Prost Gotvins Geometri – Part 10

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 9.

Father Gotvin's First Journey (continued)

Did I not see all the signs around me? Hadn’t I best simply follow the path I had started walking? Yes, that’s how it was. The books in front o mme, the typefaces - some Gothic, other Latin – erudite words. Had she been wearing a floral-print dress on the train? In the compartment? My blood hammering hot against my temples, my pulse like a hare’s. You are like a hare, Gotvin, but this afternoon you are going to the baths. Swimming trunks? I hadn’t brought any on this trip. Would I be admitted to the municipal baths without swimming trunks? Almost two billion people on this earth called themselves Christian, not an insignificant number but very few among this enormous number of people ever visited the archives of theological science. And was it true, that which was claimed by the critics of the Christian faith: that our Bible, The Holy Bible, the words of our God, did not contain a single religious or moral idea that wasn’t already present in one form or another in the writings of earlier or contemporary religions? This could be true, of course, but God had existed since Creation and His commandments and will were manifested among people in different ways. That’s how it was. But then why these rigorous, merciless statements from the Council and Pope Paul VI where it was stipulated that salvation and truth could only be found within the Catholic faith? Truth? Were these miracles true or figments of mental imagery induced by religious ecstasy? Figments of mental imagery - the term stunned me. Were aspects, important aspects of Catholicism founded on fantasy? Imagery formed by people, in people? What figments of mental imagery existed within my own, the Evangelical-Lutheran Church? This question was not on the agenda now as my investigation was about the Catholic miracles, and primarily those sprung from phenomena in the sky above us.

I did not believe in these miracles.
The gods of the Korowai were our airplanes.
Our airplanes were not gods.
The Korowai’s faith might be just as strong as ours.

This logic was crystal-clear but lethally dangerous, this I realized, because the miracles was faith’s most precious child. But every scientist admitted that undiscovered physical phenomena might exist – why would the Church deny it? And if these unknown, but by no means divine phenomena were really at the root of the majority of the strange tales on the table in front of me, how many cornerstones was I pulling from under the Catholic Church? A lot of them. It meant that a lot of saints had received their halo on false premises and the popes who throughout history had approved canonized and deified quite normal physical phenomena would be left little glory to show for. Their spirituality would appear precisely as powerful and credible as the Korowai’s visions of metal gods crisscrossing the skies above the treetops.

I was sweating.
The thoughts I was thinking were fanged thoughts.
Never before had these thoughts entered my mind.
I longed for the simplicity of the School of Theology.
I had to get out of there.
Now.

Hands trembling, I handed all the books back to the woman at the front desk, fumbled and dropped something on the floor. The water bottle, it was leaking. That didn’t matter, she smilingly signaled. I hurried toward the exit door, out into the sunshine and the heat. I remained on the sidewalk for a few seconds without knowing in which direction to walk. I was no pilgrim. My presence here in this holy town, in the Fields of Stars, was a scorn of God and His Omnipotence. What right had I to come here and ask questions? “The one right, Gotvin, of being a living, inquisitive child of God, yearning for knowledge and wisdom. You are a human being of flesh and blood, with a head of your own and thoughts of your own,” I said out loud to myself there on the sidewalk, causing two passers-by to stop for a moment and stare are me uncomprehendingly. Let them stare. I was all they saw, but it was getting hot and rivulets of sweat were running down my forehead. My shirt was glued to my back. A bath? The thought sent cold bolts of lightning down my spine. It was just after two o’clock. There were still several hours to pass before I’d meet her. What would I say to her? Nothing. From her point of view there was no excuse for what I had done. Would I dare look her in the eyes? Probably not. Should I even go to see her? Couldn’t I just steal away and change hotels? Then she wouldn’t be able to find me. The police had probably told her where I was staying. No, I could not hide; I had to put an end to my cowardice. Was she really going to go for a swim at the municipal baths? Maybe she was working there, maybe there was a café there where we could sit down and discuss these Viking fortresses, whatever might come out of it. I was looking up the street, down the street, and then consulted my pocket dictionary and stopped a young boy.

”Excuse Me, where can I buy a pair of swimming trunks?”
”Huh??”
”Trunks. To swim.” I made swimming motions.
”Compre? Calzon de baño?”
”Yes, precisely, buy swimming trunks.”

Finally he understood what I meant and pointed; two blocks up and then to the right. “Magazin Bennetton,” I thanked him politely. I stifled my hunger, at this point pretty insistent, by munching the rest of the bread and washing it down with water. I found the store, presented my errand, and finally had three clerks help me select a pair of trunks. I bought an orange pair with blue vertical stripes which cost an outrageous amount of money, an amount that made me sweat even more. But the pressure from the three clerks was strong so I paid and left. Now I definitely could eat nothing but dry bread and water for the remainder of my trip. So be it. I was used to a Spartan lifestyle. The swimming trunks were nice; she would be impressed. But did they fit me? I had not had the courage to ask for a fitting room as I wasn’t at all sure if it’s appropriate to try on swimming trunks. The clerks thought the trunks were my size, but weren’t they a tad large? Maybe they’d shrink? I let these ridiculous thoughts worry me as I drifted through the street of Santiago de Compostela, waiting for the time to approach six. Wasn’t there a certain garbage man I intended to see. Pedro Urz? On the cathedral square? But the fangs of miracles had dug pretty deeply into my soul.

I was scared.
Scared to learn what a real witness could tell me.

Nevertheless, well before five o’clock I was on the square looking around restlessly, drinking holy water from a number of fountains, and looking at tabloids at the newsstand. “Microorganisms Found In Mars Meteor” announced a front page. I had already read in-depth about that: a rock from a volcanic eruption on Mars had been found in the Antarctic and in this rock were allegedly traces of life, primitive life forms, but what other life forms could possibly live next door to a volcano? What had the Martian biosphere looked like at the time? These are the thoughts I had been thinking and I had even mentioned them to the members of the church council in Vanndal. Their enthusiasm hadn’t been overwhelming. Magnus Stormarkbråten had looked at me sternly, his mouth puckered in a line. The others evaded the whole issue with talk about whether mountain pasturing would be too early for the sheep. Besides, a bear had been observed in the East Mountains. The whole issue of possible life on Mars was, in other words, rather alien to my church council. I strolled away from the newsstand and sat down on a bench. No sooner had I sat down than I saw a yellow pickup truck which was missing a front bumper. It stopped fifty yards away from me. From the truck emerged a man, relatively young, wearing a yellow cap and blue overalls. He walked quickly toward some garbage cans and was about to lift up one of them when I gently tapped his back.

”Señor Urz?”

He looked alert. He could be around my age, but now had no teeth, a fact he tried to conceal by holding the back of his hand to his mouth, which he now did, as I in my best Spanish stuttered out my question about the miracle in front of the cathedral. Had he actually been here at the time? Seen it for himself? I was afraid of what he might answer.

Pedro Urz backed away from me.
He grabbed the lid of the garbage can.
His eyes shifting.
He did not reply.
Pedro Urz was scared.

I tried a friendly smile but it didn’t help much. He backed away even further and then he turned around and ran to his truck and disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke and scorched asphalt. I was standing there feeling rather taken aback. Had I said something wrong? I repeated to myself the words, the phrases, but could find nothing that might frighten or offend. Nevertheless, Pedro Urz had panicked and fled in terror.

But talons dug into my chest.
My soul was bleeding.
I wanted to go home.
To Vanndal.
Tomorrow I would leave.
One day earlier than planned.