Missing Rose (9781101603864) (8 page)

20

M
ATHIAS HAD FINISHED
his painting at midnight. Yet he was still in the park as dawn broke, wrestling with the question he'd been unable to answer throughout the night: should he change the name of his exhibition to “The Changing Seas of Rio de Janeiro” or not?

The sea along this coast was also constantly changing, so he could rent a small bungalow nearby for the summer and paint all his pictures in the park. It would certainly be interesting. But he was having a hard time making up his mind. Just for the sake of a summer full of inspiration, he didn't want to begin a relationship which he knew wouldn't last.

Walking to his jeep, he grabbed two bottles of Coke from the cooler, an action that didn't go unnoticed by the beggar who hadn't yet switched to the sitting position he adopted during his working hours.

“You fool!” the beggar shouted. “Get yourself over here!”

He took the bottle of Coke the artist held out to him. “Cola all you got, this early in the day? Jumbo-size guarana is what I said.”

“You said you read faces, right?”

“If I said so, then it
is
so. But it isn't for free, son. Let's get that straight.”

“Just now I scribbled down a list of ten qualities. The list is called ‘The kind of girl I'm looking for.' Guess what, she matches item two through to item ten. And I thought I hated making calculations.”

“What's your list got to do with me, son? What you want from me? Spit it out.”

“I thought maybe you could tell me something about the first item on my list, which is more important for me than all the rest combined.”

“What sort of an item would that be?”

“There should be a light in her face.”

“My, my! What sort of light would that be?”

“A light I've never seen in anyone's face before, but which I'll recognize as soon as I see it. Unfortunately, she doesn't have it, either.”

“What would this light be good for, son?”

“A sign to tell me that I've found my soul mate.”

“What mate? Don't talk mystery, son. Puzzles aren't for me.”

Mathias pointed toward the sea. “Every day thousands of people look at that, at the same thing. Most of them see the sea, but perhaps a few of them may see something different. I wonder if anyone has ever seen a burning desert there . . . or a mountain.”

“Oh, my. Don't do it to me, son, don't!”

“If, one day, I claim to see a desert while looking at the sea, or a sea while looking at a desert, would anyone believe me?”

“Oh, no, you did it, son, you did it. Give this old man a break and just say what you're talking about.”

“All I'm getting at is this: my soul mate is the one who believes me even when the whole world thinks I'm lying. More than that, she's the one who points out to me the sand dunes I've overlooked or the coves I haven't noticed.”

“Stop, stop right there!” the beggar said, making a time-out gesture. “Son, from now on, you'll pay for what you tell this old man. Every word you say without my okay will cost you one whole dollar!”

Mathias smiled.

“I got just one thing to say to you, son. I'm sorry, but my reading faces got nothing to do with the light you want in the face of your little lady. You think it's easy to find a light in a face, uh? In all this long life, I've seen it just once. On brother Joe's; it was on my brother Joe's face where I saw that light. Real bright it was. Year 1962. Cadillac. Brand new. Metallic, too. Black pearl! Me, while I work on its door, Joe, he keeps his eyes wide open. It seemed we got it made. Then we suddenly hear a few footsteps, so I turn to Joe. That second, my eyes dazzle, okay. All thanks to the cop's 500 watt flashlight, Joe's face was full of light. Bright, bright light! Our wicked Joe, he was illumined, all right.”

Mathias started laughing.

“Son, let's get to the point. You staying or going?”

“What do you think I'm doing here at this time of day? I'm open to suggestions. But one thing I do know: if I leave, it'll be for good. It's best for both of us not to let it go any further. I've gone too far already. I knew it from the beginning, but I couldn't help it. I chatted with her, invited her for coffee, told her about myself and tried to understand her. Worst of all, I tried to impress her. None of that should have happened. And now, I'm thinking of leaving without even saying good-bye. You tell me, what should I do?”

“Go away, son.”

“Go away from you or from the city?”

