Photo by Zdeněk Macháček
The Balcony Gardener was halfway through carving her pumpkin when Madame Dupont called across from her window.
“Don’t make it too frightening. Monsieur Bernard already thinks his apartment is haunted.”
“His radiator bangs whenever the heating comes on.”
“Please don’t tell him. He’s asked the ghost to contribute to the rent.”
The Balcony Gardener rested her knife on a folded newspaper. She had bought the pumpkin because it looked cheerful among the autumn pots on her Paris balcony. Her plans involved a candle, a quiet evening, and possibly a biscuit.
Madame Dupont had other ideas.
“Are we celebrating Halloween?” she asked.
“I thought I might carve a face.”
“Then we must invite the children.”
“There are only three children in the building.”
“Yes, but they have connections.”
Before the Balcony Gardener could explain the difference between carving a pumpkin and entertaining an apartment building, Madame Dupont had disappeared indoors to organize what she described as “a modest cultural event.”
By breakfast the next morning, a notice had appeared beside the elevator.
HALLOWEEN CELEBRATION. COSTUMES ENCOURAGED. PLEASE DO NOT FRIGHTEN MADAME LEFEVRE UNLESS SHE HAS BEEN INFORMED IN ADVANCE.
The concierge studied it with the expression of a man who had survived plumbing emergencies and understood that worse things were possible.
“Will there be candles?” he asked.
“One, inside a pumpkin,” said the Balcony Gardener.
“And where will this pumpkin be?”
“On my balcony.”
He consulted the building regulations.
“There is nothing here about illuminated vegetables.”
“Then we’re all right.”
“That is one interpretation.”
Madame Dupont arrived on Halloween wearing a purple velvet dress, an enormous, pointed hat, and so much jewelry that the Balcony Gardener briefly wondered whether she ought to telephone the Louvre.
“I am a sorceress,” she announced.
“You look like yourself with a hat,” said Madame Lefevre.
“Then the hat was money well spent,” said Madame Dupont.
Monsieur Bernard from the third floor came dressed as a vampire, although his plastic fangs made conversation difficult. He eventually removed them, revealing that one was missing.
“What happened to the other one?” asked the Balcony Gardener.
“I was eating an olive,” he said. “Apparently, I ate more than I intended.”
He tucked the remaining fang into his jacket pocket and accepted a glass of wine.
The concierge had refused to wear a costume. Madame Dupont told him that his clipboard made him the most frightening person present.
Teddy, wearing an orange bandanna, settled beneath the Balcony Gardener’s chair, where he could observe the proceedings without being recruited.
The pumpkin had turned out rather well, although one eye was higher than the other and its smile resembled the concierge’s expression when Madame Dupont said she had an idea.
The children admired it.
“Why does it look worried?” one child asked.
“It has just heard Madame Dupont is organizing the evening,” said Madame Lefevre.
The evening might have remained orderly if Madame Dupont had not brought a motion activated skeleton.
“It dances,” she explained, placing it beside the rosemary.
“What makes it dance?”
“Movement.”
Monsieur Bernard bent down to retrieve an olive. The skeleton rattled its hips, startling him so much that he jerked sideways against a flowerpot. His remaining vampire fang slipped from his pocket into the thyme.
Madame Lefevre went to help him, which encouraged the skeleton to perform with greater enthusiasm. Monsieur Bernard caught his cape on the watering can and watered Madame Dupont’s left shoe.
“Stand still!” ordered the concierge.
Everyone obeyed except the skeleton.
From the courtyard below, someone shouted, “Could the dead please be quieter?”
Madame Dupont leaned over the railing.
“They are celebrating!”
“Well, some of the living are trying to watch television!”
The concierge eventually found the switch beneath the skeleton’s jacket and switched it off with considerable satisfaction.
By the time everyone went home, the vampire fang had been recovered, and Madame Dupont’s shoe had been stuffed with newspaper. The concierge made a note concerning “mechanical remains.”
When the Balcony Gardener returned to the balcony, the candle inside the pumpkin had gone out, but a warm amber light still shone through its crooked eyes.
