Prim is already on the little wooden bridge ve meters ahead of us.
“Is this where you kissed Mommy? Tell me Daddy, please!”
Her mother stops me
with a quick,
“Shh!”
just as convincing as her daughter’s. She picks up the pace while I linger behind. The feelings this “forest” arouses in me put off
my worries, sending me to a place protected from the world. The little path brings us closer, but the Wizard of Oz is not at the end. Two big black
sh appear to be lolling by the steps.
“Can we pet them?” “Oh, yes.”
We stroll under the pergola where the aristolochia gigantea are intertwined.
Prim, who has been learning to read, asks me if that is where the Aristocats come from. A couple of steps later and a narrow passageway where
leaves caress our faces have brought us back to the main greenhouse. A cell phone ringtone leaves me alone with Prim beneath the giant palm tree,
which seems to want to spread itself over the entire greenhouse and pierce its ceiling.
“I’ll leave you two alone, don’t be too naughty.”
Alone with my princess, we exit the main greenhouse and head towards the reserve greenhouses
hidden at the back of the park. The pistacia terebinthus hasn’t changed since my childhood, sending me back to the rst words I ever said to Prim’s
mother, words bigger than my young heart at the time.
“Look darling, there are two turtles in this little greenhouse.” “Where are they going to go if
their house is destroyed? Maybe we can take one,”
says Prim.
We push open the door leading to the long corridor of little reserve greenhouses, where numerous plants hanging from the ceiling give a tropical
allure to this corner of Paris.
“Is this where my grandmas brought you?” “Yes. Where all the owers that I wanted to give to your mother grow.” “You’ve
given her a lot of owers!” “Yes, but you can only see these ones here, they’re rare and almost extinct.”
A symphony of shapes and colours, improbable
compositions orchestrated by nature from around the world, spreads itself out before us.
“Let’s go see the orchids, I
lled your mother’s room with
orchids when you were born.” “I know, Mommy showed me the pictures. She told me that’s why I was almost born in the jungle like Mowgli.”
The
greenhouse is ours, and the vines form an unlikely pattern. The petals here are striped, speckled, of all different shapes and sizes. I explain to Prim that
this petal here is built to retain water; that this other, pink and cocoon-like, is meant for bumble bees to nap in. She laughs happily. Instinctively comes
to mind the thought that those who have decided to do away with this place show the same rigor which I myself displayed in the past, when acting
nonsensically regarding the most beautiful things which had surrounded me.
