Chapter 5

One thing I have learnt in my short life is that sometimes mysteries —secrets, call it as you wish— can be nothing to you and a great deal for others. Or the other way round.

I suppose things are complicated and we don’t have a unique way of approaching them. Then there’s this butterfly effect theory that explains the world as if we all are affected by the smallest and faintest things that happen around us. And it’s only natural: we are all aware of the few milestones that happen with us, and it never occur to us to think that every small nuance around affect our own lives somehow. What I am really ruminating is that this Mr. Harrinton’s matter might have nothing to do with me, but it might carry some weird wind that will touch my sail tomorrow. We all live in community, so if a member fades away or leaves or dies, the system suffers, as well as the other way around; when a new person arrives, things change.

Well, the fact is that everybody’s talking about Avner leaving town for good and selling old Pat’s property when they should mind their own business. And, on the top of it all, Mr. Harrington is gone, isn’t he? Vanished. And that’s all. Even when everything’s kind of messy inside my brain nowadays, thoughts like ‘What does really mean Seamus Harrington’s disappearance?’ or ‘Has her wife Olivia something to do with it?’ or ‘What will be of Pat’s soul after he sells the place?’ repeat inside of me endlessly. And I know, I know. All these questions should be just a gently side wind that shouldn’t be bothering me. So better forget about them. You keep your head down, miss, and out of the line. No ruminating. One day I will understand, if I have to.

After all I’ve been around Northgate long enough to know how things work here. I wonder… how do people know everything about anyone? I sometimes picture Northgaters as busy bees happily fidgeting around a bombastic beehive, every piece of news being shared constantly and without an end. Did you know that bees communicate by dancing patterns? I imagine Northgate as a musical set, you know, everybody dancing their hearts out, tapping the floor with beautiful choreographies like Fred Astaire in the old movies or in La La Land…

But now I will leave Mrs. Harrington’s grey/green troubles behind and I’ll keep walking. I can’t help whistling to City of Stars but, believe me, I am trying to concentrate on buying the groceries I need for my recipe. Even when I can feel Olivia Harrington’s eyes all over my back, I have to keep going and dedicate myself to this  last dinner for Avner. But I am certain. If I turned my head around right now, I would see the swift movement of a drawing curtain at her window.

Maybe the eyes of Northgate are upon me. Us. Yes.

As I said before, things are not the same for everyone and I have learnt that we should live according to our own feelings and principles —which is not hard to understand, but very difficult to do— and not worrying about side winds or noises or troubles or secrets that seem to bother our neighbours. And I really tell you: it’s an interesting thought to bear in mind as you walk on. I’ve been said a bunch of times that I should take one thing at a time and that I shouldn’t be projecting myself in the past, the future or in other people’s business and now it’s really pissing me off that thoughts like these are rooting my mind and making a mess of it.

When this happens, I just stop and take a deep breath. And another one. Until it goes away.

But it’s not easy to clear your mind simply by stopping and breathing. Sometimes, it has to come from the outside or you will never find a getaway. That’s why I am so relieved when a voice gets through the air and touches my shoulder: ‘What is that special dinner I’ve heard you are cooking tonight, young lady?’ and therapy images and all my issues and my doubts fade out.

But even when it is obvious that the voice seems a real thing, can’t help thinking it must be a kind of mirage, you know. The wind is howling and all those questions inside my head… Maybe at this point you should be aware about the fact —this is important, sorry I haven’t mentioned it before— that I sometimes imagine voices.

But don’t you freak out. I used to hear them. A lot, I should add. But not anymore. In fact, I am happy to say that I haven’t heard them for a long time. Even if I would, really, it doesn’t matter: it’s not something as weird as it seems. It’s just people’s voices, even when they are not around. And Ms. Therapist says that a lot of people deal with voices inside, too. It’s just they feel embarrassed to talk about them.

I have heard so many voices inside that sometimes, depending on the situation, I just can’t tell them from the real ones. Just in case this —the one I have just heard— isn’t a part of the outer world, I’ve learnt to ignore the voice and keep on walking, not having a clue whether that question comes from my imagination or what. And I suddenly feel a heavy weight over my shoulders, which must mean something about my therapy and about the incident, to tell the truth.

