Oliver Benjamin
of an orange metal door, locked shut. “On the other side of this door
are some very beautiful gardens,” she said, “They may not be
beautiful to everybody. They are to me.”
“I like gardens,” Yak replied.
Sprout nodded and pulled a skeleton key from her pocket. “I
once loved a locksmith,” she laughed, opening the door. She grasped
Yak’s hand and pulled him through.
They entered into a wide open field surrounded by jacarandas,
pines and fig trees. Hootings of owls and the trill of crickets
welcomed them to a place that could have easily been the subject of
a children’s book. Sprout closed the door behind them and Yak said,
“It’s enormous. Is it a park?”
She took his hand. As they drew deeper into the garden he saw
that up ahead the manicured lawn was broken up by shiny tiles and
that around some of those tiles were arranged potted plants.
“Graves,” Yak said.
“Have you ever seen a graveyard as beautiful as this?”
“Yes. In Java. It was quite an attraction.”
Holding his hand tightly, he was obliged to keep up as Sprout
began to skip down the small grass lanes that separated the flat metal
slabs. She had a special technique that allowed her to skip very fast
and Yak found himself jogging just to keep up. He tripped on the
edge of a grave marker and sent them both sprawling upon the sod.
She taunted him mercilessly and he brushed the green stain from his
white shirt. Her skin seemed ghostly and green in the twilit garden.
He looked long and hard into her beaming expression.
Yak sat up and looked around him. Sprout rolled over the grave
of Mrs. Gail Everts (“Loved now as ever”) and rested her head on
Yak’s leg. He made no move to touch her. But neither did he recoil.
She looked up at the moon, now half-full and spoke in a soft voice.
“Do you know why I brought you here, Yak?”
“To have dinner,” he said.
“Of course,” she smiled, “But why here, of all places, a
graveyard?”
“Easy to get a table,” he said.
She laughed. “See, you’re not so serious after all.”
“I’m never serious,” he said.
“That’s because nothing means much to you.”
“Yes. I find meaning rather incomprehensible,” he admitted.
“Is that why you’re always complaining about words? That
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