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Fiction

Abel’s Autobiography

By Kári Tulinius
Translated from Icelandic by Larissa Kyzer
In the grip of obsession, a man turns an open relationship into a triangle in an excerpt from a novel by Kári Tulinius. 
Listen to Kári Tulinius read "Abel's Autobiography" in the original Icelandic
 
 

Life never chooses the right moment to unveil love to you for the first time, when you’ve not yet experienced it—not, for instance, at a moment when the days are lumbering by at a crawl, like station wagons in bumper-to-bumper traffic—but rather when you’re speeding along the freeway with a scalding hot cup of coffee in one hand on your way to meet your friend near the old abandoned military base so you can sneak through a hole in the fence and leap naked from the barracks roof into a swimming hole and then look over at the other lane where there’s a person who’s in just as much of a hurry as you and who looks over at the very same second and your eyes meet and something sparks in your mind, and your friends, your plans, your future are all forgotten, and then suddenly, it’s clear there’s only one right choice: to smash your cars together and make love in the wreckage.

The person in the car next to mine in this metaphor was Jerome, who, as he put it, had needed to correct the misunderstanding that he was a woman and had had a mastectomy, had been taking testosterone for two years, and carried himself, looked, and smelled exactly like what he was—and I didn’t just want to be with him, I wanted to be him, minus the receding hairline—I even considered quitting theology and transferring to the music composition department where he was completing his PhD because his whole inner self came together in one whole, wasn’t just draped around him like rags.

We met because he was composing not music exactly, but rather a soundscape for a play I had a part in, which bore the long and cumbersome title of Scies Sub Ista Tenui Membrana Dignitatis Quantum Mali Iaceat—You Will Know How Much Evil Lies Under That Thin Coating of Titles—which quite rightly indicated that the work was a bit pretentious, though the title had actually come about by chance; it was supposed to have been the epigraph, but the playwright, Rhea Wilkins, wasn’t able to come up with a title and ultimately, the Seneca quote ended up being the only thing written on the cover page and anyway, it corresponded perfectly with the content: an amalgamation of short retellings of Greco-Roman myths that dealt with gender roles—I was to play our friend Attis from a poem by Catullus—since Rhea wanted to use ancient mythology to critique the gender myths of the present.

The other role I was supposed to play, one of Penelope’s pushy suitors, was cut when the play was shortened by half—all the Homer stuff got cut out—so I had more time to hang out and chat; I’d actually planned to sit in the corner and study, but I’d always enjoyed lolling around with a cup of tea, discussing everything under the sun and moon while my castmates worked on something in the script that I was in no way responsible for, so it didn’t take long before I was spending a lot less time with my nose in a book and fingers on a keyboard, while conversely, the hours I spent with the musicians—among them, Jerome—started to pile up and they amused themselves with stories and party games, some of them music-related—for instance, they’d improvise a quick tune to represent the way someone walked and then you’d have to guess who the song was for—but others more traditional conversation games, like one where you had to describe a fictional character without making any physical gestures and without using any word connected to the fictional work the character was in, and I was very good at that game while Jerome was the master of the promenade game because he generally had a really good feeling for how bodies moved, both as discrete entities and also how they filled and used space.

We were drawn together on the dance floor, our group went to a dance club all together, which I’m usually not big on because I’d rather dance alone or with just a few friends—this was a sign that I’d been sucked into Jerome’s gravitational pull, which I was as yet unaware of—but this time, I didn’t think twice about it, rather followed everyone into the club and out onto the floor and was there longer than everyone else, except for him, until finally, we got separated from everyone else among the dancing strangers, bodies that turned into waves that encircled us in a writhing swell of flesh and fervor, his dance steps becoming my own—more delicate, smoother and slower—until he stood still, looking down and a tiny bit to the left, his hands quivering in time with the music; I was spooned out from within and filled with thunderclouds—I’d moved closer as our dancing slowed and laid a hand on his right hip and then he put his arms around me, pulled me to him, lifted his face to mine and kissed me and the electricity that had been building up under my skin, in my chest and in my throat, streamed out of me and into him.

I probably would have been able to maintain my sanity when it came to him—though there’s no doubt that I would have become smitten all too quickly—had he not told me first thing the next morning that he was in an open relationship but that he wanted to keep sleeping with me, seeing me, and asked if I wanted the same thing; that’s when the weeds of jealousy took root and spread throughout my thoughts, choked my other feelings and desires so that I became obsessed with Jerome, even started to copy the way he dressed and moved—I wanted to have him all to myself, my life began revolving around taking possession of him and his time, everything else became a mere detail, my writing assignments were submitted late and poorly done, class periods passed me by like a herd of cows in the fog—if I even showed up, that is—my relationships with friends got choked by the weeds because my friends were transformed into psychologists who had to listen to me blather on—I have to give it to you: you’re always willing to listen to me ramble—my theatrical pursuits vanished in the uncultivated thicket like everything else that had made me me, and in the end, I was only interested in two things: Jerome, and his lover, Lionel.

Jealousy sowed its seeds wider still in my mind whenever Jerome called me and said that he couldn’t meet up because Lionel needed him; the first time he did it, it was OK—things come up—but the next time he chose Lionel over me, I understood that this was the way my life was going to be, that I would always be second best because Jerome felt that he bore some responsibility for Lionel—any time Jerome’s cell would whistle with a message from Lionel, Jerome’d come running—although in fairness, Jerome could also always rely on Lionel, who felt that ze’d been rescued from the abyss by our mutual lover.