Until I hear that very same voice again saying Oi, you! and I see the silhouette ten feet away. He —or she, I can’t say from the distance and through the mist and the poor light the clouds are casting on our day— is just there, holding the door as already knowing that I was coming.

‘No dinner table without flowers’, speaks the voice again, ‘as you are undoubtedly aware’, and this time it feels as distinctive and real as the sand and the sea and the street where I am.

It’s Floro’s voice.

I look up the door and I see it: 103, Main Street.

Floro’s place.

Yeah, I know. Floro is a stupid name for a person. If you trace the root of the word, you’ll be able to see that we are about to step into the one and only florist shop in Northgate-on-Sea. And that’s precisely the reason why I can affirm without a doubt that Floro is a fake name. It has to be. What are the chances about a florist shop with an owner named Floro? But I have more arguments, of course. For example, I could use Tony. He has something to do with this statement, as I will show you in a while, as soon as I tell you about Floro.

The story goes as follow:

A stranger arrived in the last train from London one night with a full moon some time ago —not long after Avner’s arrival, isn’t it weird?— wearing an orange dress and high heels and carrying a small suitcase, probably with just a single garment inside: an stripped tailored suit. A man’s suit. At the exit of the station, the stranger showed no doubt when she took the route that goes directly to Tony’s Swann Inn, as if knowing by heart the way. 55, Main Street. The pink façade. The only hotel in town.

After the stranger signed in, as she went up the staircase, Tony thought she was the most delicate creature he’d ever seen. To tell the truth, he doubted if the stranger was a she or the other way around, even when Tony was very used to any kind of visitors at the Swann’s, as it is shown by the beautiful rainbow flag waving at the marquee. Of course, the stranger was wearing a beautiful dress but… maybe the short hair or the way he/she moved. As the stranger went up the staircase, Tony could appreciate that her/his luggage seemed to be too light. It was left untouched on room number 7, second floor, during the next week at least, which was the time the stranger spent crying all the past he/she had left behind, wherever he/she was coming from.

During that seven days time, I payed several visits to Tony. He is a sweetheart, Tony. Our friendship goes back to my first days here in Northgate. He gave me shelter right after the incident, between that and the funeral, and offered me his shoulder to cry when I was feeling so lonely and lost. I’ve got the feeling that he has helped a lot of lost souls before.

But that happens to be another story.

Be as it may, Tony opened fire about the mysterious stranger who arrived in the middle of the night. He even took his time to open the record book for me as well, which was a lovely thing to do. And to watch. Tony is nuts about lettering and things like that and he used to work as an editor or a graphic designer somewhere in his past life —everybody seems to have one before Northgate—, so you can imagine how the Swann Inn’s record book is: an immaculate, exhaustive bullet journal made by himself in long long hours while he waits for the next guest. And I suspect those waitings can be many —and long— during the winters here in Northgate. Anyway, the thing is Tony is far from a needing to brag about his wonderful handwriting or the accuracy of the info he kept in his book. No way. He pointed at the name of the only guest who signed that cold full moon night and there it was, right in front of my eyes: Mary F. Stanford. I hoped the F stood for Floro at least, but who the hell knew.

So the stranger, also known as Mary F., spent days and nights locked inside room 7, or whatever the time she/he needed for crying his/her grief and one day, when Tony was considering whether to knock at the door or to call the police, the stranger arose from his grave of self compassion in all his power and glory in a well tailored suit with neat stripes. A man’s suit. And Floro —that’s how he introduced himself— came up with the idea of starting up a florist shop. He did not bother to ask around if there was another in town. Just did it.

Point blank.

And these were the facts.

I am afraid, however, that what I consider the whole story is just a few loose dots and we can’t draw the complete line for the picture. As usual, there are basic facts that I am not aware of. The past, again. For my own part, Floro’s secret is well kept, believe me. Not only by my side, also by Tony’s —who I suspect is madly in love with Floro, as strange as it seems. After all, knowing about that night when the stranger arrived is nothing… who is this Floro, after all? What happened to him? Where is he from? Why and how did he end up here in Northgate?

