Prost Gotvins Geometri – Part 3

This is Prost Gotvins geometri by Gert Nygårdshaug. The translation was done by Roy Johansen. Nygårdshaug is a Norwegian author and the text has not yet been published in English. Roy is a friend of mine who recently moved back to his native Norway. He has translated a good part of the novel and I'm trying to convince him to finish it.

Here’s Part 2.

Father Gotvin's First Journey (continued)

These seconds, minutes when my courage when facing an extremely beautiful woman, a stranger, knew no limits, were a mystery to me. But far greater mysteries were to come. I naturally had no idea at the time. The only thing on my mind as the train reached the station was whether she would get off the train here. To my relief she remained sitting even when the train came to a halt. She remained focused on her book and its secret text that was flowing into her mind. What was it she was reading? Much to my astonishment I noticed that she had put a hand on her thigh, right above her knee, but she did not let it rest there. It pressed her dress against her skin and slowly, exceedingly slowly, moved upwards, pulling her dress along as it moved, to reveal more and more of her thigh. I could not help looking. It felt as if my body were levitating weightlessly from the clammy seat. It rose and became one with the Psalms of David, now I could not, must not look any longer! I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered internally: Sin, this is Sin, which clothed our Redeemer’s head with thorns and pierced His heart, which put Him through suffering, sorrow, pain, and aguish!

Her breath.
Her lisp, the invisible droplets.

And incessantly, lavender. I knew I would never forget this smell. In all the world’s herb gardens the smell of lavender would overshadow all other scents.

”Es un tren directo para Santiago?” A stranger’s voice rumbled into the compartment and an older gentleman with a gray moustache and a briefcase sat down next to her.

She answered without looking up, but her hand pulled her dress back down. I tried to find something interesting to watch in the bustling activity on the platform during the few minuets the train was at rest. A woman selling whole-roasted, smoked piglets waved towards my window. I shook my head. Wasn’t I hungry? At least eight hours since I last ate. What would happen if I had a piglet brought in through the window? And put it on her book? Grease spots, I thought. Why would such a thing occur to me? Why indeed did such insane things occur to me now? My life had by no means been characterized by spontaneous and absurd impulses. On the contrary, rather. The train set in motion again and the older mustached gentleman immediately fell asleep. Where was I to look now? Outside, Gotvin Soleng, outside – you must look outside! Follow the unfamiliar scenery. Soon you will be at your journey’s end. The cathedral. The miracle.

”Minister?” She glanced from her book again. “From Norway?”

This information seemed to have sunk in just now although a half hour must have passed since the words were first uttered.

”Si, señora,” I answered softly.

”Señorita,” she corrected.

She said no more, she just sat there gazing into thin air. A smile was still pulling the corners of her mouth – what did this smile hold? Was this the way she truly was? The everyday her? To all strangers she happened to meet? Probably. I was not likely to be an exception. Why should I?

Then she asked if I had a pen she could use.

I produced a pen from my breast pocket and handed it to her.

Then she leafed through her book to the last, blank page and started drawing. She drew quickly and precisely. What could it be? Circles and lines; it looked like geometric figures, complicated patterns. The terrain outside the compartment window glided past but I paid no attention to the changing scenery. I tried to follow the lines, her movements, her slender fingers – no rings, discreet nail polish. She was drawing meticulously and determinedly while lifting her eyes from time to time to look at me, making sure I was paying attention to her. This interaction, I felt certain must lead to something or other.

She was done.

She nodded, apparently satisfied.

Then she carefully tore the page from the book and handed it to me. I took it and thanked her. But for what? I naturally did not know at the time that I should not only have thanked her; I ought to have sunk to my knees and kissed the floor beneath her shoes. The drawing I held in my hand, of which I understood absolutely nothing, despite having examined it closely, was destined to, over the following days and months, precipitate a revolution in my soul. I remained sitting with the piece of paper in my hand until the train, quite unexpectedly, stopped at a tiny, nameless spot outside Santiago. Then, hastily, the girl got up.

”If you decipher this drawing, you shall learn what truly is concealed in Heaven,” she said.

Then she smiled an impish goodbye and stepped off the train. The platform was on the opposite side of the compartment so I didn’t have a chance to wave before the train forged ahead.

I was still sitting with the curious drawing in my hand as the train pulled into the station in Santiago de Compostela.