A Story
Margarita threw the light blanket aside and ran to the window. She pulled back the curtain and looked outside.
Only a wide street, where cars and pedestrians passed, separated her from the apartment building opposite.
She looked at the clock and thought. It’s early, maybe he isn’t up yet. Opposite, the balcony door opened; Margarita pulled the curtain closer so she wouldn’t be seen, lightly dressed as she was, tossed her hair to one side and kept her eyes fixed on him.
Besmir, a tall, muscular young man, came out with a small pitcher full of water. He watered two or three other flowers and stopped at the pot with a rosebush and a half-open rose. He stood there for a moment, and it seemed to Margarita that he was talking to it. After watering it, he gently stroked the petals, which were full of dew. To Margarita, his hand seemed soft, delicate, wiping the sweat from the rose’s cheek. This was the ritual every morning, and Margarita never missed those mornings when the day broke and the sun cast its rays on the building opposite. The sun cast its rays and Margarita cast her glances, with a light, sweet smile. Her lips resembled the petals of a flower filled with dew. Her age was truly a flower, which every day became fuller, sweeter, and more beautiful. She saw this in the gazes of passersby when she went out to school, or to meet her friends. The gazes made her walk proudly down the street, taking short, zigzagging steps like the letters of an alphabet that only she could decipher.
Besmir’s sister came out onto the balcony, hung some clothes to dry, and went back inside. Besmir had told her that his sister was a medical student, while he himself had graduated from the Agricultural Institute in floriculture. They came from Përmet, a southeastern town on the banks of the Vjosa river, or the city of roses, as it was called. Besmir had been appointed to the municipality of Tirana, and all the city’s parks bore the beauty and fragrance of his hand and his vision for flowers and gardens.
Margarita ran to wash her face and brush her teeth; she ran every morning so that the moment Besmir left for work, she could watch him from her bedroom window.
That small, secret window, with a light pink curtain, sometimes resembled a stage with closed curtains, from whose box seat Margarita watched the scenes she wanted, whenever she wanted. She wasn’t going to school these days; they had been given time off for their graduation exams.
She ran to the window after having watered her crimson cheeks and beautiful eyes with plenty of water. She had brushed her hair just enough to get by and looked across the street. Now Besmir should be coming out of the building… or, as was his habit, closing the curtain to signal he was about to leave.
No movement, just a light breeze rocking the leaves in an irregular waltz. On the branch of the poplar tree opposite, a collared dove was singing coo, coo, coo, coo…
“How should I know where he is,” she said aloud without meaning to. “Where, where is he hiding, all I know is he’s nowhere to be seen.”
Margarita looked at the clock, the usual time like every day… she was on pins and needles.
A moment later, Besmir came out onto the balcony. Margarita hurriedly tossed her hair over her shoulders and focused. Besmir was holding a pair of scissors. He went over to the rose and, stroking it, seemed to be talking to it, but Margarita was far away; she was watching from her box seat and couldn’t understand. Besmir gripped it lightly so the thorns wouldn’t prick him, and snipped it lower down with the scissors. Margarita felt a pain in her soul. She let out a “no, why,” and took a deep breath. She felt a deep shock in her soul; it seemed her heart would stop.
Her legs gave way, and she held onto the windowsill.
“Why did he cut it, where is he taking it?” Dozens of questions flooded her mind and tormented her. “And why today of all days, today when I have my first exam?”
She let out an “oh,” and was unable even to stand up. The scissors that cut the rose seemed to have cut the body of her beauty too, and the hopes she wove at night with the light sheet that covered her.
“Why, why,” she repeated several times. “Where did he cut it for, who is he going to give it to? So much care, who was it for?” The questions became a great downpour falling from the sky of her thoughts, flooding her deep in her soul. Even so, she found the strength and stood up. He would be leaving for work now, and as always, she followed him with her eyes. For the first time, she opened the window and leaned her head out. He appeared at the entrance of the building. In his left hand he held his laptop bag, and in his right, the rose. Two teardrops fell from Margarita’s eyes. It felt as if she were escorting her rose to its final resting place, along with the hand that held it. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared into the distance behind the trees and the noise of the pedestrians. She hated herself; she threw herself powerlessly onto the bed.
Without even realizing it, she had fallen into a restless sleep with sad dreams.
Ding… ding… ding, she heard the chirp of messages. She didn’t feel like getting up or listening, but she picked up her phone anyway and opened it.
