Photo by Amin Safaripour
The Balcony Gardener and Madame Dupont sat side by side on the balcony in the clear light of a Paris spring morning.
It was close to the fifth of May—Cinco de Mayo—and Madame Dupont had decided the Balcony Gardener’s 76th birthday should not wait for exactness.
Between them, on the small iron table, was a pot of infusion—fresh dandelion, a little nettle, and something the Balcony Gardener had added without explanation. It gave off a faint, green smell—as it might.
They poured it into mismatched cups.
“It is fortifying,” the Balcony Gardener said.
“I feel fortified,” Madame Dupont replied.
The gâteau sat to one side. It was a wondrous creation: moist, well-made, with a generous layer of carrot cake icing, smooth and lightly sweet. It was, without question, the Balcony Gardener’s favorite.
“For your seventy-sixth,” Madame Dupont said.
“Yes,” said the Balcony Gardener.
“We will not rush it.”
“No.”
They did not rush it.
Teddy sat beneath the table with his own small portion. He accepted it seriously, then looked up again in case there was more.
“Every day is his day,” Madame Dupont said.
“Yes,” said the Balcony Gardener. “He has been patient.”
They ate for a while without speaking.
It was Madame Dupont who glanced toward the row of tall containers set along the railing.
They were narrow and upright, taller than seemed necessary—light grey cylinders with a quiet, practical presence. Each had been filled with finely sifted soil, light and even, without stones or interruption. They stood in a deliberate line.
“These are for the long carrots,” the Balcony Gardener said.
“Yes.”
“The ones that do not . . . stop.”
The Balcony Gardener set her cup down, just slightly to the side of its saucer.
“There was one,” she said. “In an ordinary pot.”
Madame Dupont waited.
“It didn’t begin unusually. But when I lifted it, it kept coming. I thought it would end—but no—it did not.”
“How far?”
The Balcony Gardener adjusted the handle of her cup, though it did not require adjustment.
“Past the pot,” she said. “Past what it should have been.”
Madame Dupont gave a small nod.
“It had not met anything,” the Balcony Gardener said. “No stone. No resistance. It simply went down.”
“Or it ignored what it met,” Madame Dupont said.
“Yes.”
“It was measured,” the Balcony Gardener added. “With string.”
“And?”
“It was, I think, absurdly long.”
Madame Dupont accepted this, though not without a faint tightening of expression. “There was,” she said after a moment, “a suggestion of continuation.”
The Balcony Gardener did not look at her immediately.
“Along the dividing wall,” Madame Dupont clarified. “One cannot be certain. But I prefer certainty.”
There was a brief pause.
“A carrot?” the Balcony Gardener said.
Madame Dupont nodded delicately, and took a small sip of her infusion. “It presented,” she said, “at the boundary.”
The Balcony Gardener inclined her head.
“I see.”
Her hand returned to her cup.
“These will remain contained,” the Balcony Gardener said, indicating the tall vessels. “The depth is vertical. The direction is . . . disciplined.”
Madame Dupont regarded the containers again, and something in her posture eased.
“That is reassuring,” she said.
They took another small slice of gâteau.
“And these,” Madame Dupont said, “are because of that particular kind?”
“In part. The soil is finer. The depth greater. Nothing to interrupt the root.”
“You are removing difficulty.”
“I am removing obstruction.”
Madame Dupont considered this.
“And you believe they will repeat it?”
“I don’t know that they’ll repeat it,” the Balcony Gardener said. “But they may be allowed to, within reason.”
They drank a little more of the infusion.
The containers stood in a neat row, self-contained, their purpose clear. Nothing showed yet. The soil’s surface was still.
“And if one does it again?” Madame Dupont asked.
“If one does,” the Balcony Gardener said, “it will not be because it was encouraged. Only because it was not prevented.”
Teddy shifted under the table, finished with his treat, and watched again.
“If they become,” Madame Dupont said, “absurdly long—”
“Yes.”
“We will have learned something.”
“Yes.”
The gâteau was smaller now, but still sufficient.
The containers held their line along the railing.
And, for the moment, everything remained where it belonged.
Editor’s Note: Read more of the Parisienne horticulturist’s adventures here and in The Balcony Gardener Volume 1.