Missing Rose (9781101603864) (7 page)

18

T
HE COOKIES STILL
hadn't arrived, but both of them had been too deep in conversation to complain. Nevertheless, Mathias decided to remind the waiter so they wouldn't lose the remaining chocolate cookies to another customer. Just then, the waiter came to the table carrying two plates.

Taking a bite of her vanilla cookie, Diana asked Mathias, “What are your goals? For your painting, I mean.”

“I've only the one goal and that is to paint.”

“I thought goals were about the future, aren't they?”

“The future,” Mathias smiled. “Well, there's a saying I like: ‘As long as time flows forward, the future which we are so mesmerized by is nothing but an untouched past.'”

He wondered what Diana would make of this as he took his first bite out of his chocolate cookie.

After a moment of silence, Diana said, “I suppose what you mean is that a day in the future becomes the ‘past' with respect to the day that follows. And that following day is sure to come, because time flows forward. So, in reality, each day we see as the ‘future' is nothing but a delayed ‘past.' A past that isn't yet touched by time . . . Did I get it right?”

“I've never met anyone who put it better.”

“But all that seems too philosophical, and I don't think it has any practical value in everyday life.”

“Hey,” he said smiling. “I just tried to answer your question.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Actually, all I want to say is that I'd like to achieve my goals in the only time which really exists—that is, in the present. And that's why I've chosen painting as my only goal.”

“But you must surely have some long-term plans?”

“Yeah, I do have a plan. I'm planning to work my way back to the small town I live in, near Paranaguá, by painting scenes all along the coast. At the end of the summer, I'll hold an exhibition at one of the places I've painted.”

So Mathias wasn't from Rio . . . Actually she'd already guessed that. Yet the way Mathias said “the small town I live in, near Paranaguá” just like that—as if he were saying something of no importance—awoke a familiar feeling in Diana. Loneliness.

“And,” Mathias said, interrupting her thoughts, “I've even planned the name for the exhibition: ‘The Changing Seas of Brazil.'”

“Sounds good.”

“But I don't really know if I'll be able to finish this project on time. And there are many other things I don't know . . . If I finish the project on time, will I have enough money for an exhibition? And if I do, will I be able to find a suitable place for it; if I do, will I be able to get permission from the relevant authorities; if I do, will I be able to afford the publicity for it; if I can, will anyone show any interest in my paintings? If they do, will that satisfy me? Even if everything goes perfectly as planned, will I be happy? If I am happy, for how long will it last? Even if it lasts a long time, will I be able to overcome the fear that someday I'll lose it? And the list of things I can't know goes on and on . . .”

“And on . . .” chimed in Diana.

“You see, that's why I've decided that to paint is my only goal.”

“So, let's say the exhibition actually happens, where's it going to be?”

“I don't know yet; I'd decided before I set out that I'd have it wherever I painted the best painting.”

They'd each finished their first cookie. Diana was left with a chocolate cookie on her plate and Mathias with a vanilla one. The order in which they'd both chosen to eat their cookies had attracted Diana's attention. She had kept the one she liked best till last, whereas Mathias had eaten his favorite one first.

It's my turn now, thought Diana. “Look,” she said, pointing at the chocolate cookie left on her plate, “this cookie also shows that the future mesmerizes me. Ever since I was little I've always kept the food I liked best till last. But then, most of the time, when I come to eat it, I find I'm too full. That's what's happened today, too, I'm afraid.”

“You're too full to eat it? So I guess your chocolate cookie is left in the past as ‘untouched'?”

They both smiled, looking at each other until each felt the need to turn their gaze away.

Diana glanced at her watch. “Oh, it's getting late.”

Mathias asked for the bill.

“Diana, it's up to you, but if there's anything you'd like to talk about, I'm here to listen.”

Diana's eyes clouded over for a minute. Then, regaining her composure, she began to summarize what she'd been living through during the past few months.

Mathias listened with full attention as Diana told her story. When she was finished, he didn't know how to respond. All he could say was, “I'm so sorry.”

