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 14.
Father Gotvin's First Journey (continued)
The hotel, my sleep, the departure from Santiago de Compostella, and most of the train ride to Madrid and on to Barcelona must have taken place in a state of total emptiness where no thoughts existed. I was thinking, naturally, but I did not reflect on the thoughts I was thinking. I took in very little of what happened outside of my own self, which was centered on the image of her, a static image. Could love be this spontaneous? Did I pray? Did I remember my prayers? Where was the Lord my God? I did not know. Thinking back, I'm pretty sure I followed my rituals and did what I was supposed to do. We were approaching the French border when two things happened almost simultaneously that made me wake up. I ate my breakfast which consisted of dry bread and water and tried to read a little in a magazine I had found at the station in Barcelona. But the letters did not form words. Instead everything smeared into a gray, meaningless matter. Then her sentence appeared again, the one she had spoken as she stepped off the train after our first encounter: "If you decipher this drawing, you shall learn what truly is concealed in Heaven."
The riddle.
I must solve the riddle.
That was a demand, an absolute.
Viking fortress in Denmark.
"Barking up the wrong tree," she had said, and I blushed again, but they were names of Viking fortresses in Denmark, weren't they? Niels Igneby wasn't likely to be mistaken. I pulled out the drawing from my pocket; it was crumpled, worn, but perfectly legible. What could she possibly mean? She was absolutely serious about this, that much I had gathered. I could not call her or contact her in any other way until I had solved this riddle and found out what Heaven truly conceals. I noticed I was feeling nauseated. There was something here I ought to watch out for. I perceived an inner voice telling me to be careful. Should not I, of all people, already know what is concealed in Heaven? Were there more than one Heaven? Unlikely. I couldn't eat anymore bread but thinking about his riddle and the words that went with it awoke me, brought me back to the real world. The real world was the train home to Vanndal, where Father Gotvin was to resume his vocational duties, his daily routine, but an unsolved riddle had the power to disrupt all that. I couldn't contact her, wasn't allowed to hear her voice on the telephone – she had been adamant about this – and suddenly I knew just as a traveler entered the compartment where I had been the only occupant; he was an older man, heavy set. I knew I would never again see Lucienne Lopez unless I did what she had demanded; which meant I could not go home to Vanndal, to Magnus Stormarkbråten, my father Kastor, to my neighbors Margit and Anders Nederstuen or my friends who were calling me "Father" until I had solved this riddle. That's how it was, that was reality. I must stop in Denmark and find a man called Preben Hansson. Did I have the money for a few days' stay in Denmark? No, but I could have a small amount transferred.
"Am I disturbing?"
The older, corpulent man was addressing me, looking at me through a pair of thick eyeglasses while lighting a slim cigar. Tobacco smoke never bothered me. On the contrary rather. Did he want to talk to me? He spoke French, which I could handle tolerably well. Would a conversation with a stranger about neutral subjects help me forget my own thoughts? Hardly, but I could try.
"Not at all," I replied.
"Bullfighting," he said, "is a noble sport."
"It is?"
"I have just been in Barcelona and seen El grande matador, señor Rodrigo Gavista."
"And what's the other bull's name?"
The man laughed and was not offended by my, for me totally unexpected, ironic remark. Irony had never been part of my discursive arsenal. Who had I become? He introduced himself as painter-artist Dupont from Bordeaux. Then he continued and I received an in-depth lecture on the finer points of bullfighting; its sublime aesthetics and ethics; the corrida was a theater in its most elevated form, un lanca de capa and natura con la izquierda, to say nothing of the masterpiece brindis del toreo. This was ballet – that's how it was – and, with regards to the ox, the bull in question, he personally would, given a choice between being a regular bull and one destined for bullfighting, without a shadow of a doubt have chosen the latter. Bullfighting bulls lived all their lives as kings and died as kings whereas bulls whose fate it was to become beef lead a paltry, miserable life and died in surroundings reeking with urine, excrement, blood, and terror in the butcher shops. Had I ever been to a Spanish butcher shop and looked for myself? No, that I hadn't, but where was I from? He noticed my boreal accent.
"From Norway," I replied.
"Vacation?"
I nodded. "Been to Santiago de Compostella."
"Really?" He blinked eagerly behind his glasses and pulled closer. "A pilgrimage. A visit to the scene of a recently proclaimed miracle. Did you see anything?"
"No." I squirmed, feeling uneasy.
He moved even closer screwed up his eyes until they became narrow slits, and continued in a muted voice.
"Let me tell you something, stranger, stay away from places like that. I can be fatally dangerous for non-believers, but perhaps you are a believer?"
I nodded and looked away.
"Then let me tell you a story you should know. I myself happen to have been interested in these phenomena. I have certain connections; reliable sources and, with respect to the incident in Fatima in October of 1917, I'm sure you have heard about it. There were also present among the onlookers non-believers, dissenters, dissidents who interpreted the phenomenon differently. They were free to do so as long as they did not go public with their views, but four men independent of each other, did. One of them was even a professor of philosophy. Afterwards they were visited by lackeys of the cardinals in Rome and were tortured in unimaginable ways. João Herreira had his balls cut off and they were all threatened with even worse things befalling their families unless they put an end to their public heresies. I happen to know that the cardinals Timoteus Villalobos, Jaroslaw Tugor, and Alfons de Montesquieller personally participated in the ball lopping. They are all dead now, victims as well as villains. I know it's not a comfortable story for a believer, but one you should know about because these things are supposed to have happened in Santiago de Compostella as well. There were three or four infidels present when the so-called "Mary" appeared in the sky.
I had turned away.
I did not want to hear.
I was freezing.
I wanted to hear nothing.
"Two of these infidels who witnessed the miracle on the cathedral square on September 20th of last year are dead – perished under very mysterious circumstances. Did you know?"
I did not move.
I did not listen.
I saw the scenery flicker by.
"You did not know? Well, now you do." He hissed like a snake and I felt his breath – garlic – close to my cheek.
I rose and took the magazine.
Rolled it up.
I struck as hard as I could.
Hit him on top of the head.
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