She lifted the lid. There was nothing inside except cold wax.
From his window, Monsieur Bernard called, “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Someone laughing.”
The Balcony Gardener looked at the pumpkin. She could have sworn she had carved fewer teeth.
“Perhaps your radiator,” she said.
“The heating is off.”
She put the lid back on and went indoors. There were limits to what she was prepared to investigate in her slippers.
The Balcony Gardener believed the seasonal excitement was over.
Then Madame Dupont said, “Of course, now we must have Thanksgiving.”
“Must we?”
“We have frightened everyone. It would be rude not to feed them.”
Three weeks later, the Balcony Gardener found herself preparing Thanksgiving dinner for nine people. She had planned to roast a chicken, while Madame Dupont had privately decided to bring a turkey. They discovered this difference of understanding on the morning of the dinner.
“A chicken is perfectly adequate,” said the Balcony Gardener.
“For lunch, perhaps. Thanksgiving requires a bird with presence.”
“My oven requires a bird with limits.”
Madame Dupont arrived carrying a parcel so substantial that the concierge offered to open the service entrance.
Inside was a turkey that appeared capable of having rented its own apartment.
The Balcony Gardener stared at it.
“Did you tell the butcher how many people we were?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“That we were a building.”
They tried the turkey in the oven lengthwise. They tried it sideways. Madame Dupont suggested persuasion, while the Balcony Gardener suggested taking it back.
Monsieur Bernard, summoned from upstairs, measured the oven with a ruler and then measured the turkey.
“Well?” asked Madame Dupont.
“It would fit if we removed something.”
“A leg?”
“The oven.”
Finally, they put it in the refrigerator “to rest,” where it took up two shelves and forced the mustard to stand in the door, beside a bottle of face cream.
“We shall have chicken,” said the Balcony Gardener.
“And the turkey?”
“We can discuss its future after dinner.”
Madame Dupont looked disappointed until she remembered the decorations. She had brought autumn leaves, miniature pumpkins, and the Halloween skeleton, now wearing a paper pilgrim hat.
“That cannot sit at the table,” said the Balcony Gardener.
“It represents continuity.”
“It represents something that should be in your cupboard.”
They compromised by placing it in the hallway.
That evening, Monsieur Bernard brought wine and a homemade cranberry sauce that emerged from its container in one solid piece.
“It has set,” he explained.
“Indeed,” said Madame Lefevre, tapping it cautiously with a spoon.
The concierge arrived with a folding chair and an extension cord.
“What is the cord for?” asked the Balcony Gardener.
“I prefer to be prepared.”
Nobody questioned him further.
While the Balcony Gardener was checking the chicken, Madame Dupont arranged handwritten menus beside the plates.
At the top, in elaborate lettering, she had written:
CHEZ THE BALCONY GARDENER
An Exclusive Dining Experience
Beneath this appeared the evening’s specialties.
Turkey at Rest
Chicken Under Pressure
Potatoes with a Balcony View
Cranberry Surprise
The Balcony Gardener picked one up.
“What is the cranberry surprise?”
“We won’t know until somebody eats it.”
“And why have you put prices?”
“People appreciate things more when they know what they’re worth.”
“Forty euros for the chicken?”
“That includes the atmosphere.”
“It’s my apartment.”
“Yes, and I have valued it generously.”
Monsieur Bernard read his menu and went back into the hallway to retrieve his wallet.
“You’re not paying,” the Balcony Gardener assured him.
“Thank goodness. I was going to have the potatoes and look at someone else’s chicken.”
The concierge studied the menu.
“Does this establishment have a license?”
Madame Dupont took it from him.
“You are dining as a private guest.”
“Then why does mine say, ‘staff meal’?”
“Because you brought your own chair.”
Madame Lefevre discovered a small notebook beside the bread basket. Madame Dupont had labeled it “Guest Reviews” and had already supplied the first entry.
Exceptional food. Charming surroundings. One of the guests was particularly elegant.
“Who wrote this?” asked Madame Lefevre.
“It’s anonymous,” said Madame Dupont.
