Her mother’s hand hangs between them before falling to her side. “Of course you are.”
Hannah appreciates her mother. She does. But her eagerness to help feels like a kind of smothering. That might have something to do with why her mother never goes on more than one or two dates with a man. The intensity and weird doggish neediness of her affection.
They walk slowly, through the broad double doors, through the stone entry, to the hostess station, behind which stands a blond woman in a dark green dirndl. She asks, with a mouth full of too-white teeth, if they’d like a table for two.
“For three actually. Maybe she’s already here? Lela Falcon? Red-haired? Thirtyish?”
“I don’t think so, no. But I’ll send her your way when she arrives.” The hostess’s eyes linger for a moment on Hannah, the Mirage, before tucking three leather menus into her armpit. She asks them to please follow her, and they do, through the crush of tables. Hannah lifts her feet high to avoid tripping on something she can’t see. She holds out her hands to brush the gauntlet of wooden chairs and bent backs. She avoids the big blur of the restaurant and concentrates all of her attention on the head of the hostess, bright gold, like a sun rolling away from her. She can sense her mother behind her, her hands no doubt outstretched, ready to catch Hannah if she falls. At last they find themselves safely tucked into a booth.
It’s easier to see when rooted in place, a stable view. Hannah concentrates first on her silverware, unrolling it from the linen napkin, setting it neatly on the table. Then she takes in the restaurant. Her mother has described the interior dozens of times. The crossbows that hang from the walls. The murals of mustached, leather-vested men raising foam-topped pints or hunting in dark forests. The deer mounts and decorative steins. The stained-glass windows that color the restaurant gold and red and blue. Sometimes, like today, a band will play polkas on a short stage in the corner. Her mother is not a drinker, but when they come to Benedikt’s, she usually permits herself one beer, a Hefeweizen served in a tall glass stein with an orange slice floating below the foam. Hannah likes to run her fingers across the glass, smear the cold moisture off it, and smell deeply of the yeasty drink.
Smells, tastes, touches, sounds—until now that is how she has known Benedikt’s, the sight of it a ghostly smear. Until now she never believed it to be such a truly dark space. The blackly polished wainscoting. The scarred timbers that rafter the ceiling and column the dining area. She feels like a hand has closed around her with only a little light peeking through the fingers.
“How are you doing? Are you doing all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“It’s just—some things don’t look like I expect them to. I’m having a little trouble processing.” Like her mother, who looks older than she should, her hair threaded gray and her eyes hollowed and her chin doubled. Hannah knows the past few years have been hard on them both, but it’s one thing to hear stress in her mother’s voice, another to see it clearly in her face.
A figure appears beside the table, a man who asks, “How are you ladies doing today?” Her mother smiles sadly at Hannah, then looks up at the waiter—and screams.
He does not have the face of a man but a gray-skinned warthog, a fat snout spiked with whiskers and jammed with crooked teeth. A bright red hood surrounds his head and spills down his shoulders.
Her scream is not deep-lunged, but loud enough that several people swivel to stare at them. And then she laughs with both hands pressed between her breasts. “Oh,” she says. “Oh my. You scared me.”
It is a mask, a wooden mask. Beyond the hollowed eyes, a smaller, brighter set of eyes watch them. “Sorry.” His voice muffled.
“It’s not Fasching Day,” her mother says. “Why on earth are you wearing that?”
“I know.” He shrugs, a rise and fall of the red hood. “The owner thought it would be fun. It’s Oktoberfest, you know. He bought the masks in Germany.”
It is then that they notice, all around the restaurant, sneaking between tables, carrying trays weighed down by foaming beers and steaming platters, nodding and scribbling down orders, other waiters, all of them wearing masks. One wears a bear mask and one wears a badger mask. One wears a rabbit mask and another a wolf.
“Hey,” the warthog asks, “are those Google Glass?” He points his pen at the Mirage. “I’ve read about those.”
Hannah responds before her mother decides whether to be offended or not. “It’s called Mirage. I’m blind. It helps me see.”
“Oh,” he says. “Really? Wow, that’s so cool. And kind of awkward on my part. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” And it is. Intrigue is far better than the pity she earns when tapping around with a cane.
“So the glasses,” the warthog says. “How exactly do they—?”
Her mother interrupts him. “Can I get a Hefeweizen? And water.”
“You bet,” the warthog says. “And for the young lady?”
“Coke, please.”
He departs and Hannah says, “We should have asked for another water. For Aunt Lela.”
Her mother says, “Hmmm,” and fusses with her napkin.
“What? You don’t think she’s coming?”
“We’ll see. She doesn’t have the best track record.”
Hannah looks toward the entry, hoping to catch Lela wandering in that very moment. With every shift of her head, it takes her brain a moment to get into conversation with the Mirage, to compute how close and far away everything is, how the colors and contours jumble together into objects she can identify. A table, a chair, a plate, a beer stein. Perspective challenges her more than anything, the depth and distance of things. The dining room slowly solidifies. Hands lift forks; mouths mash food and expel laughter and conversation. She looks for Lela, but then again, how will she know her? She is a grassy smell, a hard hug, a voice that speaks machine-gun fast, a presence that comforts her and relates to her so much better than her mother. Hannah would rather spend time with her than just about anyone, yet she doesn’t even know her face.
Her eyes settle on the man with the wolf mask. When she spotted him earlier, she assumed he was a waiter, but now she isn’t so certain. He hasn’t moved. He stands by the bar. Facing them. Watching them? It’s impossible to tell, but she’s bothered by his stillness.
There is something different about him, something Hannah didn’t process before. Not just his body, which is blockish, and not just the mask, coarse hair tufting from its top, a long snout needled with teeth, but . . . a darkness. As if he is enveloped in shadow, surrounded by a black shawl. Hannah holds her breath, scoots back in the booth.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I just don’t like that one.”
“Which one?”
“The wolf one.”
“Where?”