by Joseph Bonis
Tracy rocked back a little bit. Up until now, she'd been threatened, sympathized with, recruited, complimented, insulted, challenged, and appraised, but she'd not been congratulated. With how topsy-turvy her life had been, it seemed almost inappropriate, but she remembered how she had cleaned out the pot, and the brief feeling of pride as she had figured out how to control her abilities. A small, excited grin spread across her face, unbidden. “It is kinda neat,” she admitted. “Scary, but neat.”
“All the childhood stories come to life,” Hans agreed. “But I gotta say, be careful. You gotta weather stone?”
Tracy nodded, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “How'd you know?” she asked.
“Know you years,” Hans said, grinning. “All that time, you bundle up like Eskimo if the weather even think of glancing at freezing. Now is eighteen degrees out, less with wind, and you walking around like springtime. And weather is better than fire for you.”
Tracy blinked, looked towards the front of the restaurant, and looked back at Hans, double-taking. “Eighteen degrees?!” she hissed in surprise, barely remembering to keep her voice down. “No way!”
Hans started to say something, then glanced over at the approaching Sing and shook his head slightly. Instead, he asked, “This is your young man, then?”
Tracy blushed lightly. “You could put it that way,” she murmured quietly, her cheeks tinting pinkly. “But anyway, what's the specials today, Hans?”
Hans smiled. “I make chili, for cold day, and then is also stew. Also there is pot roast.”
Tracy inhaled slowly as he spoke, and picked out each smell in turn from the mixture of new and old smells filling the fragrant restaurant. As usual, the scent of fresh bread added to the aromas - a different type of bread every day. “I'll take the stew, Hans,” she said brightly, “And a loaf of dark bread.” She glanced over at Sing.
“Stew sounds good,” Sing agreed, sitting down at the counter next to Tracy. “And a tall glass of milk if you have it.” Tracy seconded the milk and smiled to Sing, glad that she could safely ignore the faint pressure at her mind. No matter what secrets he might hold, Hans was still Hans, and was safe.
“So,” she said to Sing, “How'd this happen?”
Sing laughed softly. “I really don't know,” he admitted. “Just last week I was arguing that it was nothing like this between us.”
Tracy leaned lightly over to rest her head upon his shoulder. It was a precarious position, each of them perched on their own stool, but it felt comfortable enough, and she wanted to touch against him. His far hand came over to touch lightly over her hair, just a few gentle caresses over her scalp.
“It feels right,” he said – half to her, half to himself. She let out a noise of agreement, and just stayed there contentedly as they waited for their food.
The stew took only a minute - Hans had huge soup pots that were always full, and on days with soup or stew on the menu, the food always came quite quickly. While one was emptying, he was chopping up the ingredients for the next. Tracy curled her hands around her steaming bowl, drinking in the scent of it, while listening to the comforting, repetitive chop-chop-chop of Hans dicing up some chives on his old oaken cutting board. He always had two cutting boards out - one clean white cutting board made of modern materials for meat, swapped out every half hour for a clean one. The other was for vegetables, an old oak one, which he proudly would tell anyone that he got from his mother, an ancient thing that was stained with years and years of food preparation. The edges of the board were carved with worn old markings, some foreign tongue, and Tracy had always wondered what language it was. With a mild surprise, she realized those were his charms, or marks, or whatever he might call them, right out in plain sight as he prepared the meals for his guests.
She was surprised how quickly she'd gotten over the shock. She suspected this was another sort of reaction to overload - so much had happened today that nothing more could surprise her. Earlier she had been jumpy, but she had moved past that to unconcern and soon, she was sure, exhaustion. The place, as always, seemed calm and peaceful. Hans preferred that calm peacefulness. He said he had designed the sitting room, the dividers, the decor, to feel as little like a restaurant as possible. He refused to use the word 'customer', and had an old-world concept of hospitality as he referred to everyone who came through his door as a 'guest'.
