The Twenty-Second Night

 

We were sitting on the veranda, admiring the moonlight cast over the silver sea, savoring the tea liqueur I’d prepared some time ago, when I said:

“Last Tuesday, I found an octopus among the coral reefs.”

“For real? How’d you notice it?” Nick asked, intrigued.

“I know those reefs well, and I noticed one of them looked bigger, its outline just... off. I moved in closer, reached out gently — and a tentacle curled softly around my finger. Just as delicately as I had approached it. We exchanged what felt like… a few caresses.”

“That kinda sounds like an erotic story,” Nick joked, grinning.

“Far less than that, believe me. But quite suddenly, it wrapped itself around my arm, all the way to my elbow. It changed color and texture — to mimic my skin. But it didn’t harm me; it simply received the strokes I gave its great, strange head.”

“Were you snorkeling?”

“Oh, yes. It was easy to sit on the sea floor and still breathe. Octopuses are fascinating creatures. We played like that for a while, and then, gently, I nudged it back toward the coral — which it understood, and obeyed. I left the sea and went to work.”

“So… you made a new friend?”

“I doubt it. Octopuses are solitary, and I don’t believe their nervous systems allow for what we’d call affection. I suppose I didn’t pose a threat and may have even given it some physical pleasure; that’s all. Speaking of relationships, how are things going with your violets?”

“They’re hangin’ in there — still alive,” Nick replied.

“Very good. Do you speak to them?”

“Come again?”

“Your violets. Do you speak to them?”

“No...” he said, with a note of confusion in his voice, as though I’d suddenly become some odd, esoteric figure.

I laughed and pressed on.

“There’s some evidence that plants respond emotionally to external events and that they communicate with one another.”

 “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I don’t know if they ‘hear’ us, but they do perceive our presence — and our actions. It seems they even recognize us as ‘the bringers of water,’ for example. Talking to a plant can forge a sort of bond between it and its caretaker. I know countless stories of people who threatened to cut down a fruitless tree, and suddenly, it bore fruit — or bloomed, or came back to life when it seemed dead. Start an emotional relationship with them. Talk to them. Let them be your third magic chair.”

He laughed as he said, “You haven’t forgotten my magic chairs?”

“Not only have I not forgotten — I totally understand it.”

“I’ll give it a shot. I’ll try talking to my violets.”

“Please do. I just hope they don’t talk back.”

We both laughed.

“Made me think of that one who goes, ‘Feeeed me!’”

“Audrey II!”

“That’s the one! “Little Shop of Horrors!”

“Fantastic films — both the musical and the original.”

“I’ve never seen the original.”

“Directed by Roger Corman, at the height of his powers. Not as pulsing or with the grandeur of the remake, but full of charm. Want to watch it?”

“Right now!” he shouted, springing from his chair.