Men have flooded the flower shops today. I’m also waiting in line. Tradition. What can you do? International Women’s Day has turned into a holiday of flowers, presents and feasting instead of commemorating women’s fight for equality, liberation, and the women’s rights movement. I wonder how Clara Zetkin or Rosa Luxemburg would react to the bouquets and stuffed toys.
So here I am in a small, dark, semi basement flower shop on the Russian Jewish border of Midwood, where an old Jewish man has been running the place for many years. Snatch comes to mind. “What do I know about diamonds?” I don’t know much about flowers, but I’m not a boxing promoter, so I always buy them in this shop.
The old Jewish man makes the bouquets, and I have to say that nowhere else can you get exactly what you want by answering just two questions. To make a bouquet, this old man needs to know who it is for and the reason. So whenever I walk in, I say something like, “For my beloved, for the holiday,” or “For my beloved, just because.”
His old eyes, framed by wrinkles, with some complicated spark buried deep inside, study you carefully, almost evaluating, while at the same time his hands are already moving, pulling flowers out of their baskets with quick, precise gestures. Then he disappears for a moment into the back and returns with the finished bouquet.
Sometimes it comes wrapped in elegant mesh, almost festive. Sometimes in an ordinary cellophane sleeve. As if the wrapping also depends not on fashion but on meaning.
He names the price after he finishes the bouquet. The strangest thing is that the price is always exactly what you need it to be, even though he never asks how much you are planning to spend.
Once, while I was there, a respectable looking gentleman ordered a bouquet with the words, “For a lover, for a date.” A couple of weeks later I saw him in the same shop ordering, “For my wife, to apologize.” Both bouquets were quite lavish but completely different. By the way, the second one cost more.
In my case, “wife” and “lover” refer to the same person. I hope that remains true, and my wife always likes the bouquets I buy from the old Jew.
Today, though, the old man is not there. But the rules remain the same.
A middle aged man approaches the counter and says, “For the wife, for my daughter, and for my daughter in law.” No need to clarify anything else. After all, it is March 8. Everything is obvious when women’s equality is celebrated.
The florist, a guy no younger than me, looks at the man in the same way the old man used to. The evaluation takes him a bit longer, but eventually he disappears into the back and returns with three completely different bouquets. One is larger, fairly conservative and strict, clearly for the wife, and two cheerful ones, very different from each other, for the daughter and the daughter in law.
My turn comes. I order as usual, but I am curious where the old Jewish man has gone. With sudden horror I realize I do not even know his name. I stumble over my question and awkwardly ask about the owner.
It turns out he is in the hospital.
Well, I think, he is getting old. He looks at least seventy. But I had not listened carefully enough.
They are discharging his wife. She just gave birth.
Damn.
The salesman smiles and says he finally has a little sister. He already has four brothers.
I stand there in complete disbelief. I had always assumed the old man lived alone. I thank him and step aside to free up the line.
Next comes a very neat, well groomed man who had been on the phone the entire time he was waiting. First with his mother, then with his wife, then his mother again, then his wife again.
He approaches the counter and says he needs bouquets for his wife and his mother.
After a while the florist brings out two completely identical ones.
The man looks puzzled.
“Why are they the same?”
“It’s March 8, not a birthday. On this day all women are equal.”
“But you just gave three different bouquets to that other man.”
“He was buying for his wife, his daughter, and his daughter in law. You are buying for your wife and your mother. Judging by how you spoke with them, if you give them different bouquets each one will decide the other’s is better. Do you need that kind of trouble?”
The man glances at his phone, nods, pays silently, and leaves.
The old Jewish guy would never have explained anything, but I guess the shop is in good hands.