The stew came served up in smooth wooden bowls - a thick stew full of meat, potatoes, and other vegetables, with a circular loaf of the fresh-baked bread of the day on a wooden platter. His dark bread was a sort of rye that came with a small dish of herb butter that was mostly roasted garlic, a perfect mix of earthy flavors with it.
Tracy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich scent of the hearty dinner. The stew smelled lightly of garlic, but just a hint, other herbs and vegetables making up most of the scent. When she opened her eyes again, she found Sing watching her with a fond grin.
“An old time meal, of thick stew and broken bread,” Sing said, in that tone of voice he took on when he was being a bit dramatic. “Sating the weary traveler's hunger and warming cold set in by a long winter's chill. For what greater hospitality has one for a fellow man than, in the cold dark days of waning winter, when gray and dreary skies weigh the soul as much as ice and snow weigh the feet, to receive him with a warm hearth, a hearty meal, and a smile of human kindness. For as a poor traveler is amongst the least of God's children, so does the host bring a smile to the face of the Almighty.”
Hans raised one eyebrow in surprise. “A poet?” he asked, “In a day and age of this?”
Sing shook his head. “I wouldn't go that far,” he demurred modestly, “I just enjoy words, and a little drama.”
“What?” Hans asked, his eyes laughing. “And is not this to be a poet? Then what is a poet?”
Sing shrugged. “There's a lot more to it,” he tried to explain. “There's meter, and style, and measure, and history, and rhythm … a lot of stuff I don't really know.”
“Pah!” scoffed Hans. “Numbers do not make poetry! They are for fakes who do not have poetry in heart!” He walked away, muttering to himself in some other language, simultaneously a musical and a guttural language.
Sing and Tracy looked at each other. “Exactly what language and accent is that?” asked Sing, his voice quiet but impressed. “It sounds kind of like Russian, kind of like Italian.”
Tracy shrugged helplessly. “He just says I wouldn't have heard of it. I don't think he wants to talk about where he's from. 'I am of American now' he says.”
After that, they fell to their meals. The stew was very filling, with a comfortable warmth that spread out rapidly from Tracy's belly and a simple but satisfying flavor. Tracy and Sing fell to silence for a short time as they dug in. Tracy knew she'd hardly eaten to day, but the first spoonful of the stew made her realize how voracious she really was. They were halfway through their bowls before Tracy noticed Sing looking at her with an amused glint in his eyes. She paused, straightening up a little, giving him an inquiring look back.
“I've never seen you eat with such gusto before,” he said, grinning.
Tracy shrugged, a little embarrassed. “It's been a hard day,” she confessed. “The snack I had with you earlier is pretty much the only thing I ate all day.”
“It's the weekend!” Sing protested, “The time for you to submit to your baser indulgences, to recover from the stresses of the week's demands, and to free yourself from all those pesky responsibilities which so consume you every other eventime! What so possesses you that you can have a 'hard day' on the weekend?”
Tracy couldn't help but feel a smile come to her face. Once he got into that wordy mood, he didn't come out of it very soon. “It's just a lot of stuff that happened. Some people I ran into. Some things that couldn't wait. Don't worry about it, I'll cope.”
Sing tilted his head to the side, looking at her with an odd expression for just a moment, then his face brightened. “I knew it,” he crowed, “yo
u did go to a different plane of existence!”
Tracy laughed and shook her head. “I told you I'd let you know if that happened.”
“Aliens kidnap you?” he asked, jokingly.
“No, definitely not. I think I'd notice that.”
Sing laughed. “You discovered a secret world of magic hidden in the shadows?”
Tracy hesitated for only a moment, seeing Hans' face turning up towards them, then laughed. “Now you're just getting silly. Why don't you tell me about your day?”
Sing got that odd expression on his face for a moment, again, before he grinned once more and poked her in the side, urging a squeak of protest from her as she wriggled on her stool. “You didn't answer my question,” he teased her.
“Yes, Sing,” she replied, putting a bit of sarcasm in her voice. “I discovered a secret magical shadow-world full of wizard duels. This new bracelet of mine is actually a source of great power,” she drawled with amusement, shaking the charm bracelet at him. She couldn't lie to him, she never could do that, but she could hide the truth behind the truth. “Now tell me about your day or I'll turn you into a mouse!”
