Mr. F lives in a cement house four kilometers outside of town. Near his house, there is a Goldenrain tree. Well, that’s not exactly accurate, because the foothills where Mr. F lives are covered with Goldenrain trees— but Mr. F’s tree is exceptionally large. Its olive-green branches and leaves block the windows on the second floor.

This house has two floors in total. Originally, there was also a basement filled with all sorts of items, including the silver bowl used by Mr. F’s great-grandfather during his baptism. Twelve years ago, when Mr. F discarded the shoe repair machine, he also threw away the key to the basement. Three months later, he realized the key was missing, but by then, it had disappeared along with the shoe repair machine. It was possible that an old lady from the town found them and sold them for money. Since then, Mr. F had not been in his basement.

The walls of the house are painted pink— the same color as a small Goldenrain tree’s leaves. On the north side, the house has four windows. The metal window frame is in the shape of a grape wine. Mr. F knows it is unlikely that his grandfather had ever seen grapes in person while he was building the house. Mr. F guesses that his grandfather found the pattern in an old copy of Mysterious Plants that is still on his bookshelf. The house is now empty; Mr. F is not at home. He has gone to the town to deliver the newly repaired shoes to Mrs. Annie.

Mr. F walks on a gravel path. He is hunchbacked, so he walks carefully so he does not tumble.  He is seventy-one kilograms, but he is fit. He credits his fitness to his frequent walk to Gerlgis. The town Gerlgis is one of the most prosperous places in Norbits. There are four roads that allow carriages to pass. Mrs. Annie lives on the widest of the four roads. The houses that line the road are all white and have onion-like domes styled after the Hagia Sophia. Some of the houses have blue, green, or yellow flags in front of them. Houses with yellow flags are bars. The bars are places for the people of Gerlgis to exchange daily news and gossip. Local bands also play very loudly in those bars throughout the day, so passersbyers hear several different songs played as they walk by.

As Mr. F walks along the road, he sees a group of young men chatting and smoking near a bar. Mr. F would swear that he does not usually like to eavesdrop, but he overhears one of them as he says, “The owner of the shoelace shop dragged this man and hid behind her counter…” The group of men laugh as Mr. F lowers his head and keeps walking.

Mr. F passes a woman talking to the watermelon seller. Her sharp voice hurts Mr. F’s eardrum. He sneaks a glance and can see she is beautiful. Her hair is brown and wavy and her cheek is as white as the onion-like domes. She wears black gloves, a red dress, and a pair of shiny black Brogues. Her calves, half covered by her boots, are as white as the domes as well. Mr. F stares at her boots. He notices they have very thick soles. He wishes he had the courage to raise his head to meet her eyes but instead hears another burst of laughter behind him.

 The young men are still telling the story of the shoelace shop owner. The rude laughter seems to upset Mr. F and he hurries along.  As he walks by a tricycle filled with watermelons, he doesn’t notice the smell of a nearby aquatic products shop. The smell of a woman’s orange perfume is too strong, and causes Mr. F to sneeze several times. Orange reminds him of mangoes. People are easily forgotten, thought Mr. F, but mangoes aren’t. The sweet smell of mango has been lingering day and night since he was nineteen.

He knocks on Mrs. Annie’s door.  In front of Mrs. Annie’s house there are bare-chested men lying on the deck chairs who watch Mr. F with curiosity. Just as Mr. F expected, Mrs. Annie doesn’t open her door. He places the repaired shoes in the mailbox. The mailbox shimmers with specks of sunlight filtered through the leaves. On the way back home, he passes by a man-made lake, so small it looks like a puddle on the road, and an ice cream shop. Every town has an ice cream shop, not to mention it is summer now. He briskly passes by the shoelace store. Gradually, there are fewer people on the road, and the sky slowly turns dark as if it is going to rain. It’s quiet.

The atmosphere reminds him of a day when he was nineteen. He remembers that the temperature suddenly dropped that day. The Goldenrain trees were in full bloom, eager to bear fruit. Yellow blossoms of Goldenrain trees had fallen and covered the road. He remembered that each flower had a small red spot in its center. Rainwater flowed over the five-star yellow flowers forming a waterfall. Mr. F had never seen a waterfall.

“You ought to see it,” said Mr. Moristi, “you got to see many things. I have been to Niagara Falls twice. The water drops hit my face. It felt like a rain as heavy as today’s storm."

