When Peonies Reset a Failed Connection

Inside the plane, I meet a tall, brunette girl with bright black eyes, long hair, and an innocent smile. She is wearing a white T-shirt and skinny jeans with a rose print.

Because of the clouds outside the window, her orange smell, and her pink rose by the right ear, I see her as an angel.

‘You like flowers a lot, don’t you?’

‘Yes, especially peonies. Actually, that’s why I’m here. What do you do for a living, Marius?’

‘I design gardens on Como Lake.’ Well done, man! Start with a lie! Couldn’t you tell her the truth? That you’re a simple gardener?

‘I’ve never visited that area!’

‘I could be your guide for visits to less touristy places.’

‘Thank you for the invitation.’

’I also could show you some beautiful areas around Iași. This is the city where I was born.’

‘OK. Here is my Romanian number.’ As Sandra writes the note, her rose falls under my chair.

‘Can you please give me my flower, Marius?’

‘Of course. Can you please repeat my name?’

My question amuses her, and she blushes when I put the rose back, behind her ear.

She falls asleep quickly, with her fragrant head resting on me. My heart trembles, but the spell is interrupted by the pilot:

‘Following the national power outage, the government has temporarily banned access to the telephone signal and the Internet. We will land safely; just please leave the aircraft in peace. ‘

Outside, it’s a continuous run: phones are useless, and people gather around newsstands and televisions. Sandra gets lost in the agitated crowd.

Easter holidays pass without Facebook or phone calls to loved ones. Because of the protests, our streets are more agitated than the Arab ones.

I look for her at the Botanical Museum, but no project or exhibition is scheduled. Four mornings in a row, I wait for Sandra in front of the boarding gate for Milan. I imagine all sorts of scenarios, and therefore I end up talking to myself.

Suddenly, a brunette, fragrant lady with a lush fur coat and a newspaper in her hand appears.

‘Sandra? It’s you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ A lady about ten years older than Sandra turns around.

‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for someone you look a lot like.’

‘Nothing. Good luck! I’m sure you’ll find her.’

Suddenly, I notice a picture with peonies in the newspaper in her hand.

‘Can I please read this page of your newspaper a little?’

Peonies, of course!

The Peony Music Festival Survives Without the Internet is the headline of the newspaper.

I find out that tonight is the show, in Tescani. I happily kiss the lady on the cheek, and I run to find a car!

The driver of a truck finally stops, and I honestly disclose to him my story.

‘We can deviate a little, but you will have to sit in the back, among our flowers.’

I accept his offer. This truck is the ship that will take me to the port of love! Suddenly, my ship stops…

The driver excuses:

‘I didn’t imagine there would be this blockage. You’ll have to walk the last mile. Just choose a bouquet and run to her!’

Two columns of oaks open my way to the white mansion of the great composer George Enescu. I can already hear the violins and the bandoneon of Astor Piazzolla’s Oblivion.

I wipe the soil of the flowers from my knees, but I still feel like a frightened rabbit who wants to surpass a meticulous horse. The horse is my destiny that says, ‘Maktub. I’ve already dealt the cards.’

During the break, I recognize her…with a thin, red evening dress, and a red peony on her left ear.

‘Good evening, Sandra.’

’Marius? You? Here?’

‘I tried to find you. I brought you these flowers.’

‘Red peonies! You remembered!’

‘Actually, I haven’t forgotten you at all. I want to… For you, I came here! I want you to be my tranquility in this insane world, Sandra.’

‘Marius, I don’t know what to say … it’s crazy! You’ve completely blocked me.’ I lower my head, disappointed by her reaction; she continues, ‘OK, I propose another madness: on May 10, at 10 a.m., I’m waiting for you in Varenna.’

Before I answer, she kisses me gently. Her lips taste like a slightly caramelized quince.

‘ I will be there, Sandra, at the Walk of Lovers.’