IN-DIA-RY

1. Who Would Have Thought Back Then?

Chapter One

Who Would Have Thought Back Then?My friend, Marcsi, stormed into our kitchen like a tornado. As always, she was talking fast and accompanied her words with broad gestures to emphasize the message. She was battling with herself most of the time, but now she even outdid herself. She shook her tightly curled hair from time to time while cheerfully sipping her tea. Our kitchen and living room opened into one another, forming one spacious place where the various shades of orange and terracotta would always give a friendly atmosphere for a fragrant coffee or a glass of red wine with some fine cheese.

This time, however, we decided on green tea. Our friends liked visiting us. We could spend hours talking and planning. Outside, by the corner of the house, the first violet peeked out. We paid no attention to this initial sign of spring and kept chattering by the warmth of the fireplace. As Marcsi was about to leave, she turned around from the doorstep and asked, “Have you ever heard of the Palm Leaves? Tibor just told me about them. Supposedly, there is one for each person, with their life written on them.”

‘Some trendy crap again. Palm leaves… Somebody wrote something on them. Fate and India.’

“Never heard of them,” I replied, shaking my head, and Marcsi turned back without another word and left.

Later, I sat down at my computer to work. I had been wandering on the internet for a while when the word Palm Leaf caught my eye. Click. ‘Leave me alone!’ I was looking for an educational course that evening, and while gathering information on the lecturer, I came across a link then a video. “The Mystery of the Palm Leaves,” the obvious clickbait headline said. It was the third time I had run into this phrase that day.

‘All right, I give up. I got the message.’ After precisely studying an article and a web page, I immediately signed up for the next class.

Of course, it was Marcsi who I drove with to the nearest city. I could hardly wait to piously take in all the information in the company of other sacred spirits from the lecturer dressed in all white. ‘What an amazing group will gather here!’ I thought.

My eyes widened with disbelief when the people in front of me swore, and an old lady with an umbrella shoved and pushed the line. Others were complaining loudly about the high entrance fee or other similar grievances. The overall picture was disappointing. It seemed that the eagerly anticipated picnic in the Garden of Eden would have to wait for another time. Then, I was interrupted in my thoughts; I was next in line.

“Flóra Földes,” I said my name.

I was a little anxious, and out of habit, I tucked my curly brown hair behind my ears. I gave all my information that they needed. I was glad I put on my thin green jumper that morning, I felt comfortable in it, and it also suited my honey-colored hair. I signed the registration form and added my fingerprints for identification with the date of February 25th, 2010. I wrote my signature firmly, the same way I shake hands, as I was told. ‘No turning back now. Oh…’

In the next hour, we learned about the wonders that would be waiting for us. Us, who had so bravely jumped into revealing the ancient secrets. I carefully started to measure up my companions, but I was practicing to be mindful and not judgmental, so I just stayed quiet and sighed.

I remember, on the drive back home with Marcsi, we had such a genuine conversation. I love sitting in the car at night, driving to the pulsating rhythm, and listening as the harmony of notes form into a single melody. It was pitch black, and before we got out of the car, we turned the volume up to listen to a good drum solo. I don’t know why I remember this particular part so vividly; sometimes, a tiny detail is enough to bring back a whole story. It had been an unforgettable night for sure.

At that time, we had a house with a big backyard: plenty of rooms for the kids to run around and play, a football gate, swing, and a rope hanging from the tree. Those were the better days of our family’s life.

There was also a rock garden, overgrown by the second year, and even a small tomato bed. I had received dozens of evergreens from my parents, and I put them in the available window boxes at every corner of the house. After many attempts, the lawn was finally lush green, with just a few missing spots here and there. We planted bushes and a tulip magnolia tree, which I got for Mothers’ Day. The garden displayed various shades of greens, blues, bright yellows, and glowing reds. There was a stretch of marigolds, just like in my grandmother’s garden, and a bed of arugula, growing eagerly out of control.

Children were constantly playing there, and we held many birthday parties. We had a blue inflatable pool for hot summer days, covered in green algae by the end of the season every year, despite our use of disinfectant tablets. Ugh! Stargazing and sleeping in a tent in the summers, which usually ended by secretly sneaking back to the house with a flashlight. Building a snowman, making snow angels, and snowballs in the winters. The ivy, lively climbing the fence, looked down and thought, everything is alive here, moving and breathing with joy.

However, the garden’s soul, as the wise elders used to say, was the walnut tree, the keeper of many secrets. We would often sit with our guests there for a half-hour or so, just long enough to enjoy a drink. The tree grew and twisted its branches in an approach to help children learn how to climb it. I watched it thriving from month to month. The uncomplicated simplicity with which it grew and nurtured its leaves, then let them go with the same strength when their time came.

I practiced yoga under the walnut tree every morning. For a while, I went to the local yoga studio with a great team twice a week. For the last class, I even went to the capital city to learn from a real master. The room was buzzing with conversation, and I just turned around to ask for a pen when a powerful yet pleasant wave of energy swept through me. ‘You can feel the energy of all these people.’ I thought, then turned back and noticed the master on the stage. He was meditating, staring in front of him. It was his energy.

