Translated by Katie Jacoby
The literal truth was that I was in love with Mariana. I could never find the words, however, to confess my love to her; the mere letter of a word would begin to come together in my mind and a knot would immediately form in my throat. My mother used to tell me I was a prodigy with words, seeing as I spoke Spanish and French. My grandmother would simply scoff and say ironically, “All-knowing prodigy, what good does it do you to have your nose stuck in Don Quixote all day if you can’t even work up the nerve to talk to a girl?”
At that time, I was engrossed in a translation that I was doing of Don Quixote from Spanish to French. It was a good exercise to let me see how words change along the course of history: regrettably, some had died out; alternately, others had been born; there were still others that had turned their backs on their original meaning and now meant something entirely different. The words were dependent on time and location. In my case, however, despite being sure of my time, location, and communicative intention, my shyness kept me from being able to find the right words to talk to Mariana.
Mariana was my neighbor, and I would always spot her from my balcony. My grandmother would observe me with something of pity, and one day when she couldn’t take it any longer, she said to me, “Give her a flower—it’s the best gift for a woman. A flower means love, tenderness, and affection. That’s how your grandfather won my heart.” I decided to follow her advice, thereby wholly circumventing the problem of the knots in my throat.
I went to the flower stands outside St. Peter’s Cemetery. I encountered there a whole arsenal of flowers, but although I looked and looked, I couldn’t make up my mind. Pointing at a flower and asking what its name was, I learned that there were roses, chrysanthemums, carnations, dahlias, pansies, sunflowers, and orchids. Noticing my indecision, the old woman that was assisting me asked me, “Who are the flowers for?” I didn’t know what to say. She continued, “Each flower has a meaning, just like words themselves. Red roses mean love; white roses mean commitment; orchids, respect; carnations, luck. Make sure you choose carefully in order to send the right message.”
“A red rose, please,” I said.
“Red roses mean love,” I said over and over to myself on the bus ride home. I was satisfied; the rose would perfectly express what I felt inside. What’s more, words had become so trite—everyone everywhere goes around saying I love you this, I love you that. Or when they feel that a mere I love you doesn’t quite say enough, they’ll say it in another language. No one gives flowers anymore, though. My grandmother had said to me, “No one gives flowers anymore because young people these days are so unromantic.”
I arrived at Mariana’s house and knocked on the door. Her mother opened it. When Mariana stepped out, I held out the rose to her. She took it and said to me, “Thanks, but you should show a little more respect for nature.”
Felipo Zaná
