Manuel smiled, enraptured, admiring at every step the studied carelessness of the garden, the serenity of its beautiful chaos, the sylvan taming of that leafy glade. He imagined a happy childhood in this place. And suddenly the twists and turns weren’t merely the experience of this present moment; they belonged to him.
He passed his hand through the stream of water a stone angel was pouring from an amphora. Within the music of falling water he heard his sister’s laughter as she splashed him with icy drops as brilliant as pearls from a broken necklace. He envisioned the games, races, shouts, hiding places, and ambushes possible in this landscape. He followed the path, looking around at every turn, convinced that if he’d arrived just an instant earlier, he’d have seen his sister slipping away through the ferns stifling giggles, her bangs plastered to her perspiring brow. He closed his eyes, trying to preserve that vision and trying to impress upon his memory the sound of her laughter, for he heard it as clearly as if she were standing at his side. His face was wreathed in smiles as he went forward, welcoming the memories and the promise of youthful joy floating in the magic of that place. If only he could have had that imagined childhood. That yearning desire was not oppressive. It held no bitterness or rancor but was, instead, melancholy, a nostalgia for something that had never been and now never could be. But it was so lovely . . .
He found his wandering had taken him back to the lily pond. Sitting to wait for Gri?án to catch up, Manuel realized this was the first time since his sister’s death the thought of her hadn’t caused him pain. Now at last he saw a childhood that was happy, although entirely fictitious; this was what it must mean to believe, to have faith. He hoped with all his heart that there was a heaven for her, for the two of them. It would be this garden, a paradise where someday they’d be united to frolic without care in a lush and welcoming Eden.
Manuel heard Gri?án on the path before he saw him.
The administrator arrived all out of breath. He’d taken off his jacket and was carrying it carefully folded across one arm. “Are you all right? I thought you’d gotten lost.”
“I needed to be alone. But I’m feeling fine.” As he said it he realized it was true.
Gri?án made an understanding gesture and murmured something.
Manuel made way on the bench for the administrator. In a moment of benevolent patience, he gave the man some time to catch his breath before he got up again.
“Toward the left,” the executor pointed, determined to prevent Manuel from wandering off again. “That’s the way to the greenhouse.”
Dozens of sturdy little trees of all different sizes were planted around the structure. Dangling from branches or tacked to trunks were cards indicating each sapling’s species, age, and variety. Some were budding or flowering, a display ranging from thick dark buds and little green acorn-like shapes to the perfection of pale-petaled gardenias wide open and ready to fall. Because the gardens showed such a marked English influence, he’d expected a greenhouse constructed of wood with oval arches, perhaps in the shape of a pentagon. But this structure partly sunk into the hillside had been constructed of gray Galician stone with typical striations, glittering lines against a dark background. The windows were set in white wooden frames, and the roof was of double-paned glass. The inside wasn’t visible, for the panes seemed to have been splashed with mud and dirt up to the height of a man’s head.
“The old marquis had it constructed for Catarina as a wedding present when she and Santiago came to live at the manor. He’d heard her say that she missed the greenhouse of her parents’ estate, so he arranged for this one. It’s more modern and ten times larger. It has watering pipes suspended from the ceiling, forced-air heating, and a full stereo system. That was the old man’s way—everything on a grand scale.”
Manuel didn’t respond. He wasn’t impressed by extravagance. Wealthy people in positions of power were often given to waste and excess; he was repelled by such attitudes. Even so, he had to admit to himself that the gardens testified to a love of beauty. The conscious shaping and training of this environment was evidence of extraordinary patience. The closely monitored anarchy that allowed these glades to flourish, carefully untamed, hinted at the spirit of the men who’d commissioned it.
Gri?án pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. A little bell tinkled above their heads, and from inside they heard music playing from a high-quality system. “I expect Vicente is at work.”
Along with the music a heavy sweet aroma arose to meet them, so intense it was dizzying, the concentrated scent of hundreds of flowers forced to bloom by the artificial warmth of the interior space. Five long worktables stretched away from the entrance and were loaded with hundreds of pots. There were many different species; he recognized some although he couldn’t recall their names. But above all there were gardenias—in all possible stages of growth, from tiny sprigs with burlap-wrapped stems to bushes as tall as those in the gardens outside.
A fairly tall young man walked up the center aisle carrying what looked like a bag of potting soil. When he saw them he put it down, took off his gloves, and gave them each a strong handshake. “Hello! I suppose you’re looking for Catarina. I regret she’s not here today. If I can help you with anything . . .”
“We’re just taking a stroll to show Manuel the estate.”
Vicente gave a little start but quickly concealed his surprise. “Have you seen the lily pond? It’s a magic place.”
“So is the entire garden,” Manuel said.
“Yes,” the man responded vaguely, his gaze lost in the depths of the greenhouse. “It’s too bad Catarina isn’t here. I’m sure she’d have been very pleased to show you around. We’ve achieved remarkable advances in hybridization over the last two years.” He motioned them to follow as he walked back into the interior. “Catarina has an extraordinary gift, especially with the gardenias. She never had any formal training or education in the science of it, but she has a rare talent for knowing exactly what the plant needs at any given time. Over the last year she’s been recognized by leading publications as a master propagator. Life Gardens, the professional journal, called her the world’s best producer of gardenias.” He showed them a bush less than two feet tall with flowers as large as outstretched hands. “We’ve gotten impressive results. Not only in size and longevity of the bloom but also in the scent. Two perfume manufacturers in Paris are negotiating to use our flowers for their creations.”
Manuel listened with feigned interest, but he was struck more by the man’s expression and gestures, the way his body language changed when he mentioned Catarina. Trailing behind, Manuel noted that the gardener’s walk had changed: the awkward gait typical of a tall man had shortened, and he seemed to glide between the worktables. The man reached out to touch the hard, brilliant leaves of the plants; when he spoke of Catarina’s talent, he’d virtually caressed the gardenias. Manuel watched him wipe a white spot of powdered lime from one leaf, gently rubbing his thumb against it. The man’s voice was full of admiration.