Jerome had met Lionel at the Boulder Public Library as ze would regularly go there to meet hir daughter, who ze’d lost custody of when ze’d transitioned; Jerome found the library an agreeable place to work on his compositions, far away from the distractions of the university campus, and on one occasion he noticed the tense interaction between Lionel and hir former husband, started to keep an eye out for hir and get to know the routine: ze’d wait for hir daughter, chat with her, say good-bye to her—or, when the ex didn’t show, didn’t—how Lionel would crumple when ze’d given up hope of getting to see hir daughter that day, and on one such occasion, Jerome approached Lionel, said he’d often seen hir with hir daughter, and it didn’t take long for their conversation to become quite intimate.

Lionel sent Jerome a friend request on Facebook, they started talking, and before long were regularly meeting at a coffee shop in town, although Lionel lived in a cabin in the woods, far up in the Rockies—hir isolation was both geographical and social—ze’d moved from New York to be close to hir daughter when hir former husband got a computer science position in Boulder, had let hirself be guided by a long-standing desire, moved to a remote house to write, and then four years had passed and ze hadn’t made any close friends, rather lived in hir cabin and took walks through mountain forests in search of the inspiration that ze did actually find, ze’d finished the manuscript of hir novel and was forever rewriting it—I’d managed to covertly send myself a copy from Jerome’s computer when I was visiting him at his office—the novel was about Abelard and Heloise, or more accurately, just Heloise, but in Lionel’s story, Abelard was her creation, a nom de plume she adopted in order to get her writing published, and then her pseudonym took on its own life and stories about its dialectical prowess traveled to every corner of France, then Heloise began dressing up as Abelard and started teaching at a Paris school, but claimed to be taking private lessons with that famous intellectual so as not to arouse suspicion when going in and out of the place where she kept her disguise, but in time, she started to spend more time in her role as Abelard, gradually felt better that way than she did as a noblewoman, until an uncle’s suspicion that something untoward was going on between her and her teacher lead to an innocent bystander being castrated and her being forced to enter a nunnery.

Lionel felt that society, both American society at large and the literary world, was against hir, ze had a master’s degree in creative writing from Brooklyn College but never got to teach anywhere or publish anything, and ze had trouble trusting anyone other than Jerome, who won hir trust by always being frank and forthcoming, describing all his love affairs in great detail—sometimes, Lionel also came down just to hear Jerome practicing his clarinet—but other than hir lover and daughter, Lionel avoided humankind as best ze could, since as far as ze was concerned, society had driven hir into the forest.

I felt like I had to meet hir, to find out who it was that held Jerome captive—my emotions had gotten the better of me—to find a way to free him from his prison, to get him all to myself—a mentality that I’m ashamed of now, a problematic but important part of my life, but I wouldn’t be me without my obsession, or to put it better, I wouldn’t be me without this experience because when Jerome became my role model, I could allow my masculinity to grow like an apple tree next to a crystal-clear spring and become myself; before, I’d taken cues from my father, but it’s from Jerome that I learned how to move and how to be still, how to knot my tie and iron my shirts, how to speak and listen.

In the beginning, Jerome and I didn’t meet very often outside of the theater, but as the fall semester progressed, I started visiting him most days and in the end, I was staying with him every night, except when Lionel was in town or needed him to stay in the forest, but jealousy weighed so heavily upon me that I could only begrudge Lionel and be bitter toward Jerome for leaving me behind so that more and more often, I’d pass by his house when they were together in the hope of seeing them without ever having decided what exactly it was that I planned to do if they actually appeared.

Nothing ever came of these walk-bys, but one day, I saw an email from Lionel to Jerome—I’d snuck a look at it while he was making tea—in which ze suggested that they meet up at a coffee shop called Erhard’s that was pretty far away from downtown and the university; at first, it wasn’t my intention to spy, but my curiosity got the better of me and after Jerome left me by the university building where I was supposed to be going to class, I went to the coffee shop instead—took the next bus after him—and as soon as I arrived, I knew I’d made a mistake: it was a small place, just a bakery, really, with a few tables for customers, in a shopping center where each shop was facing out toward the parking lot such that I couldn’t hide anywhere and so had to stop pretty far away; as far as I could tell, the two of them were sitting at a table with a little girl—probably Lionel’s daughter—and then I walked back in the direction of the university.

It makes my skin crawl now when I think about how asinine my behavior was, but at any rate, I decided to take things even further because when I realized, while snooping through Jerome’s emails on another occasion, that they intended to go up to Lionel’s place in the mountains, I resolved to follow them; I wanted to see them together so I could understand why Jerome preferred Lionel to me—I just had to make arrangements for a car and then also to dress in such a way that Jerome wouldn’t recognize me from a distance.

After asking a few friends if I could borrow their car—I should mention that I invented the unnecessarily complicated excuse that some relatives of mine had a twelve-hour stopover at the Denver airport and I wanted to take them on a quick trip into the Rockies—Cynthia told me I could use her Corolla if I returned it washed and with a full tank of gas; then I went and bought an ugly old sweater and a big wool hat—there was no reason to do more than that, but just to be on the safe side, I grabbed a pair of fake glasses from the props closet, as well as a thermos of tea and a package of cookies from home.