Sing laughed and acceded, “By your command, oh dread sorceress.”
He told her about going back to the hospital to see his uncle, who was fine, but annoyed that Sing's aunt had made such a fuss. He related yet another of his uncle's war stories, and then they talked about some of the new movies coming out soon, and which they were looking forward to. Well before they'd run out of conversation, their bowls were emptied and scraped clean, and the loaf of rye bread was nearly gone.
“Ah, Hollywood doesn't have anything left to it, apparently,” Tracy said with a sigh. “How many movies are they going to remake, anyway? Casablanca should be left inviolate, you can't improve on that, no matter how much more technology you have.”
Sing nodded his agreement, slipping off his chair. “I'm going to go get my coat and my wallet. Could you ask for the check?” Tracy nodded and smiled, waving to Hans, who came over right away, with a broad smile.
“Hey,” Tracy said, “Mind if I come back tomorrow and ask you about stuff?” she asked, quickly.
Hans smiled broadly. “Of course,” he said cheerfully. “I will be much too happy to be of help, to both stomach and mind.” His thick finger tapped her forehead playfully, and Tracy laughed.
“Thanks, Hans,” she chirped, and he smiled fondly back.
Tracy felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the ovens behind the counter, or the thick stew in her stomach. The strangeness couldn't seem as strange here. She didn't know if it was because Hans was comfortable, thus making the strange more familiar, or if it was because she had already decided that this place didn't follow the normal rules anyway, so she could accept more while she was here, but everything for the moment just seemed to be content.
Sing came back with their coats and a grin. “Hans, a heartier fare I have never had, your hands are blessed by God himself, and my tongue blessed through your food.” Hans smiled broadly and gave a regal bow, surprising Tracy to no end. Hans was never formal. “So,” continued Sing, “What's the damage?”
Hans waved his hand. “For Tracy, little dumpling she is, who has had a bad day, I cannot charge money for comfort, and it is against my nature to charge poets for food. Be on your way, with blessings.”
Sing blinked. “Good sir, you are too generous. It is beyond my understanding how you maintain this haven from the world around us with such a giving heart.”
“I am in the know for my own books,” Hans laughed. “I give to art, and to friends, and I am all right with that. It costs me little.”
Sing smiled and laid a twenty on the bar. “Then this is not payment, but a sincere appreciation for your own art. I am not wealthy, but in my means, consider this a scant patronage, far less than you deserve, for food, comfort, and hospitality the likes of which this world seems to have forgotten long hence.”
Hans gave another bow. “M'lord,” he replied, simply, taking the money and tucking it away.
Sing helped Tracy with her coat, and with some smiles and cheerful good-byes, they stepped out into the cold. Tracy remembered to shiver and pull her coat tight about her, even though she honestly felt like nothing more than a brisk breeze.
While Tracy didn't need her coat, and her shiver wasn't genuine, she was nonetheless pleased that it prompted Sing to tuck his arm around her shoulders and hold her close. She burrowed in happily under his arm, wrapping one arm around his waist, resting her other hand on his chest as they walked back to her apartment. It was a little awkward at first, but soon they fell into each other's rhythm and were able to walk as one.
Along the way, they lightly chatted some more. As small talk had officially run out during dinner, they fell back on an old standby - books. They'd matched up libraries long ago, and traded favorite old well-worn paperback friends with each other, but there was only so much time in the day for reading, and there were still hundreds of books one had read but the other had not.
Today, they trended towards philosophy, and after trading the names of a few books they both had read, and their favorite elements, the conversation strayed from books into modern philosophy, and how the form had changed.
“No, seriously,” Sing was saying as Tracy was trying to unlock the outer door. “I think that movie makers are the new philosophers.” She had been wiggling the key back and forth in the lock for almost a minute, now, and was getting annoyed with it, so she didn't respond right away with anything more than a hesitant, uncertain noise.
“Here,” Sing said, stepping forward, “Let me try.”