“What upsets me the most is the idea that my mother doesn't exist anymore,” Diana continued. “It's even worse than being left without a mother. I wish she still existed somewhere even if I never saw her or heard her voice.”

Mathias noticed the tears in her eyes.

“Diana,” he said softly, “I can never realize your suffering. Nobody can. So whatever I say won't mean much. I know it's not the same, but after my grandmother passed away, I was quite upset. I just didn't know how to accept it. But then I read a little story in a book. It really touched me.”

Diana, remembering the stories her mother used to tell her, could hardly hold back her tears. “I'd like to hear it.”

“Well,” Mathias said. “There was once a wave in the ocean, rolling along, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the swiftness of the breeze. It smiled at everything around it as it made its way toward the shore. But then, it suddenly noticed that the waves in front of it, one by one, were striking against the cliff face, being savagely broken to pieces. ‘Oh God!' it cried. ‘My end will be just like theirs. Soon I, too, will crash and disappear!' Just then another wave passing by saw the first wave's panic and asked, ‘Why are you so anxious? Look how beautiful the weather is, see the sun, feel the breeze . . .' The first wave replied, ‘Don't you see? See how violently those waves before us strike against the cliff, look at the terrible way they disappear. We'll soon become nothing—just like them.' ‘Oh, but you don't understand,' the second wave said. ‘You're not a wave. You're a part of the ocean.'”

The story and the compassion she'd seen in Mathias's eyes as he'd told it gave Diana a glimmer of comfort. She suddenly felt like reaching out her hand to touch his where it rested on the table. But she stopped herself and gave an appreciative nod instead.

The waiter appeared with the bill tucked inside an oyster shell. When Diana motioned to take it, Mathias said, “Please, I invited you.”

A
S
D
IANA ACCOMPANIED
Mathias to the park, she suddenly remembered the words of the beggar. “That girl who's just like you, she'll meet that artist someday,” he'd said. For a moment, she thought of telling this to Mathias and warning him not to mistake Mary for her if their paths should ever cross. But she didn't want to involve the beggar in this, so she decided against it.

When they came to his easel, Diana held out her hand. “I had a lovely time this evening, Mathias. Or Jon. Thanks.”

“No, thank
you
.”

For a second, Diana thought of asking him when he was leaving Rio. She would also have liked to tell him that he could contact her through the hotel further down the road, and even save him from the cheap motel by offering him a room. But she said good-bye and left without doing any of those things.

19

I
T WAS PAST
midnight when Diana came down from her art studio. She threw herself carelessly on the bed without a thought for the blue paint spattered all over her. As she'd expected, the bedding became streaked with blue. It's a fair price to pay for painting the sea, she thought.

Actually it wasn't the theme of the painting that was to blame for the mess, but rather the new way of painting she'd tried. She'd begun by throwing aside all the rules she'd ever learned from the art lessons she'd once taken. She'd squeezed a whole tube of blue paint onto her palm and, accompanied by the mystical melodies of Loreena McKennitt, had spread it with both hands in random circles onto the canvas.

Diana felt in some way indebted to Mathias for prompting her to paint again after such a long time. More important, the story he'd told had made her feel a little better. She didn't want to lose this feeling and even wished to add to it by doing something that would please her mother.

She reached for the green envelope lying in front of the bedside lamp, and read Mary's second letter once again.

L
ETTER
2:
“T
HE
P
ATH IN THE
G
ARDEN”

22 February

My beloved Mother,

In my childhood years, in spite of Others, I was able to preserve my dream of finding you. But as time passed, I could feel my strength fading in the face of their never-ending attempts to turn me into an “Other,” too.

Then, one night, I had a dream. I saw myself in a little wooden boat being carried by the current across the ocean. I was wearing a white nightgown and an orange hat. The horizon was clear, but the boat had neither sail nor oars to take me there. As I was waiting helplessly, you spoke to me from behind the gray clouds:

“Mary, return to me.”

“Where are you, Mom?”

