Sara Alexi - The Illegal Gardener

Aaman climbs down the ladder and washes his hands well, removing all traces of paint. The food is on the kitchen table, and he hesitates not knowing whether he should take it outside onto the folding table at the front now that the rain had stopped. He pulls out a chair and sits in the kitchen. He looks over to Juliet on the sofa, who is stroking the cat and feeding it bits of bread.

“How long have you been here?”

Aaman is startled and tries to think in English.

“Sorry?”

“How long have you been in Greece?”

“Ten months.”

“Is there work?”

“No.”

“Will you stay?”

“Maybe I move on. Papers are easy in Spain.”

“To make you legal, you mean?”

“Yes, legal means more work, better pay.”

There is a pause.

“I didn’t ask you to paint the second wall.”

“It was a necessity.”

Juliet leaves the room. Aaman feels that she is tense. He washes the pots. He finishes the wall. On impulse he nips outside and snaps off some of the twigs bearing the pomegranate flowers and arranges them in a jar on the kitchen table. He stands to admire his work before cleaning the brushes and going back into the garden. After a while, she wanders out to see the progress.

As he picks among the debris, he asks Juliet, very quietly, if she has any old clothes, especially shoes, that would fit him. “For work.”

Juliet spends an hour searching through the clothes she brought with her. She has brought some scruffs for painting or gardening and some old trainers. She also has a pair of walking shoes that she has never really worn and she decides that Aaman’s need is greater than her own.

Considering his pride, she wraps the items in a good towel and places them inside a large brown bag. He will walk through the village as he leaves and he will not want his secondhand clothes to be seen, she imagines.

As he puts on his jacket to leave, Juliet hands him the bag. She expects a single word of thanks at least and smiles in anticipation.

He does not smile. He walks with the bag back to the patio and, squatting, opens it. He takes out the white t-shirts on top and declares them too small without unfolding them. He pulls out some unisex jeans that Juliet thought she might use for painting. He nods as if they pass the first test and then searches along each seam. He finds a worn area the size of his thumbnail in the crotch. He displays it to Juliet, shaking his head manfully, tutting.

Juliet is speechless. Each action he performs so carefully is so far from her comprehension that she is left without even a question to ask, just a deep, sickening confusion that spirals her away from the scene.

He finds the shoes at the bottom, admires the walking shoes at arm’s length, but then turns them over to inspect the sole. He undoes the laces with small movements and slow progress and puts them on, re-laces them equally as neatly and then stands and walks.

“No, no, no, too tight.” He takes them off with little care and glances at the trainers, picks them up, looks at the soles and then drops them after noticing that the laces have lost their plastic ends. Before standing he brushes down his trousers where the shoes have been resting.

Juliet thrusts his pay at him.

“Just go,” she says and turns on her heels. Juliet feels as if her guts have been pulled from her stomach and spread across the patio for ravens to pick over. He was generally neat, so why had he left everything strewn so carelessly? The t-shirts, shoes, jeans, and bag are littered across the patio. She kicks them together with one foot and breathes as deeply as she can to freeze the surging, oscillating lump of emotion that rises, constricting her throat and forcing unwanted tears to streak her cheeks anew. The paper bag scuttles on a breeze, so Juliet gives up the effort and flops indoors to the sofa. The cat nuzzles for attention, sticking her hair to her wet face. Juliet’s dam bursts, sending shudders across her shoulders and limpness to her limbs.

The sharp metallic sound stabs through the layers. Levered out of the depths, dreams falling away, she rouses herself to make sense of it. The sound continues. Juliet tries to work out where she is. She opens her eyes to the exposed beams and, with a rush of pleasure, remembers she is in her little stone cottage under blue Mediterranean skies.

She kicks back the sheets and jumps into her jeans. The metallic noise continues intermittently. Someone is tapping on the gate. Images of the bearded postman on his motorbike bring excitement at the thought of letters from Thomas or maybe even Terrance. Pulling on her t-shirt, Juliet bounds out of the bedroom, strokes the cat who is curled on the sofa and heads to the gate. The sun dazzles her.

The puddles have all sunk into the drive, and the air is warm. There is not a cloud in the sky. A bird sings, a gecko basks on a stone by the gate. The cat has joined her, and he stops to sprawl on his back on the gravel, paws flopped over, eyes closed.

Juliet looks past him. Her step falters and she stops as the glare gives way to focus. Her bounce melts.

“I wasn’t expecting you today.” She is ready to turn away.

“Juliet?”

She is shocked at the sound of her name on his tongue. Loud, sure, confident.

“Go away.” Her briskness overcompensates for too many years of no voice. She turns and re-enters the house. The metallic tapping resumes for a while and then stops. It is quiet for a long time. She makes some coffee, the aroma filling the room, promising relaxation, satisfaction. The sun coming in the kitchen through the back door invites her outside. The Mess is looking less like A Mess and more like an unruly garden. It makes Juliet smile. There is still much to be unburied and disposed of, but it is better. Many full rubble sacks line the back wall like melting candles sagging on their bases.

She balances her coffee on the window ledge to lift one of the sacks. She hugs it and braces her back to bend from the knees. It is so heavy it is immovable. Her back jars at the lack of give. Slightly annoyed that this is a job beyond her strength, she scuffs it with her sandal. Picking up her coffee and leaving the sack, Juliet wanders round the end of the house to see how much is now piled by the gate.

Aaman still stands there. He says nothing. Just stands on the other side of the gate. The cat is meowing to be stroked, and Aaman bends to caress him. As he strokes the cat, Juliet notices how flaky the paint is at the bottom of the gate. It needs painting.

Juliet moves slowly, with indecision. The cat comes to her. She picks it up and walks to the gate. Aaman reaches through the rusted metal gate bars and strokes the cat. One stroke on its head and then a longer stroke the length of its body. His hand stops as the very tips of his fingers accidentally touch her arm. Her t-shirt is short-sleeved, the skin of her arm is puckered thin, translucent blue in places. He looks at her quizzically.

“It’s a burn.”

He nods his head in recognition, as if he understands, as if burns are familiar, a softness in his manner.

“Come on then, you’re here now, you might as well come in. I can’t move the rubble sacks by myself.”

Aaman takes off his jacket and strides his way to the back garden, long sure steps.

“I will find someone to haul the sacks away.” Juliet goes inside.

It takes him just a few minutes to move the sacks to the front gate whilst Juliet is on the phone finding a man with a lorry to take the debris away. After finding a man who can come today, Juliet looks for Aaman. She leaves the house by the back door and finds him cleaning off a rake.

“Aaman, will you move the sacks to the…” She stops in her tracks as she sees the sacks have gone. She marches to the end of the house and sees them by the gate.