Missing Rose (9781101603864) (12 page)

31

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Diana was up early again, though still feeling sleepy. Thinking about her first lesson had kept her awake until very late. Her mind was full of thoughts about Zeynep Hanim, the garden, Yellow Flower's story, the mathematics of hearing roses . . .

Diana felt a little overwhelmed by all these thoughts. Yet, at the same time, she was somewhat consoled by the equation she'd learned. It was applicable to any question which had an innumerable number of possible answers and which couldn't be answered by the five senses. Therefore, the answer to the question of what had happened to her mother could only be as correct as the answer to “What song are the roses singing?” Thus, the chance of her knowing what had happened to her mother was zero—or at least a “special zero.” So it wasn't correct for her to decide that her mother didn't exist anymore. She was glad that her first lesson had at least helped her to realize this.

Putting on a red shirt and a pair of blue jeans, she hurried to get ready in time for her second lesson. At least today she didn't have to bother with her hair.

Realizing she was about to be late, Diana ran down the stairs to get to her stool by 5:57. When she arrived, she saw that Zeynep Hanim was already waiting there.

“Good morning, Diana. May I ask what time it is?”

Diana was somewhat relieved to see that the hand on her watch was only one minute past the scheduled time.

“Oh, good morning. It's 5:58.”

“I thought so. Our lesson for today is over.”

She's got to be kidding!

“Forgive me,” Diana said. “You did warn me. I know I shouldn't have been late, not even by a minute, but—”

“There's nothing to forgive, dear. I already know how to hear roses. This time was for you. We'll postpone the lesson till tomorrow evening at 6:19.”

“You can't be serious!”

Zeynep Hanim didn't respond.

“I can't believe this. I get up at 5:30 in the morning, do nothing to my hair just as you'd wish, get ready at lightning speed and rush down here. And believe it or not, I was even looking forward to the lesson. But now you tell me it's canceled just because I'm one minute late.”

Zeynep Hanim took Diana gently by the hand and led her to the entrance of the garden. With a wide sweep of her hand, she embraced the whole garden. “Look at the dozens of rose-bushes, Diana; hundreds of roses and rosebuds. Rose scent everywhere, more than the air itself . . . Isn't it a magnificent sight?”

“I agree, with all my heart, but I don't quite understand what you're trying to—”

“It can take only a minute to spread the seeds that make a garden. You know, even the longest dreams we have take less than a minute. Perhaps they're trying to tell us that it doesn't have to take a whole lifetime to realize our dreams. What they certainly do show us, however, is the power that every minute holds. You'll never be able to regain the minute you've just missed. Who knows, maybe this minute which connected 5:56 to 5:58 on 21 May was the very minute you'd hear a rose.”

A
S
D
IANA WALKED
back to her room, she thought that perhaps the lesson had not been postponed after all.

32

D
IANA WASN'T BORED
by being confined to the guesthouse for a day and a half; her mind was preoccupied with her twin. Mary had told Zeynep Hanim that she would be arriving that week, so Diana should be meeting her very soon—perhaps today or tomorrow, or, at the most, within a few days.

Her time in the garden, and especially the things Yellow Flower had said, forced Diana to think deeply about herself and Mary. This was making the meeting with her twin harder rather than easier; however, in spite of that, she was impatient to meet Mary.

A
S USUAL,
Zeynep Hanim arrived exactly on the minute.

“How are you this evening, my dear? We can go straight into the garden—you must be keen to find out about the surprise I promised you in our first lesson.”

When they'd strolled a little way into the garden, Zeynep Hanim stopped before a peach-colored rose. “Oh, no, this isn't her.”

After walking a few steps away from the rose, she turned to Diana. “She wanted to know if you were Mary.”

“It seems as if everything in this garden revolves around Mary,” Diana said. “I was going to ask you yesterday when we were with Yellow Flower, but it slipped my mind. How can the roses recognize someone who came to your garden so many years ago?”

