Startled awake, I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. Why this sense of premonition? Nothing extraordinary has taken place since yesterday when I mailed a letter to Aziz. More time in the grove that’s coming back to life, more butterflies collected, more photographs developed.
A strange and exciting foul smell wafts into my bedroom, a seductive blend of dead flowers and mildew. I jump out of bed and run out into the foyer.
The smell is stronger. My heart palpitates. Perspiration coats my upper lip. I dash into the kitchen, snatch a pair of shears, wet a dishcloth, and press it against my nose to keep the sultry vapors at bay. But, my olfactory cells having been seduced, I toss the towel aside.
The Amorphophallus must have come into bloom.
Plants and animals that share the same space with me react to changes in my life. The rhinoceros iguana of Haiti died because it couldn’t bear the air of duplicity between Aziz and me. Sensing the depth of our joy, the red-eyed Madagascar frog, purchased on our honeymoon, croaked merrily and incessantly each night as we prepared for bed. A black-necked, fangless cobra got in the habit of crawling out of its box, its clammy body giving off the odor of dank moss as it slipped into our bed, stretching and twisting to interrupt our lovemaking. A pair of quetzals shipped from Guatemala flourished in our garden, carved a nest in an ancient tree trunk, and took turns incubating. The day I discovered Aziz and Butterfly in bed, the birds took flight, abandoning their eggs to the elements.
And now, the Amorphophallus titanum, having sensed the depth of my despair that thrust me into the arms of a mullah, is offering me the gift of its bloom.
Perched on top of the atrium, my Owl of Reason welcomes me with a staccato of barks. I wave and nod and make kissing noises, then gesture and clap loudly, hoping she’ll fly off to hunt, or simply leave and conceal herself in the monkey tree, anywhere else but here. I don’t want her around while I conduct my experiment. But true to her stubborn character, she pins her gaze on me and begins to claw at the glass panels.
“Do what you want, boss,” I say, turning away and entering the atrium.
I gasp at the sight I face.
The massive leaf that once tightly hugged the towering stem of the Amorphophallus has slackened its grip and unfurled to form a tiered skirt of violet ruffles that curls like a giant fluttering wing around a trumpet-like flower of vibrant shades of lilac, hyacinth, and lavender. The heart of the flower is comprised of thousands of small blooms of livid purple that pulsate and ripple to attract pollinators. They smell like aroused flesh and the breath of dreaming animals.
I pluck out a bloom, releasing a stronger stew of scents—rotting meat, crustacean, and water urchin.
Beyond the glass dome, my owl lets out a chorus of strange hoots. I nod my understanding, acknowledge that I, too, am surprised at the splendid transformation and at the power of these pungent smells.
The flower shudders in complaint as I yank out another tiny bloom—a livid, mature purple from the outer tier—hold it up, and study it closely. The bloom reveals a few of the distinguishing features of poisonous flowers. It is covered with fine hairs and purplish black spurs. The pod is filled with tiny seeds. The odor of bitter almond is an added confirmation of my initial inference. A joyous spasm tugs at my heart. I pretend I don’t hear my owl’s cries. I don’t want her to behold my joy, don’t want her to guess what’s passing through my mind.
Poisons have a way of lurking in unexpected places.
Flowers of the belladonna and opium poppy are both beautiful and lethal, yet have healing powers if ingested in small amounts. The foul-smelling ragworth is a poisonous plant that hosts striped caterpillars, but also heals mouth ulcers and joint pain. A few drops of valerian are a stimulant and an aphrodisiac, but in large doses, cause madness and aversion to lovemaking. Ancient cultures believed that love-in-a-mist, a self-seeding plant, cured baldness if applied to the head, but would dry the brain if rubbed vigorously.
My hand is cold and slightly shaking. It is not too late to walk out and double-lock the door behind me. Never look back. But where will that leave me?
I cautiously lick the edge of the Amorphophallus bloom to try to gauge the required dosage to bring about a quick and, preferably, painful end. A sap, neither sweet nor bitter, but somewhat salty and with a tart hint of capers coats my tongue. Nothing that can’t be masked with rose petals, some strong honey, and a pod of cardamom. I bite off a small piece, a preliminary experiment, certainly not enough to cause me substantial harm, hold it in my mouth until nothing remains but pulp, which I spit out.
With a flurry of fluttering, my owl enters the atrium, zooms past my shoulder, and swoops down to land on the lip of the Corpse Flower’s giant pot. I scratch her under the wing, poke her underbelly, try to pry her powerful claws open and send her off, but to no avail. Her cutting stare continues to probe me, her low, insistent hoots echoing around the atrium.
“Shoo! I just tasted a tiny bit. What’s the big fuss? Go! I’ve had enough of you for today. Come back tomorrow. All right, you stubborn bird, you win! Stay here if you want.”
I leave the atrium and slam the door shut behind me.