Jaume Cabré - Winter Journey

Outside, even though it was August, it was goddam cold. Looking at the huge ministry building made me feel very small. It made the same impression on me that, in more magical times, cathedrals had made on the faithful. Or the paralyzing feeling that I'd had when I went to the Nasjonalgalleriet (four purses plundered, 38o crowns, a very nice tamagochi with whose interior 1 became quite intimate, and three drivers' licenses that turned into kroner a few days later) to look at paintings. 1 was particularly impressed by a non-painting. In gallery 34, and I'll always remember that it was gallery 34 because 1 could hear through the window that faced the street, rising up like sour and unwanted bile, the disgusting sarabande from Bach's second partita played on a violin with an out-of-tune D string. 1 was about to demand that the woman who was the guard for galleries 30 to 36 explain why such sounds were allowed to penetrate that temple. But 1 didn't do it; 1 just gave her a dirty look and she smiled back. It was that Latin lover thing again. Gallery 34 and the non-painting. 1 stood for half an hour in front of an undirty shadow on the wall behind a not-verylarge painting by Rembrandt van Rijn, which was traveling around Europe somewhere. Contemplating a non-painting is good for your soul. The difference in tone between the wall ad usum and the patch of wall that was protected for years by Rembrandt reveals the passage of time, the tempus fugit, the tempus edax rerum, the glances of many, many pasty Norwegians, fumes from the street that have stuck to the wall like onion skin — if any Norwegian car or Norwegian furnace produces fumes, which 1 doubt. The wall was greenish, completely unartistic. In contrast, the color of the hidden and now uncovered wall was brave, vivid, a little lighter, optimistic, kind of Stand aside, it's my turn. And the line, the border between the two greens showed the exact outline of the Rembrandt. Bravo. Magnificent. 1 don't remember the paintings that were on either side of the non-painting by Rembrandt. After this fabulous experience, 1 went to every museum in Oslo looking for more nonpaintings. 1 found three or four that made me very happy.

As 1 entered the huge lobby of the ministry with all of its escalators, the air conditioning took my breath away, because the Norwegians think that if the sun's out it must be sweltering. After consulting with the bored civil servant who was directing traffic, 1 headed for the longest escalator. The one next to it was going down, so that the citizens who were on their way out, satisfied or mortified, passed by me. That's when 1 saw her.

1 could care less about Norway. It's been a tool, that's all. The thing is, my friends, that to keep from having to go back to Barcelona, it was a good idea to become a Norwegian citizen. Especially if my mother kept putting out. And Dr. Werenskiold was the man who had to decide, after a number of complaints from citizens who were unjustly irritated with me, what to do with the charming Quiquin. Because even if 1 could care less about Norway, 1 want to stay here. 1 just went into business with this Bosnian hardass, smuggling cigarrettes, and we could get so rich that it makes me dizzy just to think about it. And then, with my shorts full of thousand-crown bills, Sonia wouldn't say it was little.

And there in the lobby of the ministry I saw her for the first time in my life. She was coming towards me, as I was going towards her, on the magic belt of the escalator, and she looked at me with glade-colored eyes and let her hair fly, just for me, as if she were on a magic carpet. She had on a short dress, very simple, that set off but did not misrepresent her perfect figure. And she was looking at me, friends, with the same intensity with which I was examining her, amazed. The first Norwegian 1 was really attracted to. What a woman. What a goddess. Until we were next to one another and immobile, we passed one another by; and that was when 1 sensed the fragrance of her perfume, her skin, her clothes, and the subtle aroma of her memories. A fleeting sensation, a couple of seconds, but it's lasted all my life. 1 didn't see if there were other people on the down escalator or if the goddess was by herself. 1 fell, openmouthed in admiration, possessed by that urgent call, as 1 flew up the stairs in search of the decidedly un-epic Dr. Werenskiold, who'd been drumming his fingers on the table for the last quarter of an hour and thinking bad thoughts about me, because this was the last and definitive meeting. She'd turned too and was looking at me with the same intensity, it seemed, as I was looking at her. She looked like a valkyrie. And both of us experienced that irreproducible sensation of knowing we were alone in the world, with no thieves, no Norwegians, no bad guys to hurt us, no witches, no boring arguments, no cruel Sonias. And because both of us had the same feeling at the same time, we had the same idea, and at the end of the escalator, 1 was about to go down and she to come up. I'm impulsive and 1 didn't realize how ridiculous it would have been if we'd passed one another again in the same place. But she, who's Norwegian, was the smart one, because she stopped and got off the escalator. She waited for me, as faithful as Penelope, for all the days, months and years it took for me to go down, friends, surrounded by all those people that didn't matter to us. Once we were face to face, 1 could see that she was tall, maybe a few inches taller than me, and that she did indeed have eyes the color of a river glade in which, if 1 wasn't careful, 1 could drown. 1 smiled and said, My name is Abelard. What's yours?

"1 finally found you."

We stepped into a corner and she ran her fingertips over my hand as she repeated, Abelard, as if trying out a new name on a new person, and she seemed to think it was fine.

"You're gorgeous."

"Have you had the interview with Dr. Werenskiold?"

"Sure! Norway is huge, but 1 knew 1'd end up finding you."

She smiled and pointed at my face as if to say that she'd never seen eyes like that. With her velvet voice, coming up close:

"1 can't do anything else for you, Mr. Masdexaxart. It's up to the Ministry."

"I've never seen anything like yours either." 1 grabbed her tenderly by the arms. "You're the most important thing that's ever happened to me. Why haven't we ever met before?"

"If you don't let go of me, I'm going to have to call the police, even if 1 am your lawyer."

"Don't, I'm not Italian," I said ungraciously, letting her go, a little confused.

"It might be a week before they decide. I'll be there."

"It's not necessary."

"1 know you speak Norwegian very well, but if you want…"

"Thank you," 1 interrupted her. "You speak it very well too." And I brought the conversation back to basics. "It doesn't matter where I'm from."

She probably thought it was stupid of me to turn my back on my roots, because she did nothing but cast her eyes serenely downward. 1 felt afraid and loved her even more. Of course it's important if it's important to her! So why the hell wasn't 1 Italian? Why did 1 have to be born in Barcelona? 1 damned my father and mother to hell (no, not my mother, 1 saved her right away) for not having had me in Montescaglioso. 1 was so deeply in love with the valkyrie for so many centuries that 1 forgot all about the Italian problem. 1 took her hand and let go of it right away, because it was burning, and she touched my skin again, as if tasting it, with the tips of her fingers. And she smiled:

"There are going to be some problems." In a lower voice, "Your case isn't simple. They even want to bring in the medical records."

"With you by my side 1 do not fear the night, Lord."

"Come on, you can share my taxi if you want."

1 was in the presence of happiness and 1 was drinking it in through my pores. Now 1 understood why fate hadn't let me stop, on my flight through the desert, until l got to Oslo, the city of peace and joy. Isolde was waiting for me.