I woke up, and the sun was shining, and the weather was sweet, yeah. As I hummed, I leapt out of bed, took out the watering can, and opened the door.
First, the succulents — indecisive as ever — as to whether they’d flower, while parsley, stubborn as ever, was determined not to grow.
Meanwhile, the nosey borage gets everywhere, amongst the young thyme still tender and flowing, like a summer dress, unlike its hardy ancestor.
The rosemary struggled from the provencal “brousse” we had taken it. The clump of basil — a mixture of sharp green and mauve with touches of pink gave off a refreshing liquoricesmell, like opening a bottle of perfume.
Then I walked to water the vegetables, the green courgettes dazzled by the yellow courgette flowers and a traffic-light assortment of tomatoes.
And then…underneath was a maroon leather bag. I picked it up, and the smell of walking in the Alpine mountains through a herd of bell-ringing cows came to me with the leathery whiff of the bag. The warm handle makes me think of a war reporter travelling through the fields with a notepad and camera or an investigative journalist. What was it doing here in my garden? Was it drugs being dumped? Did I open it?
I peeked in and saw a postcard from Cefalu in Sicily with…written in Arabic a handwritten recipe book, a couple of Polaroid photos of a jungle, a compass, and a note that said, “Go south on the 8.38 and find your next clue…”
