te and left,
feeling that they were a good match.

On the way off the hill, he noticed the Caffe Ladro and remembered the
woman in the bookstore. The next morning, he thought about checking out
of the Edgewater, but he had no plan. He registered for another night
and drove back to the Queen Anne district. He had a latte and a bagel
in the Caffe Ladro and bought a T-shirt. He was hoping the woman would
come in. Her name would be Moira; they would have an animated
discussion which would reveal his fate. She didn't show. Must have been
busy, probably making a lemon meringue pie.

He went back to the hotel and stared at the ceiling in his room.
Filson's was in Seattle, he remembered. He looked for the address in
the phone book and found that it was a short bus ride away. He had a
wool Filson jacket that he'd worn for 12 years. Every so often he sewed
a button tighter. Filson stuff is understated and invincible; it would
be like a visit to the temple.

A temple angel, slim with long blonde hair, asked if she could help.
"Not just yet," Joe said and wandered down aisles of tin cloth pants,
wax impregnated jackets with wool liners, vests, and virgin wool
sweaters. He stood a long time in front of the duffel bags and assorted
luggage. He was tempted by a carry on bag with a heavy leather handle,
but in the end he bought a bag that reminded him of his Air Force AWOL
bag--flat bottomed with a humped top and a single massive brass zipper.
The canvas twill was doubled around the sides and bottom; the handles
and the shoulder strap were made of dark bridle leather; it was the
Fort Knox of AWOL bags. While he was at it, he bought a belt made of
the same heavy leather. "Might as well have the best," he said to the
angel, repeating the Filson motto.

When he was back in his room, he unsnapped the new belt buckle and
replaced it with the one he had worn for twenty years. The words he had
scratched on it with a Dremel power tool were nearly rubbed away:
"Eating a plum, hearing/ the roar of centuries--Kokee." Once a year,
the islanders are allowed to pick plums in Kokee, in a park on the rim
of a deep canyon. The trees are old with thick limbs. He remembered a
young Hawaiian woman on a low limb, stretched out, reaching for
plums--brown skin, black hair, dark green leaves, fruit, the ocean gray
and blue for thousands of miles in all directions. Echoing silence. It
was like being in a shell or a giant's ear.

Joe put on his new belt a