Missing Rose (9781101603864) (14 page)

37

F
ULL OF APPREHENSION,
the passengers waited anxiously to hear the pilot announce that there was nothing to worry about. As the plane lurched sickeningly up and down, it seemed that at any moment the wings would break off. Everyone except Diana was alarmed by each eerie mechanical noise that came from the plane.

Diana was waiting impatiently for the “Fasten Your Seat Belts” sign to be switched off so she could reach into the overhead locker for her diary.

That sign's never going to go off . . .

She undid her seat belt and got to her feet, taking no notice of the stares of the other passengers or of the stewardess sitting at the back of the plane. At that instant, the plane shook again and she found herself on the lap of the passenger sitting next to her.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, sir.”

“You could have hurt yourself, miss, you'd better sit down,” the elderly man said.

The stewardess motioned to her, insisting she sit down, and some of the passengers turned around as if wondering what was the matter with her.

Straightening up, she reached deep into the overhead locker for her bag, which bounced up and down, ready at any moment to fall on top of another passenger. But she managed to seize it without any accident.

Opening her diary, Diana began to write with crooked letters, in between moments of turbulence:

 

My beloved Mother,

I want to ask you something . . .

Mary was born before me, wasn't she? She learned to walk before me and talked before me, didn't she?

Unfortunately, she's still a step ahead of me now. Maybe, even as I write this, she's about to join you . . .

Actually, Mom, Mary deserved to be with you a long time ago. She certainly deserves you more than I did. She loves you like crazy.

Don't get me wrong, I love you, too. I love you as much as she does. But she loves you without ever having known the sweetness of being your daughter. She loves you without having received anything from you, or being sheltered in your arms when she was frightened, or falling asleep with her head cuddled against your chest. As you used to say, “Love is not love if the lover asks for something in return.”

So, Mom . . . which of us is more worthy to be your daughter? Mary or me? I'm not scared of the answer any-more. She's my twin. Since I've always followed after her, maybe one day I'll deserve to be your daughter, too.

After all, haven't she and I shared the same destiny up to now? Growing up with only one parent, being surrounded by the attention of Others, our love for stories, our dreams, Zeynep Hanim and the rose garden . . . According to the order in which things happened to Mary, it should be my turn soon to speak with a rose. But right now, that doesn't seem very likely. A part of me still thinks that such things only happen in fairy tales.

But there's still a question I can't get out of my mind, Mom . . . In fairy tales, heroes never make promises they can't keep, isn't that so? In that case, if the things I've heard in the rose garden are part of a fairy tale, doesn't that make Zeynep Hanim the heroine? So she has to keep her promise, doesn't she? “One day, you, too, will hear the roses,” was what she said to me.

I don't know, Mom . . .

Fantasy–reality; fear–hope; me–Mary . . . How mixed up everything's become.

I so badly need to hear your voice . . .

Diana,

Your “little” daughter

38

A
S SOON AS
she saw the hotel chauffeur who'd come to fetch her from the airport, Diana asked, “Has anyone come to the hotel asking for my mother? Someone who looks just like me?”

“Not as far as I know, Senhora Oliveira.”

“Then let's quickly stop by the hotel before we go home.”

Diana counted the minutes all the way to the hotel, until finally they arrived. But to her disappointment, she got the same answer from the hotel staff and, later, from the people who worked in the house: no one had been asking for her mother. Since for the time being Diana did not wish to tell anyone that she had a twin, she even tried asking, “Did anyone see me here last week?” As everyone knew she'd been away, no one took this question seriously.

The fact that Mary hadn't come either to the hotel or to the house could mean that she hadn't heard of her mother's death yet. This was good news. But Diana did not feel at peace, as Mary could still have heard about it from another source.

There was nothing she could do but stay home and wait. She walked for hours up and down the house, listening for the doorbell or the telephone to ring. No one came and no one phoned . . .

This waiting continued until midnight, when her exhausted body finally accepted defeat and she fell asleep on the black sofa.