I didn’t have to wait long because Lionel arrived in hir pickup truck about five minutes after I’d parked a short ways down the street and Jerome came out right away—he usually made me wait—and they drove off and I after them, took the most direct route out of town and up into the Rockies, the sides of which were already in shadow, and I suddenly realized that I had no idea where Lionel lived, nor whether the two of them were going straight to hir house; I’d been so focused on how I’d go about following them that I hadn’t thought through the trip itself, except that I should keep at least one car between us, a tip I’d picked up from crime novels.

Lionel followed the winding road along the bottom of the valley which lay between hills that quickly turned into steep, densely wooded mountains on both sides of the car and every time they disappeared around a curve, I got scared that I’d lose them, although that didn’t happen, and finally, we came to the dam and water reservoir by Nederland, but they kept driving, through the town and up into the mountains with me following in the Corolla, further and further up into the Rockies—it had started to snow—and as the road got increasingly narrow and winding, I lost sight of them behind the dense trees more often, although I invariably caught sight of them again until, all of a sudden, they disappeared.

At first, I kept driving for a while in the hopes I’d find them, but I was quickly persuaded that they’d turned off the road somewhere, so I turned the car around and drove slowly back the way I’d come, trying to scan for back roads leading into the forest and it wasn’t long before I came across one, but when I slowed down to check if I could see some trace of a car, I caught sight of another back road further down and so on and so forth because within the very short distance I’d driven back, there were any number of roads leading into the forest and tire tracks in the new-fallen snow on many of them.

I didn’t want to give up and decided to drive down the back road that had tire tracks that I thought looked the most like they were from a truck—I have no idea now how I thought I could know that—at first, it was going really well, but then the Corolla’s tires started to lose their grip and spin a bit, but I still kept going—I didn’t want to have wasted all that time and energy following them all the way up there just to have them get away from me in the final feet—but then the road ended at an old hunting shack—no car, Jerome and Lionel nowhere to be seen.

I was shocked, nearly burst into tears, got out of the car to check whether maybe the road kept going, but it didn’t, the tire tracks ended—or, more accurately, began—at the shack, and there wasn’t a thing to see through the snow flurries except for the forest all around me, so I turned around and went back the way I’d come, but before long, I came to a spot where the road forked and then drove a ways down a side road, stopped the car, jumped out, made sure that no one had driven down it, got back in the car, backed out onto the main road, and put it into drive, but when I tried to go forward, the tires started spinning and then jerked the car forward onto the shoulder and I couldn’t get it to go backward or forward and when I took out my phone to call for help, I couldn’t get a signal—stuck, no hope of rescue, in the forest—the flurries had become an all-out blizzard, an endless torrent of white flecks that fell on the fir trees, the Corolla, and me.

I didn’t know what I should do in this predicament because I’d learned to drive in the summer in Issaquah and had never needed to think about how I should free a car that’s stuck in the snow, had never gotten the knack, and in New England, where I would have maybe been able to learn it, I never drove—I hardly ever got in a car, hardly ever left the campus grounds because that’s where I felt most comfortable—but now I wished I’d tried to drive in the snow, just so I’d know if I was in a lot of trouble or just an insignificant jam, but I felt entirely forsaken, like my life was maybe even in danger.

The car idled while I sat and thought about what would be the best thing to do, but my initial hunch—you couldn’t call it an informed guess—was that this road was most likely used very little, so I decided the best thing to do would be to walk back out to the main road, particularly because I was afraid that if I waited until morning, the tire tracks would get snowed over and the snow drifts would be more arduous to traverse, and anyway, there was still something left of the day, so I put my coat on over my sweater—which I thanked providence I’d bought—took off the fake glasses, put on the cap and gloves, turned off the Corolla, got out, grabbed the thermos and cookies, started off into the blizzard, and was all at once overcome with worry about Cynthia’s car, although I managed to shake that off because I knew she would be the first to tell me not to worry about a lifeless object, that if I’d died because I didn’t want to abandon her car she’d have chased me into the next world like a hunter stalking its prey.

The walk went well—the tire tracks showed me the way and I was filled with a growing sense of security, would have even whistled if the snowflakes hadn’t chilled my enthusiasm, but my creaking steps became livelier, and before long, the walk was progressing well and I was certain that I’d reach the road soon, but little by little the tire tracks became more indistinct, slowly but surely it got darker, my self-assurance waned and I started feeling less sure of myself, thought that it would have been good to have you at my side—an Icelander who knew what you were supposed to do in such circumstances.

Darkness fell suddenly, much sooner than I would have hoped—I hadn’t thought about the fact that in the mountains, the sun disappears behind the peaks long before it sets—and soon I couldn’t see anything except what was illuminated when I checked my phone for service—there wasn’t any—I’d grown cold and I suddenly realized that I had no idea how long I’d driven along the trail or how far from the road I’d gone; all my focus had been directed at what lay ahead and any clues that indicated that Jerome and Lionel had gone this way, so I hadn’t checked the clock or the mile markers, but now I understood what kind of danger I was in, and that I had been led there by my own obsession—had allowed myself to be a jealous idiot—and now I might die because of my own stupidity, and so I sat down with my back up against a tree, drew my legs up under my old sweater, scrunched my head down into the collar and shifted a little so that I could have a sip of tea, a nibble of a cookie, while I thought about the fact that I might now die, that in my foolhardiness I’d endangered myself, that I would maybe freeze to death under a tree next to a backwoods trail high up in the Rocky Mountains just because I’d become obsessed with a person I’d never met: my lover’s lover.

