May23
Tonight I stood by the floortoceiling window of my new flat on the twentysecond floor of a glass tower in central London. Far below, the main roads glowed like rivers of molten lava, each car a tiny bead, each traffic light a glittering ruby or emerald. From up here I felt like a hawk finally perched after a long flight, surveying the world beneath me.
I have come a long way. In the distance I can see the chimney of the steel plant I rescued from bankruptcy years ago. In business circles my name is known, respected and, at times, feared. The flat, the Bentley, the watch that costs as much as a new sports carall of it is exactly what I dreamed of while stacking crates at the market in the wild nineties.
Life now reads like a flawless business plan, every move translating into profit. Yet each evening, as I draw near this window, I sense not triumph but a deep, resonant silencelike the echoing hush of an empty cathedral.
My work phone, the second office that rings only for business, buzzed on the sleek console. I glanced at the screen: an unknown number. I almost dismissed ittelemarketers are a nuisancebut my finger hovered. Perhaps a new client? Im always on call.
Hello? I said, my voice the weary tone of a seasoned salesman.
A soft, uncertain sigh answered, followed by a familiar female voice I hadnt heard in over twenty years.
George? Its its me, Harriet. Your old university mate.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Harrietslender, with braids, the girl who sat beside me in advanced calculus, who used to laugh at my lofty plans and remind me that roots mattered more than height. Back then Id only smiled indulgently. Roots? When youre meant to soar?
Harriet, I managed, what brings you back into my life?
I braced for a requestmoney, a job, a favour. Old acquaintances always seem to surface when they need something.
Instead, she said:
I was clearing out my mothers cottage at the end of the summer. Found your old lecture notes and a paperbackStrugatskys Monday Begins on Saturday. I think you lost it during the first term. I kept it and Im sorry I never returned it. Time just got away.
I fell silent. I remembered no such textbook, only spreadsheets, market indices, contract figures. Yet a flicker of excitement stirred from the depths of memoryan echo of the wild, whimsical world of ordinary magicians that once made my heart race. I had once dreamed of being a scientist, an inventor, a creator.
And I was wondering, Harriets voice trembled, maybe youd like to have it back? Im selling the cottage, so Im going through everything. Does it mean anything to you?
I could have brushed her off, told her to toss it, claimed I had no time for relics. Instead I asked:
Where is the cottage?
Up in the village of St. Albans, just outside the city. Youve been there before, havent you?
I recalled a stream, the smell of a campfire, Harriet in a simple cotton dress. I remembered being a broke, hopeful student, arguing about humanitys future. A few classmates had joined us for weekends away in the countryside.
Alright, I said, surprising even myself, send me the address. Ill come by.
Driving my Land Rover across the winding lanes felt less like moving through space and more like slipping through time. The scent of cheap aftershave and youth drifted back to me.
The cottage was just as I remembered, though the fence had sagged and half the garden was overtaken by grass. Harriet stepped onto the porch, unchangedno makeup, a plain dress, a gaze that seemed to see straight into my soul, and that same shy smile.
Come in, she said. Teas ready.
We sat in a kitchen that had seen better days, its old kettle steaming on the wood stove. She spoke of her life: a modest accountant at the local factory, a daughter grown and a grandson now, a husband lost years ago in a crash. The skyscrapers and market tickers felt like another planet to her.
She handed me the battered book, its cardboard cover soft from years of handling. The pages were yellowed, the margins filled with my teenage doodles. A tiny pang struck my chest, as if a longsilenced string had finally been plucked.
Thank you for keeping it, I whispered.
What am I to do with it? she shrugged. Its just a bit of clutter, but I cant bring myself to throw it away. Thats the odd part of life, I suppose.
I asked, more sharply than intended, Dont you ever feel its pointless? All this quiet, unremarkable existence?
Harriet looked at me, not with reproach but with gentle melancholy.
Scale is relative, George. Look, she said, leading me to the back window. Outside, an ancient apple tree stood, its branches twisted with age. My grandfather planted that tree. My father built that little shed over there. My daughter played with dolls under the tree, and now my grandson runs around it. Thats my whole world. Do I regret it? No. Ive simply lived.
I stared at the tree, the crooked shed, the modest wooden house, and a sharp, unbearable thought pierced me: I had erected towers, but I had never owned a tree, never had a place that held my warmth for those who might come after.
I had reached the heights, yet I had no roots.
I said goodbye. Tonight I had a crucial dinner with investors. I slipped the worn book onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and the city lights twinkled ahead, beckoning me upward as always. But I no longer felt like a predatory bird. I felt like a lone wanderer, lost, heading the wrong way all my life.
I cancelled the dinneruncharacteristic, but inevitable. I drove back to my highrise, rose to the twentysecond floor, and leaned against the window. Below, life bustled, foreign and unfamiliar.
I ran my fingers over the rough cover of the book, opened to a random page, and read: May happiness be free for all, and may no one leave hurt. I stayed like that until night fell, watching the city lights dim, and for the first time in years I wished not to soar higher but to find that single spot on earth where I could plant a treemy own.
