Paula Robles Nettel
He really
was a brilliant man in his correspondence, but he also tried to dominate me
with me with his questions, provoking debates and by boasting about his
connections, that for me meant nothing but I understood that for him this was his last
resource to push himself up in the attempt to rescue in any way possible
something of his humanity, something of his masculinity. In that very moment I made it very clear that
his identity which he kept hidden from me, his looks, his social and economic
status or his professional accomplishments were completely irrelevant for me,
after all, I had no intention to meet him. He immediately changed his
disposition towards me, his arrogance faded away giving way to a sweetness and
humble apology in which he admitted he had overused phrases, concepts and
ideologies in our correspondence because between him and his friends they were
used to play that game but that he was not as bright as they were playing that
game, and that he had never seen me as an inferior, he appreciated our
correspondence that stimulated him a lot
and also guided him with hope towards the light.
I knew well
my general knowledge was not at par with his, despite my background where
education and the acquirement of general culture was very important in our
upbringing, intellectually Henning Alexander was superior to me due to his
advanced level of education but also for his natural interest towards all the
areas he used to write me about and that I honestly had neglected after I had
ended university. However, I never stop trying keeping up with his debates, I
did it in the way I could that included of course the use of the internet,
books and many times even calling my mother to ask her about history,
philosophy, religion and asking my ex-husband for help to decipher his metaphors and analogies in Norwegian. In fact, Henning Alexander’s mails were so
interesting that my ex-husband asked several times in a joking manner “Has
Henning Alexander written to us lately?”
That cold
night I laid my eyes in the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen in my eleven
years of having lived in Norway. Prior to our meeting I had no clue about his
identity or his appearance, and though I did try to match the information I had
about him with images of possible candidates on the internet, the results of
possible candidates were not convincing so I desisted in trying to find who he was, and
left it to chance, after all, appearances have never been that important to me.
There, before me, an invisible curtain was lifted, giving stage to the physical
encounter of two polar lights in this saga, that included a very peculiar Southern Valkyrie
of 1.54 meters with a plump complexion and a spectacular Viking man called Henning
Alexander of 1.90 meters with thick dark straight hair and a perfectly shaped
dark beard adorned with several patches of silver threads that framed his
face with the elegance just a few can possess. His eyes were framed by a pair
of glasses that despite looking a little worn down by their use, made him
look enigmatic, intellectual and frankly said splendid. He shyly smiled and
said hi and immediately handed me a bouquet of flowers, apologizing for having to
improvise by stopping at the gas station nearby the airport to buy them when he
suddenly remembered that I had mentioned I liked flowers and specially
Gerberas. Despite my nervousness I approached him and hugged him as one
embraces a dear friend, he as a Norwegian didn’t know how to react, baffled by
the effusive Latin embrace that I so much love to impose on the locals just to
see how stiffly they can react.
I watched
him carefully trying not to reveal my surprise when I realized how many
suitcases he had with him, as if he was leaving the country forever but I
didn’t question him, I helped him carry the suitcases and bags towards his
hotel and by the time he was settled it was already over 22:30 we went out in search of a place to dine, but
as it was Tuesday, most places were about to close, we enter the XO Bar a place
with Nordic atmosphere and practically the only place that would serve us food
that late. The beautiful waitress took us to our table in a far corner, lighted
by a five candles silver candlestick holder that provided an intimate
atmosphere. There, in the back of that place we quickly reconnected with the
cyber beings who knew each other so well, the conversation flowed smoothly and
cheerfully talking about our lives, laughing at our language misunderstanding
bumps and all seemed very normal until Henning Alexander decided it was time to
give me something, he immediately opened his leather bag and pulled out a black
paper bag with handles, the bag had an orange title with the words Clear Answer (Klart Svar), apparently a
bag with the slogan of a phone shop in Norway and that he considered essential
to give to me on that important day when we finally got to meet each other and
since both of us were looking for clear answers to our lives. Inside the bag I
found an eclectic collection of objects, several individually wrapped
chocolates made by Nidar, some with
cognac and others of Marzipan called Gullbrød; several CD’s among them one with
the best songs of Bjørn Eidsvåg, The Ring of the Nibelungs of Richard Warner,
and a beautiful meditation Christmas album of Norwegian pianist Iver Kleive;
the bag also included the film Valkyrie, a Norwegian book of Kristopher Schau that he considered very important that I had in my home and that included a keyword
or indirect correlation to one of the most important persons in his life, of
someone who no longer lived and that he adored. Finally at the bottom of the
bag I found a cut piece of paper of what seemed to have been a food bag with
the title “ Dinner Szechuan Cooking”
it was folded in a triangle. Without any explanation he made me observe all the
objects, and proudly said to me “ All this is for you”.
The bag is
still near me, with the original content except a few chocolates, of those only
two remain for I have not had the courage to eat them. After dinner, we slowly
headed towards the central lake of Stavanger Breiavatnet, also known as the
heart of the city, I took him by the east area of the cathedral, which stood
among large snowed branches of giant trees framing the sublime Gothic side of
the building. In front of us appeared the nostalgic wooden houses at the edge of
the lake, buildings that have seen legendary citizens of the region such as his
favorite Stavanger author Alexander Kielland and his sister Kitti Kielland a
magnificent painter who gave her life to capture the beauty of the region of
Rogaland. The lake, the trees and wooden houses placed close to the edge of the
water were dressed in white and the air was perfumed with the freshness of
winter, we strolled slowly and in silence around the lake that took us just in
front of his hotel. It seemed like we have known each other for a long time, we
continued talking for a few hours in the lobby sitting by the comforting
warmth of the fireplace. Since the bar
had closed, Henning suggested that we continued the conversation at the service
of the mini bar in his suite. Feeling sure that this friendship was purely
platonic, I was immersed in the charm of being for the first time in front of a
man who liked to talk, certainly I felt special, not knowing that this state of
euphoria, assertiveness and brilliance he had shown in his correspondence and
now in person, was primarily a symptom of his illness and the hypomania in
which that night he had reached me. When the conversation finally reached the
aspect of his newly diagnosed disease, his spirit broke in thousand pieces.
