opaque

IT happened on a bright spring morning not so long ago that I observed an elderly man leaving a house in the mercantile quarter of this city. I was on business and I had lost my way, since I am not well acquainted with that area – it was out of bounds to us when we were children, though I am uncertain why. I do remember, however, my mother admonishing me tearfully one afternoon when she caught me prowling among those well-proportioned Georgian houses, with their uniform black doors, brass door-knockers, polished nameplates, and sharp palings, which always remind me of crocodiles closing in for the kill. I am told the houses have long cool gardens at the rear, very private, having many different types of trees which begin their yearly cavalcade with the magnolias and flowering cherries, troupes of ballerinas twirling in pink.

I watched the man as he made his way, gingerly, down a set of newly washed slate steps, onto the street, clutching the railings with one hand and a walking stick with the other. Although it was warm he wore a heavy black astrakhan coat and a homburg hat. Our paths met and I had time to study his face, which was sallow and rather melancholy. It occurred to me that he might have been ill recently, for he seemed frail and preoccupied with his footwork. I surmised that he might have been handsome when young, since he still had a striking face, with a strong nose and clear dark eyes, perhaps those of an Armenian or an Eastern European Jew. I did not know his name, but I did possess a titbit of information about him, which was intriguing: my elder brother had remarked to me once, as we walked towards him on the esplanade, in his astrakhan coat, that this man might have been our mother’s lover many years previously; furthermore, that I myself had been planned and conceived as an antidote to the near-dissolution of our parents’ marriage consequent to the affair, which had been brief but intense. Or so my brother informed me. Looking at him now, with his crooked legs and his deflated body, I thought of the act of love; I imagined my mother’s mounting excitement, an episode of passionate but guilty pleasure, and then the pain and heartbreak caused by this little man, now a remnant of his sex. He paused to look at me as I passed, and I had time to register a determined mouth, slightly downturned, and two half-moons of darkness beneath his eyes. There was no escaping an aura of sadness around him, of physical defeat and inner fatigue. I passed by, nodding courteously and mouthing a rather old-fashioned Good day to you sir as if I had strayed into an Austen novel.

By one of those strange quirks I came across him yet again later that afternoon. Having not seen him once since my early twenties, probably, I was to encounter him twice in a single day. Following our initial meeting I left him to totter down his slate steps, reminding me of an injured crab crawling from below a rock to meet the tide. I walked briskly – and as elegantly as I could – along the whole length of the Promenade des Anglaise, as was my custom, saluting everyone I knew, and taking in the sea air. Our main entertainment was the passage of a yacht from the horizon, slowly along the flat calm sea, into the harbour, where it disgorged an affluent Greek and his entourage. Either covertly or directly, all eyes were fixed on his party as they gathered in a circle of dazzling white around the magnate, conversing fluidly in their incomprehensible language; everyone watched as his harem – for so I took them to be – swept regally up the quay, some ten yards to his rear, having waved aside the gig waiting to ferry them to the resort’s premiere hotel.

I rested on one of the long green seats stationed along the promenade, watching the crew unloading their craft before anchoring it out in the bay. It was a lively and noisy scene, with matelots shouting raucously to unseen crewmen below deck, underneath a makeshift halo of screeching, wheeling gulls. So engrossed was I in the scene that I failed entirely to notice a stooped figure passing through the melee of boys in front of me: the first I saw of his astrakhan coat was a black shimmer which appeared in the corner of my left eye. I looked round and caught him staring at me; again, I raised my hat and bid him good day. After a peremptory nod in my direction he sat down at the opposite end of the bench. We both contemplated the scene in silence, he immersed in his thoughts and I in mine. I composed a vignette in which, through a keyhole, I saw him dancing with my mother clasped to his chest, in a Victorian drawing room, the Blue Danube waltz wavering on a wind-up gramophone; all I could see in the gathering dusk of my daydream was a silvery gleam in my mother’s eyes, a moist sheen on her parted lips, and the silhouette of her dark hair cascading onto her bared shoulders, or so I imagined her, since I had never seen her with her hair down.

I was awakened abruptly from my reverie by a loud cry. It seemed to come from a woman, close by, who was staring in our direction. Almost immediately her male companion, much taller than her, with remarkably long white hair falling onto his shoulders, exclaimed loudly and pointed towards our seat. As they hurried towards us, with the tall stranger almost dragging his companion along, tugging her arm, I searched my memory with increasing desperation, since I could not for the life of me remember either of them. I stuttered to my feet and prepared to make small talk, in the hope that their names would come to me eventually.

But it was not I whom they greeted now, with great warmth. It was the old man whom they fell upon, she grasping his shoulders from behind and kissing his cheek, her companion falling on one knee before him and clutching his hands, all the while saying Eugene! over and over again. The woman was the more excited, saying phrases such as:

– It’s you again my old friend, at last!

– How marvellous to see you again!

