Short Horror Stories ^~^

Habits of the Artichoke

Very few people are familiar with Ohm Alley. Its only block of any length runs near the corner of Triunvirato and de los Incas avenues. I live in a small balcony apartment facing the inner courtyard.

Even though I am forty-eight, I have never felt I would — or could — get married. I manage quite well on my own. My specialty is not agriculture or botany; I teach Spanish, literature, and Latin. I don't know anything about those natural, rural sciences, but I do know a thing or two about linguistics and etymology. It is from these fields that I began my approach to the artichoke.

As you know, a significant percentage of the Spanish lexicon has its origin in the language of the Arab invaders of the eighth century. Sometimes they would create a word by giving an Arabic form to a Latin or Neo-Latin noun that was in current usage in Spain.

Such is the case with the Mozarabic caucil, which derives from the Latin capitiellum, meaning "little head." Thus, alcaucil (article + noun) means "the little head." This popular name has, shall we say, greater "expressivity" and "utility" than the scientific term cynara scolymus.

Let us see why.

In Buenos Aires no one has ever seen an artichoke plant. From the vegetable markets, we are acquainted with, specifically, those little dead heads whose heart (better said, receptacle) and the bases of whose leaves (or rather, scales) are, certainly, very tasty. Well, then, these little heads contain the seed of the flower, and the horticulturist pulls them off the plant before it can develop, as, otherwise, the heads become hard and inedible.

I lived my whole life in complete ignorance of the morphology, life, and habits of the artichoke. Now, however, I can say without being pedantic that I have acquired a good deal of information and have become somewhat of an authority on the subject. I am aware, of course, that, regarding the artichoke, much remains to be learned.

The artichoke can be cultivated in a flower pot of generous proportions. Since it is a kind of thistle, a tough, hardy plant, it requires little care; it grows quickly; it reaches a height of approximately one meter, and horizontally speaking, a longitude that has, until now, been impossible to determine.

Although, as a rule, I don't find plants interesting or attractive, I accepted with feigned gratitude the artichoke plant given to me by a neighbor nicknamed Peaches: simple and boring, of a certain age and myopia, she has a son named Sebastian who is rather a dim bulb.

Young Sebas (an apocope favored by his mother and his friends) had difficulty completing tenth grade. Somehow I found myself giving him free Spanish lessons so he could attempt to learn in a few days what he had not managed to learn, or even suspect, in the previous eleven or twelve months.

I don't make any bones about the fact that I am an excellent Spanish teacher, with twenty years' experience (and weariness) wielding the chalk. But Sebas (hopelessly plebeian and empty-headed) ended up as I had foreseen, duly flunked by the March examining committee.

Madame Peaches — maternal bias apart — managed to understand that the fault lay not with me but with her son, and in order to thank me in some way, gave me the aforesaid artichoke plant.

Madame Peaches visited my apartment briefly, committed untold errors and half-truths as she spoke, paid not the slightest attention to anything I said, conveyed her disillusioned view of the world, and — at last! — withdrew, leaving me with the sensation of displeasure that people of low intelligence and boundless ignorance habitually arouse in me. And there on the balcony the artichoke plant remained, together with a certain ill will, in its red and white flowerpot.