The Flower
She was feeling restless. Actually there were quite enough things that she should be doing but she lacked the calm to even begin any of them, let alone finish anything. So she started walking through town, restless and without any destination in mind. She kept walking nearly blindly, without looking left nor right. She ran simply forward till she found herself standing in front of a little bookshop. She loved books above all, all kinds of books, yet she’d never seen this bookstore before. She looked around and considered, yet she couldn’t quite say if she knew this district or not. Somehow it seemed vaguely known to her, yet at the same time it felt completely unfamiliar as well. Had she ever walked through this street before? How come she’d never noticed this shop before? Still wondering she opened the door.
A low jingle of bells sounded as she entered. The shop was small, the shelves were stuffed full to the top with books, however. She smiled at the number of books. This was heaven to her. On the counter she saw a vase with one single flower that hadn’t opened yet. She didn’t know this flower. This unknown bud had her really curious. She’d have loved to know how the blossom it was hiding would look like. She wished the flower would open at once for her to see.
She was so lost in watching the flower that she hadn’t even noticed the owner. “Good afternoon,” he said quietly.
Nearly jumping out of her skin she turned around. A gentle, old man, who seemed surrounded by an aura of melancholy, was standing before her. “Good afternoon,” she replied and smiled shyly.
He smiled as well. “Are you seeking something in special?”, he asked politely.
Softly she shook her head. “I…”, she started hesitatingly before breaking off. She’d have loved to tell him she adored books and read everything she could get her hands on. She wanted to explain that she’d come here by accident on a day when she hadn’t managed to find calm anywhere else. But she didn’t know where to start – and it would hardly interest him. “I am sorry.”, she stammered finally. “I… I didn’t mean to disturb you.” And took a step in direction of the door.
“But stay a while.”, he said gently and extended one hand into her direction as if he wanted to welcome, maybe even hug her. “I was just about to make some tea. You will have a cup with me, won’t you?”
She threw a glance out. Outside it was foggy. It was dusk already. Nothing drew her out into the cold. And she was at ease her, and she felt welcome. Moreover it was comfortably warm in here. This little shop seemed a haven of security. All the books. The strange flower. The friendly, old man with his calm, melancholic voice. If someone else had invited her for tea, she’d probably have bolted away – like a scared rabbit. “Yes,” she said softly, “Thank you.”
With a slight smile he gestured towards a table and two chairs standing in a corner of the room that she hadn’t noticed before. Hesitatingly she sat down, only to jump up again as soon as he’d disappeared into the backroom and to leaf through some of the books. Yet all of them were written in a tongue foreign to her. Whenever she thought she might understand one or the other word, the sense escaped her again altogether a moment later. Slightly astonished and somewhat discouraged she sat down again and stared at the flower that was standing there unchanged. When the melancholic, old man re-entered the room she heard low piano music in the background. “Schubert!”, she categorized automatically.
He placed two cups on the table, a pot of tea and a small can of milk before taking the seat opposite her. Without consulting her first he poured a bit of milk into her cup before filling it with tea. He himself didn’t take any milk. She wasn’t surprised much that he seemed to know exactly how she was used to drink her tea. She took a sip. The tea was just perfect – neither bitter nor tasteless. She closed her eyes to savour it the better.
“So you love books.”, he said. It wasn’t really a question, rather an observation of a fact.
She nodded.
He smiled and waited.
“Your books…” she began after a period of silence that had made the background music seem loud, “…they are so strange.”
He smiled. “My books are in a language not everyone understands. Few can read it and even fewer speak it.” He looked at her thoughtfully, finally he nodded. “Yes, you could learn it.”
He didn’t say anything else, yet she heard what was behind his words: it would mean much work, long years, and one day the flower would open.
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