Morning found me with a strange, irreversible crack inside me.
I turned slowly, taking in my crispwhite, designer flatminimal furniture, a couple of expensive paintings, immaculate order. It was a beautiful setpiece, not a home. It was a place to sleep between flights, a stage without a soul.
My hand hovered over the call button for my secretary, then I dialed another number.
Hello, Harriet? Its George again. I paused, choosing my words. Would you mind if I stopped by for a bit longer? I have something to ask.
A hint of surprise rose in her voice, but she agreed.
Two hours later, my Land Rover creaked over the dusty lane once more, this time at a relaxed pace, taking in the familiar yet forgotten countryside.
Harriet waited on the same porch, her quiet smile unchanged.
I thought youd already be back in the city, she said. You have work to do.
Work can wait, I cut in, then, without letting her recover, blurted, Youre selling the cottagehow much?
She named a sum that was, to me, a triflepocketchange.
Ill buy it, I said immediately. But on one condition.
Her eyes widened in puzzlement.
Youll stay here, be the keeper, the manager I cant be here all the time, but I need to know this place lives, that it has a soul, and that I can come back whenever I like to plant that tree.
She listened, her gaze a kaleidoscope of distrust, bewilderment, and faint hope.
George, are you sensible? she finally breathed. Why would you want a crumbling old house?
I have my skyscrapers, I whispered with a bitter grin. But I have no place like this. Im not buying a cottage, Harriet. Im buying a starting point. Your answer?
She looked away, then back at the apple tree, the path leading to the river.
Fine, she said softly. But you must really come back and plant that tree. Remember why it matters.
We sealed the agreement with a handshake, no lawyers, no contracts. For the first time in years I felt I was making the most important pact of my life.
I returned to the city, to my tower of glass and concrete, negotiated deals, signed contracts, amassed millions. Yet now, in the evenings, I approach the window not to feel superior but to imagine myself back at the cottage, breathing in apples and freshly cut grass.
Sometimes I open my battered Monday Begins on Saturday, rereading the underlined lines that a younger, idealistic me once believed could make everyone happy for free. Im beginning to understand where to start.
At first I visited the cottage as if it were another investment. I walked the grounds, scribbled notes on an expensive tablet, listed repairs, replacements, new builds. Harriet didnt interfere; she made jam, tended the garden, and occasionally, leaning against the doorway, watched the oddly dressed, immaculate man whose boots were slowly ruined by village mud.
One rainy evening, when I managed to slip away from work, we sat in the kitchen sipping tea sweetened with her raspberry jam. Conversation stalled. Business topics were exhausted, and personal matters seemed blocked by an invisible wall.
Then Harriet, without looking at me, asked quietly:
Do you remember how we debated Shakespeare with Professor Whitaker? You argued that Hamlet was a brilliant procrastinator, not a coward. I said he was just a miserable boy.
I lifted my eyes from the cup, truly seeing her for the first timenot the accountant, but the brighteyed girl who once challenged me.
I remember, I rasped. And I still think I was right.
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with light.
Me too, she replied.
For the first time in ages, I returned her smilenot a business grin, but a genuine one.
My visits grew more frequent, and the tablet stayed in the garage. I began bringing books from my city flat, placing them on the shelves Id repaired. We talked about everythingwhat wed read, lived, what seemed important then and now.
One night I found her reading to her grandson. The boy sat beside her on the bed, the lamp casting a golden halo over her face as she read The Little Prince. Her voice was soft, soothing, full of tenderness that made my chest ache. I stood in the doorway, breathless, fearing to disturb that perfect moment. I realized I could listen to that voice forever.
I became her assistant, clumsy at firstchopping wood, unclogging the sink, tying tomato vines. She watched me with a steady, approving gaze, and I felt less a failure and more a pioneer discovering the great science of simply being.
Winter arrived, and I came on the eve of New Year. Snow blanketed the cottage, smoke curled from the chimney, the scent of pine and baked apples filled the air. Harriet set the table for two. Watching her arrange the plates, her calm face illuminated by the firelight, I finally understood with undeniable clarity: I was home. After so many years, I was irrevocably home.
I slipped behind her, wrapped my arms around her shoulders, pressed my cheek to her hair. She froze, then relaxed, laying her hand over mine.
Stay, she whispered, not as a request but as a statement of fact, the only logical next step.
Im not going anywhere, I answered, the easiest and truest decision Id ever made.
We talked for hours, catching up on lost years, sharing fears and hopes, laying bare old scars. I kissed her warm palms; she stroked my greying temples. It was not a flash of passion but a steady, comforting flame that would keep us warm to the end.
Morning found me awash in sunlight through the window. Harriet slept beside me, her face the picture of serene peace. I stepped onto the porch; the air was sharp, snow blinding. My phone buzzed with a dozen missed calls from partners. I held it for a moment, then, with resolve, turned it off.
I was no longer the man who hovered above the city. I had finally put down roots, and that was my greatest triumph.
