CLIMBING ROSES

The sun was just rising in the sky, promising another scorching day as they stood in the line, joining the other people waiting patiently. Some spoke animatedly, excited about the prospect of the place they were about to visit. Others stood silently, contemplatively, lost in their own memories.

The queue moved forward slowly, each step taking them closer to whatever each of them expected to find. Ever so slow, they started going up some steps on the left hand side. The right-hand side had been cordoned off for those returning, or for those from the other side. They walked through a makeshift bridge, and then stepped into the no man’s land called the UN buffer zone. This was a depressing and derelict place, the roads had virtually disappeared under foliage and wildflowers, the few houses in a state of total disrepair. A feeling of abandonment emanated from the place.

Alex and Sophie walked silently, lost in their own thoughts, each of them thinking of where they were about to go and what they would find. They were both children last time they had visited this place, where for nearly thirty years they were forbidden to go. Now that the borders had opened, they experienced a burning curiosity to see their grandmother’s former home again, taking advantage of their holiday on the island.

After going through the formalities of having to show their passport and walking through the buffer zone, they were officially on the other side. They were immediately approached by cab drivers, eagerly awaiting their first fare of the day. The older generation, those who still spoke the dialect, were in demand now: they could communicate with the people arriving in droves.

After settling on a price they got into a taxi and showed the driver on the map where they wanted to go because he spoke no English. Also, most of the names of the towns and villages had been changed, including the street names, so they could not give a street address. But they’d arranged to get a new map, which showed the previous and present names, which helped people find their way around.

The drive took about twenty minutes through fields, streets, and houses, some obviously occupied, others eerily quiet. In some places new buildings had sprung up, in others, it seemed that time had stood still. When they reached the village, Sophie looked around and tried to remember the exact location of the house. She recognized the village church, now sadly neglected and very run down.

               “Turn right,” she said to the driver, gesturing with her hands to make sure he understood. The man nodded and followed her instructions, finally coming to a stop outside a small semi-detached house with a slate roof, a small garden at the front and a veranda outside the door. A memory stirred in her mind, and she suddenly remembered sitting outside such a veranda during the cool summer nights. But nothing else was familiar.

               “Is this the house?” Alex asked. “Because I don’t remember anything.” Whereas Sophie had been ten years old the last time she’d been there, Alex had been only six.

               “I’m not sure,” said Sophie. “My mind seems to have gone blank.”

               They stood outside feeling lost, as a dog barked inside the side gate. They were in the right place so this must be the house. But nothing looked familiar to Sophie, try as she might to remember.

               Then she saw it: To the right of the house, in the small garden at the front, a climbing rose bush which grew nearly as tall as the house, with beautiful pink roses. There used to be such a rose bush outside her grandmother’s house, which she’d planted herself many years ago. Could it be the same one?

               By this time the front door had opened, the occupants inside alerted by the dog barking. A man and woman in their late thirties emerged, with identical expressions on their faces. The woman was of medium height, slim, with long, dark brown hair and brown eyes. The man was a bit taller, plump with short black hair and a mustache.

               Even though it was very early on a Sunday morning, they did not seem surprised by their visitors. They appeared to know why they had come because many others had received such visits.

               Without saying a word, the owners opened the door wider for the newcomers to enter. Sophie and Alex opened the gate slowly, hesitantly, and walked through the small front garden and up the two steps which led to the veranda. The present owners stood aside and allowed them to enter the house.

               Sophie looked around. The living room with its marble floor looked vaguely familiar, and it seemed that the owners had knocked down the adjoining wall and had joined the two reception rooms, making a bigger living room. As if in a trance, Sophie walked past the living room and into the corridor, to see the rest of the house. Yes, she remembered this corridor, suddenly having a flashback to the last time they were there. They were on holiday with their mother at their grandparents’ house when the trouble started, and her mind flashed back to memories of people sitting on the floor, side by side, in this very corridor, all looking fearful and uncertain.

As if in a trance she walked on to the other rooms. The kitchen did not seem to have been modernized, and she recognized the old sink and cabinets. There was also an old-fashioned pantry that looked just like the one her grandmother had, which used to be full of goodies for them to eat. She walked out of the kitchen and into the bedrooms. There was a large room, which had once been occupied by her grandparents, but now seemed to be used as a dining room. At the end of the corridor was the room she stayed in when whenever she visited her grandparents. She remembered the windows with the green shutters, which kept the sunlight out in the afternoon, during siesta time.

Through the bedroom’s French windows, they were led to the small conservatory at the back of the house. There used to be a small bookcase here, and a rocking chair, where grandma used to sit in the afternoons and crochet. Now it was completely empty except for …

               “Ha! Grandma would have had kittens if she’d seen that dog bowl in the house,” Sophie couldn’t help smiling.

               “I’m glad you’re seeing the funny side to this,” Alex replied before they both stepped outside from the conservatory doors into the garden at the back of the house.

               “There used to be a lemon tree here,” Sophie said, remembering the lovely scent it gave when it was in bloom. She loved picking the lemons and bringing them to her grandmother.

               “What do you think of the occupants?” Alex murmured.

               “They seem like nice people,” Sophie said.

               “You mean they’re not the monsters we imagined?”

               From the side of the house they walked to the front, where they were once again met by the present owners. They introduced themselves as a brother and sister, who’d been living in the house for a number of years. It was allocated to them by the authorities after the trouble had ceased. Their parents had both passed away.

               “Do you have any photographs?” Sophie asked hesitantly.

               “No,” the lady replied, gesturing with her hands to make sure Sophie understood.

               They’d heard that some people who’d visited their former homes were given photographs and other items by the people who now lived there. Sophie thought there was no harm in asking, even though they knew that the houses had been looted after the occupants had left, and everything had been taken.

               All of a sudden Sophie felt that she wanted to leave: What were they doing here, wandering around the place like polite prospective buyers? It was a bizarre situation at best. So after chatting for a few more minutes, they took their leave.

               As they waited outside for the taxi to pick them up, Sophie looked around the neighborhood for the first time since they’d arrived.

               “Everything looks so much smaller than I remembered,” she said to her brother. “The houses, the street, everything. I wonder why?”

               “Maybe because we were children last time we were here?” Alex said.

               “Maybe,” she agreed.

               In her mind’s eye she saw children playing in the road; they used to spend hours playing outside with their cousins next door and the other neighborhood children during the summer holidays they spent with their grandparents. She recalled hot, summer days at the beach and cool, balmy evenings, when they’d sat on the veranda eating watermelon, the heady scent of jasmine permeating the air. The walks they used to take in the dark – there were no street lights, but they still found their way around.

               Then the vision changed: People rushing about, screaming and crying, as they tried to scramble onto the vehicles. The scorching heat, the deafening noise that made the earth shake; the young UN soldier whose hands were shaking at he drove them to safety. Almost three decades had passed, but suddenly it was as if it had all happened yesterday.

               “Maybe we should come back again next year,” Alex’s voice cut through her thoughts as they got into the taxi.

               “Yes, why not?” Sophie said, taking a last look at the climbing rose bush, knowing full well that she wouldn’t be returning.

               When they got back and passed through the border again, their thoughts returned to their respective families, waiting back at the apartment.

               “The children were talking about going to the waterpark today,” Alex said.

               “Great!” said Sophie. “If we hurry we can catch up with them.”