Chapter 11: The Complicity of Distance

Chapter 11: The Complicity of Distance

Thus ended my second week in Norway. The third began with a beautiful and subtle choreography that was installed in our daily routine. She went down to the beach at lunchtime, but now she no longer ate alone in the strict sense of the word; he ate with me at a distance. He sat in his usual place and I in mine, sharing the same sky, the same noise of the waves and the same respectful silence.

In the evenings, the dynamics of the wine glasses evolved. There was no longer a need for lights flashing in the dark as distress signals. Now, he lit a small torch on his wooden porch, leaving a living flame that danced with the north wind, making it known that he was there, firm in his post. We looked for each other through the meters that separated our lives, but we both knew—or rather, felt in our souls—that we needed to maintain that physical space. We were two ships that had been wrecked in the same storm and we understood perfectly well that the process of reconstruction, pain and acceptance, was something that we had to go through alone, behind closed doors.

On Thursday afternoon I decided to climb the cliff again. I was walking slowly, my mind floating somewhere between everything and nothing, enjoying the lack of weight in my thoughts. Suddenly, the sound of a clean throat clearing cut through the whistling of the wind.

I stopped. It was him. He had planted himself at a safe distance on the path, with no intention of getting too close or invading my bubble. He stared at me with his blue eyes and, in that hoarse, deep voice that was already beginning to feel familiar, he let loose a direct proposal:

"Do you think Saturday night pizza and red wine?"

I had a hard time processing what he had just told me. The idea of a traditional date made my stomach spin, but before panic could set in, I understood the code we were dealing with. I laughed subtly, feeling a slight warmth on my cheeks, and replied:

"I think it's perfect. I'll make mine with meat, mushrooms, cheese and some vegetables.

"Perfect," he nodded with a light smile. That day you will taste the one I make.

"How will you do it?" I asked, raising my eyebrows as I looked at the distance between our cabins.

"You'll see," he replied with a wink. He turned around and went down the road, leaving me with a doubt floating in the fresh air.

Friday went by without any problems, wrapped up in my usual routine that now felt more like a home and less like a temporary refuge. But Saturday dawned shrouded in a haze of sweet anxiety. I kept wondering what I was up to. Would he come to my cabin? Should I go to his? What had he meant by saying that he would taste his pizza? I decided not to think about it anymore so as not to ruin the moment and I concentrated on the kitchen. I prepared the dough from scratch, patiently stretching it, and assembled it just as I had promised: juicy meat, fresh mushrooms, a good layer of cheese and, to top it off, I added fresh arugula and peppers of various colors that gave it a beautiful view.