39

S
TARTLED BY
the doorbell, she woke up suddenly and ran to the door, reaching it before Senhora Lopez. It was the postman. Diana took the envelope he held out to her and shut the door. There was neither a name nor return address on the envelope, but she had the feeling that it must have something to do with Mary. Hastily she ripped it open.

 

My beloved Mother,

Today I arrived in Rio. They told me you were dead. I didn't believe it.

Mommy, where are you? Where have you gone, just as we were about to meet at last?

Oh, Mom, I miss you so terribly. You miss me, too, don't you?

So come and take me. I am at the address I wrote in my fourth letter.

I am sure you'll come because I know you're alive.

You
must
come.

Because if you don't, I'll have to accept that what Others told me all along was the truth. I will have to accept that I'll never meet you in this world.

And, in that case, I will do what it takes and come to you myself.

Mary

“Oh, my God,” whispered Diana. “There was no letter in the fourth envelope.”

40

D
IANA PHONED
Zeynep Hanim to tell her about Mary's note. Then, she began to hunt for the missing letter in every corner of the house. But, although she searched the antique chest, her mother's room and the library, ransacking every possible hiding place, she couldn't find the letter anywhere.

Toward evening the phone rang.

“Hello, Diana,” Zeynep Hanim said. “Have you managed to find the letter?”

“No, I've looked everywhere. I'm about to go crazy.”

“Don't worry. When Mary doesn't get a response from your mother, I'm sure she'll try to contact her again.”

“I've asked everyone here and they say no one came either to the hotel or to the house. And I've no idea who could have told Mary of our mother's death. I'm so afraid she'll do something stupid.”

“No, no, you mustn't think like that. At the very least, she'll call me when she doesn't hear from your mother, so don't worry . . . Tomorrow I'm going to send you a package by express delivery. Open it, and if Mary comes please give it to her. Maybe it'll be some consolation for her. But in the meantime, you go on searching for the letter, my dear.”

“Maybe the letter doesn't exist!”

“Didn't you say there was a fourth envelope? If there's an envelope, there has to be a letter.”

41

D
IANA SEARCHED FOR
the letter for two days nonstop, but this led to nothing. She even went to her mother's grave to ask where the letter might be, but she received no answer.

When she got home, she went into the library. After looking through the shelves filled with hundreds of thick books, she finally found
The Little Prince
, which she'd often read as a child. She took it from where it was wedged between two bulky books. In the farewell letter Mary had left for her father, she said that she'd reread
The Little Prince
after many years. She'd mentioned how the book had completely changed. Was she right?

Dusting off the cover, Diana sat on the floor and opened the book.

O
NE HOUR LATER,
she'd finished reading it. Leaning back against the wall, she reflected for some time on how different the book had become. Then, she reached for her diary.

 

Dear Mary,

I've just finished reading
The Little Prince
again after many years. You're right, the book has changed completely!

I think I'm also beginning to realize what it means “to be responsible for a rose.”

But that doesn't mean I'll be capable of being responsible for mine. And that's where you and I differ, Mary. You managed to be responsible for your rose.

You realized long before I did that your rose was missing and you did all you could to find it. You took care of your rose . . .

You know what I'm thinking, Mary? I wish our father had taken me with him instead and left you with Mom. I wish Mom had dedicated her life to you instead of me. You are the one who deserved our mother.

I've come to realize that Mom didn't entrust you to me, but rather she entrusted me to you. She knew I needed you.

And now I know it, too.

That's why you must come here, Mary. You must once again believe that we can meet Mom in
this
world. You must feel that she is with God and God is always with us.

Remember when you were little . . . Remember your reply to Others? When Others told you that your mother was dead or that she was someplace far away or that you could never be with her again in this world? Didn't you believe that there had to be another answer?

So what's happened to make you change your mind? Or is it because you, too, have become a grown-up like me?

Well, Mary, I won't give up hope that you'll come and find me here. Because this is what my heart tells me:

“Long before you began to search for Mary, she'd already begun to search for you . . .”