I had two choices: I could wrest back control of my life or I could die, either now or later, after I’d made another decision while blinded by my obsession, so I decided to stop loving Jerome, to stop thinking about Lionel—to stop living for other people and start instead living for myself—and so I renounced Jerome, I renounced my love, renounced the power my emotions held over me.

In order to lift my spirits, I imagined that I was Superman, worn out and exhausted after having single-handedly saved the world from invasion, and now recovering from my injuries in a forest not far from the farm where I’d grown up when suddenly, the man who’d raised me as his own came out of the shack and sat down next to me dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and green boats—even though I knew very well that he was a ghost, since my enemies had murdered him in cold blood again and again—but still he laid his hand on my shoulder and we reminisced about my childhood, back when everyone thought I was an earthling.

I woke up cold and stiff, my eyes smarting from my contact lenses, wolfed down what was left of the cookies, drank the last drops of tea, and tried to follow the path—which wasn’t actually possible, in that it was now completely invisible—but the illusion of a path kept me walking and before long, I heard the sound of traffic and walked right out onto the road I’d turned off of the day before, waving my arms and ecstatic with happiness; a couple around sixty or so stopped in a Jeep, took me back to Cynthia’s car, hauled it back on the road and as I drove home, I felt like I’d been purified overnight: everything that wasn’t me was gone—nothing was left except for Abel, except for all that I am.

On my way down from the mountains, the thought crossed my mind that people are not one unbroken whole, but rather, the brain is a collection of countless nodes and components in a complex system of cooperation and competition; reason is but one aspect, but in that all my student years went into learning to be a thinker—rational and critical—it’s practically a given that I’d extol logic above all else in my mind; I’ve always had a tendency to look at my body and my self as one, unbroken whole, one person, but I’m not a person—rather a polyphonic democracy of silent impulses because no one agrees with their inner self, because my selves are many and no one thought binds them all together; instead, my mind is a foam that swirls up to the surface of my brain as this system and these components flow together like the Pacific and the Atlantic in the Strait of Magellan.

In their natural state, people simply are what they are, but within a society, they become a tangle of roles, self-images, and life purposes, all in a paradoxical structure that we weave together in a civilization that is reified in cities, temples, writing, and images, and again on the internet where blogs, videos, and Facebook present everyone with their own objectification; everyone acquires an electronic soul that leads an independent life and can survive the death of the body like a ghost that can only be laid to rest by destroying all information, but in any civilization, it’s always a crime to destroy information—only the worst villains set fire to libraries—but I sometimes wished I could erase my own electronic soul and try to find something to fill that void, find eternal life somewhere other than in databases, or, yes, even fling myself out into the void and see what is beyond it.


From 
Móðurhugur. © Kári Tulinius. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Larissa Kyzer. All rights reserved.

English Icelandic (Original)

Life never chooses the right moment to unveil love to you for the first time, when you’ve not yet experienced it—not, for instance, at a moment when the days are lumbering by at a crawl, like station wagons in bumper-to-bumper traffic—but rather when you’re speeding along the freeway with a scalding hot cup of coffee in one hand on your way to meet your friend near the old abandoned military base so you can sneak through a hole in the fence and leap naked from the barracks roof into a swimming hole and then look over at the other lane where there’s a person who’s in just as much of a hurry as you and who looks over at the very same second and your eyes meet and something sparks in your mind, and your friends, your plans, your future are all forgotten, and then suddenly, it’s clear there’s only one right choice: to smash your cars together and make love in the wreckage.

The person in the car next to mine in this metaphor was Jerome, who, as he put it, had needed to correct the misunderstanding that he was a woman and had had a mastectomy, had been taking testosterone for two years, and carried himself, looked, and smelled exactly like what he was—and I didn’t just want to be with him, I wanted to be him, minus the receding hairline—I even considered quitting theology and transferring to the music composition department where he was completing his PhD because his whole inner self came together in one whole, wasn’t just draped around him like rags.

We met because he was composing not music exactly, but rather a soundscape for a play I had a part in, which bore the long and cumbersome title of Scies Sub Ista Tenui Membrana Dignitatis Quantum Mali Iaceat—You Will Know How Much Evil Lies Under That Thin Coating of Titles—which quite rightly indicated that the work was a bit pretentious, though the title had actually come about by chance; it was supposed to have been the epigraph, but the playwright, Rhea Wilkins, wasn’t able to come up with a title and ultimately, the Seneca quote ended up being the only thing written on the cover page and anyway, it corresponded perfectly with the content: an amalgamation of short retellings of Greco-Roman myths that dealt with gender roles—I was to play our friend Attis from a poem by Catullus—since Rhea wanted to use ancient mythology to critique the gender myths of the present.

The other role I was supposed to play, one of Penelope’s pushy suitors, was cut when the play was shortened by half—all the Homer stuff got cut out—so I had more time to hang out and chat; I’d actually planned to sit in the corner and study, but I’d always enjoyed lolling around with a cup of tea, discussing everything under the sun and moon while my castmates worked on something in the script that I was in no way responsible for, so it didn’t take long before I was spending a lot less time with my nose in a book and fingers on a keyboard, while conversely, the hours I spent with the musicians—among them, Jerome—started to pile up and they amused themselves with stories and party games, some of them music-related—for instance, they’d improvise a quick tune to represent the way someone walked and then you’d have to guess who the song was for—but others more traditional conversation games, like one where you had to describe a fictional character without making any physical gestures and without using any word connected to the fictional work the character was in, and I was very good at that game while Jerome was the master of the promenade game because he generally had a really good feeling for how bodies moved, both as discrete entities and also how they filled and used space.

