Sara Alexi - The Illegal Gardener

Aaman looks nervous. Juliet reads the signs: he is already inside his head, thinking, working.

“I think it might be an idea if you left the cement to dry, do extra tomorrow, and go start work on the website now. What do you think?”

Aaman is already tidying the tools, pulling on his shirt.

Ιt takes just over six weeks to write the website whilst juggling his time with finishing the pergola and keeping the garden and house perfect. He declares it is not a complicated site and that he has been slow to learn.

Juliet is amazed. She ensures that the nursery man pays before taking control of the site, and Aaman spends a few evenings showing him how it works. Aaman practises his Greek in the process, and Juliet stands by intervening when necessary as translator.

Aaman lies on his bed. He is reading the translation of the reference from the nursery man who was delighted to enter the digital age. He gloats over the roll of money in his hands, which has grown considerably in size following his payment for the website. He is almost beginning to believe that he will be able to pay for more than his share of the harvester, help out his village, his distant, faraway, dreamlike village. He expands his chest, the returning hero. The thought slices through him. His yearning to see his mother, Saabira, his father, his grandparents, even the oxen, pulls hard. But then here and now is strong, Juliet, her garden, the house, her world, its kindness, ease, comfort yanks his senses. Juliet, who is so much older, and yet not. She understands. He almost allows himself to think ‘like an equal,’ but he recoils. It does not seem right. She is doing all the giving, he the taking. That is not equal. This hurts.

It is only days after the completion of the nursery’s website that Juliet is approached by Stella who runs the village takeaway. Her best seller is souvlaki-meat on a stick, chips and salad wrapped in flat bread, tatziki dripping from the wrap. She needs to expand, she tells Juliet, to welcome tourists. Her husband is not content with the business they are doing. Juliet asks if there are a lot of tourists in the village, not having seen any. Stella replies that there are not but a website will change all that. Juliet is not convinced, but Stella insists and also neatly corners Juliet into promising English lessons once a week.

Juliet feels Aaman did not charge enough for his last job and this time quotes more. Stella seems very happy. Juliet suggests a more modest sum for the lessons; it is important to become part of the community.

Aaman completes the task in two weeks. Stella’s English will take much longer. Aaman has learnt now. His skills flow. Besides, this site is easier. It needs a way for Stella to alter the prices and update the menu. She loves the design. Aaman studied many English websites for cafes and restaurants before designing his own.

His bankroll grows. He keeps it behind the boards that line the built-in cupboard where the gun had been. He reflects on this. Things change. He must change with them. He looks down at himself. He is lying in the jeans Juliet has given him and the oversized t-shirt. He needs to change. He pulls the door to the guest room open with his toes whilst remaining lying on his bed.

“Juliet, I have a very big favour I wish to ask of you.” There is no need to shout as Juliet is on the sofa in the sitting room.

“Yes is the answer.”

“No, you must not say that. It might be too big a favour.”

“OK, what?”

“Next time you are going into town, please may I take the time off from the garden so I can go and get some new clothes?”

Juliet closes her book.

“Aaman, I am going into town now. Is there anything you want? Would you like a lift?”

“No, you are being too kind. But the next time you go?”

Juliet stands up and pushes her feet into her flip-flops. She walks to the door and picks the car keys from the hook. The hook Aaman had put up to stop her from losing them.

“So are you coming?” She does not wait for an answer but goes through the open door, the heat lapping from all sides. She opens the gates and returns and sits in the car.

Aaman has not moved. She starts the engine. He is standing by the front door. She turns the car around to face down the lane. He runs to the car and jumps in.

Aaman asks Juliet to leave him whilst he shops, which suits her as she has some dry cleaning to collect and a hard copy translation to send. There is always a queue at the post office so she has her book with her, with which she is still struggling.

When they meet up, Aaman astounds Juliet. She had expected he would, that or he would have bought something too garish on which she would not be able to comment. He has bought a lightweight jacket, a starched white shirt and some dark trousers. He has even bought some summer shoes. Nevertheless, what impresses Juliet the most is that he has also been to the barber, his floppy fringe gone, the back, which over the time she had known him had grown to shoulder length, is short. The barber has gelled it, and Juliet wonders how it will look after a day in the garden. Juliet notices that she also feels a curious sense of jealousy, as if the world can now share her view of him.

“You look amazing! Let’s go to a cafe and sit in the sun and watch the world go by.”

Aaman has watched people sitting at cafes and watching the world go by for, how long, a year, longer, shorter. Time seems to escape him. At the beginning he counted in days, then in weeks, for a while in months, but now? He casts the thought aside. He does not want to think in those terms, how long he has been here, how long he has not been there. Nonetheless, to be one of those people sitting watching the world go by feels like huge step.

“Is it very expensive?”

“My treat.”

“I would not like that.”

“Sorry, Aaman, I know I can be very insensitive. Look, this cafe shows the prices.”

Aaman looks. He covers over a sharp intake of his breath with a small cough and wonders how people manage. He is grateful more than words can say to Juliet. If it cost even a whole day’s pay it would be no more than if he gardened free and he would gladly do that for Juliet, every day.

“My treat!” Aaman takes Juliet by the elbow and leads her to a table.

Aaman orders coffee and Juliet the same, and just as the waiter is leaving their table Aaman orders ice cream.

“Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate?” the waiter asks.

“Juliet?”

She forms her lips to say ‘no’ , but looks at Aaman. He is offering half a day’s wage. She reshapes her lips into a ‘yes’ , and smiles. He is delighted, they are now equal.

“Vanilla, please.” She smiles. "It has been a long time since I have had ice cream."

“Two vanilla, please.”

They arrive in glass dishes with wafer straws, strawberry syrup poured over them, and a sprinkle of nuts. Aaman wonders how much the extra things will cost and tries to remember how much money he brought with him and how much is left from his shopping trip. He excuses himself to the lavatory and makes a quick check. He has plenty. He returns relieved.

The afternoon glides into evening. They talk of gardens and people and perceptions, the West, the concept of work, how unfair the world is, colours they like, one topic merging into another.

A tall Nigerian man approaches their table. He opens a case showing row after row of watches. Aaman looks in the man’s face. He does not know this individual man, but he feels he knows him. Aaman shrinks inside himself, the pecking order. The Nigerian addresses them.

“Nice watches, good quality, very good price to you, sir. I can see you are a man of taste and distinction, it would look very nice a watch on your wrist. Madam?”