Photo by Aedrian Salazar
By October, the balcony was a patchwork of endings and beginnings. Tomatoes, sun-tired on thinning vines, sagged under the weight of their final fruit. The basil had yellowed, perfuming the air faintly with resignation. Geraniums still burned red, though less defiantly now, as if aware their season was passing. Only the parsley refused to take a bow, throwing up fresh shoots like a stubborn understudy who hadn’t checked the calendar.
Beyond the railing, autumn had taken hold of Paris. Along the boulevards, leaves skittered underfoot like scraps of golden paper. The markets brimmed with chestnuts, pears, and grapes stacked in tumbling pyramids, a sweetness already darkening toward rot.
The air carried its own mood: damp, mineral, and faintly smoky, the kind of chill that coaxed scarves back from drawers. The days seemed shorter in more ways than one: the light itself grew thinner, and the hours slipped away like loose coins.
He was right to be suspicious. First came the fizzing. Then a cork shot skyward, followed by another—popping like musket fire.”
The Balcony Gardener, for her part, had given in to the season. She had laid out her warmer pajamas and pulled a heavier duvet onto the bed. Teddy had promptly claimed half of it, tucking his apricot curls into the folds and stretching one paw toward her side, as though the division of territory were a natural law. She sighed, gave up her claim, and poured herself a pot of pear-and-fig tea, its perfume like memory steeped in honey.
Teddy stationed himself at the balcony door, sighing again, though with one ear pricked.
He was right to be suspicious. First came the fizzing. Then a cork shot skyward, followed by another—popping like musket fire.
And then, wobbling through the wall:
“Quand il me prend dans ses bras…”
Madame Dupont was attempting Piaf, though “La Vie en Rose” came in fits and starts, punctuated by hiccups and the unmistakable crash of glass.
The Balcony Gardener leaned over the railing and found her neighbor ankle-deep in grapes, surrounded by jars that pulsed a dangerous violet. Foam hissed across the tiles. Madame Dupont herself looked as if she’d been caught in battle: purple-streaked, hair in revolt, eyes glittering with both invention and accident.
“It was meant to be kombucha!” she cried, brandishing a dripping ladle like a holy relic. “A tonic! A cure! Someone gave me boxes of grapes—boxes! Would you have me throw them away? It seemed a mortal sin!”
“Some sins,” the Balcony Gardener replied, steadying her teacup, “become wine.”
‘Strong medicine!’ Madame Dupont announced with a hiccup, and raised her own glass in triumph.”
The concierge chose that exact moment to appear, as though summoned by fate. Before he could protest, Madame Dupont thrust a glass into his hand. He took one sip, staggered, and clutched the railing as though the building itself had tilted beneath him. His eyebrows rose so high they nearly left his forehead.
“Strong medicine!” Madame Dupont announced with a hiccup, and raised her own glass in triumph.
The Balcony Gardener retreated to her side of the railing. She sipped her tea and surveyed the balcony’s October shift: tomato vines bowing like drunks at closing time, basil withering politely, parsley insisting on an encore.
Teddy sneezed once, unimpressed, then returned to guarding his half of the duvet.
Above them, the sky lowered another shade, as if Paris itself had raised an eyebrow at Madame Dupont’s enterprise. The city moved toward night, its streets glistening faintly from a recent rain, lights glowing soft as lanterns along the Seine.
Later, tucked into bed, the Balcony Gardener thought October would be both harvest and comedy. Teddy pressed his weight into the duvet with the finality of a seasoned squatter. And just before sleep took her, the night seemed to carry one last, hiccupping refrain of “La Vie en Rose,” drifting away on a breeze.
Editor’s Note: Read more of the Parisienne horticulturist’s adventures here and in The Balcony Gardener Volume 1.