Hydrangeas

Thick layers of dove greyish clouds have gathered above Manarola for days. Still neither does the rain come nor go away. It is an unusual scene for a usually sunny village, especially when the weather report has just officially announced the beginning of summer. The low clouds are extending their territory which mercilessly squishes the barely visible rising sun and leaves almost no space from the horizon of the Ligurian Sea. A dining room of the apartment. Peachy building sun-lit. Each blink expands its length. A petal of her favourite bluish hydrangea falls around the edge of the pot and joins the others. Her eyes are dry. Her lips are cracked. Her heart beats, slow. Humid heat pulls at her shirt.

She opens the front door and walks down the stairs, turns the key and steps into the flower shop. It has been a week. The overwhelming floral scent carries a sour note filling the store. Her step crushes the drooped yellow lily bulb on the floor. She looks to the window outside. An old man stares inside as if trying to see if there is anyone. Eliza turns and looks down to the brown floor tiles. The petals sink at the chalky cracks between the tiles.

The bell chimes. An unwelcome customer stands outside. Since the opening of the shop, he has come every occasion. He pauses, ringing the bell and points inside the shop. She remains seated on her chair. Ghostly, she walks towards the door, turns the doorknob and walks back.

Julian opens his mouth a little and closes it again. The shop smells spiritlessness. It is as if the store has been idle. The flowers placed in the window display are drooping. Some scatter on the floor, coated with dirt and specks of soil. The ornamental foliage is coated with dust and decays with its burnt brown edges. Eliza lowers her head, a bending statue. The parting line of her salt-and-pepper hair shifts sideways and her nose disappears.

“Perhaps it is not a right time. I’m sorry.”

“Where’s Thomas?”

Eliza closes her eyes. It is as if she is holding her breath. Letting go a long breath and holding it back again. Julian gently pats her shoulder with his right hand,

“What’s the matter, Eliza?”

Her pupils shrink. Creases surround them and her mouth. Patches of dried blood clog at the flakes of her lips. Last time, she had wavy brunette hair. A young customer’d asked her which shampoo she used. She greets her customer, showing her teeth.

“Eliza?”

“Sorry, we are not doing business.”

“Eliza? Look at me.”

“We are closing.”

“Where’s Thomas? Is everything alright?”

“Sorry. Could you please leave?”

“Eliza?”

“Sorry.”

“I would just like to order a bouquet of flowers for my wife. You know, her favourite. Hydrangeas. I want light purple this time. Please, Eliza?”

“You know the answer. No.”

“Are you… Okay, I will get back to you later. Take care, Eliza, okay?” Julian kisses Eliza on her cheek.

Julian closes the door. A shadow comes. Julian turns his back. A middle-aged lady standing in front of the souvenir shop, with a lemon embroidery apron tied around her waist, speaks up.

“Unfortunate, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the first time she’s come here, ever since.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t know? God, that poor one. Her husband…was hit by a car last week. Killed instantly.”

Oh, Thomas. Eliza. Eliza through the window, frozen.

“Just let her be. She does not want to see anyone now.”

“How’re her parents?”

“They do not live here. They are over Florence or Lucca, I think. ”

“She lives alone?”

“Yeah, always just the two of them.”

“God.”

“Bless her.”

“What are you coming here for? Buying flowers?”

“Yeah, for my wife.”

“Sweet, isn’t it? But you gotta give her some space now.”

Eliza hangs around the work top. She strokes the scissors. The browned and bare petals scatter around and gradually blanket the floor. The blues, purples, yellows and pinks are painted with brown dust. The water in all the vases is cloudy with patches of sentiments at the bottom. Petals float in the deadly water. As she walks to the window display, a daisy petal adheres to the sole of her right shoe. The cut hydrangea in the clear vase is browning with the others. Clusters of the flowerets cannot resist gravity. It’s supposed to last for a month, or two. It’s the second week. She rubs the bluish green petals of the hydrangea with her fingertips, humming. Her face is dry.

The next day, Julian comes back. The lights are out. The flowers at the storefront are more dry and more brown. A spider weaves a web at the right corner of the front door. Some water left, in each of the vase. He can’t save the flowers from drying and dying.

Julian walks up to one level above. There are two apartments on the floor. A mahogany wood door is off to the left. A thick pile of dust and a trail of shoe prints lead to the next one. He goes and knocks on the door, twice.

“Eliza?”

“Can you let me alone?”