Diana

42

O
NLY A FEW MINUTES
after Diana had closed her diary, there was a ring at the door. She ran to open it.

It was Gabriel. In his arms was an enormous package.

“Good morning, Diana—an express delivery for you from Istanbul. Whose heart did you steal there?”

“I hope I managed to steal someone's,” she said, thinking of Zeynep Hanim.

The package was so trussed and bound that it resembled a mummy. Along with it, Gabriel held out an envelope to her. Having dispatched him with a warm smile, Diana opened the letter.

 

Dear Diana,

Inside this package you will find Socrates and, on his branch, a crown woven of white roses, like the one Mary wore in her dream. Mary believed she would hear her mother's voice only if she'd listened to Socrates first. I hope her wish will be fulfilled soon.

Also, Yellow Flower has something to ask you . . .

She has adapted an anecdote of Nasreddin Hodja for Mary. She wants you to read the following story to her when you two meet. After Mary hears Socrates's verses, she'll need a key that can only be found through this story:

T
HE
K
EY TO THE
T
REASURE

One day Nasreddin Hodja lost the key to his treasure. Although he searched the street in front of his house and around the neighboring houses, as well as along the road to the village, he couldn't find it anywhere.

So he called on his neighbors to help him find the key. They also looked high and low and all around the village but to no avail. It was as if the ground had opened and swallowed it up. Fortunately, some-time later, it occurred to one of the neighbors to ask the Hodja:

“Hodja, are you sure you dropped the key outside?”

“Oh, no,” the Hodja said. “I dropped it inside, but searching outside is easier, so that's why I'm looking for it out here.”

 

Yellow Flower says that Mary shouldn't search for the key to her treasure outside, but rather she should search for it inside . . .

And perhaps, in the drawer at the head of her bed.

Yellow Flower and I both want to thank you for all your help, my darling.

Zeynep

43

A
FTER
D
IANA HAD
cut through the strong Styrofoam surrounding the package and taken out the packing material, all that was left was a silver-colored cloth covering Socrates. She placed the heavy pot carefully on the table. Then, as if she were unveiling a statue, she pulled off the cloth.

Socrates!

“Oh, my God,” whispered Diana.

She fell to her knees.

“Oh, my God!”

All she could do was stare at Socrates, not even able to blink her eyes. Socrates was a rosebush with four black roses. Four black roses . . . !

Unconscious of time, Diana gazed in wonder at Socrates.

Four black roses!

Diana jumped up and immediately ran to the silver frame her mother had given her as her last birthday gift. After caressing the four black roses ornamenting it, one rose placed on each of the four sides, she read the inscribed verse:

No, it's not what you think:

You have not lost me.

I speak to you through everything,

From behind the remembrances . . .

As Diana's eyes ran over the words, it was as though she were journeying into the past.

She remembered some of the things Mary wrote in her letters . . . What Mary had said to Others: “It's not what you think.” And the words her mother had said to Mary in her dream: “You have not lost me.” What the pink rose told Mary: “Your mother speaks to you through everything . . .”

Diana remembered the days she'd spent in the rose garden. The image of Artemis and Miriam entwined together in one pot came before her eyes; parts of their dialogue echoed in her ears. She remembered the things Zeynep Hanim had said. Just like the words in Mary's letters, Zeynep Hanim's words, too, seemed to be those of her mother.

Diana remembered the moment she'd seen her mother in Zeynep Hanim's eyes. It was as if she was now looking into Zeynep Hanim's eyes once again. It was as if those sparkling blue eyes weren't Zeynep Hanim's but her mother's . . .

Diana remembered the times she'd asked her mother for the key to her “treasure” and how her mother had always replied that she didn't have it. She remembered the stories her mother had told her . . . She recalled the story Yellow Flower had sent for Mary . . . And the yellow roses Senhora Alves had put on her mother's grave.

Each line of the framed stanza reminded Diana of one of Mary's letters, and she felt as if with every second she was getting closer to the missing letter.