We were drawn together on the dance floor, our group went to a dance club all together, which I’m usually not big on because I’d rather dance alone or with just a few friends—this was a sign that I’d been sucked into Jerome’s gravitational pull, which I was as yet unaware of—but this time, I didn’t think twice about it, rather followed everyone into the club and out onto the floor and was there longer than everyone else, except for him, until finally, we got separated from everyone else among the dancing strangers, bodies that turned into waves that encircled us in a writhing swell of flesh and fervor, his dance steps becoming my own—more delicate, smoother and slower—until he stood still, looking down and a tiny bit to the left, his hands quivering in time with the music; I was spooned out from within and filled with thunderclouds—I’d moved closer as our dancing slowed and laid a hand on his right hip and then he put his arms around me, pulled me to him, lifted his face to mine and kissed me and the electricity that had been building up under my skin, in my chest and in my throat, streamed out of me and into him.

I probably would have been able to maintain my sanity when it came to him—though there’s no doubt that I would have become smitten all too quickly—had he not told me first thing the next morning that he was in an open relationship but that he wanted to keep sleeping with me, seeing me, and asked if I wanted the same thing; that’s when the weeds of jealousy took root and spread throughout my thoughts, choked my other feelings and desires so that I became obsessed with Jerome, even started to copy the way he dressed and moved—I wanted to have him all to myself, my life began revolving around taking possession of him and his time, everything else became a mere detail, my writing assignments were submitted late and poorly done, class periods passed me by like a herd of cows in the fog—if I even showed up, that is—my relationships with friends got choked by the weeds because my friends were transformed into psychologists who had to listen to me blather on—I have to give it to you: you’re always willing to listen to me ramble—my theatrical pursuits vanished in the uncultivated thicket like everything else that had made me me, and in the end, I was only interested in two things: Jerome, and his lover, Lionel.

Jealousy sowed its seeds wider still in my mind whenever Jerome called me and said that he couldn’t meet up because Lionel needed him; the first time he did it, it was OK—things come up—but the next time he chose Lionel over me, I understood that this was the way my life was going to be, that I would always be second best because Jerome felt that he bore some responsibility for Lionel—any time Jerome’s cell would whistle with a message from Lionel, Jerome’d come running—although in fairness, Jerome could also always rely on Lionel, who felt that ze’d been rescued from the abyss by our mutual lover.

Jerome had met Lionel at the Boulder Public Library as ze would regularly go there to meet hir daughter, who ze’d lost custody of when ze’d transitioned; Jerome found the library an agreeable place to work on his compositions, far away from the distractions of the university campus, and on one occasion he noticed the tense interaction between Lionel and hir former husband, started to keep an eye out for hir and get to know the routine: ze’d wait for hir daughter, chat with her, say good-bye to her—or, when the ex didn’t show, didn’t—how Lionel would crumple when ze’d given up hope of getting to see hir daughter that day, and on one such occasion, Jerome approached Lionel, said he’d often seen hir with hir daughter, and it didn’t take long for their conversation to become quite intimate.

Lionel sent Jerome a friend request on Facebook, they started talking, and before long were regularly meeting at a coffee shop in town, although Lionel lived in a cabin in the woods, far up in the Rockies—hir isolation was both geographical and social—ze’d moved from New York to be close to hir daughter when hir former husband got a computer science position in Boulder, had let hirself be guided by a long-standing desire, moved to a remote house to write, and then four years had passed and ze hadn’t made any close friends, rather lived in hir cabin and took walks through mountain forests in search of the inspiration that ze did actually find, ze’d finished the manuscript of hir novel and was forever rewriting it—I’d managed to covertly send myself a copy from Jerome’s computer when I was visiting him at his office—the novel was about Abelard and Heloise, or more accurately, just Heloise, but in Lionel’s story, Abelard was her creation, a nom de plume she adopted in order to get her writing published, and then her pseudonym took on its own life and stories about its dialectical prowess traveled to every corner of France, then Heloise began dressing up as Abelard and started teaching at a Paris school, but claimed to be taking private lessons with that famous intellectual so as not to arouse suspicion when going in and out of the place where she kept her disguise, but in time, she started to spend more time in her role as Abelard, gradually felt better that way than she did as a noblewoman, until an uncle’s suspicion that something untoward was going on between her and her teacher lead to an innocent bystander being castrated and her being forced to enter a nunnery.

Lionel felt that society, both American society at large and the literary world, was against hir, ze had a master’s degree in creative writing from Brooklyn College but never got to teach anywhere or publish anything, and ze had trouble trusting anyone other than Jerome, who won hir trust by always being frank and forthcoming, describing all his love affairs in great detail—sometimes, Lionel also came down just to hear Jerome practicing his clarinet—but other than hir lover and daughter, Lionel avoided humankind as best ze could, since as far as ze was concerned, society had driven hir into the forest.

I felt like I had to meet hir, to find out who it was that held Jerome captive—my emotions had gotten the better of me—to find a way to free him from his prison, to get him all to myself—a mentality that I’m ashamed of now, a problematic but important part of my life, but I wouldn’t be me without my obsession, or to put it better, I wouldn’t be me without this experience because when Jerome became my role model, I could allow my masculinity to grow like an apple tree next to a crystal-clear spring and become myself; before, I’d taken cues from my father, but it’s from Jerome that I learned how to move and how to be still, how to knot my tie and iron my shirts, how to speak and listen.