Norbis is famous for its rainstorms. Mr. F met Mr. Moristi on a rainy day when Mr. F was nineteen. He saw Mr. Moristi walking on the road connecting Gerlgis with Mr. F’s house. He remembers the road was covered by the yellow flowers of Goldenrain trees like a carpet. Mr. Moristi wore old but clean plaid pants, and held a black umbrella. He carried a briefcase under his arm. Mr. F had never seen a person like him. To Mr. F’s surprise, the man allegiantly had walked towards him and bowed to him.

“I believe you wouldn’t mind accommodating a traveler who has just left Gerlgis, sir. The weather of Norbis is far too capricious, and roads here were built too carelessly.” The young Mr. F was delighted. The rainstorm lasted for four days. During the four days, he told the traveler about the isolation of living on a mountain. He told him about his grandfather’s baptism and his father’s funeral and nearly cried. Through teary eyes, he saw Mr. Moristi’s solemn expression and sharp gaze.

Mr. Moristi stayed for four days. After Mr. F had told him all of his stories, Mr. Moristi began to tell Mr. F his own stories. He mentioned a funeral taking place in Gerlgis. One night at midnight, a hall had caught on fire. The fire had burnt the corpse of the poor elderly man into ashes. Mr. Moristi also had many stories about love and betrayal. Mr. F was shocked when Mr. Moristi told him that divorces had been allowed by law somewhere. But Mr. Moristi rarely told Mr. F stories about himself. When Mr. F asked him why, Moristi said, “Maybe you didn’t realize that I am a novelist.”

F didn’t understand why a novelist couldn’t tell stories about themselves, so he looked at Moristi in confusion.

“But, you know, everything I’ve told you is true,” said Mr. Moristi.

“What do novelists do?”

“Novelists are writers. Have I ever told you the story of B. Wordsworth?”

Moristi began to talk about B. Wordsworth and his mango trees and his “greatest poem in the world”. He told Mr. F. how B. Wordsworth had thrown a pin into the water and watched it sink.

“B. Wordsworth is a character in Naipaul’s novel,” said Moristi, “I am different from B. Wordsworth. I would never expect a pin to float upward in water. I write real novels, not the unrealistic ‘greatest poem of the world’. I travel everywhere for writing. I have been to London and Buenos Aires. Whenever I go to a new place,” he leaned forward to be nearer to F, “I see new types of lives. People are busy pursuing different goals, but they forget what the true meaning of life is.”

Mr. F didn’t understand. He pondered over the story of B. Wordsworth. He tried to imagine the smell of red mangoes. Since then, the smell had lingered day and night with him.

“Gerlgis is the weariest place I’ve ever been. If I were you, I wouldn’t live in this town. The unexamined life is—is not worth living. I would observe it from the outside, study it. I would stay awake to experience it better. Do you understand? Keep a distance from life to truly experience it?”

Mr. F heard Mr. Moristi laugh ironically.

“You will. Someday.” he murmured.

After the rainstorm, in the morning when the Goldenrain trees had lost their blossoms, Mr. Moristi left the room. Carrying his briefcase under his arms, he disappeared on the road.

Mr. F looks at the Goldenrain trees. He imagines that the road was covered by yellow blossoms like the day from his memory. Mr. F has spent his life with the Goldenrain tree. He thinks back to every pair of shoes he has repaired on the hill.

“I don’t understand,” He thinks, “up to now, what have I learned? Mr. Moristi told me to keep a distance.” To keep a distance. To not be trapped by the custom of cooking a toad each morning. To not be bothered by the endless gossip and backbiting. To escape from Gerlgis, he buried his forty-three years. In the forty-three years, he had achieved nothing. He does try his best to be calm and sober but that is all. The women with cheeks as white as onion-like dome. Vulgar! He is finally free from the foolishness and vulgarity of the Gerlgis.

But what would he get? It’s a shame for him to admit that he has never felt lucky to be able to watch rainstorms on this hill. He has seen nothing artful, and feels he has never seen anything that belongs in Mr. Moristi’s world, and that he hasn’t found any of the happiness of the Gerlgis. He thinks really, really hard, only to remember a sweet smell, which reminds him of his father’s funeral.

The hateful smell of mangoes! It first appeared when he was nineteen, and since then it has haunted him day and night. Maybe it was with him even earlier? He doesn’t know. The smell occupies his whole life—his whole life he has been with the Goldenrain trees.

            … “Isn’t that the funniest thing you have heard?”

            His voice broke.

            I left the house and ran home crying, like a poet, for everything I saw.