“I am sorry, Eliza. About everything. But you should… just hang in there.”

“Just leave.”

“I am not good at comforting people. But you gotta hang in there.”

“How?”

“Trust me, I understand.”

“Ha!”

Julian sits down on the stairs outside the other mahogany door. The clouds are still gathering outside, trapping a suffocating heat. He shakes his head. She doesn’t open the door. Eliza comes out, holding a half-filled rubbish bag.

“You are still here?”

“Have you had dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Eliza. I need to talk to you. May I come in?”

“Whatever.”

Eliza opens the lid of the public bin, puts the bag inside and walks off. Julian closes the lid and follows Eliza to the apartment. Paper balls scatter on the floor. Some mosquitos fly around the rotten apples on the dining table. Pasta boxes are soaked in the sink. The whole apartment smells like a fermented orange. On the stove, the saucepan is boiling in high heat. The lid is shaking. Smoke is bursting up. Water spills from the edge and the fire turns orange. Julian rushes to the saucepan. Mushy spaghetti and too little water.

“This is your dinner? How long has it been like this?”

Julian turns off the stove and pours away the water. No colander around. He grabs the spaghetti with his bare hand.

“Give it back to me,” Eliza snatches the saucepan from his hand. The side of the saucepan hits Julian’s hand. He contracts his hand. His hand burns red.

“I…told you.”

Eliza holds the saucepan and places it on the dining table, picks it up again. The tea table in the sitting room gives her some space.

“Do you have any ice?

“No. Running water, I think.”

He puts his right hand under the cold running water. Eliza concentrates on the dark TV screen, as if she is watching. Warm water gushes through his fingers. His hand changes to pale pink.

“It’s better now.”

“I’m sorry,” said Eliza, still staring at the television.

Julian turns his hand on the other side.

“It’s fine. Guess our dinner is spoiled tonight. Let’s eat out?”

They walk downslope in silence. There is a gap between them. From the eyes of the passersby, it is ambiguous if they know each other or are strangers, heading in the same direction. Julian turns right to the trail leading to the cliff.

“Where are you going?”

Julian turns. Eliza stands still.

“Nessun Dorma?”

“No, no no.” Eliza shakes her head.

“… Okay, where do you want to go?”

“Just not this.”

“How about Billy’s? They serve good pasta.”

Eliza repeats flatly, “Good.”

They go to the other side of Manarola, away from the main tourist area. They walk up to the hill and past the church. After climbing the stairs, they arrive the restaurant. The tables are full.

“This time of the day.” Julian looks at his watch.

A young man wearing a pale blue t-shirt with a fish logo sees Julian and waves.

“Hey bro, come!”

He slaps on Julian’s back and looks at Eliza.

“Two?”

“Yeah, man.”

The man takes them to a table outdoor. The Ligurian sea shifts back and forth under the cliff. Young people are sitting on the large stone looking at the sunset. A young boy takes a few steps back from the brink of the stone, runs toward the sea, and jumps. The sprinkle of the sun is still visible among the heavy clouds. A pale gradience of grey, pink and orange radiates on people’s faces. Someone once said it’s the “magical hour”. The magic is lost. The sun is soaking half of its body at the sea, drowning.

A man hands them two menus.

“Tell me if you need anything.” He smiles.

Eliza looks at the sea.

“It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

Julian flips through the pages of the menu and sees Eliza’s is still unopened.

“Made up your mind? You must be starving.”

“It’s okay.”

“I miss their squid ink pasta. I want that. How about you?”

“It’s okay.”

“You are going to have something right?”

Eliza doesn’t respond.

“I’ll order for you, is that alright?”

“Are you a vegetarian?”

Eliza shakes her head.

“Okay.”

Julian raises his hand. Another waiter comes.

“One squid ink pasta and,” he hesitates, “a tomato anchovy linguini please. Is anchovy good for you?”

She remains still, looking afar.

“Drinks?”

“One limoncello please,” she says.

“Two please.”

“You like lemon too?”

“Look, I know it takes time. But you should take care of yourself, Eliza.”

Eliza nods.

“We all need some time.”

“Are you really planning to close down the shop? Please don’t, Eliza.”

“What’s the point?”

“It’s your life, Eliza. You’ve been working for it for like…how many years? Eight?”

“It ends.”

“What are you going to do? If you close it down.”

“I don’t know.”

“We all like your flowers, Eliza. Everyone knows this. It would be a shame. Thomas would…”

“Just. Don’t.”

