Yes, said the man. Two for breakfast. He took his wife’s arm and led her toward the table the waitress had selected for them.
Good morning, he said to her, as they sat at two neighboring seats.
She righted the cups that were overturned on the saucers at both their places and said, Coffee?
Yes, please, said the man.
Do you have any herbal tea? asked the woman.
Mint, chamomile, linden, anise.
Chamomile, please, said the woman.
Juice?
What kind? asked the man.
Orange, grapefruit, tomato, elderberry.
I’ll try the elderberry, please.
Orange, said the woman.
The waitress disappeared back into the fresco and very soon returned with their beverages. She had removed both her parka and the cleats from her boots, so she seemed very different, almost unfamiliar. She had also brought them menus: thick leather-bound books that elucidated, in intricately italicized type, all the many dishes at the different meals served through the day and evening in the dining room. This vast menu was composed in the native language with its undecipherable alphabet so that no clues to the character of the dishes could even be guessed at by scrutinizing the many pages.
The waitress waited patiently while the man perused the menu, turning its pages, hoping to come across something that seemed familiarly breakfasty. His wife, apparently daunted by the menu’s heft, had not even attempted to lift it.
Defeated, the man closed the menu and said, Eggs? Oeufs? What’s egg in German? he asked his wife.
We aren’t in Germany, said the woman.
Sie möchten Eiern? said the waitress, in German. You would like eggs?
Ja, said the man. Yes.
Scrambled, poached, fried, boiled, shirred? She apparently spoke excellent English.
What’s shirred? the man asked his wife.
I don’t know, she said. Like poached, I think.
En croûte, said the waitress. Baked in a casserole. With breadcrumbs and butter.
Sounds delicious, said the man, I’ll have that.
Potato?
Yes, please, said the man. Bacon?
The waitress nodded. And for your lady?
Toast please, said the woman. Dry.
Jam or honey?
No, thank you. Dry.
The waitress collected their menus and once again disappeared through the door in the wall.
Well, said the man. That wasn’t so difficult.
Why should ordering breakfast in a hotel be difficult?
Because everything else has been difficult, said the man. He tasted his elderberry juice. It’s delicious, he said. Very tart. A bit like pomegranate. Would you like to try it? He offered the glass to his wife.
She shook her head no and poured tea into her cup.
It’s funny, said the man, after a moment.
What?
The way things are difficult—or aren’t. I mean when we arrived here, it seemed so impossible.
What do you mean, impossible?
Just everything. Starting in the market the other night. And then last night, at the station. And yet we’re sitting here drinking elderberry juice, about to eat shirred eggs. At least I am. It amazes me, how things have a way of working themselves out, if you just persist.
The woman did not answer. She appeared to be studying the fresco nearest to them, which depicted a covey of young naked maidens chasing a somewhat obscenely tusked wild boar through a fairy-tale forest.
I’d like to remember that, he said. I think it would be good if we could both remember that.
Remember what? She did not like when he tried to interfere with, or direct, her thoughts.
That things don’t always end badly.
Yes, said the woman. Things do work themselves out. She lifted the cup of tea to her lips but quickly replaced it in the saucer. It’s too hot, she said. She looked down at the cup as if its inhospitable temperature were a personal affront.
He had gone too far, he realized. He always did. She would open up to him, and he would respond, only to shut her back up again. It was unfair of her, he thought.
They sat for a while in silence, until the waitress emerged from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray on her shoulder, on which sat two plates beneath silver domes. She placed one in front of each of them and then removed the domes, revealing on his plate a ramekin filled with eggs surrounded by fried potatoes and two slabs of very thick bacon, and on hers two slices of slightly scorched toast. A sprig of parsley had been added to her plate, perhaps to compensate for its meagerness, but it had the opposite effect, making the dry toast look even more desolate.
The man forked over his eggs, revealing a mattress of breadcrumbs beneath them. A fragrant steam rose up against his face. He looked over at his wife. She was staring despondently down at her plate of toast.
Is that not what you wanted? he asked.
She shook her head a little and smiled, sadly, at him. No, she said. It’s exactly what I want.
They had been told to arrive at the orphanage for their initial visit anytime between ten o’clock and noon. The concierge was able to arrange a taxi to pick them up and it was waiting for them outside the hotel when they emerged from the ballroom after finishing their breakfast. The woman had wanted to go up to their room to use the bathroom and put some makeup on her pale face, but she was afraid the taxi might not wait for them, and although the man said of course it would, she insisted they get into it and leave immediately.
The hotel was at the very center of the old town, and the streets around it were extremely narrow, made even narrower by the towering piles of snow, so the taxi drove slowly. The town seemed eerily underpopulated; many of the stores were vacant, their glass windows empty or occupied by a desolate naked mannequin staring out at the cold world.
The streets grew wider nearer the outskirts, and what little charm the old city had was replaced by a modern ugliness of concrete and glazed brick, but it wasn’t long before they had left the town behind and were on a country road, bounded by snow-covered fields on one side and a forest on the other. They drove for quite a while through this unchanging landscape until a building appeared before them on the side with the fields, surrounded by a wall of very tall fir trees. It was set quite far back from the road, and the car turned off onto a narrow driveway and drove toward the building, passing through a gap between two trees that were spaced a bit farther apart than the others, but whose branches nevertheless entwined, forming a portal. Crows—or ravens; some dark large cawing bird—erupted from the trees as the car passed beneath them and flapped off, complainingly, over the empty fields.
The building they approached had the appearance of a manor house. It was three stories tall and made of stucco painted pale green. There was no sign or any other indication that the building was an orphanage and not a private home except for the sterility of its unadorned façade, whose starkness was vaguely institutional. Smoke rose from two chimneys that protruded from the slate-shingled roof.
The taxi drew up before the unassuming front door, which was raised above the level of the drive by a few stone steps, which had been carefully swept of the snow and sprinkled with dirt. The man, who was attempting to hew to his new philosophy of assuming the best in all situations, was heartened by these signs of hospitality and preparedness. They both got out of the car and the woman walked quickly to the edge of the gravel drive and leaned over, placing her hands on her knees. As her husband watched, she released a geyser of vomit onto the bank of snow. After a moment she straightened up, though she remained facing away from him, looking toward the wall of trees that surrounded the building. She raised one of her hands in the air with her fingers extended, as if she were taking an oath. It was a gesture the man knew well: it meant she wanted to be left alone. So, instead of going to her, he walked around the car to the driver’s window, which unrolled as he approached. The concierge had informed him of what the trip should cost, and the man gave this amount to the driver, plus a little extra. He asked the driver if he would wait a moment, in case there was some problem gaining access to the building, and the driver nodded agreeably but drove away as soon as his window was shut. The man ran a few steps after the car, waving his arms and calling out, but the taxi took no notice of him and sped away through the arch in the trees.