the bathroom. Then she gives me a hasty kiss and slowly moves along the wall toward the door. She pauses in front of the mirror a moment to check her reflection and adjust the clasp in her thick, curly hair. This means she’s about to leave but has still left something unsaid. She lingers in the doorway holding the glazed doughnut she’s going to eat on her way to the archaeological museum.
— Maybe you’re not particularly into women?
The question completely throws me. How should I answer? Should I say yes I am, but not into every woman on the planet? Would my friend be offended by that? Or should I just say things as they are? That up until this morning I just haven’t accumulated enough experience to pass any verdicts on that? Or should I use the state of my body to justify myself and once more show her the black stitches protruding from my groin. That way I could say:
— Yeah, but not with the stitches.
— Don’t take it personally, my confirmation sister says, with one foot through the door. The archaeology student is wearing high leather boots with heels.
I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table as I get my stuff together and make the bed: it takes me about four minutes.
Sixteen
It doesn’t take me long to find the right car: a nine-year-old lemon yellow Opel Lasta 37 awaits me on the street. It’s got a radio and seems to be in reasonably good shape, clean both outside and inside. It’s been vacuum cleaned and the ashtrays have been emptied. It actually had a hell of a lot of mileage on it, ninety-six thousand miles, but it was at a bargain price, a real giveaway as Dad would say. I pay for the car, counting the notes on the counter. The salesman gawks at me, then stamps the receipt and scribbles his initials under it. Once the stitches have been removed at the hospital, I can set off on my journey. First, though, I stop off at a flower market in the city outskirts to buy some soil for the rose cuttings. I’m unable to resist the impulse to buy an additional two slightly bigger potted rose plants; then I loosely press the soil around the very fine white roots with my fingers and carefully place the plants in the trunk. I’m facing the sun to begin with, things couldn’t be simpler. Even if I might be still searching for myself, at least I know where I’m headed.
At the first gas station I buy some bottles of water for the plants, a map to follow, a sandwich to have for lunch, and a notebook to keep a record of numerical data: mileage and expenses. As I’m about to pay and the woman at the register has already, in fact, added everything up, I bend over a packet of condoms stacked right up against the cash register and place it on the map. I won’t allow the unexpected to catch me unawares when providence and opportunity knock on my door just like on anyone else’s. There are ten condoms in the box; they could last me several days or several years.
I call Dad from a phone booth when I come out of the gas station, just to tell him my stitches have been removed and that I’m on the road.