“You have not lost me; I'm always with you.”

“Then why can't I see you?”

“Because you are not with me.”

“How can I be with you?”

“See me in yourself.”

“I can't do that.”

“Then try to see me in my gifts.”

Suddenly there was a deafening crash as the heavens split open. A hand of light came down and took off my hat, replacing it with a crown of white roses. That hand was your hand, Mom. And that crown was the most beautiful gift I'd ever received.

Looking at its reflection in the water, I admired the beauty of your gift for some time. Then, a huge storm broke out. As the boat rocked this way and that in the middle of towering waves, I crouched down in the bottom of the boat and started to sob, “Help me, Mom!”

A little later, the wind ceased, rain began to fall and the sea calmed.

When I looked at my reflection in the water again, I saw that my crown was no longer on my head. At that moment, I felt as if everything I had was lost. I felt like a dry river, a wingless bird, a scentless rose . . . Yet I was still a river, a bird, a rose. I had to search for my crown immediately.

I searched for it in the boat. I searched for it in the distance, on the sea and in the sky . . . But I failed to find it.

I called out to you: “Mom, where is my crown?”

“Bow your head, Mary.”

As soon as I bowed my head, I saw from my reflection that my crown had merely slipped to the back of my head. Then, you spoke to me again. But this time, your voice was not coming from the sky, but coming from the roses in my crown.

“Mary, my child. So that you never think you've lost it, don't search beyond yourself for that which you already have.”

Right then, a palace emerged from the middle of the ocean. Near the palace was a garden; its walls were overgrown with roses and from behind them came the singing of nightingales.

You spoke to me once more:

“If you want to hear my voice, walk the path in the garden. Hold the gardener's hand and listen to the roses.”

“Oh, Mom, it's so far away. There's a whole ocean between us and I don't know how to swim!”

“Don't be afraid, just walk. If you leave your baggage, the water will bear you.”

“But I don't have any baggage.”

“Believing that the water won't bear you is heavy baggage. So put it down and walk.”

“But, Mom, where will this path lead me?”

“To me.”

“So I can really be reunited with you in
this
world?”

“Yes, in this world.”

I could never get this dream out of my mind and lived with the hope of it coming true. Three years later, when I was traveling with a friend and her family, I noticed a rose garden hidden at the back of the guesthouse where we were staying. A little further on I could see Topkapı Palace, which seemed very much like the palace I'd seen in my dream. As soon as I saw that garden and the palace, I felt this was the place you'd wanted me to visit. I wasn't mistaken.

Zeynep Hanim, the lady who owned the guesthouse, was an extraordinary person; she was a “non-Other.” She was the Someone Who Knows I'd been waiting for all along—the one who would help me hear your voice. She took me for magical walks in the rose garden and, before long, she taught me what I needed to know in order to hear roses. The seeds she sowed in my heart enabled me to hear a rose speak to me years later in my own home.

Hopefully, in my next letter, I will tell you about this third phase of my journey to you.

With all my love,

Mary

It wasn't the first time Diana had read this letter. But this time she felt a little different. She thought about how her twin had devoted her life to finding her mother. The intensity of the feelings she had for her mother, the never diminishing longing, her determination to find her . . .

Well, perhaps Mary was fantasizing too much; perhaps in her letters she was talking about the things she wished to experience, rather than the ones she'd actually experienced. Maybe she was crazy, or maybe just a lover of fantasy. But one thing was for sure, Mary loved her mother deeply. More important, Mary had managed to keep her mother alive in her heart for so many years; something Diana now found impossible to do.

And now, at a time when Mary thought she was about to meet her mother, she'd lost her forever. Perhaps Mary didn't even know this. Or perhaps it was because she'd learned her mother was going to die that she'd decided to take her own life, just so she could be with her as quickly as possible.

In her dream, her mother had said Mary would see her in
this
world. But the imagined world Mary had built for herself came crashing down as this promise turned out to be a lie. Mary would never be able to see her mother again in this world.

“Just like me,” whispered Diana.