Netta and the Marigolds

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever talked to one of them, have you?” I asked with more than a little interest in my voice. She looked at me and then cast her eyes down slowly to her tea. She had been stirring it none stop since I found my way to the patio and sat at our table. Not quickly at all but a slow paddling as though it was ritual more than taste that motivated her. If the stirring was about mixing the tea and milk so that they blended well she had long since accomplished her goal and was now well into Dr Moreau territory. Milk and tea had become one and were indistinguishable.

“Yes. Once. I asked if I could buy some of the flowers she had left as she was leaving. She said nothing and just put her hand gently over the basket as if to protect them from me. I’ve never heard one of them speak at all. People seems to buy flowers off them but I’ve never tried except that one time. Something struck me and I needed some of those particular flowers that day. I wish I could remember what they were. Anyway, I’ve never heard any of them speak. Still, I suppose they do in their own way. Everyone in town knows them. As you’re getting to know them. So, in that way, even without speaking they’ve introduced themselves. She still should have let me buy those lovely yellow flowers though. Quite rude.”

Her voice was still so soft and not worn like many people her age. I suppose just like the tires of a car will wear out the more they’re used, so do our voices. A little rasp here and a crack there. A little quieter than we once were. Maybe not as commanding. I’m sure by the time I reach my seventies I’ll have acquired at least a few of those tell-tale signs of age and wear in my voice but not her. I hadn’t known her when she was young, that was long before I was born but I suspect she sounds the same as she did then. Maybe she hadn’t talked that much. The tires never went bald. Still, in your old age you’d expect some wear and tear but no.

She went back to paddling and seeing as it was rare to get more than one sentence at a time from her in English, I didn’t think anything of it. Sipping my coffee as I looked out across the piazza I soaked up as much of the day as I could. The warm breeze had started again which always comforted me in a gentle hug sort of way. I liked that feeling. As it came up it seemed to amplify the noise of the people making their way around the square. This café we had started meeting at of late had a much better view and served as an excellent vantage point to observe the comings and goings around. There always seemed to be that nice warm breeze on the days I met with Netta. I joked once that she must bring it with her. She told me I was being ridiculous and that only mother nature decides what's what. I left it at that and never tried to make a similar joke again.

Sometimes, when the mood hits me, looking out over the piazza, I’ll pretend I’m a secret agent or assassin. I pick a target walking through the square and make sure I keep my eye on them the whole time. Silly man in your straw hat, you don’t even know you’re in my sights. Then, when the moment is right, bang. Or not. Sometimes I’ll let them go. A hitman with a conscience. The only people I never played this particular game with were the flower girls. Since I had never spoken to them and apparently neither had Netta, I had no idea if they were good or bad. Perhaps they were deserving of my super spy attention. Perhaps they weren’t. I know I had never spoken with the man in the straw hat, or that lady in the suit, or those twin college guys on those stupid scooters either but you could just tell they needed to be spied on. The flower girls though were a mystery.

“Marigolds.”

“Sorry?”

“Marigolds. Those were the flowers she wouldn’t let me touch. Like she was protecting them. I love marigolds. I would have bought them all if she had let me.”

And back to her tea. That’s when I decided they would all be named Marigold, these mysterious flower women. They just hovered around across the piazza with baskets full of flowers. I never saw one of them speak. They would sell quietly, a silent transaction. I resolved in my mind that they must be some sort of religious order. A vow of silence type. That was probably the last I really thought about them for ages. When Netta and I would meet I would notice them of course. Or when I made my way through on my way home. My fascination with them waned over time though. They were always sort of there but in the background. I mean, what’s so interesting about a bunch of silent ladies who all happen dress the same way and carry flowers they’re apparently desperate to protect from old women anyway? Not much. I liked orchids anyway. More my thing.

Netta died on a Wednesday. I knew she had been sick and it had become such a long-term thing that I’d actually started to take Italian lessons at the library just to keep up to speed. I would never have told her that though. One of the first thing she said to me was

“Learning a language is a personal thing. A friendly thing. You need conversation not lecturing to.”

She was right of course. The last I saw her I visited the hospital where she had ended up. Such a drab and cold place. Not like our patio with its wamr breezes and perfect sniper lookout. There was no life there at the end for her aside from some flowers put there by family and friends. I didn’t stay long but happily she did recognize me and smile when I arrived. She asked if I had been studying and I told her I had. I didn’t mention the library of course. We exchanged a few words in Italian and she said I was doing well then started to drift. I told her I would come back to visit again but I knew I was lying. She smiled; she knew too. I thanked her for her friendship over the last year or so and squeezed her hand. One last ciao. She croaked it out though. Her voice was worn now. Like it happened overnight, just soft to hard. Light to heavy. A rasp. A coarseness. I left her there.

That hard pit in your chest when you know something terrible and permanent is about to happen came with me though. That stayed until much later. I went back to our patio eventually. Same table. I read a book all in Italian. First one ever and I finished it right at our table. Fitting I thought as I paddled my coffee out of routine. Some habits are infectious.

One day, as I left the café and walked across the square homebound one of the flower girls, the Marigolds, who I had mostly forgotten about except for their new role as background extras in my life, walked towards me. At first, I thought it was just coincidence that she would be crossing my path but it soon became evident she was on an intercept mission. They almost float. You can’t see their feet under the huge dresses so it appears that these women float towards you. So silent, I had forgotten how strange they really were.

Realizing there was no escape and that I would be forced to buy some flowers, I searched my pocket for some cash. Who carries cash anymore? Oh well, better remember how to say “thanks but no thanks” in Italian.

Suddenly she was in front of me. I am being honest now when I tell you I cannot remember what she looks like. In the time since I’ve tried, really tried to recall her face but I can’t. It was almost like the closer she got to me the less I could make her out. Then, sort of hovering in front of me, she was more a feeling than a person. I really wish I could make out her face in my memory. What she said though, I’ll always remember that.

“Your friend. Sorry she passed.”

Perfect English. Not a hint of an accent either. Any accent at all.

“Pardon me?” I said with much more shock in my voice than I had anticipated.

“Your friend. We’re sorry she passed. For your loss. To remember.” She handed me a single Marigold, so bright it may as well have been on fire. I looked at it. My mind fell away from me. I had no idea how to compute what was happening. Finally, I pushed out a response.

“She loved these. How did you know she loved these?”

“She tried to buy one from me once.”

“Yes, I remember her telling me. You wouldn’t let her. Why not?”

“It wasn’t her time. You can’t have your flower before your time. I'm sorry she thought I was being rude but there are rules.” She turned to leave. I put it all together. In Netta’s hospital room there was a single Marigold in a vase. It was sitting away from the window and close to her on the table next to the bed. Like it didn’t belong with the other flowers. A single Marigold.

“Who are you? What is this? I don’t understand.” My voice was now high pitched and urgent like a lit fuse. She paused and turned a little.

“We bring people flowers. When it’s time.”

“And me? You gave me a flower. Why?” That hard pit was forming in my chest.

“To remember her.” She paused like she knew I needed more.

“Don’t worry. It’s many years until you get your orchid.”

She hovered off. I know I should have asked more questions. I know I should have said more but I was stuck. Memory and fear and confusion had formed a blockage in my mind. By the time it cleared the whole thing was over. I was just standing in the piazza with a single marigold. Remembering. Feeling strangely alone and a little scared. Then the warm breeze picked up again.