She read hurriedly… Margarita, good morning, aren’t you up yet? You have an exam tomorrow…
My exam is over, she thought, you cut it with your scissors.
Nevertheless, with trembling fingers, she wrote to him.
“Good morning, I’m up, but I don’t feel well. I have a bit of a headache and I feel dizzy.”
“It’s from exam anxiety,” he wrote back.
I already took the exam, she said to herself. The professor I had cut it with scissors and failed me.
“Maybe,” she wrote coldly and without enthusiasm.
She was saying one thing to herself and writing another. Thinking one thing and writing another.
“Aren’t you coming out to the daisy garden today?” Since they had known each other, Besmir had named a small park in their neighborhood “The Daisy Garden.” It was filled with this flower, covering the area with its fragrance and beauty.
My daisies have dried up, she said. But on the other hand, she felt an inner voice contradicting her. Write, write… and she wrote.
“I don’t know, we’ll see how I feel.”
“I’m on my break, Margarita. I’m heading out, and I’ll wait for you.”
Boys are two-faced, she thought. They give their flowers in one place, and their well-wishes in another. She pondered. But why am I acting like this? In truth, he hasn’t promised me anything. We just meet for a few moments and feel good. Wherever he gives roses, he has given his word, he has made his promises. Thinking these things, she felt somewhat relieved. It seemed she had justified herself.
She got up and went to the kitchen, but she couldn’t keep anything down, even though it was past twelve o’clock. She made a coffee and took a deep breath. This happened at the worst possible time, she thought. Now the exams will be even harder. She had an exam the next day, but she looked at the books on the computer desk and they seemed like her enemies. “At least let me be on good terms with you,” she said, and picked them up. The books felt heavy, as if pages had been added to them since yesterday. She had studied well all these days, with dedication, but now she couldn’t remember anything… anything at all. Before her eyes appeared only a pair of scissors cutting her thoughts, her feelings, her daydreams.
Dressed in her everyday clothes, she went down the stairs to the park. I’ll go, she said, to see him up close, and have him tell me who he was watering that rose on the balcony for all this time.
She walked quickly, her nerves on edge, looking neither left nor right. She went to the park that bore her name. Everything looked as if people had been working in that park all day; new plants had been planted, and other flowers too. She shook her head. Besmir works for the city’s parks, not for me. For me, he names the park; for others, he turns their souls into a park by gifting them flowers.
She cast her eyes up and saw Besmir coming from afar. Calm, with his laptop bag in his hand. In his other hand he had nothing; he had gifted the rose somewhere.
She stood up and waited for him on her feet.
“How are you now, Margarita? Did you have a fever?”
Playing the concerned one, she thought.
“I’m better.” She didn’t raise her head, didn’t look him in the eye.
“You girls are like roses,” Besmir continued, placing his hand on her cheek. “You need care, caresses, watering.”
She pulled back a little and stood still.
The rose again, she said to herself. Damn that rose.
“You know roses well,” she told him, neither sweetly nor harshly.
“That’s what we studied for, my Margarita.”
Her ears rang; he even calls me ‘my Margarita’. She looked at him angrily.
“You don’t look well today. Calm down, it’s a virus, it will pass.”
“It’s not a virus, it’s cholera,” she snapped back. “Today I saw you cut the rose with scissors.”
“I cut it because it had to be cut. I had been watering it for a long time for this day. Is that what you’re upset about?”
“Yes, because I watered it every morning too, along with you. You up close, sure, but me from afar, with my eyes, with my desires.”
Besmir took a step back, took her chin with two fingers, and lifted her head. On her cheeks, he saw two teardrops.
“Who did you water it for all this time? Who was the gift for?”
Besmir smiled. He opened his small bag and pulled out a rose, wrapped in foil paper that was white on the inside and red on the outside… It looked silky and soft.
Margarita lifted her head and opened her eyes. It seemed to her that the entire horizon took on the appearance and beauty of her gift.
“Why did you take it with you to work?”
“I went to a shop to dress it in its festive clothes,” he told her, and placed his hand on her hair. “Good luck on your exams.”
Margarita threw her arms around his neck and pulled him away from the street.
“This way,” Besmir told her, and pulled her toward the park that bore her name. The park was filled with beauty and fragrances. It held the beauty and fragrance of their youth…
