It is 1959. She wheels her bike into a narrow alleyway and chains it to a drainpipe. The space is filled with ferns and geraniums, pebbles and polished shells. A jungle, a garden, created by this woman’s own hands. Jane pushes open the door and climbs the dingy staircase to the second floor. The corridor smells of damp and garlic. She knocks on the door to number 3. The door is opened by a young woman in her thirties. She is wearing a pretty floral dress and a headscarf. She takes a long inhale of smoke from a cigarette, and says, Jane? Jane smiles. Please come in, the woman says. Jane enters the studio apartment, where every surface is lined with books and pot plants, the shelves, tables, beside the stove, and hanging baskets hang from the ceiling. Through the fog of cigarette smoke the woman hands Jane a drink. Jane smiles and takes a cautious sip.