Ashamed, he tried to apologized while trying to control the tears that betrayed
him every second. I reached out and held him in bewilderment, many times had I
heard the term bipolar, but did not really knew what that meant nor to which road
his sickness would lead us.
In the
period before his arrival to my life, I was sure I had reached the point where
I was finally being granted the right to uncomplicated happiness, that my life
was going to take the direction of the happiness I sought, the fulfillment of
my romantic dreams that I so believed I deserved because of the past I had overcome.
How little I knew about life or God’s plans. I held him strongly while he
cried, my tears fell likewise on the showdown of that sadness that surrounded
us again, and I wondered what was the reason for me being there.
We composed
ourselves, we had drunk enough wine in those seven hours of conversation so I
thought it was best for me to grab a taxi and go home to sleep, he walked me to
the door and I was sure we were going to say goodbye with the same friendly
familiarity that had been around us all night. When we reached the door he
grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me to see him, his blue, wet and swollen
eyes looked down on me with a slightly pleading look and he started obfuscated
to repeat the word rest, rest, rest (hvile)
over and over, he tried to speak but he couldn’t and then a murmur came out of
his lips saying “Let me rest in the harbor of your hope, stay here, do not leave
me alone”. Immediately continued giving arguments to convince me, saying that
the room was one of the best suites of the hotel and there was enough space for
both of us and that he would sleep on the couch. It was not too hard to
convince me, it was five o’clock in the morning, the wine had done its effects
and I needed to get up in a couple of hours to go to work in my office that was
in front of the cathedral, just three minutes walking from the hotel; I laid
him dressed on the couch, I covered him like a toddler with the duvet, I knelt
down by his side, removed his glasses carefully placing them on the coffee table, and dared to look at his
beautiful face while I stroked his face, touching ever so slightly with my
fingers the contour of his face, his eyebrows, his eyes, the smoothness of his
profile, he opened his eyes and with a nostalgic voice said “Sometimes she also
touches my face like that”.
I smiled at
him with tenderness and without saying anything more I stood up and went to the
bed. I could no longer see him from where I was, but I could listen to him, the
way he tried to cry in silence, with a firm voice I asked him to come to bed,
telling him we both were dressed, and if what he needed was closeness and
comfort we could hug. We held for a long time until his crying stopped. I was
tired and so I rested my back in his chest, between us the thick duvet
separated our bodies but I could still feel the beating of his heart trespassing
the goose feathers of the duvet, I have never heard a heartbeat so loudly and
so I asked him what was wrong, “I can’t control what I feel” he said, “It would
be best if you left and we meet again later” but he didn’t let go of me, and
held me tight as if his life depended on it. I turned around to look at him and
reminded him that he was a family man, he was engaged to his long time life
companion that even being dressed there with him wasn’t correct, that I was
also confused. We looked at each other intensely,
the deep blue of his eyes started to mix with my inner feelings, fast taking
grip of the beatings of my heart, I remained silent while his dilated eyes bounded
me to the first moment of many where the glass ceiling of my prejudices about
double moral standards would fall to the ground shattered when the stone of
lust and eventually of love would seize me too.
The tone of
his voice changed, the fire in his eyes expressed the unmistakable desire of
the body that longs to be released, while we debated in silence the way forward
he then suggested to do something about it without touching each other, and so
I started by taking my clothes off, while he did the same. I suddenly stopped
and whispered with embarrassment to him “Henning Alexander, I have a tummy”. “I
adore bellies” he replied with a mischievous smile and playful tone. And so,
with the charming cynicism of his answer, I got carried away by the moment; for
the first time in my life I was doing something with a stranger, something I only had dared to do with my ex-husband, there in front of this beautiful stranger, I
gave myself without reservations or shame, bragging and claiming the power to stimulate my femininity that he could only watch while he also overflowed himself
into the pleasures of his manhood.
The next morning,
I woke up first, we had slept side by side holding hands. I looked at his face,
it was so beautiful, so masculine and so innocent at the same time. When he finally
awoke, he smiled at me with his bleary eyes and greeted me good morning with a serious
tone and he asked me how I felt while he started to get out of bed to go to the
bathroom, while I indiscreetly admired his Scandinavian body even whiter than
mine, long, wiry, masculine. I stayed lying in bed and told him I had a
terrible headache and then I hid my head under the pillows to block the light,
a few minutes later without me noticing that he was approaching the bed, he
stood by my side, he called my name and I lifting my head from the pillow saw
him standing there in his underwear, that man I knew so much from the inside
and was so new on the outside. He had brought me two painkillers and a glass of
water, I smiled shyly as I sat in the bed with the duvet covering me discreetly
as if the night before had only been imagined. I opened both my hands, with the
left one I took the glass of water while placing the pills on my right hand and
looking into my eyes commented “You have very small feminine hands” he said
with a hoarse voice and smiling with that half crooked smile so particular
his turned around and went to shower.
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