In the beginning, Jerome and I didn’t meet very often outside of the theater, but as the fall semester progressed, I started visiting him most days and in the end, I was staying with him every night, except when Lionel was in town or needed him to stay in the forest, but jealousy weighed so heavily upon me that I could only begrudge Lionel and be bitter toward Jerome for leaving me behind so that more and more often, I’d pass by his house when they were together in the hope of seeing them without ever having decided what exactly it was that I planned to do if they actually appeared.

Nothing ever came of these walk-bys, but one day, I saw an email from Lionel to Jerome—I’d snuck a look at it while he was making tea—in which ze suggested that they meet up at a coffee shop called Erhard’s that was pretty far away from downtown and the university; at first, it wasn’t my intention to spy, but my curiosity got the better of me and after Jerome left me by the university building where I was supposed to be going to class, I went to the coffee shop instead—took the next bus after him—and as soon as I arrived, I knew I’d made a mistake: it was a small place, just a bakery, really, with a few tables for customers, in a shopping center where each shop was facing out toward the parking lot such that I couldn’t hide anywhere and so had to stop pretty far away; as far as I could tell, the two of them were sitting at a table with a little girl—probably Lionel’s daughter—and then I walked back in the direction of the university.

It makes my skin crawl now when I think about how asinine my behavior was, but at any rate, I decided to take things even further because when I realized, while snooping through Jerome’s emails on another occasion, that they intended to go up to Lionel’s place in the mountains, I resolved to follow them; I wanted to see them together so I could understand why Jerome preferred Lionel to me—I just had to make arrangements for a car and then also to dress in such a way that Jerome wouldn’t recognize me from a distance.

After asking a few friends if I could borrow their car—I should mention that I invented the unnecessarily complicated excuse that some relatives of mine had a twelve-hour stopover at the Denver airport and I wanted to take them on a quick trip into the Rockies—Cynthia told me I could use her Corolla if I returned it washed and with a full tank of gas; then I went and bought an ugly old sweater and a big wool hat—there was no reason to do more than that, but just to be on the safe side, I grabbed a pair of fake glasses from the props closet, as well as a thermos of tea and a package of cookies from home.

I didn’t have to wait long because Lionel arrived in hir pickup truck about five minutes after I’d parked a short ways down the street and Jerome came out right away—he usually made me wait—and they drove off and I after them, took the most direct route out of town and up into the Rockies, the sides of which were already in shadow, and I suddenly realized that I had no idea where Lionel lived, nor whether the two of them were going straight to hir house; I’d been so focused on how I’d go about following them that I hadn’t thought through the trip itself, except that I should keep at least one car between us, a tip I’d picked up from crime novels.

Lionel followed the winding road along the bottom of the valley which lay between hills that quickly turned into steep, densely wooded mountains on both sides of the car and every time they disappeared around a curve, I got scared that I’d lose them, although that didn’t happen, and finally, we came to the dam and water reservoir by Nederland, but they kept driving, through the town and up into the mountains with me following in the Corolla, further and further up into the Rockies—it had started to snow—and as the road got increasingly narrow and winding, I lost sight of them behind the dense trees more often, although I invariably caught sight of them again until, all of a sudden, they disappeared.

At first, I kept driving for a while in the hopes I’d find them, but I was quickly persuaded that they’d turned off the road somewhere, so I turned the car around and drove slowly back the way I’d come, trying to scan for back roads leading into the forest and it wasn’t long before I came across one, but when I slowed down to check if I could see some trace of a car, I caught sight of another back road further down and so on and so forth because within the very short distance I’d driven back, there were any number of roads leading into the forest and tire tracks in the new-fallen snow on many of them.

I didn’t want to give up and decided to drive down the back road that had tire tracks that I thought looked the most like they were from a truck—I have no idea now how I thought I could know that—at first, it was going really well, but then the Corolla’s tires started to lose their grip and spin a bit, but I still kept going—I didn’t want to have wasted all that time and energy following them all the way up there just to have them get away from me in the final feet—but then the road ended at an old hunting shack—no car, Jerome and Lionel nowhere to be seen.

I was shocked, nearly burst into tears, got out of the car to check whether maybe the road kept going, but it didn’t, the tire tracks ended—or, more accurately, began—at the shack, and there wasn’t a thing to see through the snow flurries except for the forest all around me, so I turned around and went back the way I’d come, but before long, I came to a spot where the road forked and then drove a ways down a side road, stopped the car, jumped out, made sure that no one had driven down it, got back in the car, backed out onto the main road, and put it into drive, but when I tried to go forward, the tires started spinning and then jerked the car forward onto the shoulder and I couldn’t get it to go backward or forward and when I took out my phone to call for help, I couldn’t get a signal—stuck, no hope of rescue, in the forest—the flurries had become an all-out blizzard, an endless torrent of white flecks that fell on the fir trees, the Corolla, and me.

I didn’t know what I should do in this predicament because I’d learned to drive in the summer in Issaquah and had never needed to think about how I should free a car that’s stuck in the snow, had never gotten the knack, and in New England, where I would have maybe been able to learn it, I never drove—I hardly ever got in a car, hardly ever left the campus grounds because that’s where I felt most comfortable—but now I wished I’d tried to drive in the snow, just so I’d know if I was in a lot of trouble or just an insignificant jam, but I felt entirely forsaken, like my life was maybe even in danger.

