Exiles in the Garden by Ward Just Page A
Authors: Ward Just
guests-of-many-languages, their worldly European flair even when they misunderstood things. Surely Paul knew better; Lucia had always taken care of herself.
Paul and Marie were gone in a week. The new owners of the house next door were lawyers and not especially sociable. Construction began almost at once. The fountain was removed. The great cedar was dismantled branch by branch and a tennis court installed, the work taking most of the summer and through Thanksgiving, and when it was finished the thump of tennis balls had definitively replaced the conversations of the guests-of-many-languages, though only on weekends. The lawyers were much too busy during the week for sport. On the rare occasions when they gave a party it was a muted affair, and judging from the fragments of conversation, the guests were lawyers, intimate with the deliberations of Congress. Now and again they heard a familiar voice from Sunday morning television.
By Easter, 1968, Alec and Lucia had decided their own house was too small. Mathilde needed a larger bedroom and Alec wanted space for a proper darkroom. Lucia wanted her own study, a private place for her books and her stereo where she could play Mahler and Haydn by the hour while she wrote in her diary. And the absence of the towering cedar was disturbing. When they looked skyward at night all they saw was the hazy reflection of the lights of downtown Washington. Also, the thump of tennis balls on the weekend drove them to distraction. The lawyers found it necessary to loudly dispute line calls. Out. It was in. No, it was out. My side, my call. Bullshit. Bullshit yourself, sore loser.
Alec and Lucia found a larger place down the street, across from Admiral Honeycutt's house. The new house had three large bedrooms and space in the basement for the darkroom. Lucia took the third bedroom for her study, installing bookcases floor to ceiling. She bought state-of-the-art stereo components. She bought the novels and plays of Max Frisch and the works of the Romansh poets, determined to become current with Swiss literature. She wrote furiously in her diary each morning, recording the ordinary events of the day along with her thoughts about what she was reading. Once a week she read the tarot, to no clear result. She also wrote intimate poems, many of those in a code of her own devising, and then she abandoned the code to write in Romansh. They were long-line poems of a romantic inclination. From her third-floor window Lucia could see the summit of the Washington Monument and behind it aircraft drifting over the Potomac to National Airportâas in Zurich she had watched aircraft high above the Limmat approach Schaffhausen, reflecting sadly that the last time she had been on an airplane was the previous spring, two and a half hours to Bermuda, one week in the rain. She sat, feet up, composing her poems and watching the slow-moving aircraft and thinking of Zurich and the forgotten Café Voltaire and the waterside restaurant in Zollikon; like Leisl, she missed coffeehouses. On the wall behind her was the framed photograph Alec had taken so long ago, the day they met, Lucia in the doorway of the ambassador's office, his two children at her side, a mischievous smile present. Alec was not aware of it but she was looking at him and had been for a minute or more, wondering who he was and why he was photographing the ambassador. She thought he moved beautifully, like a dancer, the camera as much a part of him as his own two hands. She looked away, and when she looked back he was taking her picture. A single shot was all he needed. When he lowered his camera she saw his eyes, pale gray.
The new house had a large back yard with a garden at the far end, but the garden was not nearly so welcoming as the twelve-by-twenty space where the roses climbed the wooden stake fence and hung there in glorious profusion, white roses, yellow roses, five kinds of red roses, large and small roses that reminded Alec of the
Paul and Marie were gone in a week. The new owners of the house next door were lawyers and not especially sociable. Construction began almost at once. The fountain was removed. The great cedar was dismantled branch by branch and a tennis court installed, the work taking most of the summer and through Thanksgiving, and when it was finished the thump of tennis balls had definitively replaced the conversations of the guests-of-many-languages, though only on weekends. The lawyers were much too busy during the week for sport. On the rare occasions when they gave a party it was a muted affair, and judging from the fragments of conversation, the guests were lawyers, intimate with the deliberations of Congress. Now and again they heard a familiar voice from Sunday morning television.
By Easter, 1968, Alec and Lucia had decided their own house was too small. Mathilde needed a larger bedroom and Alec wanted space for a proper darkroom. Lucia wanted her own study, a private place for her books and her stereo where she could play Mahler and Haydn by the hour while she wrote in her diary. And the absence of the towering cedar was disturbing. When they looked skyward at night all they saw was the hazy reflection of the lights of downtown Washington. Also, the thump of tennis balls on the weekend drove them to distraction. The lawyers found it necessary to loudly dispute line calls. Out. It was in. No, it was out. My side, my call. Bullshit. Bullshit yourself, sore loser.
Alec and Lucia found a larger place down the street, across from Admiral Honeycutt's house. The new house had three large bedrooms and space in the basement for the darkroom. Lucia took the third bedroom for her study, installing bookcases floor to ceiling. She bought state-of-the-art stereo components. She bought the novels and plays of Max Frisch and the works of the Romansh poets, determined to become current with Swiss literature. She wrote furiously in her diary each morning, recording the ordinary events of the day along with her thoughts about what she was reading. Once a week she read the tarot, to no clear result. She also wrote intimate poems, many of those in a code of her own devising, and then she abandoned the code to write in Romansh. They were long-line poems of a romantic inclination. From her third-floor window Lucia could see the summit of the Washington Monument and behind it aircraft drifting over the Potomac to National Airportâas in Zurich she had watched aircraft high above the Limmat approach Schaffhausen, reflecting sadly that the last time she had been on an airplane was the previous spring, two and a half hours to Bermuda, one week in the rain. She sat, feet up, composing her poems and watching the slow-moving aircraft and thinking of Zurich and the forgotten Café Voltaire and the waterside restaurant in Zollikon; like Leisl, she missed coffeehouses. On the wall behind her was the framed photograph Alec had taken so long ago, the day they met, Lucia in the doorway of the ambassador's office, his two children at her side, a mischievous smile present. Alec was not aware of it but she was looking at him and had been for a minute or more, wondering who he was and why he was photographing the ambassador. She thought he moved beautifully, like a dancer, the camera as much a part of him as his own two hands. She looked away, and when she looked back he was taking her picture. A single shot was all he needed. When he lowered his camera she saw his eyes, pale gray.
The new house had a large back yard with a garden at the far end, but the garden was not nearly so welcoming as the twelve-by-twenty space where the roses climbed the wooden stake fence and hung there in glorious profusion, white roses, yellow roses, five kinds of red roses, large and small roses that reminded Alec of the