“Even though a rose blooms for only a few weeks at the most, many of the rosebushes you see in this garden were here when Mary came. She made such a great impression on them that they all said Mary was like water. In the language of roses, to say someone is ‘like water' is the highest compliment a rose can pay. That's because roses are also like water; what they are on the inside is what they are on the outside. And they expect the same from us. The roses felt that Mary could fulfill this expectation in every way.

“They wanted me to tell Mary what a unique person she was. When I told her this, she blushed scarlet, and in reply she said, ‘If there's anything unique about me, it's only because of my love for the roses.' The fact that Mary defined her self-worth only by the love she had for the roses pleased them very much and so they wished their voices to be heard by her. But at the time, that wasn't possible. First, Mary had to reach a certain level of maturity.

“The roses were quite sure that, one day, she'd return to the garden to hear the roses which would bloom generations after them. They held a meeting and came to a unanimous decision that each rose, before it faded, would pass on what it knew about Mary to the young rosebuds which would bloom after it. In turn, those rosebuds would pass on the information to the next generation which would then pass it on to the following one, and so on. So in this way, all the qualities known about Mary were transmitted from one flower to the next for many years. From that day on, every rose which has bloomed in this garden has hoped to be among the ‘happy generation' of roses which would speak with Mary.

“Moreover, at this meeting, another important decision was made: it would be made possible for Mary to hear the rose called Socrates.”

“Socrates?”

“He is the most precious rose in the garden and the last step in the art of hearing roses. He speaks only through poems. Mary didn't meet Socrates when she was here; she just wasn't ready for it. But ever since, the roses of this garden have been living in the hope of witnessing the celebrated meeting of Socrates and Mary.”

Diana felt as if she were listening to some kind of fairy tale. The real and the unreal had become so intermingled in her mind that she no longer knew what to think or feel. But at least she now knew who the Socrates in Mary's third letter was.

Diana's eyes searched the rose garden, looking for a rose which stood out. But she was unable to see any rose that was more beautiful or in any way different from the others.

“Is it possible for us to see Socrates?” Diana asked.

“If you really want to see him, you certainly can. In fact, that was my surprise for you. Follow me.”

After a few minutes, they almost reached the end of the garden leaving the farthest rosebushes behind. Zeynep Hanim stopped as they came to a bare patch of earth about a meter square.

“Here we are,” Zeynep Hanim said.

Pretty much every inch of the garden was densely planted with rosebushes. Except for this patch! Diana waited in silence as Zeynep Hanim stood there motionless.

After a while, Diana could contain herself no longer and burst out, “Why are we standing here like this? I thought we were going to see Socrates.”

“We're right beside him. Socrates is standing right in front of you in all his glory!”

“You're joking, right? Please tell me you're joking.”

Zeynep Hanim cupped her hand in the air as if she were holding a rose blossom in it. “Just look at the beauty of this rose.”

But no sooner had she said it than she shook her head regretfully. “I'm so sorry, Diana, I shouldn't have mentioned to you the beauty of something you can't see.”

As Diana stared at her in astonishment, Zeynep Hanim asked, “You don't really believe Socrates is standing right in front of you, do you?”

“Well, it's a little difficult for me to believe that.”

“In that case, let me just ask you this,” Zeynep Hanim said. “Why is it that for years others have managed to make you believe you can't hear a rose, but I can't make you believe for even a second that you can't see a rose?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pointed to the open patch. “A week ago, Socrates was planted in this very spot. I wanted to give him to Mary as a present so I sent him to a friend of mine, a nurseryman, for the necessary preparations.”

“Oh, I see,” Diana said. “Well, I really needed an explanation. What a surprise! I nearly ran away from here.”

“I owe you an apology, my dear,” Zeynep Hanim said. “There's no such thing as a white lie. A lie is a lie. However, if a lie helps us to see through a much bigger one—say, for example, the lie that we can't hear roses—I guess it could be forgiven. But I still offer you my apologies and hope you'll forgive me for the sake of my intention.”