The car idled while I sat and thought about what would be the best thing to do, but my initial hunch—you couldn’t call it an informed guess—was that this road was most likely used very little, so I decided the best thing to do would be to walk back out to the main road, particularly because I was afraid that if I waited until morning, the tire tracks would get snowed over and the snow drifts would be more arduous to traverse, and anyway, there was still something left of the day, so I put my coat on over my sweater—which I thanked providence I’d bought—took off the fake glasses, put on the cap and gloves, turned off the Corolla, got out, grabbed the thermos and cookies, started off into the blizzard, and was all at once overcome with worry about Cynthia’s car, although I managed to shake that off because I knew she would be the first to tell me not to worry about a lifeless object, that if I’d died because I didn’t want to abandon her car she’d have chased me into the next world like a hunter stalking its prey.

The walk went well—the tire tracks showed me the way and I was filled with a growing sense of security, would have even whistled if the snowflakes hadn’t chilled my enthusiasm, but my creaking steps became livelier, and before long, the walk was progressing well and I was certain that I’d reach the road soon, but little by little the tire tracks became more indistinct, slowly but surely it got darker, my self-assurance waned and I started feeling less sure of myself, thought that it would have been good to have you at my side—an Icelander who knew what you were supposed to do in such circumstances.

Darkness fell suddenly, much sooner than I would have hoped—I hadn’t thought about the fact that in the mountains, the sun disappears behind the peaks long before it sets—and soon I couldn’t see anything except what was illuminated when I checked my phone for service—there wasn’t any—I’d grown cold and I suddenly realized that I had no idea how long I’d driven along the trail or how far from the road I’d gone; all my focus had been directed at what lay ahead and any clues that indicated that Jerome and Lionel had gone this way, so I hadn’t checked the clock or the mile markers, but now I understood what kind of danger I was in, and that I had been led there by my own obsession—had allowed myself to be a jealous idiot—and now I might die because of my own stupidity, and so I sat down with my back up against a tree, drew my legs up under my old sweater, scrunched my head down into the collar and shifted a little so that I could have a sip of tea, a nibble of a cookie, while I thought about the fact that I might now die, that in my foolhardiness I’d endangered myself, that I would maybe freeze to death under a tree next to a backwoods trail high up in the Rocky Mountains just because I’d become obsessed with a person I’d never met: my lover’s lover.

I had two choices: I could wrest back control of my life or I could die, either now or later, after I’d made another decision while blinded by my obsession, so I decided to stop loving Jerome, to stop thinking about Lionel—to stop living for other people and start instead living for myself—and so I renounced Jerome, I renounced my love, renounced the power my emotions held over me.

In order to lift my spirits, I imagined that I was Superman, worn out and exhausted after having single-handedly saved the world from invasion, and now recovering from my injuries in a forest not far from the farm where I’d grown up when suddenly, the man who’d raised me as his own came out of the shack and sat down next to me dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and green boats—even though I knew very well that he was a ghost, since my enemies had murdered him in cold blood again and again—but still he laid his hand on my shoulder and we reminisced about my childhood, back when everyone thought I was an earthling.

I woke up cold and stiff, my eyes smarting from my contact lenses, wolfed down what was left of the cookies, drank the last drops of tea, and tried to follow the path—which wasn’t actually possible, in that it was now completely invisible—but the illusion of a path kept me walking and before long, I heard the sound of traffic and walked right out onto the road I’d turned off of the day before, waving my arms and ecstatic with happiness; a couple around sixty or so stopped in a Jeep, took me back to Cynthia’s car, hauled it back on the road and as I drove home, I felt like I’d been purified overnight: everything that wasn’t me was gone—nothing was left except for Abel, except for all that I am.

On my way down from the mountains, the thought crossed my mind that people are not one unbroken whole, but rather, the brain is a collection of countless nodes and components in a complex system of cooperation and competition; reason is but one aspect, but in that all my student years went into learning to be a thinker—rational and critical—it’s practically a given that I’d extol logic above all else in my mind; I’ve always had a tendency to look at my body and my self as one, unbroken whole, one person, but I’m not a person—rather a polyphonic democracy of silent impulses because no one agrees with their inner self, because my selves are many and no one thought binds them all together; instead, my mind is a foam that swirls up to the surface of my brain as this system and these components flow together like the Pacific and the Atlantic in the Strait of Magellan.

In their natural state, people simply are what they are, but within a society, they become a tangle of roles, self-images, and life purposes, all in a paradoxical structure that we weave together in a civilization that is reified in cities, temples, writing, and images, and again on the internet where blogs, videos, and Facebook present everyone with their own objectification; everyone acquires an electronic soul that leads an independent life and can survive the death of the body like a ghost that can only be laid to rest by destroying all information, but in any civilization, it’s always a crime to destroy information—only the worst villains set fire to libraries—but I sometimes wished I could erase my own electronic soul and try to find something to fill that void, find eternal life somewhere other than in databases, or, yes, even fling myself out into the void and see what is beyond it.


From 
Móðurhugur. © Kári Tulinius. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Larissa Kyzer. All rights reserved.

