Prost Gotvins Geometri – Part 11

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 10.

Father Gotvin's First Journey (continued)

There was nothing more for me to do in this town, in Spain. I had asked myself a question and it had been answered but the answer had asked ten new questions, ten new abysses devoid of God’s, my Lord Father’s presence and help; chasms where all signs from God to us, His people, would be reduced to physical or psychological phenomena – to airplanes flying over the jungle. No, I wanted to keep my anima ecclesiastica, my pious soul the way Jesus Christ had taught me; the catholicity of my hope, which held far more than dubious Mary-manifestations, for dubious they were, undeniably. But why had Pedro Urz been so panic-stricken? Two scared people on the cathedral square. I was hungry but all my plastic bag held was a pair of orange swimming trunks with blue vertical stripes. I glanced at my watch – five-thirty. The municipal baths – how could I get there? Again I had to resort to asking people who happened to be around. I picked two nuns who looked like locals. They were carrying a basket of eggs and two tote bags full of…leeks? Pilgrims or tourists probably would not have bought that much leek. The nuns nodded and listed to my question. The baths, the municipal baths were on the outskirts of town to the southwest. Fairly far to walk – outside the area covered by my map – but weren’t the baths closed during the summer, wondered the nuns? I peeked down at my bag – the trunks. I had no other option; I had to take a taxi even if it bankrupted me. I had to see Lucienne Lopez again. This courage, this resolution surprised me. So I thanked the nuns, ran along the street, hailed an unoccupied taxi, and asked to be taken to the municipal baths. Quizically, the driver looked at me but started driving very fast - driving like a friggin' maniac, to be honest! As the time approached six, the cab veered into a picturesque park and stopped in front of a whitewashed Moorish-looking building and it struck me that I was no longer in the holy town built in the honor of St. James, but rather in a very secularized area where the pilgrims had little, if any, business.

"The baths are closed," said the driver.
"I know," I replied and gave him money.
"You're still bringing swimming trunks?" He was speaking in English and glanced into my bag.
"Yes," I replied.
"You aren't going to break in, are you?"
"I don't think so," I said and got out of the cab.

I must say I was pretty surprised. Municipal baths in more beautiful settings must be very hard to find, but Santiago was a wealthy town. I stood there for a while admiring the building and the surroundings. Weren't there any people here? Not a trace of people anywhere. But there, half-hidden behind a stone wall was a red car, a relatively new Fiesta. Could it be her car? I could feel the ants of nervousness under my skin. I was still sweating and my mouth was dry. Was there drinking water anywhere around here? Had she deliberately arranged to meet me somewhere deserted, without anyone else around? The dizzying possibility made me no less uneasy. I remained glued to the red gravel in front of the entrance which was guarded by two lion scuplptures. "This is dangerous, Gotvin!", I told myself. Where could I seek support now? "If I be offered upon the sacrifice and service of your faith, I joy." This verse from the Philippians occurred to me. Completely absurd, as absurd as my own person and presence here but it was the only thing I could think of as a quote of support there and then. I was glued. The time was after six but one of the doors behind the lion figures was ajar and all I had to do was enter. I heard the clamor of children playing further into the park. A gray, scruffy dog with running eyes cae up to me, sniffed myshoes, and started to wag his tail tentatively, but I signaled zero mutuality so he skulked off. My thoughts were a great, big vacuum. I noticed that I started walking up the stairs and past the lions. I felt my mouth, my lips assume a whistling shape but no notes emerged. No "seemann, komm bald wieder", my favorite song when I was out in the river fishing. I didnot stop at the door but pushed it gently open. The room was dim and I smelled the acrid odor of chlorine. I saw the vestibule, clerk-less ticket counters, and the tiled floor which was still Moorish and beautifully adorned. I took off my shoes and shuffled noiselessly across the room toward the next door. Was there music?

I stopped.
There was music.
Soft gentle notes.
Mozart.

The music came from somewhere inside, from somewhere behind the door in front of me. With my shoes in one hand and my bag in the other, I tiptoed up to the door where I stopped and listened again. It was Opus 21. I closed my eyes. Was that a splashing sound? I grabbed the door handle and pushed the heavy door open and was bathed in a beam of light which blinded me for a moment. The room had a pool of azure water ringed with white marble tiles. The ceiling and one of the walls were of glass. Part of this wall was pushed aside so one could walk directly out onto the green lawn. I stood there, breathless; my tongue swelling in my mouth. In front of me, at the poolside, lay a floral dress impossible not to recognize, a pair of red shoes, and a pair of light blue panties. The Mozart melody came from a tape player next to the clothes, and the splashing...