And all these questions lead me to one of our endless conversations, where Avner made the remark about the profound ambivalence of living in Northgate-on-Sea. The unnatural balance between exposure and secret, which he sees as a sick thing.

As usual, we did not agree. ‘Cause this is precisely one of the things I love the most about Northgate: all the secrets that bubble underneath the surface. Everywhere. And Avner hates them, of course, and he’s not to be blamed. He says they are like an echo ricocheting endlessly from one side of Main Street to the other, making people picky and frenzy. I know nothing about physics or the theory of sound, but there’s one thing I am sure about secrets: everyone, even him, is a part of them. We all have something to hide or something we don’t want to share with the others. And that’s exactly the matter with the otherness concept: we all are the others, so the ‘me’ thing is exactly equal to the ‘them’ thing, making us all ‘us’.

But enough philosophy, stories and remembrances. Let’s get back to the present, that is, to Floro’s voice coming to me, ricocheting as an echo again with his ‘No dinner table without flowers…’

‘Well aware’, I write on my white blackboard.

‘Come on in, you silly girl. If it’s true about that secret dinner, I might have something for you.’

‘Dinner is not for me. Avner’s.’

‘So I’ve heard. And you still gotta cook, I assume’, she looks at me with that quizzical smile on her face and I look back and I try not to think on secrets and Northgate’s beehive and how the hell does she know about Avner’s last dinner. Sorry. He. His. God, Floro is so pretty that I keep forgetting she is a he. Whatever. Have I said how much I love Floro? Guess not. I come here every week in order to buy fresh flowers for Avner and for my tree-house. And I really think that no one could have a negative feeling about him.

Just look around this place.

It is like an oasis in the middle of the desert. Not long ago, Floro decided to put fertile soil on the store, getting rid of the tiled floor and turning the shop into an inner garden where he can grow anything he wants. It is an impressive place, with a greenroom at the bottom and arches bowing upon a central fountain resembling the Alhambra. Everywhere you look, you will find an exotic plant or a thermometer marking the precise temperature for that or this kind of flower. Air plants without roots, roses of the desert and so many others you wouldn’t believe. And the music is so powerful that it makes me want to stay forever. It is a shame that most of the Northgaters won’t come to pay a visit to Floro’s place, for he is an outsider and they prefer buying those hideous bouquets on the local Tesco. That’s a disgrace, if you want to know my opinion. But I really hope one day they will discover this delightful shop, where your soul will find peace for the sake of nature. Things will change, you’ll see.

‘Just let me get this straight, ‘cause I can’t really believe what I am hearing: you are cooking a dinner for Avner and his fiancée, who is coming to town. From your London, no less’, Floro says.

I nod again.

‘And we are talking about Pat’s boy, aren’t we? Avner. The very same guy who is behaving like a ghost since he came back to town?

Nod again.

‘Come on, that can’t be true. You gotta be kidding me.’

Again, the thought pass me by: how is it possible for him to know? How long has Floro been around?

‘Well, I am not. I am even picking her girlfriend at the station in… five hours.’

His eyes seem to be a deep well where you could drop a stone and let it fall and fall and fall until you give up. No touching the bottom. No sound. And I know I can’t fill the gap in here. It’s like Floro knowing a lot of things I don’t.

‘Plenty of time, still’, hints he.

I add to my white blackboard ‘I haven’t even started. Dunno what to cook, even.’

‘Camellias, then’, Floro suggests with startling quickness. And he leads me to the greenhouse and offers me a beautiful camellia in a ceramic pot. The petals are orange and I can’t help thinking something’s wrong about this whole thing here in Northgate-on-See. Yeah, your guess is right: orange is the colour of Floro’s façade. What should I think about the acid-green parcels —Olivia Harrington’s store— I have in my bag or the yellow for the boat-house? What does the grey/no colour tells you when you look at my parents’ door from the distance?

However, instead of overthinking, I kiss him on his right cheek and write ‘I will see you around’. I might not know who Floro really is or what’s his link with Avner, but I have spent a lot of time talking to the guy and he is such a lovable person.

‘I bet all my money he’s not coming back’, he adds when I am about to leave. I hesitate and write ‘Sorry, who?’