Diana smiled. “That's okay.”

When they reached the door, Zeynep Hanim said, “Why don't we postpone tomorrow's lesson to 3:31 p.m.? But wait for me in your room at around 9:30 tomorrow morning. Perhaps we'll take a cruise along the Bosphorus, what do you think?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!”

33

A
FTER RETURNING FROM
a splendid trip on the Bosphorus, Diana had gone to her room for a short rest before it was time for her lesson. Her mind was still on the day she'd spent in Zeynep Hanim's company.

Having collected Diana from her room in the morning, Zeynep Hanim had driven her to a small neighborhood on the shore called Ortaköy. After eating Shadhili kebab in a small restaurant there, they'd boarded a private boat and set off from the quay in front of the ornate stone-built mosque.

On the calm blue waters of the Bosphorus, they'd sailed along the European coast up as far as Rumeli Fortress. Then the boat crossed to the Asian side and made its way downstream toward the Sea of Marmara. At its entrance they'd had lunch on a tiny island on which stood the Maiden's Tower, which had only recently been reopened to the public after being closed for centuries. Diana had thought the kebab had been filling enough for lunch, but then she'd been unable to resist the tempting dishes of Ottoman cuisine served one after the other.

Zeynep Hanim had forbidden any talk on the subject of roses or of Mary until their lesson. Instead, they'd laughed a lot, even engaging in a joke-telling competition.

Diana thought that Zeynep Hanim had taken every care to make the day memorable. She'd felt so pampered that she hadn't been able to help wondering whether Zeynep Hanim had mistaken her for Mary again.

A
S SHE WAS
going down to the garden for her lesson, she wondered whether the laughter which had been on Zeynep Hanim's face all day would be replaced by an expression more in keeping with the seriousness of “the art of hearing roses.”

At exactly the appointed minute, she heard Zeynep Hanim's voice: “Let's go straight into the garden, dear. Come, let's not waste any time.”

Diana followed Zeynep Hanim as she strode with hasty steps along the garden path. When they reached the center of the garden, Diana noticed at the side of the path a large pot she hadn't seen there before. In it were two separate roses, their stems entwined like climbing roses. One of them was red, the other white.

The blossom of the red rose stood up straight while that of the white one faced the ground. So closely were their stems and leaves interlocked, one might have thought that in the pot there was only one rose with flowers of two different colors.

“Is this Socrates?” Diana asked.

“No, its name is written on the pot.”

Diana bent down to look at the name: “Ephesus” was written there in tiny letters.

“Ephesus . . . The ancient city?”

“Exactly. Once built where Selçuk is now, in the west of Turkey.”

“Did the pot come from there? I can't see any other roses in pots. Are you going to plant these two roses in the garden, too?”

“Yes, the pot did come from Ephesus. We've kept it inside since then, but last night we brought it out. Whether we'll plant the Rose of Ephesus here or not is solely dependent on these two roses. They have three days. They'll either be planted in the garden or be sent back to Ephesus; this will be decided by the test they'll be put through.”

Having long since learned not to be surprised at the things Zeynep Hanim said, Diana only asked, “What kind of a test?” as though it was the most natural thing in the world for roses to undergo a test before being planted.

“One of the most important qualities of the roses in this garden is their ability to live in harmony with one another, regardless of their differences in color, size or origin. Their life here is free of dispute, jealousy or vanity. So, whenever we plant a new rose, we have to be very selective and careful. Roses are influenced by each other and, in time, take on the state of the roses around them. We have a wonderful proverb for this: ‘Grapes grow black by looking at each other.' That's why, before we plant a rose, we want to know whether or not it will have a negative effect on the other roses.

