Julia Frauental - The Smell of Spring. And other stories

© Julia Frauental, 2022

ISBN 978-5-0056-5279-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Sounds of the morning and the smell of the summer garden were coming from the open window.

It was still fresh and cool. The early birds were chirping merrily. The breeze was blowing up the curtain, carrying the aroma of freshly cut grass and the scent of peonies with it.

“The peonies will crumble soon”, thought Henry. He grinned sadly, sighed and rubbed his forehead with his palm, trying to focus.

For several minutes now he had been sitting indecisively over a blank page of a new ruled notebook. Frowning and nervously tapping on the table with a pen, he was looking in front of him absentmindedly, clearly delaying the moment when what was in his mind and soul would be reflected on paper. In the meantime, all this internal struggle of feelings and thoughts was reflected only on his tired face.

He threw the pen down and leaned back against the back of the chair. He closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them again and let his gaze slide down the countless bookshelves along the walls, as if stroking the multi-colored spines of the books.

Then his gaze swept across the brown leather sofa – in cheerful sunspots, along the sculptural folds of the blanket hanging lazily down to the floor, over the intricate patterns of the old carpet, jumped up to the writing table – a huge one covered with soft leather, with small bureau drawers, a bouquet of pencils, and a careless scattering of small office supplies…

There were some framed family photos, too – he and his wife, the children – as babies, at school, at the university. His own diplomas and framed certificates, souvenirs and memorable gifts were behind the glass cabinet doors.

Finally, in the corner – to the right of the door – there was an oasis of modern technology: telephone-fax, computer, scanner, printer, all fenced off by a screen with birds of paradise – at the insistence of his wife, a big fan of feng shui.

Henry stretched out and rubbed his palms with force. Inspired by the support of his cozy office, he perked up and took up his pen resolutely.

At that moment, a tall blonde woman wearing shorts, a plaid shirt, a Panama hat and rubber gloves came out into the garden. In her hands she was carrying a bucket, gardening tools and a small bench.

Having chosen one of the flower-beds, which could be hardly seen under the thickets of joyfully greenish weeds, she sat down and bent over it. Now Henry could only see her checkered back and the white panama. The sight of his wife, concentrated on her work, unexpectedly became the last straw, and Henry, without wasting any more time, started writing quickly in his notebook. In black on white – literally the following:

«And here she is. Lisa, my wife.

She is already fifty. And I will soon be fifty-three myself. So what? She is still as irresistible as ever. And I am fascinated and chained to her forever. And I feel like a bloody fool!” He stressed the word twice furiously, – “trying desperately to get it. After all, I am her husband. And I have the right to know…” – after a pause, he crossed out the beginning of the sentence. Then he quickly continued:

“I just want to write it all down to get rid of the memories, to let go. Forget. Five years have passed and we never talk about it. But sometimes I suddenly find myself in a fierce dialogue with… myself – proving something, accusing someone. And even nightmares like She’s gone! She’s left me! And stuff like that. It’s driving me crazy. Sometimes I’m really – literally afraid of losing my mind”.

Suddenly, he heard a loud scream. Henry shuddered and raised his head. Shrieks and laughter mixed with curses were coming from the garden. He ran to the window.

The battle on the lawn was in full swing: with the remarkable courage of George the Victorious in his fight against the snake, Lisa was fighting with the garden hose, which was unusually strong – as if suddenly it became alive and got out of her hands, watering her from head to toe. And she, all wet through and through, laughed and shouted: “Ay! Help! Henry! Help! Quick!”

He rushed to the rescue.

The hose, having broken free, was jumping happily across the freshly mown lawn, flooding it. Stumbling over the pipe of the irrigation system, Henry almost fell down. But the push was enough to start all the lawn sprinklers. The spraying and spinning jets scattering from the ground in different places at the same time were an enchanting sight. Salutes of sparkling splashes were shimmering in the sun with scattering of diamond dust and were generously watering the grass, flowers, bushes and the laughing spouses.

In search of shelter, Lisa, soaked to the skin, ran into the house, and Henry began to make his way to the valve, trying in vain to hide his face with his hand from the bouncy jets drumming on his body.

Finally, he managed to close the water. Uh -uh.

He stood for awhile, basking in the sun, smiling, the water dripping down him – feeling young and, literally, refreshed.

There was a rainbow over the lawn.

In the evening, they were sitting in silence in front of a lit fireplace in the living room. From the garden there came a smell of smoke from someone’s barbeque fire or a sauna chimney and a chirping sound of the night crickets. The burning logs were crackling. An open book lay on Henry’s lap, while he was looking into the fire, enjoying this ancient human right, a way to partake in the mystery of life.

Sometimes he glanced at his wife out of the corner of his eye.

Swaying in a wicker rocking chair, Lisa was also gazing at the flames – through a glass of dark ruby wine. Her polished nails were the exact same color. Lost in her thoughts, she was tapping the fingertips of her free hand on the arm of the chair.

– What are you thinking about? He asked, afraid to hear the answer and not daring to touch her hand.

– Well, nothing really. She yawned sweetly and smiled at him. – I feel so sleepy. I’m going to bed.

She got up, gently patted her husband on the back of the head and kissed the top of his head.

– Good night, dear.

– Good night.

He watched her leave the room. He wanted to throw the book, the glass, the poker violently, to bang his fist, to make a scandal… He sighed, put the book down and covered his face with his hands. Then, rising abruptly, he went to the fireplace, stirred the coals sparkling with red gold and went out into the misty, moist, dense cricket twilight of the garden.

He swallowed the cool air with the scent of pine, smoke, wet flowers and grass – like healing balm.

The most delicate peony petals have already covered the ground near the veranda with a soft pink carpet. Delicate, subtle and tenderly killing was the fragrance of the tea roses in drops of evening dew. This is, after all, unbearable!

He slammed his fist against the veranda post. Today he will not sleep until… Henry entered the house decisively and locked the door.

In his office, he lit the table lamp, sat down at the table and immediately began to write, easily extracting from his memory the events of the recent past.

«Lisa first mentioned this name in March of the ninety-ninth. She then led a women’s yoga group. And one day at breakfast I began to ask her about it.

– Well, how are things in the group? Do you even have a quorum?

– It’s okay. Now there are twelve of them, so we are working with might and main. She spread strawberry jam on the toast. – Oh, yes… I wanted to tell you something. Rather, I have been meaning to ask you for a favor for some time now.