But the old man was just as confused as I; he remained seated, and hardly acknowledged their salutations, since he too failed to recognise them.

I watched the yacht riding at anchor in the bay, appearing to move in the water but chained to the sea-bed; and I smelt the air around me, the stirring scents of spring, which awakened in me a strong desire to move on to another place, to see new sights. In the meantime, as this desire for change overwhelmed my senses, I listened to the conversation between the old man and his new-found friends.

– Surely you remember us?

– No, I’m afraid not.

– But you are Eugene?

– Yes, my name is indeed Eugene.

– And you were a gardener once?

– Yes, I have been a gardener all my life.

– But you have retired now, surely?

– No, I still tend my plants every day!

And so on, until the old man became irritated by all the attention he was receiving. He stopped answering the fusillade of questions fired at him, and sat resolutely with his hands resting on his stick in front of him, as if he were about to pull a lever which would open the ground beneath these silly people buzzing around him. Realising the effect they were having on him, the woman put a finger to her lips, urging her companion to be quiet, and then sat by his side with one hand curled around the collar of his coat and the other folded over his hands, which were shaking by now and making his walking stick tremble. She steadied his hands and soothed him. After a while he appeared to relax in her embrace, and his eyes closed. Then she told him a story, and I listened to her voice which was clear and melodious, the voice perhaps of a singer or an actress. She soothed me also, I believe, for I too closed my eyes and listened to her, while registering the sounds and scents around me – childish merriment, dogs yelping, gulls calling, and the smell of women passing: eau de cologne and the newer French perfumes; occasional jasmine wafts, and the bitter smells of the awakening earth, all mingling on the cool, sharp breezes of spring.

It appeared that Eugene had visited this couple many years ago, when they were first married. He had been recommended to them, and he had turned up on their wedding day; everyone had laughed at him as he stood on the lawn, cap in hand, unshaven and unkempt, incongruous in his black peasant’s boots. A ripple of mirth had sounded among the guests, seated in white pavilions under yellow swags and bunting; the string quartet had stopped playing while he was ushered from the scene, into the servants’ quarters. This was the story she told him, but he had no recollection of it.

The woman’s companion sat down also, and relaxed by my side, pushing his legs out in front of him and resting his head on the bench, his hat balanced over his eyes to shade them from the sun. It appeared that Eugene had returned to their garden later that month, after the honeymoon. He had been hired to design and plant a beautiful and extraordinary garden to celebrate the marriage and to harbour the couple in their retirement; in the same way as their wedding ring avowed the eternity of their love, the garden would signal the eternal nature of their intentions. And so Eugene had designed a garden for them, and planted it with lovely and unusual plants which appeared in rotation to match the seasons and provided forever a soothing and inspiring haven in which they could walk together, talk together, and rest together.

Eugene was some sort of rustic Capability Brown, evidently.

Now, as he sat in a huddle, held gently by this ravishing example of womanhood, he asked for a detailed description of the garden. She outlined its main characteristics, and as he listened he unfurled slowly, drawing himself upright.

This garden, it was in the English quarter?

Indeed it was.

At such-and-such a house, with a Cedar of Lebanon in the far corner?

Yes, that was the place.

Did this happen in the year of the president’s inauguration?

Yes, he was perfectly correct, because they had delayed the wedding so that it did not clash with the civic event.

Eugene became animated, almost excited, his gnarled fingers pointing at imaginary borders and flower beds in front of him as he described the trees and plants he had installed. He wanted to know which had survived. At this juncture the lady sprang to her feet and said: But you have no idea how glad we are to have found you. We have been searching for you, both of us, and our servants, all over the town. We had given you up for lost, almost! We are having a celebration! As a mark of our own daughter’s impending wedding we have commissioned a statue and a plaque to be erected in our garden and we want you to be there! Will you come? Please say yes, it would be so wonderful if you could come, you would make us both so very happy!

I listened to all this while pretending not to hear any of the conversation, but as I looked round now at the group my eyes met those of the woman’s companion, who had removed the hat from his face and was now regarding me with… I’m not entirely sure… distaste perhaps, or cynicism. Was it suspicion I saw in his eyes? Meanwhile, his wife, or so I took her to be, continued: Do please come Eugene, do please say yes. We have such a wonderful surprise for you. My dear Eugene, the statue is of you! I have made it myself, with my own hands!

I was startled by her speech, and must have expressed myself in some way, because they all looked round at me now, even Eugene. I was immediately struck by the looks in their eyes. There was little doubt that the man sitting next to me, with his mane of white hair, looked distinctly discomfited. The woman appeared excited, and her eyes gleamed with emotion; they were lustrous and moist. Eugene’s eyes, I couldn’t help noticing, were fixed expressively on the woman, and he too appeared to be moved by the proceedings. I apologised for eavesdropping, while also expressing wonderment concerning everything my ears had just heard. I had been deeply moved by their conversation, I admitted. I was touched that they had found Eugene after so many years, and I hoped he would visit the garden he had created all that time ago. Appeased by my apology, and pleased that their story had been so entertaining, they invited me also to the unveiling of the statue. I accepted readily, since I had my own motive for seeing Eugene in stone or bronze, or whatever her medium – since he had forgotten the garden until this pair had so unexpectedly thrust themselves back in his life, I wanted to see his reaction when he saw his creation again. I might also be granted an opportunity to broach a subject close to my heart, vis-à-vis my own mother, and Eugene’s ‘friendship’ with her all those years ago.

