Thirty-one
The village is perched on a rock spur and I immediately spot the monastery on top of the cliff. It’s hard to believe that there’s a garden up there that is referred to in every handbook on the cultivation of roses since the Middle Ages.
The monastery is severed in two by a horizontal stripe of yellow mist that makes it look like it’s hovering over its earthly foundations. The streets are so narrow that the sky is nothing but streaks above them. They’re almost vertical, and I don’t fancy driving the car any farther, so I take out my backpack and the box of rose cuttings and start walking up the hill. It’s a good job my luggage is light. The exceptionally vivid colors of the buildings make me realize, after walking just a few yards, that I’ve stumbled into my brother Jósef’s universe of colors — the pink of his shirt, mint green of his tie, violet of his sweater, and soft brown cheese color of his diamond waistcoat besiege me from about as many facades. Hydrangea and dahlias in ornate ceramic pots line the path up the hill, leading to the only level street at the very top. A church is perched at the end of it, framed against a blue light, with the monastery’s guesthouse beside it — the place I’m supposed to report to.
I’m quick to find my bearings and it’s easy to locate everything. There seems to be one of everything in this town, one guesthouse, one restaurant, one barbershop, one post office, one bakery, one butcher, and one beggar. The only exception are the churches, which abound on every corner, sometimes with even two or three of them huddled together; I’ve never seen so many churches crammed into such a small area. Everything, apart from the inhabitants, seems a thousand years old. I hold the box of plants in my arm and notice some of the locals peeping. By the time I’ve reached the top of the village, after a twenty-minute walk, I could well believe that I’ve already met half of the population. I catch a whiff of sauces bubbling in pots. Many are also finishing their shopping and carrying large bundles of leeks and celery in their arms. Incomprehensible words assail my ears, but I’m carrying a book in my backpack that should teach me how to get by in this dying dialect. I fleetingly check out some of the women I meet on my path, of varying ages. Before I know it, I’ve worked out a formula and projected it against the light violet facade of the guesthouse. If the fifty/fifty rule applies, one can expect three hundred fifty of the seven hundred inhabitants of this village to be women, and about thirty of those are likely to be in my age group, give or take five years.
The monk, Father Thomas, welcomes me at the entrance in a gray knitted sweater with a V-neck and cable pattern. He says he’s been expecting me and that my room has been cleaned and the bed made. I’m in the blue sweater Mom knit, which has a similar cable pattern; I could turn this into a topic for conversation but don’t feel it’s appropriate at this early stage of our acquaintanceship. Instead he asks me what language I would like to speak, offering me a selection to choose from, which throws me slightly.
— I used to be in linguistics, he says, languages are a hobby of mine.
I dare to ask him how many he speaks. He says he speaks nineteen quite well, has a fair knowledge of another fifteen, and a basic grasp of several others.
— Because of their kinship, he adds. Once you’ve got eleven languages under your belt it’s easy to add a new one.
They don’t get many guests at this time of the year, however, and my letter and interest in the garden had surprised him.
— Most of the guests come to look at the manuscripts, he says, grabbing a bottle of yellow liquid from a glass case in the hall and pouring it into two glasses.
— So we only have two heated rooms at the moment, you get one and I’m in the other. You can eat in the monastery when you’re in the garden; there’s soup at midday and a meal in the restaurant next door in the evenings. We have an account there. If you start on Monday, there’s celery soup upstairs. I imagine you’ll want to have a look around tomorrow; there’s a beautiful church here with old paintings and beautiful stained-glass windows in the chancel.
He hands me another glass. I’m shivering after the journey.
— Welcome. As I was saying, we were somewhat surprised by your interest in the garden. Can you grow anything in your native country? Roses can hardly spring out of rocks. As I mentioned in the letter, the garden has lost some of its former glory. But if you feel you can work on it and even partly revive the rose grove, as you were saying, we have no objections to that.
Father Thomas eyes the box of plants I have carefully put down beside me.
— Brother Matthew has been tending to it on his own, but you can take over from him; he’s grown weary of gardening and has spoken of his wish to work in the scriptorium like the others. There are countless manuscripts that need to be classified.
Father Thomas hands me the key to room eight and heads up the stairs.
— I live in room seven next door. You’re welcome to pop in for another glass of lemon vodka when you’ve unpacked.
Thirty-two
I’m quite happy with the room. The walls are lily blue and there’s a bed, table, chair, sink, and wardrobe with four wooden hangers. It doesn’t take me long to hang up two sweaters and two pairs of trousers. I put my T-shirts, underpants, and socks on the shelf, and have now fully unpacked with the feeling that I’m here to stay. Once I’ve placed the plants on the windowsill, I go out into the corridor and knock on the door of number seven. I have to admit I’m surprised by what I see when Father Thomas opens the door. The walls are literally covered in shelves crammed with videotapes right up to the ceiling. There’s an old TV set in the middle of the floor with two chairs in front of it and also a desk on which there are two neat towers of tapes, a thick book which I imagine to be the Bible, and several other volumes and a pen stand.
He notices me staring at the tapes.
— Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m a bit of a film buff, although I never go to the cinema. My acquaintances from around the world know of this weakness of mine and have sent me some precious films over the years; I have about three thousand now. There are movies from all over the world in here, in many languages, everything really except Hollywood movies. I’m bored by war heroes and all that artificial gimmickry, says Father Thomas, drawing out a chair for me and inviting me to sit.
Then he apologizes and says that he can only just about handle basic text in my mother tongue, but that he has no experience of actually speaking it; he’s probably only ever seen one film from my country.
— But it was beautiful, he says. Very unusual. Very green grass. Big skies. Beautiful death.
I discover that Father Thomas watches films in their original language without subtitles.
— It’s very good practice, he says. Then I’ve got my books in the monastery, I’ve also got a room there. Here I can watch films. Some people have a cat, I watch movies.
Father Thomas stands up, pats me once on the shoulder, fetches the lemon vodka bottle, and fills the glasses.
— You’re welcome to come over if you fancy watching a film. I normally watch a movie every night. Over the past few weeks I’ve been looking at some forgotten directors.
He grabs a video case and brandishes it in the air:
— The special thing about this director is his deep sympathy for hapless people.
Thirty-three
The restaurant I have an account at for the evenings is beside the guesthouse; everything is beside everything here. The woman is aware of who I am; Father Thomas has announced my arrival. It’s actually just a small room with four tables and tablecloths. It has a rather special smell to it, both sweet and acerbic, like shellfish and rose water. The woman receives me from the kitchen, enveloped in a deep-fry mist and brandishing a spatula that’s dripping with fat in her hand and which she now points at a table to tell me where to sit. I can see into the kitchen through the corner of my eye, where she is standing over the stove and slowly lowering the fish into the boiling fat. A brief moment later she raises the fish again, sizzling in a crunchy golden brown batter — crispy calamari — scoops them on my plate, slices some lemon with a razor-sharp knife, casually chucks that on my plate as well, and hands it to me. The woman gives off a scent of rose water through the frying vapors. Later she dumps a bowl of vanilla pudding in front of me and pours some hot caramel sauce over it from a jug.