“Don't ask me what you already know. For me, I say stay, but you say go. Me, I say enjoy yourself, get to know the little lady, take her places, be happy. But you, you set on going. You come to me because you couldn't make yourself say, ‘Stay.' Before you sit down, I saw it in your face that you'd be gone. That's how I read faces, son. Two big bottles of cola make nine dollars, so you were my guest. I'm a man of honor, don't forget, and I respect my job.”

After remaining silent for a moment, Mathias held his hand out to the beggar: “I'll miss our little chats, my friend.”

21

“
A
PERSON CAN
change even within a few days,” Mathias had told her. Was that also true for one day? Could a person who's sensitive and caring one day, get up and leave the next, without so much as a good-bye?

I'm afraid he could, Diana said to herself, since she hadn't seen him for the past six evenings.

Having just returned from her evening walk, Diana was riffling through the numbers in her phone book, wondering how she'd gotten to know so many people. From among all those numbers, she would probably pick one of the girls, invite her over for a coffee and, before long, she'd turn the conversation to the real issue. Then, she'd hear a few scenarios from her friend highlighting the logical reasons why the artist had gone off just like that. And soon, she would be convinced that the reason was not because he hadn't been attracted to her, and so her self-image would remain untarnished.

I don't think Mary would act this way, thought Diana.

She threw the phone book back on the table. Not because she was competing with Mary. She just no longer felt like calling anyone. But she dialed another number, the number of the travel office in the hotel.

“Hello, how may I help you?”

“Hi, Sarah, it's Diana. I'd like to ask you a favor. If I'm not mistaken, Topkapı Palace is in Istanbul, right? After you check on that, can you please book me a flight for Friday? Make it an open return.”

“Did I hear correctly, Senhora Oliveira? Did you say Friday?”

“Yes, that's what I said.”

“But what about your graduation on Sunday, Senhora Oliveira? Has it been postponed?”

“No, but I have to leave right away.”

“Everything's all right, I hope?”

“Don't worry, Sarah. Everything is as it should be.”

Part Two

22

W
HEN THE PILOT
announced that the plane would soon be landing, the letter Diana had read several times during the flight was still in her hand.

L
ETTER
3:
“A
NNIHILATION IN THE
R
OSE”

1 March

My beloved Mother,

About a year ago, there was a time when I hardly ate or drank. I lost all interest in the things I'd previously enjoyed. I never left my room and spent most of my time in the company of my roses, which had started to release scents I'd never smelled before.

Every corner of my room was filled with the roses I'd begun to grow after coming back from the rose garden. I felt like a florist who couldn't bring herself to sell her roses.

One day, something very strange happened: I heard the roses breathing. This went on for days. Sometimes a fresh breeze would come from them, flowing through my hair as if to sweep away all traces of the past from my mind.

One evening, this breeze became quite strong, increasing even more throughout the night, dying away as dawn was breaking. Suddenly the room was filled with a blinding light. Everywhere was dazzlingly bright, so bright that I couldn't see anything. A deafening silence enveloped the room.

The silence was broken when the pink rose at the head of my bed spoke to me. But it was as if the voice didn't come from the rose, but from me. From inside me!

The voice grew louder and louder, rising to such a crescendo that I couldn't hear, see or smell anything. All I could see, all I could smell, all I could touch was the voice of my rose.

I became afraid of myself. No, that couldn't be possible. How could I be afraid of myself? I wasn't even there. There was only the rose. The voice of the rose.

We both spoke with that one voice:

“Peace be with you, Mary.”

“I don't believe it! I don't believe I'm hearing a rose!”

“No, Mary, it's because you believed you can hear me.”

“But this is extraordinary!”

“For those who are extraordinary, what's extraordinary is quite ordinary.”

“I don't think I'm worthy of such praise.”

“That's why you
are
worthy of it.”

“Now that I've heard a rose, can I hear my mother, too?”

