Missing Rose (9781101603864) (15 page)

Part Three

44

19 September

My beloved Mother,

The possibility of being reunited with you after so many months fills me with indescribable happiness. In exactly one month's time, I am coming to Ephesus so that I can stand with my mother in the October Rains!

For the past four months, I have been working on my first novel. I wish I could read my story to you, but unfortunately, it isn't quite ready yet. However, I'd still like to give you the feel of it.

The story is about a rose, Mom—the Rose of Ephesus—a rose that has been created with a divine scent. This scent has a voice of its own. A voice of happiness. It speaks of dreams. It speaks of angels, and it speaks of meeting God in
this
world.

But as the rose grows, she begins to hear another voice, a voice which she mistakes for her own, a voice which says “me” all the time. It is loud. So loud that the rose can no longer hear her original voice.

The rose needs to take care of her scent in order to hear this voice again. But she is planted in a place where people don't love her for her scent. They are only concerned with her color, her stem and her petals . . .

So, in the hope of earning their love, she fashions herself into what others want her to be. People say, “grow higher,” so she grows higher. People say, “shine up your petals,” so she does it in a silent rush. And before long, out of neglect, her scent begins to fade away.

Having shaped her, people shower praises on her as if she were a goddess, and soon the rose starts believing that she is one. She doesn't realize that the only thing she needs to feel special is to recall that she is a rose. Nothing great. Just a rose . . .

With each passing day, she finds herself becoming more and more unhappy. There remains only one happiness in her life: her mother. But, at a time she begins to discover her, at a time she needs her the most, she loses her mother forever. Or so she thinks . . .

Actually, Mom, this story is not about the rose. It is about a mother. It is about a mother who has proven that real roses never die, that they continue to release their perfume even after they fade. It is about a mother who had to shake the pot of the rose so that she could recall.

Will this be possible? Will she recall what she has forgotten, or forget all she has been taught? Will she be able to reclaim her scent? And, above all, will she be able to hear her original voice?

I certainly hope so . . .

Well, Mom, this is more or less the story of my novel. I'm not sure if I was able to tell it properly, though. I feel it's more of a story that one has to live. I couldn't even describe the taste of an olive to Zeynep Hanim, so how could I possibly describe the magic of the rose garden?

But even if I've failed, it's okay. It's okay if I couldn't tell it well, it's okay if others don't like it. The story is meaningful to me. Because it is about you. I am glad I told it. Actually no, I didn't. You told it to me. You told it to me at a time when I thought you could never tell me another story.

Thank you, Mom . . .

I sense your perfume in the air. Each time I breathe it in, it smells different.

Rose scent. Everywhere.

Diana

45

A
S
I
AM ABOUT
to finish my novel, I catch sight of blue balloons in bunches of five or six flying past the window. Where can they be coming from?

I open the window to see what is happening. Something is going on in the park. With difficulty, I make out the words written on the large cloth banner:

The Changing Seas of Brazil

Street Art Exhibition

24–27 September

After adding to my novel this chapter in which I see the blue balloons, I leave the house to attend the opening of the exhibition.

46

W
HEN
I
ARRIVE
at the exhibition, I see about twenty paintings ranged side by side. My eyes search for Mathias, but I can't see him. I examine the paintings, looking for the one he did while he was here. Just then, I notice my fortune-teller waving at me.

“You're in luck, little lady. See who's here?”

I smile. “Hey, we don't even know why he's here.”

“Let's live and see,” he says.

“Yes, let's live and see,” I say. “Oh, by the way, yesterday I talked with Senhora Alves. She says ‘Hi' to you. But she's still wondering why you didn't accept her gift.”

“Why should I accept her gift? I'm a man of honor and I respect my job. If I didn't tell you any fortune, I don't accept any gift or bucks for it.”

“Well, maybe you didn't really tell my fortune, but you did get me to start reading those letters somehow. Couldn't you have accepted Senhora Alves's gift as a small token in return for helping her and my mother, a small appreciation for your kindness?”

“Gift in return for kindness, hey? Sounds more like trading to me, little lady. Kindness is . . .”

He stops, and points to the other beggars.

“You see the beggars over there? They used to be the luckiest beggars in town, their bellies full from morning till night. You ever opened your eyes and seen what they ate? We all ate off silver dishes. Every morning, some kid would bring us delicious food, then take off. We all ate for free, long time till the food stop coming. We all wondered who sent the dishes, but that kid, he too tight-assed to tell! The others, they still don't know to this day who that good-hearted person was who sent our food. But me, I know because it's been just six months when the food stopped coming. Now you tell me, little lady, who do you think sent all that grand food?”

“I don't know—some kind of charity organization maybe?”

He smiles. “You see, little lady, real kindness means that even your daughter doesn't know about the good deed you do.”

I don't know what to say. But once again, I feel special to be my mother's daughter.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know. I'll inform the kitchen services as soon as I get back to the hotel; I'll make sure the food will come and—”

“No need,” he says. “Just wanted to tell why I turned down that sweet Alves lady's gift. Now don't you worry your pretty head about these things, you just go and see the pictures.”

