The amaranth arrived in a brown paper packet with no name on it. The Balcony Gardener found it propped against her door one morning in early June. Inside were a few dozen polished black seeds and a note written in green ink: Plant these where they can hear people talking.
She carried the packet to the balcony, where Teddy was asleep beneath the table, one ear folded over. She planted the seeds in a wide pot beside the rosemary, then watered them and thought no more about it.
For three days, nothing happened. On the fourth morning, 12 tiny green shoots had appeared in a perfect circle around the edge of the pot, though the Balcony Gardener was quite certain she had scattered the seeds with no such precision. She regarded them for a while, then went inside to sip her latest infusion of fig and crushed poppy seed. It was not to everyone’s taste, but it was undeniably . . . interesting. The sort of interesting that suggested one should probably not ask too many questions.
The amaranth grew quickly. By July, crimson tassels hung over the railing and brushed Madame Dupont’s windows whenever the breeze came along the street. On still afternoons they sometimes brushed the windows anyway.
Madame Dupont had grown rather fond of the amaranth, though she objected when it began treating her bedroom as part of the garden. One afternoon, she appeared carrying a pair of scissors and announced that a red tassel had entered her bedroom and touched the lampshade.
“It’s amaranth,” said the Balcony Gardener. “It’s inclined to spread.”
“So is gossip,” Madame Dupont replied. “We still make an effort to contain it.”
In truth, Madame Dupont had become rather more attached to the garden above her than she admitted.”
Madame Lefèvre, the concierge, was polishing the brass plate beside the stairs. Anything said within three floors of her lodge eventually became common knowledge, although the details usually improved along the way.
Madame Dupont pointed the scissors towards the offending branch. “That part may be trimmed. The rest can stay where it is.”
The Balcony Gardener offered to do it, but Madame Dupont shook her head. “I can manage a plant. I’ve dealt with wisteria.”
The amaranth gave a dry little rattle, although the afternoon was windless, and several black seeds dropped into Madame Dupont’s open handbag. She snapped it shut.
In truth, Madame Dupont had become rather more attached to the garden above her than she admitted. She knew when the geraniums were being repotted, when the rosemary needed cutting and when the tomatoes were unlikely to amount to much. From her windows she watched bees arrive among the lavender and Teddy sleep beneath the table while the Balcony Gardener worked. She criticized the garden frequently and admired it constantly.
That evening Madame Dupont attended a dinner party in the seventh arrondissement. At some point, the conversation turned to gardens, and a woman across the table began describing a fashionable roof garden near the Luxembourg Gardens, with lemon trees, jasmine and a small fountain. Another guest remarked that pots on balconies were all very well, but they were hardly gardens.
Madame Dupont thought of the balcony above her own apartment. She saw the geraniums spilling from their pots, the lavender trembling with bees, the rosemary, the unreliable tomatoes and the crimson amaranth brushing her windows.
“I have a roof garden myself,” she said, and the words surprised Madame Dupont more than anyone. “A magnificent one.”
There were herbs, she explained, and geraniums, lavender, tomatoes and amaranth. For a moment she could see it exactly as she described it, only larger. The little balcony stretched across the rooftops of Paris. Crimson flowers rose above the chimneys, lavender spilled over the zinc roofs, and somewhere beyond them the Eiffel Tower stood in the evening haze.
Nobody at the table doubted her.
When Madame Dupont returned home, the hallway outside her apartment smelled faintly of rosemary. She stopped, but almost at once the scent vanished.
As she spoke, the amaranth leaned out of the handbag and turned its crimson tassel towards her.”
By morning, an amaranth was growing from the handbag on her dressing table. Its roots had passed neatly through the lining and wrapped themselves around her spare keys.
Madame Dupont carried the handbag upstairs and placed it on the Balcony Gardener’s table. The Balcony Gardener examined the plant and said, “It seems very healthy.”
Madame Dupont stared at her. “It’s growing inside a Chanel handbag.”
The Balcony Gardener looked again at the roots curled around the spare keys. “It must like the leather.”
Madame Dupont sat down and explained what had happened at dinner, although she described the roof garden as an innocent conversational flourish. As she spoke, the amaranth leaned out of the handbag and turned its crimson tassel towards her.
The Balcony Gardener tried to loosen the roots from the keys, but they tightened. When she stopped pulling, they relaxed again, and neither woman commented.
A few seeds had already escaped from the handbag, and by the following morning amaranth had appeared elsewhere in the building. Monsieur Bernard found one growing beside his umbrella stand shortly after telling Madame Lefèvre that the operatic singing heard every Thursday came from his radio. Camille, the violinist on the third floor, discovered a crimson tassel among her music after assuring her teacher that she practiced every morning.
Madame Lefèvre began keeping notes. She insisted they were necessary for the proper management of the building, although everyone knew she was recording who had said what to whom. The amaranth beside her desk grew several inches.
