Missing Rose (9781101603864) by Serdar Ozkan Page A

the artist.
    â€œSon, there are three choices . . . One: you are a fool. Two: you don’t want to charm the little lady. Three: you are a fool. Take your pick.”
    The artist smiled.
    â€œWhat do you want, son?” the beggar asked. “You want her to take you for a loser? A shepherd herding a flock of pictures that don’t sell? You tell her who you are. How’s she to know who you are if you don’t show?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m not sure whether I want her to look at me differently just because I went to Harvard. I don’t want to be punished in the end with being loved for somebody other than who I am.”
    â€œWhat! Who’s loving what and punishing who?”
    â€œIf she’s going to like me because I went to Harvard, it’s better she not like me at all. Because I’m not my education. Or my job, or my brains . . . And I’m not the sum of all of these, either.”
    â€œSo you know who you are, son?”
    â€œWell, I’m just . . . I’m just who I am.”
    â€œSon, you listen to me. Don’t you see how smart she is with her cool shades pushed way up on her head? That word, ‘Harvard,’ it’d be music to her ears. Just tell her ‘Har-vard’ and maybe you’ll get lucky.”
    The artist shook his head. “No, too risky . . . There will always be someone better than me. But there isn’t anyone who’s the same as me. You know, everyone’s fingerprints are different. I like to think we have a kind of inner fingerprint, too. The fingerprint which we cover by wearing trendy gloves.”
    â€œOh my! Poor kid’s talking about gloves now.”
    â€œSorry,” the artist said, smiling.
    â€œSo, what do you expect from the little lady?”
    â€œI don’t know. Do you think she’ll be here tomorrow?”
    â€œSorry, son. Fortune-telling, that’s worth $9. Can’t tell it for free to those who don’t know what they want.”
    â€œI guess you’re right.”
    After a short silence: “Well,” the artist said, “I think I should be on my way.”
    â€œAs you like, son. Bring us guarana next time you come. Jumbo-size, mind you.”

    A FTER PUTTING HIS paintings into the jeep, the artist stretched out on a lounger under the stars. The light of the full moon was reflected on the water, its path growing wider as it extended away toward the horizon. He fixed his eyes on the view, wondering how he could have been so taken by a girl whose face lacked the light he was looking for.

14
    A T THE END of a long, routine, aimless day, Diana was sitting staring at her mother’s photograph.
    â€œMom, let’s suppose I did change my mind and went looking for Mary. What difference would that make? Do you really think we can reach Mary just through a name; the name of a woman who supposedly taught her how to talk with roses all those years ago?”
    Her chest heaved. “Let’s just, for a minute, suppose I traveled thousands of miles to the country where that palace is, and let’s suppose I found the woman’s guesthouse near that palace. Do we even know if the woman is still alive? If she is, will she remember the foreign girl who came to her guesthouse so many years ago? Well, if she really taught Mary to talk with roses, I’m sure she will. But we don’t really think such a thing is possible, do we, Mom?
    â€œAnd even if she does remember her, what good would that do? How would she know where Mary is now?
    â€œIf I really did go there, I’d ask her politely, ‘Excuse me, madam, I don’t know if you recall but, a long time ago, a girl stayed here. Her name was Mary. Remember? She was the little girl you taught to talk with roses . . . Now please tell me, where can I find her?’
    â€œWhat do you think she’d do, Mom, after hearing me ask her that question? Most