“Back down the hill, take a right, and it will be on your left. That place is expensive, though. If you like, I can add what you need when I place my order on the mainland. Delivery comes every other day on the morning boat.”
“Thank you,” she said, embarrassed. Kindnesses like that could strip her naked and she scrambled to cover herself up. “Perhaps another day. Today I’ll just run out for a few things.”
“Closed today. Sunday.”
“I see.”
“Shall I set your table for supper?”
“Yes, please.”
She went back upstairs without having mentioned the horses.
Hanne had strewn the contents of Oda’s suitcase all over the floor. “Why don’t you have my shampoo?”
“Because you said you’d pack the little bottles we got in Genoa.” We meant the three of them, a different we.
“And you brought that gross deodorant that makes you smell like rotten vegetables.”
Above them light footsteps traveled the length of the ceiling, another heavier pair close behind. Silence. A wild howl.
“Great,” Hanne said. “Children.”
She went down the hall to shower and Oda sank into the pink-and-burgundy chair. She didn’t want to be here, spending money on this room and its view of fog. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and go to work in the morning. Her friends, her sister, and the whole culture had pushed her into this vacation. She didn’t want it. Hanne didn’t want it. Why were they subjecting themselves to it?
She went to the window. It had cleared slightly. She could see the sea and it was not placid. The waves were churned up white and whipped by the wind. Far out, great fishing vessels vied for territory. The horizon line was broken by several oil rigs, jagged prehistoric creatures on strong legs. She felt the ferry’s rumble before she saw it curve around the east side of the island and pull into the harbor. People were shimmering in their raincoats.
Hanne was back and combing out her hair.
“The ferry’s nearly in.”
“I can see it.”
“Go get your bag then.”
Hanne put down the comb.
She appeared below and ran down the street in bare feet with wet strings of hair rising up behind her.
The kind man met her with her suitcase. They spoke, a surprising number of back and forths that Oda could not fill in, and then Hanne came back up the hill, slower, with her bag.
They were Australians, the people above them. Their three long-haired children streaked around the dining room in their pajamas, grabbing decorations off the table and books off the shelves until the father caught up with them and they all disappeared in a flurry of giggles and flailing limbs.
“You were never like that,” Oda said.
“You tamped me down early.”
“Crushed your free spirit, did I?”
They ate in silence like the couple from Belgium beside them. The Australian man returned, the three children trailing soberly behind him.
“Do you remember the song you used to sing me about the girl in the polka-dot dress?”
For a time Hanne had begged for that song every night.
“Polky Polky I used to call it.”
“Dot Dot, actually.”
Hanne smiled. “Dot Dot. I thought you were the most beautiful singer in the whole world.”
Oda felt pitched up onto the crest of a wave, like one of those boats far out at sea.
Back in their room there was nothing to do but get into bed. Cold air, much colder than it ever got in Munich in July, came through the lifted windows. The quilt on the bed was heavy, the sheets tucked in tight. Hanne took the right side, closest to the wall. The bed cracked and creaked when Oda got in. She shut off the light.
Here it was, the moment, the reason for the vacation, the one thing that had convinced her to spend this money. After Fritz died, Oda’s friend Frauke told her that when she lost her husband the children had slept in her bed for a year. But Hanne, even that first night, wanted to sleep in her own bed. If Oda tried to cuddle with her in her room, Hanne said she was too hot and asked her to leave. But here they would be together in the dark, where perhaps it would be easier and safer to talk to each other.
“Are you comfy?” Oda asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Sleepy?”
“Not really.”
“We could tell each other stories.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could tell you a story about something. About me or you when you were little, or Grandmother. Or Papi.” She let that hang there a moment. “Then you could tell me one.” Oda rolled onto her side to face Hanne. She hoped Hanne would turn toward her but she did not. She remained on her back, in profile, her face dark against the last blue light of the day.