The first line, “No, it's not what you think,” reminded her of Mary's first letter: her objection to Others. The words “You have not lost me” reminded Diana of Mary's second letter: her mother appearing in a dream and telling Mary that she hadn't lost her. And with “I speak to you through everything,” Diana recalled the third letter: the pink rose telling Mary that her mother spoke to her through everything. So the clue to the fourth letter had to be hidden in the last line.

Diana repeated it over and over again:

“From behind the remembrances . . . From behind the remembrances . . .

“Remembrances . . . Remembrance . . .

“Behind . . .”

She suddenly fell silent and stretched out her hand toward the frame, this precious remembrance of her mother. Taking the frame down from the wall, she turned it over, and looked behind it.

She hadn't been mistaken! In the upper right corner there was a small keyhole. Remembering the advice Yellow Flower had given in Zeynep Hanim's letter, Diana put the frame down on the table and ran to her room. There, she opened the drawer at the head of her bed. Her searching fingers fumbled among the paper and pens which filled the drawer until, underneath all of these, they felt a little key taped to the bottom of the drawer.

She clasped the key in her palm.
Thank you, Yellow Flower . . .

Returning to the living room, she took up the tightly woven crown of white roses that hung from one of Socrates's branches and gently placed it on her head.

She then picked up the silver frame. The key was so small she dropped it while trying to fit it into the lock. But on the second attempt, she was able to open the frame. In it, there was a silver tablet on which a letter had been engraved in tiny letters. As she took it out, her heart was beating so fast she could almost hear it thumping.

She held the silver tablet that shone like a mirror breast-high in front of her. Two words were written at the top of it: “Mary's address.” Right below these words, she saw the reflection of her own face on the shining surface of the tablet.

As she repositioned her crown, which had slipped slightly backward, two tears ran slowly down her cheeks. Without wiping them away, she read her mother's words:

 

My darling Diana, or, as your father used to call you, “Mary . . .”

Your father always used to whisper this name in your ear. But after his death, I didn't want to call you Mary until the time when you were ready to understand the part of you that this name stands for.

What I wanted was that you be compelled to leave your home, cross an ocean and taste the fear of losing your twin, so that no force would ever be able to make you forget this name.

I'm sorry, my beloved child; in order to send you after Mary, I had to say things which weren't entirely true. Unfortunately, my time was running out and didn't allow me to choose another way. I wanted you to set out on your journey to the rose garden as quickly as possible.

Through this journey, which could be regarded as a preparation for the October Rains, I wanted you to kill your “self” which causes you such unhappiness and prevents you from following your dreams.

Since this letter is in your hands, you must have made a good start on the path of roses. You must have recognized the difference of the rose garden you've seen.

If that is so, if that garden is indeed different from all other gardens for you, if Socrates is different from all other roses, if the “you” in that garden is different from all other “you's” . . . And if this difference, instead of giving you a feeling of superiority, humbles you and gives you the feeling of embracing the whole world, then, my darling, Zeynep and I invite you to Ephesus in October. Since it is only through the October Rains that you can truly know Mary.

Who knows, maybe I'll defy all the laws of physics and come to Ephesus riding on a winged horse so that I can embrace my daughter, so that I can stand with you in the October Rains.

But even if you don't see me there, my darling, listen well to the voices in Ephesus . . . You'll soon realize that, in Ephesus, there's only one voice, not two. Mary's voice . . .
Your
voice . . .

If, one day, that voice should say, “Withdraw all the applications you've made to law firms, place a blank page before you and begin writing the first book of your career,” then I have one word of advice for you, darling. In your book, tell us the oldest tale of all:

A journey that begins and ends with you . . .

By living this tale, you've already written it; now all you have to do is put it down onto the pages.

Perhaps on one of those pages, you may want to use the prized saying that Zeynep promised you in reward for hearing roses. It is from Yunus Emre, a Sufi saint: “There is one Me within me, deep inside of me.”

I love you, my precious one . . .
And I am always with you.

Your Mother