“Besides, the case of Ephesus is particularly special. This two-headed rose took on this shape after two roses with totally different characteristics were planted in the same pot. In time, their roots have become so entangled that it's no longer possible to separate them. What makes them so unusual is that they are constantly in conflict. For us to plant them in the garden, first they have to prove to us that they can manage to be ‘one rose.'”

After looking thoughtfully at Ephesus, Zeynep Hanim continued, “But this won't be that easy, I'm afraid. Although they both come from the same region and the same soil, the way each regards herself is very different. The red rose used to be planted at the temple of Artemis in Ephesus and the white one at the house of Mother Mary, also in Ephesus. The red one believes she's Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, and refuses to answer to any other name. The white one has no preference in this matter, but we call her Miriam.”

“Did you just say ‘goddess of the hunt'?” asked Diana. “Wasn't Diana the goddess of the hunt? Because I have her name, my friends sometimes call me ‘goddess.'”

“True, in Roman mythology, Diana
is
the goddess of the hunt. But she's known as Artemis in Greek mythology. The myths about Artemis date further back, and she underwent some changes before she became known as ‘Diana' in Latin scriptures.”

After remaining silent for a while, Diana asked, “What kind of conflict are these roses involved in?”

“Would you like me to relay their conversation to you?”

Even though Diana wished to mask it from Zeynep Hanim, she really wanted to hear the dialog between Artemis and Miriam.

“Why not,” she said. “If it won't interfere with our lesson . . .”

Zeynep Hanim sat on the ground next to the pot. Diana did the same.

“Ephesus,” Zeynep Hanim said, “is it all right if we listen to you for a little while?”

After a few seconds, she turned to Diana. “Artemis scolded me, saying, ‘My name is Artemis, not Ephesus, you old lady!' Since that's what she wants, I'll address the Rose of Ephesus by using their individual names. I'll repeat their conversation to you word for word. Are you ready?”

Diana nodded her head, and so Zeynep Hanim began to relay the dialog between Artemis and Miriam:

“Couldn't you be more polite, Artemis?” Miriam said. “It shouldn't really matter what name we're called by.”

“What do you mean ‘it shouldn't matter'?” Artemis said. “I have a name. A great name which is on every tongue, a name praised to the skies. I am Ar-te-mis! My name is renowned everywhere and the gods know me well. I am the high and exalted Artemis, I am the most beautiful of all the beautiful. I am a goddess, not just a flower like you. The most flowers can be are ornaments in my temple.”

“Have you noticed something?” Miriam asked.

“What?”

“All you say is ‘I,' ‘me,' ‘my.'”

“Of course I say ‘I,' ‘me,' ‘my'! If Artemis doesn't deserve to say ‘I,' who does? A mortal flower like you?”

“You always say the same thing: you're a goddess and I'm just a flower. But you know what the truth is.”

“What truth?”

“Oh, never mind. I don't want to upset you.”

“You? You upset me? Don't make me laugh, you poor flower. A flower upsetting Artemis? Ha-ha-haaah! You go ahead, funny flower, please
try
to upset me.”

“Fine, Artemis, but first tell us who Artemis really is. Tell us so that the whole garden can know.”

“Oh, what nonsense! Who wouldn't know Artemis? Who wouldn't know me?”

“We're not in your temple, Artemis. This is a rose garden. The roses may not know who you are. Is it not their right to know who the exalted Artemis is? You're the greatest! So please honor us by telling us about yourself.”

“For once, you've spoken the truth, flower. Yes, everyone has the right to hear of my greatness, and roses, too, should know how great Artemis is. So be silent and listen . . .

“I! I am Artemis, daughter of Zeus, god of gods. I used to live in Ephesus, the city known for my temple, not for Mother Mary's dilapidated old cottage. For hundreds of years, I received those who came to worship me in my temple—which is one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, by the way. Thousands of people, thronging like ants, came from afar just for me. In masses they came. To praise me, exalt me and bow down before me, trampling on one another in their eagerness.

“Do you understand, you worthless flower; do you see the greatness of Artemis now? Those people who pick flowers like you to shove into vases came crawling to my threshold like slaves.

