Free Requiem by Frances Itani Page B

with another the same age, maybe early twenties. Both, I’m relieved to see, are clean. No shredded wheat in sight. They are sitting at the table nearest the entrance and nod as we come in, more to Basil than to me. The second young woman is bony and angular, with long brown hair. One of her eyes is half-closed, which gives the odd impression of imbalance. On the wall behind the cash register, a hand-printed sign has been pinned to a corkboard with an open safety pin: ANITA WILL READ YOUR TEA LEAVES.
    Rapunzel and Anita
, Lena would say.
Look out for the sisters Grimm. They could be in disguise
.
    There are only four tables in this spacious room, which must have been a dining room in grander times. The lodge windows look down over the hill I’ve just driven up. There are woods on both sides of the gravel road. Woods the thickness of the ones Henry and I used to prowl with homemade bows and arrows around the camp when we were children, pretending to stalk bear and cougar. Two of the tables here offer a view of a creek below and a walking path that approaches from another angle. The creek looks wide enough to be a small river. I’ll check the map later, maybe hike down in the morning and give Basil some exercise. I take a seat by the window and face the setting sun, only to be met by another unlikely sight. Two women are climbing the path. Given the shrinking light, they’re in silhouette but definitely heading upwards. Basil coils himself at my feet and closes his eyes as if he wants no part of the experience. Rapunzel and her friend don’t seem to be bothered by the overheated room. I sling my jacket over the back of my chair, and I’m still too warm.
    The menu is handwritten and the hours of the place, which doesn’t have a name, are printed across the bottom:
Your welcome—4 to 7 in the evening p.m
.
    Rapunzel is suddenly standing beside my table, her attitude suggesting that I’ve interrupted her conversation. From two choices on the menu, I order a large bowl of chili and a cup of coffee. She disappears behind a painted door and I hear older female laughter in the kitchen.
    Uneven light is sparkling up from the creek. I wonder about the place; it must have a history, a story, many stories. If Lena were with me, she’d amuse me by inventing her own. The women who were climbing the trail now enter the room somewhat flushed, greet me—Basil raises his head momentarily and gives a low moan—and sit at the window table in front of mine. They might be in their forties or fifties—I can’t guess ages anymore, not with accuracy, though I don’t know when I lost the ability. They order small bowls of chili and a large pot of tea. The tea is wanted before the meal. It’s impossible not to hear every word, though they’re trying to keep their voices low. It’s obvious that they’re staying in the other cabin for the night and were out for exercise and fresh air. The van must belong to them. From their mutterings, it sounds as if they are not pleased with the state of their cabin.
    I’d like to enjoy my own silence, but it’s difficult to focus on the page in front of me. Okuma-san used to talk about the more famous of Beethoven’s letters that he had come across when he was a young student in Europe. Many of the letters, Okuma-san read in German; some were read in translation. When a complete set was published in English in the sixties, I ordered the set for his birthday. The three volumes came back to me after his death in 1967, along with his other sparse belongings.
    But I find myself reading the same lines over and over. The letter is addressed to a child and makes a case for the true artist having no pride, only a blurry sort of awareness of how far he is from reaching his goal. I can identify with the part about the goal, but I’m unable to block out the conversation at the next table, and look up.
    The women are wearing bulky cardigans, obviously knit by the same person, in tones of beige and faded