LITMIR.BIZ

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King Ludwig’s castle and some dark nineteenth-century Flemish works, their varnish spiderwebbed with age. In the only modern note, a Böse stereo system and radio. No television. Despite the dry winter air, a croton spread riotously in a large pot by the picture window, its leaves a rich tapestry of burgundy, green, and yellow. She moved over to the mantel above the massive stone fireplace. A picture of Franz, compelling even as a youngster. Who was that actor in The Blue Max? George Peppard? Several others depicted a balding man displaying fish catches. The father? But a photo of a young girl on a diving dock puzzled her. Who could that be?

      Over the coffee, as they sat in front of crackling birch logs behind a brass fire screen, Belle petted Blondi and praised her obedience. With a flicker at the corner of her mouth, Marta slipped the dog a morsel of cake. “Mit Blondi hier, I fear nothing. We don’t have many guests, but the snow machines, what a nuisance.”

      Belle sat back on the soft couch. “It’s so comfortable. How old is the original building?”

      Franz answered with pride in his voice. “Older than anything in the region. In 1820 a Hudson Bay factor had the first cabin raised in an effort to regulate the fur trade, decades before any mineral exploration or logging. This room would have been the original shelter. Look at the darkened beams above the fireplace. What a desolate and fearful place it must have been in those days, almost like a fort. Of course everything has been redone with each new owner. We are always discovering small evidences of their lives every time we dig the gardens. Bits of crockery, clay pipes, coins and the rare shard of glass.”

      “Like living in a fine museum, but with all the conveniences.”

      Marta gave her son a wink. “Not as many conveniences as I would like. Wolf and I, Franz’s father, who is gone from us now,” (she crossed herself) “was not only a master carpenter, but an electrician and a plumber. For power, you saw the wind generator.”

      Belle nodded. “Enough to run your appliances?”

      “It’s the heating devices that drain the batteries. And as you can see, we have the fireplace and a cooking stove. We can store from the wind for only so long until we must start that awful gas generator. So loud that I hate to have Franz pull the cord. But my radio can use batteries.”

      “Do you enjoy classical music? It’s frustrating up here,” Belle said, “Only the satellite can pull in those selections.”

      Marta reached forward and touched Belle’s arm gently, looking deeply into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me, Liebchen. You see, the radio is the voice of freedom. During the war, we were forbidden to listen to the BBC. Mutti would turn it on so very quietly that we would sit with our ears on it. Once a nosey neighbour came and she had to switch it off quickly. Mutti was so frightened, but she laughed as if it had been a mistake. And we children laughed, too.”

      No one spoke for a minute, until Franz asked, “How are the Burians, Belle?” He turned to his mother. “I haven’t seen them since the funeral. Sometimes there is smoke at their lodge when I pass, but I don’t want to intrude.” Marta excused herself and went into the kitchen.

      “As well as you’d expect. They’re strong people. Probably won’t be at their lodge much anymore, Ben said. How long have you known them?”

      “Oh, only to say hello. Jim was a good deal younger, but I got to know him when we organized the rally against the park. As the representative from the Forestry Management program, he was covering the impact to the woodland.”

      “I’ll try to be there. None of us wants this development. It’s going to bring chaos to the lake.”

      “And besides the destruction, the new access roads bulldozed across the forest will be even more of a problem. There is a First Nations burial ground not one hundred feet from the proposed shower site. And of course the pictographs on the canoe routes. Just imagine what will happen when those become accessible from the main entrance. They cut the timber a hundred years ago, and now they want to rape the land again. We must take a stand or explain our cowardice to the next generation.”

      “There was something else I wanted to ask you, Franz. It’s about Jim’s death. I’m still trying to gather information in case he stumbled upon something in the bush. A drug transfer, perhaps. I can’t imagine what else. Melanie said that you had heard small planes recently, just like he had reported.”

      “Yes, at my camp near Cott Lake, but I’ve never pinpointed any landings. It’s always dark when the sounds come, which drew my suspicions. One of these days when I finish my projects, I’ll put on my snowshoes and have a good look around.”

      Belle nodded her agreement as Marta returned to pass around a plate of strudel. A leather-bound volume of poems on a side table caught Belle’s eye. “May I?” she asked, lifting it with reverence.

      “Of course. Not too many people appreciate the old things,” Marta said. “Franz tells me that one day no one reads books anymore. Only computer screens.”

      “Now really,” he chided gently, “that is an oversimplification of my ideas.”

      Belle ran her finger over the page as they watched in polite amusement. “Fraktur. Can’t read this Gothic very well, although I studied German in university.” She closed her eyes. “Möwen, Möwen, sagst du, wir haben Möwen in dem Haus?”

      They both stared at her as if she’d suddenly gone mad.

      Belle couldn’t suppress a grin. “Oh, I know. ‘Seagulls, seagulls, do you say that we have seagulls in the house?’ Useless, those silly sentences which we had to memorize. Better if I could order schnitzel.” As they both joined her in laughter, she sipped the last of the coffee. Strong and rich, oddly aromatic, she told Marta.

      The older woman’s face lifted at the praise, her eyes sparkling. “We make it with the bitter chicory, in the continental style. You can buy the essence at the Health Food Store, but I grow and dry the plants myself. It has a lovely blue flower. And the blue flower, now, was a concept of the book you hold by Novalis. It represented the romantic ideal, a symbol of eternal search much like the Holy Grail.”

      “Knights, quests, you’re inspiring me. I’m going to have to get out my German grammar books and start from scratch.” Belle said as she stood. “But now I must be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality. I have admired your gardens from afar in the summer.”

      Marta took Belle’s hand and broke into a smile more dazzling than Dietrich’s Blue Angel’s. “Then you must surely come back and see them in their glory.” She gathered the dishes and went into the kitchen.

      “And thanks again for your heroic efforts, Franz.”

      “Der Ritter is at your service.”

      Belle stopped at another picture of the young girl, fair-haired, vital and energetic, pointing up in childish delight at a ten-foot sunflower. “An old girlfriend, Franz?” she asked on a whim.

      His voice grew soft. “My sister.”

      “I didn’t know you had any brothers or sisters.”

      “She moved to the States. Lives in Boston. She wanted to get to the big city, never liked the bush.”

      “Lucky her,” Belle said, summoning a joke to cover the awkwardness she suddenly felt. “This wretched winter, I feel like driving non-stop to Florida and throwing myself on the mercy of the welfare system just to enjoy the sunshine.”

      “Better not,” he advised, his tone lightening. “They don’t pay as well as Ontario.”

      Franz showed her to the washroom before she left. A very expensive electrical composting toilet system she had read about in Cottage Life, but what else would work on that rock? A faded embroidery on the wall read, “Ein gutes Gewissen ist ein sanftes Kissen.” A good something is a soft something else? Too rude to ask for a translation of their bathroom art.

      Marta stood by the door and pressed a warm, fragrant package into

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