Chapter 13: The Breakfast of the Taut Rope

Sunday dawned with a bright sun that made the frost shine on the wood of the terrace. I woke up with a clean energy, a lightness in my legs that I hadn't experienced since my twenties. It was half past eight in the morning and the kitchen already smelled of glory. I made strong black coffee, chopped fresh fruit, prepared jars of yogurt, toasted several slices of bread, and scooped out jam and squeezed orange juice. I meticulously arranged everything inside a wicker basket that I had stored in the cabin, making sure that nothing was going to tip over on the way up.

I went out to the terrace feeling the icy air on my face. I took the line of the zipline and began to move the rope forcefully so that the bell on the other side would ring with joy on the hill.

A few seconds later, the door of the cabin upstairs opened and he appeared. He was wearing a dark T-shirt quite close to the body that highlighted his broad shoulders and gray sweatpants, comfortable, like someone who is not in a hurry to go anywhere. Seeing the basket ready on my porch, he let out a clean laugh that traveled through the morning air. He began to pull the rope with firm arms, climbing the zipline to his porch. He took a couple of minutes where I couldn't see what he was doing; He arranged his things inside, secured the basket and let it slide down the hill on the cable.

When the bell rang back on my railing, I opened the lid with childlike curiosity. Inside, in addition to my things, came a small thermos with a type of Norwegian coffee that I did not know, with an intensely spicy aroma, and a generous piece of homemade strawberry kuchen, with a crunchy dough and a sweet shine that immediately whetted the appetite. We looked at each other in the distance, each at his outside table, raising the steaming cups in a morning greeting.

Thus began our fourth week in Vik. Without invading us, without demanding explanations, healing through a fishing line and the complicity of silence.