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HONEYSUCKLE

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THE YEAR BEFORE HE MET HER, HE’D BEEN DOING research on the immune system at nyu, as part of his medical studies. It had become a habit for him to make his way home through a Hasidic neighborhood in Brooklyn. They didn’t welcome strangers, but he was discreet and would act as if he were on some errand. The women went about in long dresses, and now and then he found an opportunity to observe a couple of them on a street corner. Drably dressed, no makeup, long skirts and sleeves. To most Western men they might seem lacking in imagination, but there he stood, watching them with a palpable erection.

He had that way of coming to a standstill over there. In July, when the heat was at its height, he sometimes came to a halt by the big flower beds in Central Park. The irises stretching upward, the scent of roses, and in one place honeysuckle. He would stand there in the sun, thinking of his parents’ yard in Risskov. Perhaps he was longing for home, but mostly it was for the way everything seemed when seen from the street. Or when one looked at the family in old photos. These days his mother tried to avoid the camera, and his father didn’t own one. He devoted himself to gardening instead. In front of the house was an area with pruned yews and cedars, while roses were tended in the backyard. On the south gable end a honeysuckle grew. When it was in flower, its sweet odor​ 76settled over the yard, and then he didn’t know how to feel about anything.