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 her hand. “Strudel for you to take home. Give a little bit to your dog, too. Soon you come again.”
On the way down, Belle noticed a small grotto of cemented stones surrounding a female statue. “Mary? Aren’t most Germans Lutherans?” she asked. Around the region, in French areas especially, she had seen many similar shrines, some even illuminated. This one was carefully swept with a small bunch of frozen carnations at its feet.
“My father’s family were Junkers, a landowner class, who took part in the Kulturkampf, the nineteenth century struggle between the Roman Catholic church and the German government,” Franz explained. “Mother keeps the traditions. Since we don’t go to church here, she has her own way of worshipping. This isn’t Mary, but Dymphna, an old Belgian saint from where my grandmother lived. I built it to practice stone masoning.” He shrugged. “Me, I’m just a garden variety agnostic like most scientists.”
Blondi had followed them down to sit dutifully at her master’s boots. “From her looks and her comportment, her pedigree must be excellent,” Belle remarked.
“Her parents were Schutzhund Threes. We can trace her lineage to Axel von der Deininghauser Heide, a legendary sire,” Franz recited with clear pride, “but then so can most people who own purebreds. Axel’s there somewhere on the chart. Perhaps Blondi and Freya are related very, very far back, do you think? As for her training, we didn’t see the necessity of putting her through such severe paces since she is a family pet.”
“I know what you mean. She’s a friend first. And please thank your mother again. It was a privilege to meet her. You must love her very much.”
“Her heart is not good, I fear,” he said, tightening his lips in a resigned gesture. “You heard the cough. And of course we run a risk out here on the island, though there is the air rescue.”
“You’re in the right town for heart and cancer specialists, Franz. Anything else and it’s Toronto. I wish her well.”
Belle waved as she headed off across the frozen wasteland. How did they manage to live here all year? Franz must have to stay in town at freeze-up and ice-out. As she throttled up, behind her the island got smaller and smaller. Knowing how disorienting distances could be, she aimed directly across the lake, sighting off a bare hill near her house, watching the landscape enlarge at warp speed. Whether from her canoe or from her Bravo, the sight always thrilled her, the sun gleaming off her windows and the russet siding glowing in sunlight. Xanadu, a golden pleasure dome, even without Alf.
Later that night with the help of her German dictionary, Belle translated the motto from the embroidery in the bathroom: “A good conscience is a soft pillow.” She hoisted her glass with a grin. “ ‘Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.’ And single malt, now that can justify anything.”
TWELVE
The Sudbury Star reported that the rally was scheduled for noon at Shield University. The crowd would hear speeches and then march downtown to the provincial government buildings where Franz would present a petition to a Ministry representative. Concerned citizens from the community were urged to join the assembly.
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