“Thanks,” I say, patting his shoulder.

Leaving him, I walk toward the group standing ahead of me. They are studying the picture Mathias painted when he was here. When I inspect the painting carefully, I realize that Mathias hasn't come back for me. He'd said he would hold his exhibition where he painted the best picture. And indeed, this painting really is the best of all. The rage of the waves has increased even more and there is still only one seagull in the top corner. Doesn't this bird ever get tired of flying alone?

Suddenly, I notice Mathias. He is standing in the middle of the group with his back turned toward me. Next to him is a man with a price list in his hand. Coming closer, I overhear the man say, “We like this picture the most, especially my wife, if you could reduce the price a bit—”

“That's my favorite one, too,” Mathias says. “I'd be more than happy to make a reduction and—”

He stops when he notices I am standing right beside him. Staring at me, he doesn't say a word, not even “Hello.” His eyes are fixed on my forehead as though he has just seen the strangest thing in the world.

Fifteen or twenty seconds pass before he turns to the customer again. “But, unfortunately, I can't sell a painting which isn't finished yet.”

“If it isn't finished, then why did you include it in the price list?”

“I'm sorry, sir. But I only realized that just now.” He points to the sea. “I painted the sea at exactly this time of day, looking at that exact spot. Look, don't you think there's more light on the face of the water? Somehow I missed seeing how bright it is.”

Mathias's eyes keep glancing at me as he apologizes to the man. This seems to annoy the man. Grumbling something in his wife's ear, he takes her by the arm and walks away.

Mathias turns to me. “I don't know what to say, Diana. I'm really—”

“Don't say anything.”

“I won't ask you how you are because I see you look exceptionally well. I can't help wondering what's happened since I—”

“Long story,” I say. “In fact, one could even write a novel about it.”

“I'd love to hear it.”

47

A
FTER A SHORT
walk during which none of his questions are answered, we arrive home.

“Please sit wherever you like. But promise me you won't get up until I'm done. I have to write something for a while.”

“Okay, I promise,” he says and sits down in the armchair by the window, placing the unfinished painting on his lap.

I hit the key to print the first few pages of my novel. As I continue typing my story, he busies himself with his painting.

Just as I finish writing up to the part where we return home from the park, Mathias puts down his brush and begins to look at me. He has the expression of a happy child. Hmm, I wonder if I should invite him to Ephesus . . .

But how would I do that? Especially since I don't even know what we'll be doing in Ephesus. Zeynep Hanim has turned out to be as firm as my mother and Senhora Alves in not revealing a secret. The only thing I know for certain is that I'm going there to get to know Mary better. Now how am I supposed to explain this to Mathias?

Will the little information I have about it make this small town on the other side of the world appeal to him? What is there for Mathias at Ephesus? The ruins of an ancient city . . . The temple of Artemis . . . The house of Mother Mary . . . Will all this be enough to persuade him to come?

Of course,
I
will be there, too! That should be enough to convince him to come.

“I see you've got your nose in the air again,” says Mary, interrupting my thought. This happens often now. Whenever the Artemis inside me rears her head, I hear Miriam objecting to her. Sometimes Diana is louder, sometimes Mary . . . It seems it'll take a while before they become one rose. But I'm glad that now I can at least distinguish between their voices.

So, would Mathias really come to Ephesus?

And if he did . . .

Perhaps one October evening, we'd be sitting on the banks of the river Meles with Mount Bulbul in front of us, watching the sunset.

Perhaps I'd be telling Mathias about the things which took place in Ephesus nearly two thousand years ago. Things I know from what I've read, or perhaps after hearing the sounds rising from ancient Ephesus myself.

Maybe I'd tell him something about the human condition, too. “We are all like the city of Ephesus,” I'd say to him, “home to both Artemis and Mother Mary.”

And to confuse him even more, I'd also tell him about Artemis's twin brother, Apollo. Then, I'd frown at him and say, “Don't mind Apollo. You, too, search for your missing twin!”

I
F, ON AN
October evening, everything turns out just the way I imagine, I myself may witness the truth of Zeynep Hanim's words:

“Dreams are the leaven of reality.”

48

J
UST AS
I
BEGIN
writing the last chapter, I see Mathias holding out the painting to me. Finished by the addition of one small touch: a third wing shining in between the wings of the lone seagull reveals a second seagull hidden behind it.

I can't take my eyes off the painting, but I continue to write. A few sentences more and then . . . I'll take the first pages of my novel from the printer and hold them out to Mathias.

I'll look into his eyes for a moment, thinking of the two wine bottles in the first chapter . . . I'll think of the beginning and the end . . . The two waves in Mathias's little story . . . Artemis and Miriam . . . The two seagulls in the painting . . . Mary and me . . . And, most important of all, I'll think of Mom and me.

My heart will tell me the very same thing about all of these. So that Mathias, too, may know what my heart says, I'll read out the first words of my novel to him:

“Two are One.”