“I think we’d better speak inside,” Azov said, looking over his shoulder as a cat ran from the
shadows.
“I’ve been hoping you would return,” Valko said. “But I expected some warning—a letter, perhaps,
or a messenger. It isn’t wise to come here so openly. You’re risking your life, but also mine.” He
lowered the gun and said, “Come with me. It’s best to get out of the street. Anyone, or anything, could
be watching.”
They followed Valko into a pinched cobblestone passageway. He stopped, unlatched an iron door,
and led them into an immense, flowering courtyard. The dimensions of the courtyard were the exact
inverse of the narrow alley: It was an enormous square filled with lanterns and lined with high stone
walls, creating a veil of privacy. If Azov had not visited Valko’s home before, he would never have
been able to guess that such a marvelous private courtyard existed inside. Every inch of the garden
was filled with greenery. Fruit trees grew along the wall, their branches heavy; flowers of every
variety and color bloomed in earthenware pots; vines slithered along trellises, tendrils curling in the
pale moonlight. The fragrance of gardenias and roses and lavender filled the air. A stone fountain
gurgled at the center of the courtyard and, as they stepped deeper and deeper into the paradise of
colors and scents, Azov felt utterly at ease. Here, in this secret garden, in the midst of an unnatural
fecundity, he was among friends.
Even from a distance Azov could make out plants in what appeared to be a greenhouse at the far
end of the courtyard. An ironwork frame held sheets of glass that rose, as they gained height and
volume, into an elaborate Victorian cupola. The structure cut upward in lapidary panels, sharp and
crystalline against the night sky. To Azov’s surprise, a bank of solar panels had been installed beyond
the greenhouse, angling toward the south. The interior lights were hazy, as if a mist of water swirled
through the warm air. As they walked closer he saw leaves pressed against the glass, and his mind
turned to the thousands of seeds he had collected and preserved. St. Ivan Island, and the work he did
there, seemed a million miles away.
Valko unlocked the door to the greenhouse and they stepped inside. The cool mountain air
transformed into a blanket of humidity filled with the scent of flowers. UV lights burned from bulbs
overhead. A dull hum radiated from a solar-powered generator.
The tables were filled with every variety of plant. A forest of fruit trees grew in fat ceramic pots.
Azov paused to examine a tree and saw a fruit that had the shape of a pear but the deep purplish red
of a cluster of grapes. He leaned close and inhaled, smelling the fruit as if it were the trumpet of a
lily. The scent was spicy and full, more like the aroma of a tea composed of cinnamon and cardamom
than a piece of fruit. “Smell this,” he said, calling Vera over. As she took in the aroma, her gaze fell
upon a strange-looking tree. “What is this?” she asked.
Valko smiled, clearly pleased to have captured their attention. “Everything you see in this
greenhouse is a plant that has not existed for thousands of years. The flowers blooming on that table,
the vegetables growing at the far end of the greenhouse, the fruit you have just smelled—none of these
things have blossomed since the time of the Flood. In my original plans, the greenhouse alone was to
be vast, with over two thousand varieties of antediluvian seeds.”
As Azov looked more closely, he saw that the plants were both familiar and strange, retaining the
basic qualities of the flora one saw every day, and yet—as he touched the leaves—he knew that he
hadn’t seen these particular varieties before. The leaves were glossier, the fruit more fragrant.
Apples hung from the branches, each one perfectly round, with skin that shone brilliant pink. Valko
plucked an apple from the tree and gave it to Azov. “Taste it,” he said.
Azov turned the apple in his hand. Up close the skin was solid pink, flawless and shiny as a rubber
ball. The stem was an iridescent blue.
“Don’t worry,” said Valko, “it’s too late to get thrown out of Eden.”
Azov took a bite. The taste was startling and strange. He had expected a burst of sweetness,
something approximating the many varieties of apple he had eaten in the past. Instead his mouth was
filled with a strange and unpleasant taste, a medicinal, herbal astringency that reminded him of spiced
liquor. He almost dropped the apple but caught sight of the flesh: It was the same glowing blue as the
stem, phosphorescent, as if lit from within.
Valko took the apple from Azov’s hands and placed it on the table. Removing a Swiss army knife