I like these experiences; a belief becomes a certainty.

The yogi emphasized the importance of daily meditations, even if it is only for ten minutes. In this mindset, I walked to the walnut tree every morning to start my days. I was not alone in my dedication; Caramell, our fourth cat with rusty red fur, always joined me. He would sit with me, comfortably stretching out in my aura and enjoying the magical moments of silence and harmony.

I was never a fan of having pets, but my kids’ nonstop begging and love for them somehow made me adore them as well. I soon learned that pets also have a personality, just like us humans.

When I finally gave in and agreed to have one, I brought home our first cat on Children’s Day. I hid the tiny black Lucifer behind my back and surprised them. He strangely disappeared one day, never to be found again.

After Lucifer came Claws, who must have been some bizarre hybrid. He reminded me of Pinocchio, longing to be a real boy. He needed no encouragement to take his place as a goalkeeper in the football game or sit on the garden chairs when the kids had their snacks. He attacked anyone who accidentally wandered into our garden with the fierceness of a guard dog. He was hit by a car in front of our house as I was getting ready to leave for a Christmas party. I was heartbroken all night, and we buried him in the garden. The shovel hit the frozen soil loudly as I dug his grave, his little body still warm when we placed him into the ground for eternal sleep. When spring came, the children and I planted flowers on his grave.

Our next kitten, Blueberry, was shy. He was scared of even the grass and would cry like a baby until I went outside to him. He wandered off when a flood tore down and washed away our fence after a heavy rain while we were on vacation in Greece. Caramell, the king of predatory felines, would often sit high and mighty on the top of our pergola, watching the street, lazily stretching, and having lengthy siestas. As proof of our connection and the result of our aura sharing sessions, he would meow back every time I asked him a question. I loved our kittens so much. It didn’t even disturb me when the red cat shook its scabies on me while we were waiting at the vet! (Ok. It’s a bit of an overstatement to say it didn’t disturb me, but I bore it with heroic bravery).

We all got along really well, at least with the cats. We had a more difficult time with the other pets.

One of the turtles climbed out of the tall-walled terrarium and was never found. God knows how many days we kept looking for it under the bookshelves, lying on our stomach with a flashlight in one hand! Our hamsters kept dying, one after the other, until we finally gave up. Our aquarium shattered into a million pieces one morning. Our fishes, saved from under the wreckage, survived only to became victims by the other aquarium resident where we moved them. We also had a frog retrieved from a lake while staying with our friends. We transported it home in a jar for 350 kilometers and dug a small pond for him, which we lined with a plastic bag. Well, he did not stay with us for a long time either, though we firmly believed he had become attached to us.

Caramell, on the other hand! He became a real member of our family, and that is how we registered him in our family memoir.

Of course, he was also there during that conversation, purring at our feet. It happened not long after our Palm Leaf trip; it was the middle of spring. For a couple of weeks, only the three of us were living there. Marcsi’s big blue eyes were bloodshot from crying; we both felt a big revelation coming. The walnut tree bent a little closer, covering us to protect our secrets, although I was the only one who noticed it.

Life can be strange sometimes. Complicated. Leaving its tangled threads to us to straighten out the way we want. Or the way we can. Or the way we dare to do it.

Marcsi stood in front of me and took her chance. She told me that many years ago, she had been a close friend of my husband’s mistress, and she knew about us. Marcsi and I met later on, by some twist of fate; our daughters became friends in their nursery. Then, she was no longer either able or willing to bear this massive secret.

We had an agreement; I wouldn’t ask any questions, and she would leave the juicy details out. After my husband moved out, everything turned upside down in our wonderful home. I shared so many things with Marcsi, and we supported each other in so many ways! Now, she thought she was signing the death sentence of our friendship with this confession. But no such thing happened in the sanctuary provided by our walnut tree. She passed the test of sincerity and courage; I could do nothing but appreciate it. We have been really close friends ever since.

Only one little mystery remained unsolved. Earlier, in the middle of winter, I received an anonymous letter. It just appeared one day in my mailbox. I thought this only happens in movies or novels, and even if it was real, dreadful things like this couldn’t happen to me. I read and held in my hands the terrible message that was addressed to me, only to me.

Who would do something like this, and why? I never wanted to have such an ugly chapter in my life story! I did not believe a word of it anyway. After the first shock, I figured out who might have written it by using all my psychological senses and logic. I haven’t had the chance to thank her for her kindness yet, but I will surely invite her for a cup of coffee when we run into each other.

The house with the walnut tree is gone now; it was demolished in the same year we had to move out (within two weeks by the new owner’s demand).

Caramell is gone too. He got scared and disappeared when the bright yellow playroom’s walls were barely standing, staring lonely at the street. They were crushed and hammered by enormous loud machines relentlessly.

We have been avoiding that street with the kids ever since.