“It takes time.”

The waiter comes and hands the squid ink pasta in front of Julian.

“I think you should eat.”

Julian twirls the pasta with his fork and puts it down again.

“I am sorry if I offended you. I don’t mean to hurt at all.”

“It’s not you. You don’t have to say sorry all the time.”

“I just hope you are well. But, like I said, it takes time. I know.”

“By the way, you like hydrangeas too? There are a lot of hydrangeas at your store.”

Eliza sits straight.

“Yeah.”

“It’s my wife’s favourite too.”

“Right.”

“Which is your favourite colour?”

“Blue.”

“You know, alkaline. I’m sure you know. Sometimes you can change the colour of the hydrangeas just by changing the pH level of the soil.”

“Uh huh.”

“So yours is below 5.5. It’s this accurate. If you go above, you get pink. My wife’s favourite. Acidic.”

Blue hydrangeas. How could she forget? It’s the first kind of hydrangeas she’d seen. A mixture of adoration, greed, and shame. A yellowed petal in her drawer. The loose fist. The grin. Sleepless nights. Knocks on her door.

The waiter comes and puts down the tomato anchovy pasta.

“Enjoy.”

Eliza looks at the tomato sauce around the pasta. Dim red, under low light. A flickering candle on the table changes the shades of red. Red. There are some finely chopped anchovy fillets and some small anchovies. Although they are small, she can still the eyes. Their eyes meet. They don’t deserve this.

She turns her fork to pick up the spaghetti, avoiding the anchovies. The saltiness of the tomato sauce spreads her tongue. She bites the fleshes of the anchovies. She gags and retches.

“Where’s the drink?”

Julian looks up, and raises his hand.

“Can we have the drinks now, please?”

“Are you okay?”

She chokes and coughs, and takes the water on the table. She gulps the whole cup.

“Be careful.”

The waiter places the two small chilled glasses of limoncello from his tray on the table. She slurps the neon-yellow liquid, the way she gulps the water. The lemon smell flushes up to her nostrils. The alcohol tingles her tongue. She coughs harder.

“Hey, easy easy.”

The bittersweet taste remains at the tip of her tongue.

“You should drink it slowly,” he says.

Hardly touched pasta sits on her plate.

“Do you want to order something else?”

“No, thanks. Can we go now?”

“Sure,” he waves at the waiter, and moves his hand, like he’s signing a paper.

The waiter raises his hand and nods.

“Excuse me.”

Julian walks inside the restaurant.

The young man who escorts them to the table comes and hands her the bill. Eliza pats her pockets. “Can you put it down here please?”

He raises his brows, “Sure.”

“He is a great man. I am glad he’s finally seeing someone.”

“Umm… sorry, we are not. He’s married.”

“Yeah. You don’t know about Monica?”

“Monica?”

“Yeah, his wife. She passed away five years ago? Pneumonia.” He shakes his head.

Julian comes back.

“Hey, good to see you bro!” The man taps him on Julian’s shoulder and walks to the other customer raising his hand.

This man in front of him. Claiming he’s buying flowers for his wife every time he comes. Passed away?

“Ready?”

“Sorry I forgot my purse.”

“Don’t worry. My treat.”

They walk more slowly than before. They pass by a gelateria.

“Do you want some gelato?” Julian asks.

“No thanks.”

“I want to get some. Can you wait for me please?”

Eliza looks down, kicking her feet in the air. She looks at the back of Julian. How normal he looks. How can he do this?

Julian comes out with two cups.

“I got two. Here.”

Julian holds the lemon sorbet and hands the other one to her.

“Stracciatella. You okay with it?”

Eliza takes it. Not dulce de leche. But it’s her second favourite.

“Reckon you need to eat something.”

Thomas used to buy her gelato once every few days. Having a cone of gelato was their routine after dinner when they ate out. Her favourite is dulce de leche. Thomas’s is lemon sorbet. Eliza remembers, she asks Thomas if he would like to have a bit of her gelato but Thomas always refuses. He says it is too sweet. She didn’t understand, why did Thomas gets lemon sorbet every time? She tried it once but the lemon was too sour and bitter for her. It stings her tongue. She did not understand. What’s the point of having a dessert that is not sweet? She wonders what kind of person would like to eat lemon sorbet. She stares at Julian.

“Isn’t it too sour?”

“It’s alright. It’s refreshing. You wanna try?”

“I tried. I know.” Eliza lifts the corners of her mouth to feel the sting.