“Your mother speaks to you through everything. But it's only after listening to Socrates that you will realize this and hear her voice.”

“Where can I find Socrates?”

“You can't find him. He'll find you.”

“But when?”

“When the right time comes.”

Those were the first and last words I heard from the pink rose. From that day to this, I've been waiting for Socrates to appear; I've been waiting for him just as the fox waited for the Little Prince to come and tame it. Even though your address is right in front of me now, Mom, I know I won't hear your voice until I meet Socrates.

But I'm sure he'll find me. I'm sure because my rose said so. Who knows, maybe I'll meet Socrates in Rio.

Hoping to send you my final letter when I get there.

With all my love,

Mary

23

D
IANA HAD WAITED
half an hour at the airport for her luggage, which had showed up after everyone else's, and had lost her place in the taxi line twice when rushing people had pushed her aside. She'd had to endure the puzzling language of the talkative driver. She'd failed to convince the vendors at Sultanahmet Square that she didn't need a carpet. And now, worst of all, after stepping into every guesthouse looking for a nonexistent garden behind it, she couldn't conceal her tears from people passing by. If only she'd been able to find Zeynep Hanim's guesthouse, none of this would have mattered.

She found a deserted corner in the magnificent Hagia Sophia and cried. She sat there staring at the walls until closing time. Its walls, though cracked and dilapidated, seemed to be engaged in a noble fight against time to uphold the spiritual remembrance of millions of people. Maybe it was worthwhile to persevere for such a cause. But was it worth it to torment herself in the cause of finding Mary?

When the museum guard warned for a third time, “Museum's closing!” Diana left the Hagia Sophia and wandered aimlessly in the direction of Topkapı Palace. On reaching the historic fountain in front of the main entrance to the palace, she sat down on the ground since there was no danger of this place closing.

While she was wondering whether she would be able to find a seat on the next flight home, she heard an American voice above her: “Had a tough day, huh?”

When Diana raised her head, she saw a middle-aged, well- dressed foreign woman who was regarding her half interestedly, half condescendingly, as if she'd never seen anyone sitting in the street before.

“Don't even ask,” Diana said. “There isn't a hotel I haven't been in. Now I'm just getting to know the streets.”

“Yes, the high season's begun. We also had a hard time finding a room.”

The woman pointed to the narrow road winding its way alongside the palace wall. “In fact,” she said, “we'd set our hearts on staying in one of the two guesthouses over there, but they were both fully booked. So we had to settle for the Four Seasons instead.”

“Oh!” said Diana, jumping to her feet. “Let me take a look at those guesthouses myself. You enjoy the Four Seasons.”

24

J
UST OPPOSITE
D
IANA
were two large wooden houses. The one painted champagne was bigger and, as far as appearances were concerned, it looked more luxurious. It had a garden entrance. The other house was painted pastel green. As its entrance was on the street, she couldn't work out whether there was a garden at the back or not.

Diana was eager to rush into one of them; but because she was unable to picture Zeynep Hanim in her mind, she couldn't decide which of the houses might be hers. Or even if, in fact, either of them were.

She chose to try the larger one first. As she walked toward the entrance, she inspected the garden. Although there was a variety of flowers of all colors—yellow, pink, blue, purple, crimson, orange—she couldn't see a single rose. Retracing her steps, she entered the second house through a narrow doorway.

Inside, the receptionist was busy on the phone. After waiting exactly seventeen minutes for him to finish his conversation, Diana finally gave up and stopped one of the passing waiters. Pronouncing every syllable with care, she asked, “Is Zeynep Hanim here?”

“She went out half an hour ago, madam. But she said she would be back within an hour.”

Surprised, Diana hesitated for a moment.

“Oh, okay . . . When she comes back, would you please tell her there's someone who'd like to see her?”

“Certainly, madam. If you like, you may wait in our tearoom.”

I didn't expect it to be that easy, Diana thought. It was as if fate, which had been against her up to now, had suddenly decided to lend a hand.