Some weeks ago, I posted a photo of Babe Paley on Instagram and one of my followers, a great Parisian lady named Marie, suggested a novel on that famous style icon in her comment, she gave me the title of a French book about her and the other swans from 5th Avenue, the very book you see on the photo. I was intrigued instantly and replied that I’ll read it asap, but truth be told I forgot all about it very soon, mainly because one is totally overexposed to information these days, but mostly because my list of books to read is already overextended as it is, ironically including the book this book’s based on, Truman Capote’s Answered Prayers, which I started some weeks ago and then forgot all about it, anyway, this very afternoon I was looking for some leftover cigarettes, I keep storing half-emptied packs in a particular s.o.s-drawer for nicotine droughts when there’s no fresh pack left, I keep forgetting about buying those, too, and on that side table a book was lying, a book I don’t recall buying or ever having seen before, but its title was so familiar, looking at it, I found myself in one of those moments when you wonder if you’ve lost your mind, but it then occured to me that not only Marie had told me about that book but also Katja, a friend from real life, as a matter of fact she had given it to me when she last visited, she had just finished it and recommended it highly, I, however, had all forgotten about it. The moral of the story? There is none, just that forgetful people are people, too, and that coincidences happen to work in mysterious ways, C. G. Jung had some theories about it, I must look them up one day, I forgot the details, but first things first, it’s tea and swans for now.
Of course our garden’s not really a secret one, it belongs to a house with an address, as a matter of fact, the postman knows about us and our house, he delivers our mail on a daily basis, sometimes though, when heavy rain weighs down the overhanging branches of our huge magnolia, a magnolia inhabited by a sweeping wisteria at that, the poor guy has to make it through this our jungle, but as soon as he complains, it’s understandable, he’s very tall, 6.5, I guess, we’re all smaller, I’m the tallest with 6.2, anyway, as soon as he complains the branches get cut, but however successful he has made out our house in this green, flourishing opulence, he’ll never make out some of the roses, or the bust my mother put some place years ago and that I rediscovered only yesterday, or the bamboo wind chime, a wind chime that’s mostly mute as the climbing ivy’s leaves not only hide the apple tree’s apples but also block the orchestration of its pieces, until cut free again that is, but then again, if he did know about all that, it wouldn’t be a secret garden, now would it?
Actually, I had already had breakfast, but when I came by Berlin’s Literaturhauscafé on Fasanenstrasse, I looked into the beautiful little garden, so lush and green, with the lovely sound of well-mannered people chit-chatting over whatever one has at 11 o’clock, and all of a sudden I had to have a second one—by the way, the Buddenbrooks, my favourite family in literature, had a second breakfast on a daily basis, and I can tell you now, it’s not a bad idea at all. I ordered Italienischer Milchkaffee, Italian coffee with milk, I didn’t expect much to be honest, as caffè latte sounds more Italian and more promising, at least to me, but it was the best coffee I’ve had in a long time, the Eier im Glas, soft boiled eggs served in a glass, were a bit disappointing, I’m used to have them a little more spiced up, but judging from the taste of the totally unseasoned eggs, I could tell they were organic, no unhappy chicken produces such good tasting eggs, I’ve peppered them intensely nonetheless, still quite modest an approach to seasoning—my grandmother and Klaus Mann’s Barbara Bruckner had them with six different spices.
There’s that particular time of day called the blue hour, supposedly a very nice moment to celebrate because it’s so romantic, but I’ve never been really aware of when it starts or ends, I seem to have missed thousands of blue hours in my life—today, however, I was enjoying a blue day. While I was having my first coffee in the garden, the one supposed to bring my brain back to life, the blue hydrangeas in front of our blue garage doors suddenly caught my attention, and I couldn’t stop looking at this blue still life all day, from every angle possible. In fact, it’s so beautiful a scenery that I forgot all about my coffee and had to make a fresh one. Later, I mean. Because I forgot all about making fresh coffee, too…
When you’re a farmer, you’re familiar with the sensation you get when you take a walk on your land, when the cotton is high and the fish are jumping and all that, it’s such a bliss, you tremble with excitement out of all that joy, and at the same time, well, not simultaneously of course, but just seconds later, you’re shaken by fear and misgiving, you worry that the sun will burn it all down or that the rains will never stop and everything will rot, I know these feelings well, I know all about them, even though I’m not a farmer. I own a quince tree and a walnut tree, that’s all I got, there’s a cherry tree, too, but I don’t care for cherries too much, I leave most of them to the birds, but the quinces and the walnuts, these I cherish. Can’t wait to make quince jelly as soon as they’re ripe and to crack the walnuts in front of a fire in winter. And while I’m telling you this, I’m having a coffee and watch them grow, I might be of help if some storm’s ahead, or a drout, you never know, I’ll be around, just in case.
88 degrees Fahrenheit in May, or wait, it’s June now, anyway, 88 degrees Fahrenheit this time of year are, well, what are they? My mind has gone blank, that’s for sure. I can’t think straight. This heat is killing me. Totally. Gotta face the facts. So, for my last supper before extinction I decided to have insalata caprese, my own version of it at least, it’s kind of a messy version, very messy, I mix it all up, the mozzarella, the basil, the tomatoes, il Tricolore in a bowl, so to say. With some olive oil from Sicily and crushed pepper from some place else. Anyway, as you can’t have water with an Italian dinner—food iconoclasm, I say!—I opened a bottle of wine, a fine wine at that, admittedly not from Italy, no Chianti or Brunello di Montalcino, but a fine wine from Bordeaux, a claret as the Brits say, a 2005 St.Émilion Grand Cru, some Château Peyreau—or was it Peyraux, or Peyreaux? Who knows, it’s pronounced all the same anyway—just to cherish summer in spring, high spirits for high temperatures—I’ve told you, my brain has gone soft. Anyway, cheers and buon appetito for now, and as soon as temperatures drop, I’m back. Promise.
It’s hot, the air’s humid, you’re desperately looking for some shade because you don’t care for sunstrokes, and even if the sun weren’t about to addle your brain, your book’s white pages reflect the sunlight so damn straight into your eyes you might well end up blind, so you carry one of the benches, thank God, teak’s so light a wood, into some shrubbery, followed by your tea table, yes, tea, I know it’s hot, but the hotter it gets, the less any cold drinks are advised, least of all iced ones, believe you me, your circulation goes berserk and you’ll overheat like a motor in an Abu Dhabi traffic jam, if you had any relatives that served in the colonies, you’d know, and by the way, tea is from India not from Norway, the Indians should know what they are doing, shouldn’t they, but I digress, anyway, once in the shade, I started to enjoy myself, finally I was able to read without sunglasses; Evil under the sun, Agatha Christie’s lush novel, that I started some days ago while it was raining, finally was an approbiate choice. I wonder who’s done it…