The Never-Ending “Apol” Story
The Never-Ending “Apol” Story
The 4th of October 2020 has been warm and sunny. I decided to go to Walter’s garden earlier than usual, worried that the neighbors might already be there harvesting apples that were getting ripe and redder each day. Walter’s apples have become the apples of the neighbors’ eyes since they changed color hues — from green to yellow and red, which means they were ready for the pickin’. Walter planted the tree so close to the garden gate that the branches reach out over the garden community lane, fruits hanging so that everyone passing by could pick them up; passersby, usually the garden residents, don’t hesitate to do so without asking first. I am a familiar sight to them — from early Summer to late Fall — Walter’s Little Nognog. Nognog was my gardener at home, short and dark-complexioned, skinny but energetic, until poor health forced him to quit. Here in Vienna, I am Nognog. Passersby would see me cutting the grass, trimming the vines and the hedges, tending the roses, and taking out garbage bins. I will be raking fallen leaves and fruits this Fall until the garden house closes for the cold season. This shared space and routine remind me of the importance of neighborhood bonds and cultural continuity.
At home, I have two gardeners. One of them is Nognog. In Vienna, I am Walter’s Nognog
Walter planted the tree so close to the garden gate that the branches reach out over the garden community lane, fruits hanging that everyone passing by could pick them.
“May I steal an apple? “a young man passing by on a late summer day, perched on a bike, stopped when he saw me collecting fallen apples and raking leaves in the garden. I didn’t know him. He was a bit dark-skinned, more of a tan, I should say, with dark curly hair; he could easily pass for a Middle Easterner. He spoke perfect German, though, as if it were his mother tongue. With him was an equally young blonde woman, Austrian, I can tell quickly.
“Oh, please do!” I said. He picked one green apple, and when he bit it, I heard a crunchy sound and saw the juice running down his chin. “Still sour, I know,” I told him. “Come back in a few weeks when they’re red and a bit sweeter.” The woman smiled and said they prefer their apples green, tangy, and tart. Perfect for apple strudel. “Bring a bag next time; you can pick as many as you like,” I told them as they bid Auf Wiederseh’n. Yes, they will be back.
They returned two weeks later — with three large Hofer shopping bags. Hofer is a chain of grocery shops in Austria. I could see them from the terrace, but the wine foliage was so thick they could not see me from the gate. I went out to greet them. They came to pick apples and brought a ladder. “Oh, sure! Help yourselves; there are so many,” I said. But leave some for us, I wanted to say, as I returned to the terrace and worked with my laptop. I didn’t realize they intended to get as many as possible until I noticed they were still picking apples three-quarters of an hour later.
“You must be kidding me!” I said to myself. I went out to check on them. The guy was standing atop the ladder, still selecting the best ones. Sitting on the table were two Hofer shopping bags full of apples, and the young woman was still holding the third bag. The guy came down the ladder when he saw me. He said he went home to get a ladder extension, but using it under the tree was impossible without risking damage to the branches. He would not want that to happen, he said, while walking around under the tree, trying to find a way he could position the ladder with the extension fixed to it.
“No way I can do that,” he said in frustration. It would help if you stopped trying, I told him. I was smiling, anxious, nevertheless. I told them they could help themselves, but didn’t ask them to get the whole tree.
“Well, you can come back some other time again.” I could not believe myself telling them what I had just said. I did not know what to say, so that was why.
“I know your neighbor, Sissy, “he said. “We stopped being friends a long time ago. We don’t talk to each other,” I wanted to confide to him, but it was a long story. Best of friends, now best of enemies. So ist das Leben! That’s life!
“Do you know Walter, the owner of the house? “I asked him instead. “I heard about him,” he said, “but I think he and my father know each other.” Wait a sec, let me get Walter, I told him.
“Mugrabi? “Walter yelled out as he saw the young man, who immediately answered affirmatively.
“Mugrabi?” I heard myself repeating the name. “You are Alexander?” Suddenly, I was excited and genuinely enthusiastic. We know his father personally. We got to know him through this estranged person who lives next door. I hadn’t seen his father for eternity, and Alexander was still in his teens the last time I saw him. Significantly grown up now — Alexander — in his late thirties, even, I thought. Now I can say where he got his Middle Eastern looks. Peter, his father, was half-German and half-Egyptian. He had been once, or twice, in the garden, I don’t remember anymore, together with the now-deceased husband of Walter’s neighbor. He liked my cooking and would constantly repeat how much he loved my food whenever we met, mostly at his men’s clothing boutique in the city. Peter and his girlfriend were good friends with Walter’s neighbor. They would invite each other to their respective homes, where, on some occasions, Walter and I would be there as well, dining together, until the world ceased turning for them. They, too, had a falling out.
“What do you do with so many apples?” Walter was curious. “We’ll make jams, compotes, apple strudels,” Alexander’s girlfriend replied. She could also be his wife, but Walter and I didn’t ask. They live just across the road, “in this little old house, beside the new home,” he described the place. “Oh, that with the rose bushes as a hedge?” I asked. “No, the one beside it.” Does your mom still live there?” That was me again. And no, his mom does not live there anymore. And why do I care? It’s weird for me to ask. Intriguing, though.
“Give our best to your father,” I told Alexander. “And to Frau Freitag, too,” an afterthought. I saw the perplexed expression on Alexander’s face. “The teacher, your father’s girlfriend,” I elaborate. To which he said, “Montag, you mean?”
“Right, Montag, sorry,” I apologized. “I have called her Freitag since day one, and she knows that.” That was me again, laughing, my foiled attempt at hiding my embarrassment. I remember how often my face would get red when I said Freitag to Montag.
I heard from them last Thursday when someone pressed the buzzer. The garden buzzer was the latest gadget in Walter’s garden. Now, we can no longer ignore when someone is at the gate trying to get our attention. Alexander’s girlfriend brought homemade apple strudels and apple crumbles — her way of showing gratitude for letting them get apples from Walter’s garden. “Lecker!” Walter was happy with the Überraschung we received from the good neighbors — Sehr nett of them.
The buzzer worked for a while. I didn’t notice it had stopped working, but I couldn’t be bothered to fix it. Don’t get it repaired, I told Walter, at least not now. He had it installed, not because he was eager to see people coming to see him, especially people he didn’t know. He recently discovered Amazon Online Shopping, which he finds very convenient. Whenever he is inside the house, some ten meters away from the gate, he would not know that someone was outside wanting to see him. When Walter is alone at home, he locks the garden gate, shuts his house door, and leaves his TV on even if he isn’t watching. Thus, the buzzer to let the Amazon messenger come and go.
But buzzer or no buzzer, and as long as apples were hanging on Walter’s tree, there would be a neighbor, or a passerby Walter does not know, who would drop by to ask for their share of apples. They come with buckets and baskets. It is Fall — the Apple Terror has just begun: Apple pie, apple crumbles, apple mousse, Apple compotes, fresh Apple juice, Apple cider — The Never-Ending Apple Story goes on.
We have this neighbor who makes herself feel at home at Walter’s, with Lina, her dog, as her excuse for her visit. She often comes unannounced, carrying big plastic buckets for her harvest this apple season. Once, I told her to pick up fallen apples because there were so many that, if left, they would either rot or go to the garden bin for organic waste. She shrugged and said she would pick the fresh apples instead. Bad back, she told me; it hurts when she bends. “You love to bake, right? Those fallen apples are the best for making apple strudels, you know?” Having said that to me, she smiled, winked, and went on with her business, picking apples. “For my friends and neighbors, you know.” Hello? She’s a character, this neighbor. We have become good friends since that Fall, but that’s another story I’ll be glad to tell you next time.