Crystal Garden. Ewa Bash
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dawn, I was in Munich. I walked out of the main station, and was immediately met by a city of glass and metal. It had been raining overnight, and the streets were fresh. Raindrops glistened on the windows in the rays of the rising sun. The streets were quiet, almost deserted. Only the roar of the garbage truck echoed from the walls. I was standing and looking around, gradually figuring out what to do next. I decided to surrender to fate and go wherever it took me. I was going to see the country and maybe even beyond to Europe. I planned to stay in different cities, large and small. I was going to find a place that filled my heart and soul, and I would stay there. I’d find a job and start a new life as an adult.
I hitch-hiked my way along. I walked for dozens of miles, slept in train stations and ate at roadside diners. I was stopped by police a couple of times, but I managed to convince them that I was going to Nuremberg or Dresden to my beloved grandmother. Once, I almost ran into a gang of skinheads. I ran away very fast.
At the end of my fifth day of travelling, I was somewhere between Austria, Germany and the Czech Republic. Hooray to the united Europe! I was walking along a country road that ran through vineyards. The sun was setting, and I was thinking of a shelter for the night. When I noticed a building on a hill in the distance. It was small, one story, and painted burgundy. I walked closer and saw there was a man in the yard. He stood with his back to me, cutting his roses.
“Good evening” I said to him in German.
“Good evening” he replied as he turned and looked at me.
I think he may have smiled, but I’m still not sure. The man was not very tall, well-built, and about 50 years old. His short dark hair was greying, and he had piercing blue husky-dog eyes.
“Could you tell me, please, if there’s anywhere nearby I could stay for the night?”
“The closest motel is 40 miles from here,” replied the man, waving his hand to the side. “You’ll get there by the morning,” he grinned. His *Hoch Deutsch [*standardised German] was flawless. “You can spend the night here.” The man nodded towards the house.
I agreed without hesitation. I slept like a log and didn’t have any dreams. The bed and the pillow felt like the greatest inventions of mankind.
I woke up early to drizzling rain pounding outside. The small room he’d offered me was dark and cool. In the corner, an old clock was loudly ticking away. It was 5.30am. The owner of the house was walking around. I could hear the creaking of floorboards. I stretched and was about to get up when I saw a dog and startled. A large black Labrador was sitting in the middle of the room and was staring at me.
“Alicia” called the voice of the man, and the dog jumped up and ran out of the room.
I got dressed and followed her through the living room and into the kitchen, which emitted the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee. The man was conjuring something up at the stove. Alicia, the unusually named dog, was sitting next to him, apparently waiting for breakfast.
Without turning around, the man said, “Sit down.”
I was confused, did he have eyes in the back of his head or something? I hadn’t even had a chance to say good morning to him, but he already knew I was there.
“Sit down” he repeated and pointed to the table.
My breakfast was waiting for me. Scrambled eggs, ham and fresh bread, which seemed to be just out of the oven. I sat down and began to eat. The man sat across from me and stared for a while as I was eating. Then he asked,
“What are you looking for in this area?”
The question surprised and puzzled me, as I didn’t even really know what I was looking for myself.
“A new life” I said uncertainly.
“A new life, heh?” he laughed. “A new life” he said again and shook his head, then got up from the table.
Coffee was boiling in a coffee pot on the old gas stove. The man turned off the heat and began to pour liquid into cups.
“And what about your old life?” he asked.
“I failed” I answered.
“How old are you, boy?” he said as he put the cup in front of me.
I looked at him. He had an unusual gaze and looked at me without any particular expression. It was difficult to decipher his mood, but even still I felt comfortable with him. I thought I could trust him. The hell could’ve I trusted him! But more on that later.
“Fifteen” I answered.
“Well, if you are looking for a new life, I have an offer for you.” He sat back in his chair and reached for the cup. “I need an assistant. There is a lot of work to do, but you’re not afraid of a challenge, are you?” He leaned forward a little.
“No,” I answered.
“I’ll give you shelter, food and anything else you need in exchange for a promise. You must stay here until November, when the last harvest of grapes is gathered.”
“All right” I promised.
He held out his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong and confident. This was not a man of compromise.
9
So, that’s how my life at the vineyard began. I worked from early in the morning until late at night, and soon forgot about everything. I had no time to mourn Sunny or think about Annie. My insomnia had disappeared, and my appetite returned. I grew four inches and gained strength. My old clothes now became too small, and my mentor brought me some new trousers, shirts, and boots. They were clearly custom-made, even if they were old-fashioned. They certainly weren’t t-shirts and jeans, but I wasn’t complaining. I definitely liked this new style.
The Mentor, which is what he insisted on being called, brought me back to life. He became a father figure to me. He took care of me. I remember I once spent the entire day in the scorching sun working in the vineyard, and in the evening I came down with a fever. He took some cans from the kitchen cupboard and made an absolutely crazy concoction. The smell alone made my eyes water.
“Do not worry, this won’t kill you. It will help you,” he said as he handed me a mug. Indeed, in ten minutes I was back on my feet and ready for my next job. I had never felt so light and cheerful.
“Nature gives us everything we need,” he used to say when talking about his herbs.
The Mentor taught me how, where and when to gather herbs, their types and purpose. And finally, how to make concoctions that not only cured any illness, but also improved strength, courage and even charm. Actually, the Mentor taught me a lot. I don’t recall my real father teaching me anything at all. I thought the Mentor was my friend. He never lectured me or tried to probe into my soul. He didn’t ask too many questions. He accepted me for who I was without trying to fix me or make me less “difficult”. He didn’t even think I was difficult. He encouraged me if there was something I couldn’t do and never scolded if I made mistakes. However, I couldn’t really call him a kind man. He rarely expressed any emotion and rarely smiled. If only I knew who he really was. On the other hand, it wouldn’t have changed anything if I did know.
The vineyard stood apart from busy routes and other farms. There was no-one else for many miles, and the Mentor didn’t allow me to go far, since I’d made my promise to him. To tell the truth, I had no desire to go anywhere. I came to enjoy the quiet and measured life full of village romance and fresh air but without any conventions, norms of behaviour, unnecessary questioning or false sympathy.
In my spare time, mostly in the evenings, I took a horse and rode around the area. The Mentor had five black thoroughbred horses. I fed and cleaned them and their stable. As a reward, the Mentor allowed me to ride. He taught me that as well. I discovered other passions too. Passions that I never would have imagined. In the living room there was a large bookcase with so many wonderful books hidden there! For connoisseurs of antiques, they were worth millions of Euros, but here they just gathered dust on the shelves. There were first editions of Shakespeare and Goethe, old maps of Europe, treatises of Greek classics. I’d never been a lover of books, but the Mentor’s library