Green Rose
I walked in the vicinity of the Strand today. More of sauntered, actually. The day was sunny, air crisp, and the people remarkably few. I like walking. It is the only way to remain alone in a socially inoffensive manner. Nothing apart from walking really gives one a feeling of comfortable seclusion. However, I should warn you against walking if you are in the mood for brooding, for nothing is more dangerous than to remain alone to brood or to sulk. You should also quit walking if you are wont to feel murderous, or if you have already killed people before and think it is wrong. I do strongly believe that all people deemed criminally insane had initially only the noblest intentions, but, sadly, had also some time to think them over. And what better time to think than walking?
To continue with the narrative, then: I walked up to the Royal Courts and marveled again at the strict beauty of the building, its slender spires, pointed arches, the body, gently cut of grey stone, and the mysterious rose window. Gothic architecure has always seemed to me to be full of graceful enchantment, a higher, almost unearthly appeal. It is somehow never a product of a specific age, but a pylon of Time itself, a tribute to existence and glory of the Light. I am sure it was for this particular reason that the mysterious author translated the book's name as Gothica.
But this was not the first time I saw the Royal Courts of Justice; a petit detour for you to understand better what happened next... You may be aware that street vending in London is not quite as widespread as in some capitals of the East? Indeed in most places you never see street vendors at all. But today there was a man near the Royal Courts, selling roses, and a singularly remarkable man he was, too, although nobody around seemed to take notice. Please bear with me. I know this is a cheap trick of storytellers--to say there was a person whom nobody noticed apart, of course, from the protagonist--but what am I to do if indeed there was this strange sinister-looking man and nobody paid any attention to him or his produce?
So there was this man, taller than me and bald, with ample moustache, and he had on a table in front of him a few roses, and those roses were inexplicably green. I knew green tulips, and green chrysanthemums, and other green plants; I knew also (in theory) that green roses existed--but somehow, still, seeing them at such a close distance was strangely unsettling. First analogy that sprang to my mind was cabbage. Some infernal cabbage, I thought. And then I understood that all the time I was watching I also teetered, oscillated towards the strange seller, so that I was now drawn to him and stood right in front of his improvised stall. And this, too, was disturbing, for I am not wholly without power to be attracted to somebody so easily. But the eerie green roses were magically alluring. I would not have missed them for anything, not even for the rose window of the Royal Courts. There was a mammoth rose lying among others, too.
'Who are you?' I said.
'Rose seller, obviously,' said the man. 'I sell green roses--Verdi!--that are like cabbage heads in appearance, only far more beautiful and flawless.'
I touched a rose. It was cold and hard.
'These roses are made of crystal, my boy,' reflected the strange man. 'But they are nevertheless real! And this...' He held out the mammoth rose. 'This is the biggest rose in the world, trust me, you can look it up in the Guinness Book of World Records... and it also happens to be made of crystal. Just like the others.'
'I will have this rose,' I said quickly, withdrawing my wallet. 'How much do you want for it?'
'Your stick,' said the man. 'Just your stick.'
'It is an expensive stick,' I said. 'Handcrafted.'
'It is an expensive rose, too,' responded the vendor. 'Quite probably also handcrafted, love.'
So I surrendered and gave him my stick, and got the rose in return. Then I strolled around for some time, and the man remained in his place, but nobody bought anything from him, so he left. Quite natural.
I have a strange premonition that this green rose has a part to play in everything. Strange, strange.
It has a proper smell, too.
To continue with the narrative, then: I walked up to the Royal Courts and marveled again at the strict beauty of the building, its slender spires, pointed arches, the body, gently cut of grey stone, and the mysterious rose window. Gothic architecure has always seemed to me to be full of graceful enchantment, a higher, almost unearthly appeal. It is somehow never a product of a specific age, but a pylon of Time itself, a tribute to existence and glory of the Light. I am sure it was for this particular reason that the mysterious author translated the book's name as Gothica.
But this was not the first time I saw the Royal Courts of Justice; a petit detour for you to understand better what happened next... You may be aware that street vending in London is not quite as widespread as in some capitals of the East? Indeed in most places you never see street vendors at all. But today there was a man near the Royal Courts, selling roses, and a singularly remarkable man he was, too, although nobody around seemed to take notice. Please bear with me. I know this is a cheap trick of storytellers--to say there was a person whom nobody noticed apart, of course, from the protagonist--but what am I to do if indeed there was this strange sinister-looking man and nobody paid any attention to him or his produce?
So there was this man, taller than me and bald, with ample moustache, and he had on a table in front of him a few roses, and those roses were inexplicably green. I knew green tulips, and green chrysanthemums, and other green plants; I knew also (in theory) that green roses existed--but somehow, still, seeing them at such a close distance was strangely unsettling. First analogy that sprang to my mind was cabbage. Some infernal cabbage, I thought. And then I understood that all the time I was watching I also teetered, oscillated towards the strange seller, so that I was now drawn to him and stood right in front of his improvised stall. And this, too, was disturbing, for I am not wholly without power to be attracted to somebody so easily. But the eerie green roses were magically alluring. I would not have missed them for anything, not even for the rose window of the Royal Courts. There was a mammoth rose lying among others, too.
'Who are you?' I said.
'Rose seller, obviously,' said the man. 'I sell green roses--Verdi!--that are like cabbage heads in appearance, only far more beautiful and flawless.'
I touched a rose. It was cold and hard.
'These roses are made of crystal, my boy,' reflected the strange man. 'But they are nevertheless real! And this...' He held out the mammoth rose. 'This is the biggest rose in the world, trust me, you can look it up in the Guinness Book of World Records... and it also happens to be made of crystal. Just like the others.'
'I will have this rose,' I said quickly, withdrawing my wallet. 'How much do you want for it?'
'Your stick,' said the man. 'Just your stick.'
'It is an expensive stick,' I said. 'Handcrafted.'
'It is an expensive rose, too,' responded the vendor. 'Quite probably also handcrafted, love.'
So I surrendered and gave him my stick, and got the rose in return. Then I strolled around for some time, and the man remained in his place, but nobody bought anything from him, so he left. Quite natural.
I have a strange premonition that this green rose has a part to play in everything. Strange, strange.
It has a proper smell, too.