Soon the Balcony Gardener began to understand that the plant was not interested in lies alone. It seemed equally attentive to boasting, excuses, evasions and the small things people said because the truth was less convenient.
By Saturday, several pots of confiscated amaranth had been carried to her balcony, where the crimson tassels crowded the geraniums and leaned over the rosemary. Teddy found a patch of shade beneath them and slept there quite happily, apparently unconcerned by the moral character of the plants above him.
The Balcony Gardener opened the original packet again. The writing on the note had changed, and now read: Too much talking. It’s time to listen.
She showed it to Madame Dupont, who read it twice before saying, “Someone’s interfering.”
The amaranth sprouting from her handbag tapped her lightly on the wrist. Madame Dupont looked at it and said, “That’s enough from you.”
The strangest thing was that the amaranth offered very little resistance.”
On Monday, Madame Lefèvre received notice of the annual inspection of the building. The inspector would arrive on Friday morning. She read the letter aloud, then looked towards the courtyard, where crimson shoots had begun appearing between the paving stones.
“This building has no unauthorized plants,” she said faintly.
The amaranth beside her desk reached the ceiling.
For once, everyone agreed the plants had to be brought under control. Monsieur Bernard suggested throwing them into the canal, but before anyone could organize the expedition, Madame Dupont arrived carrying a colander and several large paper bags.
“You are all behaving as though amaranth exists only to expose your unreliable relationship with facts,” she said. “It has been cultivated for thousands of years. Its leaves are edible, its seeds are nutritious, and whole civilizations valued it long before we began trying to drown it in canals.” Everyone stared at her. She had spent the morning researching.
The Balcony Gardener immediately understood that the plants could be harvested rather than destroyed. That afternoon, crimson tassels were cut and shaken into bowls, and young leaves were gathered for cooking. Camille carried baskets, Monsieur Bernard washed pots, and Madame Lefèvre supervised until the Balcony Gardener placed a broom in her hands.
The strangest thing was that the amaranth offered very little resistance. Roots that had clung stubbornly to cracks, pots, and the lining of Madame Dupont’s handbag suddenly loosened, while tassels lowered toward waiting baskets. It was almost as though the plant approved of being useful.
By Thursday evening, the staircases and courtyard were clear. The Balcony Gardener kept several healthy plants in proper pots on her balcony because, after everything that had happened, throwing every last one away seemed unnecessarily unfriendly.
Madame Dupont had cooked the young leaves with garlic and olive oil and had made biscuits and chocolate clusters sprinkled with popped amaranth seeds. Madame Lefèvre surveyed the food and decided that, since half the building had spent the afternoon preparing it, they might as well have supper in the courtyard.
After sunset, lanterns were hung between the balconies. Camille brought her violin, while Monsieur Bernard promised to sing only if asked. Something rustled from the small amaranth beside him, so nobody asked.
Perhaps, she thought, there were differences between pretending and wishing.”
Madame Dupont presented the food and spoke knowledgeably about amaranth without mentioning handbags or magnificent roof gardens. The Balcony Gardener watched one crimson tassel lean gently towards her, but it did not grow.
Perhaps, she thought, there were differences between pretending and wishing.
Above them, the amaranth on the balcony moved in the warm evening air. For just a moment its shadows stretched across the courtyard wall much farther than they should have, climbing over windows and chimneys until they resembled a garden suspended above the rooftops.
The Balcony Gardener looked up and saw that Madame Dupont was looking too. Neither woman mentioned what she had seen, and when the lanterns shifted, the shadows became ordinary again.
Teddy had spent most of the evening beneath the table, but he became interested when Madame Lefèvre placed the biscuits near the edge. The Balcony Gardener moved the plate towards the center, and Teddy appeared to accept the decision.
A little later, Monsieur Bernard began singing, and Camille played loudly enough to discourage him. When Madame Lefèvre returned from investigating a noise beside the rubbish bins, the biscuits had vanished.
Teddy was sitting beside the empty plate with crumbs clinging to his muzzle.
“He never touched them,” Madame Dupont said.
The amaranth on the table slowly turned towards her. Nobody spoke while Teddy swallowed the final crumb.
On Friday morning, the inspector found clean stairs, an orderly courtyard, and balconies that complied with every regulation. He paused beside Madame Lefèvre’s lodge, where a fresh crimson shoot was forcing its way through the locked suggestion box.
“Amaranth?” he asked.
Madame Lefèvre looked at the Balcony Gardener, Madame Dupont looked at Teddy, and Teddy looked towards the stairs.
“It grows here from time to time,” said the Balcony Gardener. “Nobody’s quite certain why.”
The inspector looked at the plant for a moment before continuing towards the courtyard. The amaranth gave a soft rattle, but it allowed the matter to pass.
Editor’s Note: Read more of the Parisienne horticulturist’s adventures in The Balcony Gardener Volume 1 and The Balcony Gardener Volume 2.