A date and time was appointed for our meeting in the garden.

I was standing in front of the house, hesitantly, on a warm but showery morning, when a phaeton came into view at the end of the street. In no time at all it had stopped by my side, and since it was Eugene who sat in it – as I somehow expected – I opened the door and helped him onto the pavement. In a trice the door of the house had opened to us and we were whisked as quickly as Eugene’s legs would allow into a large waiting room where we were welcomed by the lady and offered refreshments etc, which we both declined, listening instead to the animated introduction delivered by our hostess. It was clear from the contents of the house that we had entered the residence of one of the old patrician families of the city, possibly an equestrian dynasty, since there were portraits of fine stallions and mares everywhere on the walls. We were not the sole guests, evidently, for soon the house and garden were full of prosperous traders and merchants accompanied by their wives. After a discreet interval we were ushered into the garden and encouraged to group around a perpendicular object of about six feet in height, on a plinth and covered by a plum-coloured cloth held in place by a golden cord with tassels at both ends. Our hostess led Eugene to a solitary chair below the plinth and pressed him onto a plum-coloured cushion. By now she was magnificently attired in a light blue gown offset by a single-strand pearl necklace, though I am no expert in these matters, merely informing you that the stones had a milky opacity.

I noticed that Eugene was wearing white gloves, and I surmised from his newly brushed hair that he had been spruced up by the servants. But he was ill at ease throughout, fidgeting with his hat, which he held in his hands between his legs, and casting nervous glances at the people around him.

Mercifully, the lady of the house made but a short speech in which she alluded to her wedding day, the arrival of Eugene on their lawn during the celebrations (laughter), the construction of the garden, its formal opening, and the awards which had followed (applause), its development and maturation, and its role now in the hearts and minds of those who knew it, walked in it, and loved in it. They had sought out the garden’s creator and he was the guest of honour that day (more applause), for he had returned again after many years to witness a day of celebration and joy, marked by the unveiling of a suitable statue. Without further ado, our hostess untied the golden cord and a servant whisked away the wrapper, revealing a bronze statue of a young man under an apple tree, about to pluck a fruit from a lower bough. In all respects it was most realistic, partly because the tree was a real apple tree, contained in a large terracotta pot. The likeness to Eugene was apparent only in the characteristics of the face, since we had here a young Adonis in his pomp, well muscled and strongly built. His hair was wreathed in laurels and his left hand held a cornucopia, full of fruit, into which he was about to place an apple from the tree; he had the aspect of a god of fertility greeting the spring. The head, and in particular the nose, was perfectly recognisable, however, and drew admiring glances and exclamations from the throng. Eugene was pressed to say a few words, but declined clumsily. Instead, he asked our hostess if he could be taken on a tour of the garden, to the Cedar of Lebanon and around all the delightful attractions he had constructed all those years ago. He tottered off, and I followed, admiring the lady’s bearing from behind, though knowing little about the flowers and bushes which grew in profusion – yet with great subtlety and delicacy – in their allotted places. As we approached the huge tree which dominated the far end of the garden he stopped by a small artificial waterfall, near a weeping willow. He looked at his guide, who seemed to understand his wishes. She looked at me, then at him; he looked around at me, shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something, then she parted the descending willow fronds and led him into the tree’s ambit. I followed them, at a slight distance, until I too was underneath the willow’s umbrella of foliage.

After a while, when my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, I saw them approach an irregular doorway, which turned out to be the boulder-strewn entrance to a picaresque grotto, glinting with reflective stones, and revealing gargoyles, daemons and hamadryads moving in and out of the rough-hewn walls. At the far end, in a pool of light created by a cunning aperture in the grotto roof, I could see a comfortable divan covered over with a deep crimson wrap and bathed in the soft green leaf-colour of the weeping willow outside. On it was a young woman, very pale and distracted, with her shoulders hunched and her hands clenched between her knees. She was introduced to me as the lady’s daughter, about to be married. I congratulated her and tried to make small talk, as one does with a stranger. And yet she had familiar looks. Surely I knew her from somewhere else? I searched my memory. There was something about her face – the nose, the bone structure; her expression when she looked at her mother, at Eugene, and then at me. As we all sat in silence, with the pale young woman and her mother on the divan, and Eugene and I on cast iron garden chairs painted white, on either side of her, it became clear to me suddenly that I was about to learn a very shocking secret.