“It’s signed Madame D.”
“That could be anyone.”
The Balcony Gardener quietly removed the menus while Madame Dupont went to fetch the wine. Then she took the review book and added an entry of her own.
When Madame Dupont returned, she read it aloud.
“Excellent bread. Unfortunately, the management ate most of it before the guests were seated.”
She looked around the table.
“That is a serious allegation.”
“You’ve got butter on the page,” said Madame Lefevre.
Madame Dupont closed the book.
“I think we have had enough feedback.”
Dinner began pleasantly. The chicken was golden with rosemary and thyme from the balcony, the potatoes were crisp, and Madame Lefevre’s green beans were generously coated in butter. The Balcony Gardener had also baked her tomato and basil bread, its familiar aroma drawing everyone to the table before she had finished setting out the plates.
Madame Dupont suggested that everyone say what they were thankful for. Monsieur Bernard thanked the person who had found his vampire fang, while Madame Lefevre thanked the elevator for working.
Madame Dupont reached for another slice of tomato and basil bread.
“Must we say what we’re thankful for before we eat?” she asked.
“You’ve already had three slices,” said Madame Lefevre.
“Yes, and now I can give an informed opinion.”
Halfway through dinner, the Balcony Gardener noticed that the bread basket was still full. She had cut one loaf, yet Madame Dupont alone had eaten enough to make this mathematically troubling.
She passed the basket to Madame Lefevre, who took the last slice. When it came back, another warm slice lay beneath the napkin.
The Balcony Gardener lifted it, then looked toward the balcony. Beyond the glass, the pumpkin was glowing among the herbs.
“Did you bring another loaf?” she asked Madame Dupont.
“No. Why?”
“I seem to have more bread than I baked.”
Madame Dupont took the basket before anyone else could examine it.
“Then don’t draw attention to it. The concierge will want to know whether you have permission.”
Monsieur Bernard helped himself to another potato.
“What are you going to do with the turkey?” he asked.
“I’ll ask the butcher to cut it into portions tomorrow,” said the Balcony Gardener.
Madame Dupont looked up from her bread.
“Tell him we were delighted with it.”
“We haven’t eaten it.”
“No, but it has given us an entire evening’s conversation.”
Madame Dupont rose to fetch the cranberry sauce and brushed past the skeleton in the hallway. It began to dance, rattling against the doorframe.
Monsieur Bernard stepped backward into the concierge, who sat down abruptly on his folding chair. Madame Lefevre reached behind the skeleton, searching for the switch.
“Keep it still,” she told Monsieur Bernard.
“I’m trying, but it appears to be enjoying itself.”
Madame Dupont reached across them both and caught her sleeve on the chair. The cranberry sauce slid from the plate she was carrying and landed on the floor, remaining intact.
Monsieur Bernard looked immensely relieved.
“I thought it might break.”
The concierge switched off the skeleton and picked up the cranberry sauce, still in one piece.
“Did you follow a recipe?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Monsieur Bernard.
“Were there instructions for removing it from the mold?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we should have invited the author.”
From beneath the table, Teddy opened one eye, then settled back to sleep.
Madame Dupont served the pumpkin pie, proudly pointing out the little pastry bats she had added in honor of Halloween.
Monsieur Bernard tapped his glass.
“There once was a lady who swore
She wouldn’t eat pie anymore.
But she swallowed her pride
With whipped cream on the side
And sent back her plate for some more.”
Madame Dupont lowered her fork.
“I thought you were writing poetry, not taking notes.”
The Balcony Gardener poured the coffee while Madame Lefevre passed around the pie.
Monsieur Bernard quietly put the cranberry sauce back into its container, and the concierge, who had removed his jacket, accepted a second helping of dessert.
Madame Dupont leaned toward the Balcony Gardener.
“We should do this every year.”
The Balcony Gardener glanced toward the kitchen, where the turkey was still occupying most of the refrigerator.
“Next year, we agree on the bird first.”
“Of course,” said Madame Dupont. “I was thinking of a goose.”
From the other end of the table, the concierge reached for his clipboard.