He stares at me and smiles. He knows me. I feel embarrassed, all I can think is that he is noticing that my pupils are restless. In fact, I am not exaggerating this bit. They must be flickering like sparks among a fire camp. It’s an instinctive reflex they do without my consent.

‘You seem distracted. Seamus Harrington, obviously’, and I can see he is pointing to number 107, up in the street. Floro must have been watching me as I did my shopping at the greengrocer. That would explain the first question, somehow. Not the Northgate-information-network issue, but it’s a start.

I raise my shoulders in an indistinct shrug.

‘Coming back? Where from?’, I write.

‘Rumour says he’s fled with his lover.’

Apart from my flickering eyes, sometimes my face get red patches. It’s not very clear to me when this reactions happen. Anyway, in the patch thing, it’s always the same, somehow: I feel like a strenuous laugh blooming inside and fighting to blurt out of my body, down from my guts and up to the throat, but it won’t manage to get through and finishes exploding in my chest. Guess the patches all over my face are just the collateral effects in the shallow. I hate when it happens, by the way. But it can’t be controlled, you know, once you picture the grey whale Mr. Harrington fleeing away with a woman who seduces him and forces him to escape from his boring marital life. I can picture him with an extra-large Hawaiian shirt with palm-trees and parrots in a beach. Maybe reggae music. Yes, something like ‘I feel it in my fingers / I feel it in my toes / Love that’s all around me / And so the feeling grows’ but with bongos and marimbas and a Caribbean cadence. Oh, god, I am about to puke. And I can’t stop this resounding laugh inside of me.

‘I’ve heard another kind of rumour. Something more substantial’, I add, as soon as I manage to regain control of myself.

‘I know’, Floro winks at me, ‘Mrs. Harrington is a bitch and she is changing colours. But she ain’t no murderer. She can’t be. You know, acid-green colour. What kind of criminal would show off about the crime she has committed like that? Olivia can be anything, but she is not dangerous. She just misses her apple tress and a place with no quarrels. Do you imagine her with a gun pointing at Seamus? Come on. We Northgaters are so bored that we could make anything up.’

I nod and I laugh inside again. By now my belly is about to hurt. I should had detained my attention on the we word, but…

‘A very clever one’, I write.

‘Sorry?’

‘You asked what kind of criminal.’

Floro reads my answer and smiles back. Then waits for my goodbye.

‘Must go now.’

I start leaving once again. But I suddenly turn around and I show him my white blackboard again. I can’t leave without asking.

‘Have you met Avner before?’

Floro raises his eyebrow. And he becomes a she again for a moment.

‘Ehr. Before what? No. Why?’

‘Just curious’, I write.

‘I mean, here in Northgate nobody’s a stranger, uh?’

Oh, come on, Floro! This time I am talking to myself. That’s bullshit. I mean, it’s true in a sense —it’s a small town, Northgate—, but I know he’s lying. The us word again. I write ‘See you later and thanks for the camellias’ instead and I put my white blackboard back in my bag.

But Floro is not of the silent type. He adds ‘Remember to keep it out of the sunlight in a warm place. That windowsill in the living room, in the boat-house, by old Pat’s table, would be great. Good place for writing, by the way, if you don’t mind me suggesting such a thing. You never know what’s gonna happen in life, do you?’

You should have seen my face. Why is he saying a thing like that? Is he talking about Avner? About myself?

‘Oh, don’t take the camellias with you. Guess you are coming back this way after your shopping, uh? Or are you planning to disappear too? Maybe it’s contagious. You know, like that virus coming from China. I’ve heard they are closing Italy down.’

And he winks at me. Again. It sounds like the stone has reached the bottom somehow and the sound gets back to me, as a distant echo.

Did I say how much I fucking love this place? I wouldn’t mind to be locked up here.

At all.

© Enrique Armenteros Caballero, 2025

Have you read it?

What do you think about it?

Please, write to enriquearmenteroscaballero@gmail.com

and let me know. Thank you!

————————————

¿Has leído hasta aquí?

¿Qué te parece?

Por favor, escribe a enriquearmenteroscaballero@gmail.com

y cuéntame. Gracias.