“It's my door,” Tracy replied, irritation plain in her voice. “Just give me a sec.” Thankfully, the key finally caught at that point, and Tracy was able to get the door open. She held it for Sing and grimaced, wishing she hadn't let the irritation get the better of her.
They walked quietly along the hallway to her apartment, and as they approached the door, Tracy quietly apologized. “I'm sorry,” she said, “That door just gets on my nerves sometimes. What if I needed to get it open quickly? What if it was an emergency?”
Sing nodded. “It's all right, I understand. Have you talked to the landlord about it?”
Tracy nodded. “She keeps assuring us that she'll take care of it soon,” she sighed.
“Spray some WD-40 into it,” Sing suggested. “See if that takes care of it. If not, there's some sort of powder you can spray into a lock to loosen it up. We can look for it.”
“That's a good idea,” Tracy said, smiling as she undid the door. “I'll try that.”
There was a brief, comfortable quiet as they took off their coats and hung them up. “I don't think you're right,” Tracy said at last. Sing looked confused and started to say something, but Tracy amended, “About the movies.”
“Oh, come on,” insisted Sing. “Think of The Matrix. That messed with people's heads. Is there really any sort of difference between The Matrix and Zhuangzi's butterfly dream? Not knowing what's reality and what's a dream?”
Tracy shook her head. “I'm not saying there won't be exceptions,” she protested, “But movies aren't for making people think, they're for entertainment. They present ideas, but these ideas are what will be popular, what people will agree with, not searches for truth. And the ones that are searches for truth are usually self-serving, self-important artsy films that no one watches. The ones you'll find speak to people in a philosophical way aren't that way because they're movies - it's because of what the movies are based off of.” She paused, thinking for the right way to continue - hoping Sing would provide the right question.
“OK,” he said, “I'll bite. What are they based off of? Where is today's philosophy found?”
“Science Fiction,” Tracy said. “Asimov, Heinlein, especially Bradbury. Philip K. Dick. You'll find that most movies that involve any philosophy of any real merit are based on something along those lines - either directly, or through inspiration. Most sci-fi
movies are just shoot-em-ups of some sort, but think of the real, serious science fiction. That's Philosophy.”
Tracy started for the kitchen, but Sing blocked her way with an outstretched arm. “Now, now,” he said, a sly smile on his face. “What pleasure lies in sweet surprise? Let not haste distract from what shall be in due time. Tarry then a while, and all things come as they shall come, in the fullness of fate. Grant me but the span of a few minutes, and then all shall be prepared in its entirety.”
A smile spread across Tracy's face. She knew it was corny, she knew it was stupid, but she loved how he put melodrama and poetry in the simplest things. “Hans should never have encouraged you,” she mumbled, playfully teasing him. “Very well then, my artist,” she said, giving him a hug and kissing him on the cheek. “A few minutes I shall grant thee, but a few minutes alone. I shall freshen up and prepare myself for thy surprise. Be thou ready, then, upon my return, or be never ready, for while all things come in their time, that time must be soon.”
Sing and Tracy smiled warmly at each other from as close together as they were, and then Tracy backed away, her fingers trailing along Sing's arm and touching along the back of his hand, before dropping to her side as she turned and left to freshen up. It was so nice, she mused happily, to have someone that shared her indulgence towards extravagance, and even challenged her to do it more.
She lingered at the mirror, making sure of her appearance. She didn't know how long Sing needed, but she wanted to give him that time, and she couldn't think of anything else to do just at the moment. She heard the clink of glasses, the rustling of ice, the crackling of plastic bags, and the quiet hiss of water from the faucet, and steeled herself to patient curiosity. Finally, the noises ceased, and she straightened up, checked her makeup and hair one last time, and headed back out into the main room.
A half-dozen candles decorated the main room, filling it with a soft light and a sweet, floral scent. They glowed on the tables surrounding the couch, illuminating the bowls laid out on the coffee table. The largest bowl was filled with ice, keeping the wine chill, while the smaller bowls held a collection of fruits.