In the narrow cobbled streets, in the dark, in the light from the streetlamps, it looks as though the snow is standing still. The puddles on the asphalt sparkle. And around the corner, into Øvregata, comes Thomas with a tightly rolled newspaper in his hand. He says something about the snow. That it’s almost standing still. And that The Mirror by Andrei Tarkovsky is his favorite film. He remembers that the wind was blowing in the opening scene, that there was a lot of wind (he gesticulates with his arms and the hand holding the newspaper, imitating the wind blowing through tall cornfields), and that they were sitting on a fence that then collapsed. And the disappointment when the girl realizes that the person who came through the tall grass, or corn, was not the one she was sitting on the fence waiting for, but someone else. Thomas looks down. I ask if we should maybe find a café. There’s something about this snow, Thomas says. It’s snowing so damn quietly. It reminds me of something.
* * *
We sit in a café that is just below street level, the sidewalk starts at about our waist, we sit there like halved mannequins in a big window facing out onto a street that runs down a long slope, Thomas says the snow reminds him of Helene. He folds the newspaper, wedges it under one of the table legs, so the table is steady, and I think about Helene, it hurts when I do, I see the soft, strange light around her, her eyes that are so big, so black with eyeliner, that look as if they’re about to cry the whole time, even though she’s happy or gazing blankly out the window, her fair hair that always looks as if it’s about to blow away, I think about the whole of Helene, who I can now see standing in front of me like soft snow hanging in the air. Thomas lifts the cup of coffee to his mouth and says that’s the thing, that people come walking through windy fields, and they’re not the ones you’re sitting waiting for after all. And the times when you yourself come walking through windy fields (to stick with the same image, Thomas says), it’s not often, in fact he can’t remember it ever happening (with the exception of Helene, he says, looking down at the table), that you are the one that someone’s sitting on the fence waiting for. That’s the worst thing about windy fields. A third interpretation, Thomas says, and takes a sip of coffee, squeezing his eyes shut to ease the hotness, a third interpretation, he repeats, is that the one who comes walking is not even a person, but a memory, for example, an age. Oneself is a windy field. One has a fence that someone is sitting on, that is about to break. Windy fields, I say, shaking my head, should be banned. There should be a sign saying: “Wind—No Access.” Or just: “FORGET IT.” Thomas smiles. He recites a poem.
The gates are open
The gates blow in the wind
What’s in there
What are you offering me?
Oh, always something!
There’s a little dust, some specks of dirt
A broken cog on the earthen floor
And some old slag left from an abandoned smithy
That maybe was never there
* * *
That maybe was never there, I repeat, squinting over my cup of coffee, I look at Anna, she has that shiny look in her eyes that she always gets when she listens to me recite poetry, I like her for that shininess, it makes her like Helene, that’s maybe why I always associate the two of them, because otherwise they’re not alike at all, but they have that shininess, a kind of transparency. I feel a pricking somewhere, I think about Helene, I think about the strange, soft light around her, her big black made-up eyes that always look as if they’re about to cry even though they’re not, even though she’s laughing, even though she’s just gazing blankly out the window, and I think of her tousled, feather-like hair that always looks like it’s about to blow away. Anna sits with her hands around her teacup, her knuckles are red, her hands are not particularly beautiful, they look like they were made to pull up potatoes, to be dried on an apron, to be numb when it’s cold, they’re red and white, and even though there’s something potato-like about them, there is something beautiful after all, I think and change my mind, they look fragile, there’s something shiny about them, I look up at her hair, it’s dark and curly, there are drops of water in it, it’s shiny, her cheeks are red, she looks out the window. I remember another scene from a Tarkovsky film, Anna says, and looks at me again, a scene where the first thing you see, I don’t remember it that well, but I think the first thing you see is the head of a man from behind, he’s standing on a beach and looking out to sea, and then we see his face in profile as he bends down, then we follow his gaze, we see what he sees, we see his big face, his forehead, nose, mouth, chin, we see everything from his perspective; the sky, the sea, and then we look down onto the beach, the sand, a miniature house stands there, and the camera lets go of the man and we go right down onto the sand, and the camera stops, and all we see is the miniature house and the sand and the sea in the background, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that we followed the man’s gaze to begin with, we might well have thought that it was a full-sized house, Anna says, I’ve heard everything she said, but I was listening to her voice most of all, I feel a prickling on my neck, want to kiss her, think about kissing her, all of a sudden, have tried to keep that sort of thing at bay, I look at the snow, picture Helene, the strange, soft light, the pricking, prickling on my neck, I take another drink of coffee, too fast, it burns.
* * *
Is that Helene? I ask, and Thomas chokes on his coffee. Where? he asks, and I nod toward a woman walking along the sidewalk in the confoundedly silent snow. Hmm, Thomas says, and looks around. He glances over at her again. Looks like it, he says. Jeez. Helene is walking slowly. She’s looking at the ground. She’s wearing a plum red coat with a belt knotted around her waist that makes her look even thinner, and her fair, tousled hair that always looks like it’s about to blow away looks like it’s about to blow away. Thomas’s cheeks and forehead are flushed, slightly panicked. Helene walks toward us, we can’t hide, she’ll see us, it’s a long time since we saw her last, almost two years, we didn’t know where she went, she just left, took her things with her, moved, and so it’s a long time since she has seen us, the last time she saw us, she saw us in an awkward naked nearness on a sofa at half past five in the morning, on Helene’s red sofa, in an unusual position for us; Thomas and I have spent a lot of time since then finding our way back to a kind of friendship, Thomas has lived without a sofa for a long time. Now she’s walking toward us again, and we can’t get away, we’re prisoners at our table, Thomas bends down, pulls out the newspaper that is wedged under the table leg, while I sit paralyzed and stare at Helene, who hasn’t seen us yet, how can she not see us? I wonder as Thomas opens the newspaper to hide his face and follows the long columns in detail while the fingers holding the paper tremble, I don’t know what to do, I’ve got a teacup in my hands, I look down at my hands, which are red and white, red over the knuckles, they’re not beautiful, I think, I don’t dare look up, don’t want to look up until Helene has passed, maybe she won’t see us, the window where we’re sitting is on a side street to the sidewalk Helene is walking along, maybe nothing will happen. I look at the teacup, at my hands that are red and white, and register that two gray trouser legs are now standing by the window, I see a plum red coat, I look up, see a belt tied around a waist, see Helene standing there, with a strange and soft light around her, with big black made-up eyes that always look like they’re about to cry even though they’re not, she’s standing there with her hands in her pockets, her face blank, looking in at us. Thomas, I say. Thomas lowers the newspaper. Helene’s eyes turn to Thomas. Then she takes a gun out of her pocket, opens her mouth, puts the gun in her open mouth, tilts her head back, Thomas sits paralyzed on his chair, staring, Helene pulls the trigger, nothing happens, she takes the gun out of her mouth again, puts it back in her pocket, shrugs, smiles at us, turns and carries on walking down the sidewalk.
* * *
Neither of us gets up and goes after her. We just watch the plum red coat get smaller and smaller until it eventually disappears around a corner. What are you offering me? Thomas says after a long time. I pick up my scarf, wrap it around my throat, stand up. Take out my mittens. Thomas folds the newspaper, puts it in his pocket. Pays. Stays sitting. I run my hands through my hair, feel that it’s wet. Walk toward the door. Turn around, wait. Thomas is still sitting and looking out the window. Looking at the snow that’s snowing as though it was night.