“Hey you, roses of the garden, do you hear me? Now you, too, understand the greatness of Artemis, don't you?”

“You've said exactly what I expected you'd say,” Miriam said. “When I asked you to tell us about yourself, you started by telling us about your father, the splendor of your home, and those who praised you. But I didn't ask for any of that. All I asked was who
you
were.”

“You poor, miserable flower, what are you trying to say? If you want to know who I am, then know that I am Greatness.
That's
who I am.”

“What makes you believe you're so great?”

“If I weren't great, why would thousands of people be interested in me? Why would they praise me till their tongues stick to the roofs of their mouths? Why would they be enslaved by me?”

“The truth is,” Miriam said, “you're the one who's enslaved by them. But you just don't want to see it.”

“Oh, you're so jealous. You don't know what you're saying.”

“It's true, you are indeed their slave. Who is Artemis, really? Nothing but an illusion, shaped and worshipped by Others. Who created Artemis? Wasn't it those humans you so despise, who first created in their minds an image of beauty to worship and then shaped you into this figure by their praises? Don't be deceived by their later becoming passionately devoted to you. It was they who invented you, they who determined your qualities and they who exalted your name. I'm sorry, but you don't have an independent existence of your own. You only exist because of them. You exist through their praise, their adoration, their applause. You're dependent on Others.”

“Now you've gone too far, you flower! First look at yourself before you speak. Who do you think you are to talk to me like this, you miserable little thing?”

“Yes, you're right. I'm nothing great. But I'm a rose. I'm a rose whether I'm admired or not, whether anyone's crazy about me or not. Like I said, nothing great. Just a rose . . . But, do you know what it means to be a rose, my friend? Being a rose means ‘freedom.' It means not existing purely through the praises of Others or ceasing to exist because of their disapproval. Don't get me wrong; I, too, love people. I want them to visit me and smell my scent. But I only want this so I can offer them my perfume.

“True, maybe I've never had as many visitors as you. Maybe those who came to visit the house of Mother Mary failed to notice the little rose planted there. Yet still, there were a handful of people who did notice me. But never mistake these people for the kind who came to worship you.”

“Of course not, how could I?” Artemis said. “My visitors came in their thousands!”

“Do you remember how those who came flocking to you on sunny days began, one by one, to desert you when autumn came? And in the depths of winter, there was no one at your side. Your pride only deepened your loneliness, and you couldn't even weep because of that empty pride of yours. The higher their praises raised you in spring, the greater the fall you had to face in autumn. The change in the weather instantly knocked you down.”

“Nonsense! That's just the way autumn is.”

“Not for roses, Artemis . . . To a rose, autumn means rain. Autumn means a time to prepare for spring. And those who come for a rose are never as disloyal as those who came to worship you. Those who worship, worship only for themselves. Unlike your visitors, those who visited me came only for my scent. I never expected them to bow down before me. No, that wouldn't be love. Love doesn't lower lovers, but raises them.”

“Oh, you worthless flower, how could you ever understand what it means to be adored?”

“I'm sorry, my friend, but those who are fervently devoted to you will desert you one day. Because it's not you they worship, but their own passions. A day will come when their passion will find another goddess. A more beautiful, more enticing, more desirable goddess! So you will be forgotten. And because you owe your existence to their praises, once you're forgotten you'll cease to exist.”

“No, I will live forever! You're the mortal one, remember?”

“True, I'm not immortal. One day I'll fade and return to the earth. I'll die, but my life will not end. Because that earth will nurture another rose. Apart from those who love me for my scent, no one will remember me. No one will think that a dead rose could still release her beautiful scent. But when my friends breathe the air which I'll be drifting in, a smile will shine on their faces. And so I'll be able to say, ‘My life hasn't been in vain. The darkness I had to live through before my rose blossomed wasn't for nothing. I'm glad I was content to be just a rose.'