“I like your hands, Paul. They’re big, heavy, rough. I like to feel them on my shoulders, on my hips. They don’t know how to caress or they don’t want to caress. But I like their weight.”
She took a long look at those boney hands which, even in their present domesticated state, retained a certain hardness. She kissed them. She poured her whole female sensual gravity into this act. Paul was unable to suppress a twinge of embarrassment.
“No, Nora.”
She didn’t understand. “How stupid men can be, Paul! So many superstitions, so much fear… You’re afraid of the simplest things. Only a woman knows how to really kiss hands, my love, and make it into something beautiful.”
She approached him with her eyes closed. She showed neither hysterical haste nor bashful modesty. Every movement of her body spoke of authenticity and conciliation.
Morning revealed again the sharp, alert Nora, ready for the trail. In her blue jacket with her peaked cap pulled over her forehead she was, like him, a skier.
No troubled feelings lingered between them from the night, which had passed without leaving behind a trace.
XIII
IT WASN’T SNOWING. The light was like cinders, but the clouds seemed to be farther away and the horizon more open.
They left their skis at the Touring Club, stuck into the snow with the tips facing up, and climbed to the summit of the mountain.
“Maybe we’ll see Braşov,” somebody said.
They couldn’t see anything. Postăvar floated alone amid an ocean of clouds. The pine forests that covered the opposite slope in the direction of Timiş melted after a few hundred metres into a whitish fog.
“Down below us is the Timiş Valley. Over there is Piatra Mare. To the left is Braşov.” Nora pointed out with her hand places that were lost in the mist, enveloped in nothingness. “You know what’s happening in Braşov tonight?” she asked suddenly. Still smiling, she replied: “They’re performing the Christmas Oratory at the Black Church.”
“Is it the twenty-third already?” Paul said, surprised.
“Yes.”
He remained still for a time with his gaze trained in the direction of Braşov, invisible behind the mist. The haze seemed to soften the distances. “What do you say? Would it be madness if we went down to Braşov this evening?”
“It might not be madness,” Nora said, “but it would certainly be daring.”
“Is it that hard?”
“Hard, no. It’s long.”
“And you don’t want us to try it?”
“Of course, Paul. If we do a morning of serious training beforehand.”
He accepted all of her conditions. After the long run that lay before them, the evening’s concert would be a reward.
Gunther received without pleasure the news of their departure.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Nora assured him.
All through lunch, the boy continued to frown. Only towards the end of the meal did he brighten up. “I’ve sung in the Christmas Oratory, too. In a choir, of course. I was in grade seven and we were asked by the school to perform. I think I still remember a few things today.”
He thought for a moment and finally, turning his gaze towards the window, as though he were seeking someone there, he began to sing:
“Brich an, du schönes Morgenlicht,
Und lass den Himmel tagen.
Du, Hirtenvolk, erschrecke nicht
Weil dir die Engel sagen…”21
He pitched his voice too high and the final note, although clear, made his cheeks turn red.
“Mama was down in the church. I can see her now, next to the third window on the right. She was smiling. She was the only person in the whole Black Church who was smiling. I felt that she was listening to me. I felt that she was answering me.”
He kept looking towards the window. Finally, he averted his gaze from there and spoke again with the grim tone that they had heard on other occasions. “A real Grodeck doesn’t smile. Watch them carefully this evening. The whole clan will be gathering there. Dozens, hundreds of members of the Grodeck family. Not one of them smiles.”
Nora tried to soothe him, to bring some peace to his tormented child’s forehead. “Tell us the truth, Gunther. Do you want us to stay?” “No. But I want you to come back.”
“Understood. Tomorrow evening we’ll be here to light the Christmas tree together.”
Before they left, Gunther drew them a map of the trail. From the SKV chalet they would go down the leisure run, which would take them as far as the centre of Braşov. It was a groomed trail, with a gentle slope (the Saxons called it the Familienweg22), well marked with blue-and-white signs right to the end, but from which several smaller trails branched off towards Timişul-de-Jos, Noua and Honterus.
“But if you pay attention, you can’t get lost.”
The map he had drawn was clear and detailed. In the margins were all the landmarks that they might meet along the way and which he recommended they watch out for. In addition, he gave Paul a compass and showed him how to use it. Nora would have to carry bandages, cotton and vials of pills in her backpack.
Their departure for Braşov was becoming a real expedition. “Is it that dangerous?” Paul asked.
“In winter in the mountains you never know what’s going to happen.”
They had barely set out when Hagen overtook them from behind.
“Gunther wonders where you’re thinking of sleeping in Braşov this evening.”
“In a hotel, of course.”
“He doesn’t think you’ll find a room. He told you to give me this.”
It was an envelope on which Paul read a woman’s name — Frau Adelle Bund — and an unknown street: Strada Prundului, 26.
“It’s my house,” Hagen said. “I wouldn’t advise you to go there. It’s an old house and it’s far away. But if you can’t find a room anywhere, don’t sleep in the street.”
He spoke with ill will. It was clear that this turn of events did not please him.
Nora made an effort to placate him. “We thank you, but I think we’ll leave Frau Adelle in peace. It can’t not be possible to find a room in town.”
He didn’t look entirely placated. “Have a good trip,” he said.
He looked after them for a long time as they headed off.
They made a quick stop at the SKV chalet to consult the map. From there, they set off on a trail that was unknown to both of them. The run started behind the chalet. Gunther had drawn it in a meandering blue line that descended towards a circle that was coloured green. Inside this circle he had written in small block letters: Ruia.
Nora let Paul go ahead in a snowplow.
“Don’t leave the snowplow for even a second,” she told him.
“Whatever you do, if you’re not going at high speed, nothing serious will happen.”
Paul set off in a strained silence. He clutched the poles’ handgrips with closed fists. He had the impression that his whole effort was concentrated there, in the joints of his hands. His knees were bent as though he were preparing for a jump. His skis slid ahead of him, made heavier by his braking.
He held his breath as he waited for the first turn. His head was bowed between his shoulders, but his attention was locked on the point ahead of him, coming closer every second, where the trail turned to the left. He felt his temples throbbing. Now, now, now… He pushed the tip of his right ski ahead of the other one, then leaned with all of his weight towards the left. The snowplow opened to a enormously wide angle. The turn was completed gradually, like the gliding wheeling of a bird on unmoving wings. The left ski, which for a second supported his entire weight, skidded around with a harsh scraping sound, then, in the next second, his equilibrium returned.