Móðurhugur

Lífið velur aldrei rétta augnablikið til að afhjúpa í fyrsta sinn ástina fyrir þeim sem aldrei hafa hrærst af henni, ekki þegar dagarnir drattast áfram í hægagangi eins og skutbílar í umferðarteppu, heldur þegar brunað er eftir þjóðveginum með rjúkandi heitan kaffibolla í annarri hendi, á leiðinni að hitta vini sína við gamla, yfirgefna herstöð, laumast inn um gat í girðingunni til að hoppa naktir af braggaþakinu í vatnsbólið, en svo er litið yfir á næstu akrein og þar er manneskja sem er alveg jafn mikið að flýta sér, svo lítur hún til hliðar á sama sekúndubroti, og augu mætast, eitthvað gneistar innan í heilanum, vinir, plön og framtíð gleymast, og allt í einu leita á hugsanir um að hið eina rétta í stöðunni sé að klessa bílunum saman og elskast í flakinu.

Í næsta bíl við mig í myndlíkingunni var Jerome sem, eins og hann orðaði það sjálfur, hafði þurft að leiðrétta þann misskilning að hann væri kvenkyns og var kominn mun lengra í þeirri leiðréttingu en ég, búinn að láta taka af sér brjóstin, hafði tekið inn testósterón í tvö ár og hegðaði sér, leit út, og lyktaði alveg eins og sá sem hann var, og mig langaði ekki bara til að vera með honum, heldur vera hann—sleppa samt við háu kollvikin—meira að segja íhugaði ég að hætta í trúarbragðafræði og skipta yfir í tónskáldabrautina þar sem hann var í doktorsnámi, því öll hans innri sjálf komu saman í eina heild, þau héngu ekki utan á honum eins og larfar.

Við kynntumst af því að hann var að semja—ekki tónlist beinlínis heldur hljóðmynd—fyrir leikrit sem ég fór með hlutverk í og bar hið langa og óþjála nafn Scies Sub Ista Tenui Membrana Dignitatis Quantum Mali Iaceat—Þið munið skilja hvílík illska leynist undir þunnu yfirborði sæmdarinnar—sem gaf réttilega til kynna að verkið væri nokkuð tilgerðarlegt, þó að titillinn hefði í raun orðið þessi fyrir tilviljun; áttu að vera einkunnarorðin en leikskáldið, Rhea Wilkins, gat ómögulega fundið titil og þessi tilvitnun í Seneca varð að endingu það eina sem stóð á forsíðunni og rímaði ágætlega við innihaldið, samansafn af stuttum þáttum sem endursögðu grísk-rómverskar goðsagnir sem fjölluðu um kynhlutverk—ég lék vin okkar Attis úr ljóði Catullusar—en Rhea vildi nota fornar goðsagnir til að gagnrýna kynmýtur nútímans.

Hitt hlutverkið sem ég átti að leika, einn af ágengari vonbiðlum Penelópu, hvarf þegar leikritið var stytt um helming—allt sem kom frá Hómer fór sömu leið—svo að ég hafði meiri tíma til þess að hangsa og spjalla, reyndar hafði ætlunin verið að sitja úti í horni og læra, en mér hafði alltaf þótt gott að sitja með tebolla og ræða alla mögulega og ómögulega hluti meðan unnið væri að einhverju í leikritinu sem ég bæri enga ábyrgð á, svo að sá tími sem ég var með nefið í skólabókunum og fingurna á lyklaborðinu styttist hratt og örugglega en á móti fóru að hrannast upp klukkustundirnar sem ég dvaldi með tónlistarfólkinu, og þar með Jerome, en það skemmti sér með sögum og alls konar samkvæmisleikjum, sumum tónlistartengdum—til dæmis með því að spila göngulag einhvers og svo átti að giska á hver manneskjan væri—en líka hefðbundnari samræðuleikjum, til dæmis einum þar sem lýsa átti skálduðum persónum án látbragðs og án þess að nota nokkur orð sem tengjast verkunum sem þær eru í, og ég var mjög góður í þessum leik en Jerome var meistari göngulagstúfanna, hafði yfirhöfuð mjög næma tilfinningu fyrir því hvernig líkamar hreyfðust, bæði sem aðskilin fyrirbæri sem og hvernig þeir fylltu út í og nýttu rými.

Við drógumst saman á dansgólfi, hangsliðið fór allt saman á næturklúbb, sem ég er yfirleitt lítið gefinn fyrir því ég vil heldur dansa einsamall eða með örfáum vinum—þetta var til merkis um að ég var þegar farinn að falla inn í aðdráttarafl Jeromes sem ég var þó ómeðvitaður um—ég hugsaði mig ekki tvisvar um heldur elti hópinn inn á staðinn og út á gólf og var þar lengur en allir aðrir, nema hann, og loks vorum við tveir einangraðir innan um ókunna dansara—líkamar sem urðu að öldu sem umlukti okkur í iðandi svelg holds og hreyfingar—dansspor hans urðu minni, fínlegri, stílhreinni og hægari, þar til hann stóð kyrr og horfði niður og ögn til hægri, hendurnar rétt bifuðust í takt við tónlistina—ég holaðist að innan og fylltist þrumuskýi—ég hafði færst nær eftir því sem dansinn stilltist og lagði hönd á vinstri mjöðm hans, þá tók hann utan um mig, dró að sér, lyfti andliti sínu að mínu og kyssti mig, og rafmagnið sem hafði hlaðist upp undir húðinni, í brjóstkassanum og kokinu, streymdi úr mér í hann.

Ég hefði líklegast haldið sönsum gagnvart honum—þótt vissulega hafi ég strax orðið mjög hrifinn—hefði hann ekki sagt mér strax næsta morgun að hann væri í opnu sambandi, en hann vildi halda áfram að sofa hjá mér, hitta mig, og spurði hvort ég vildi ekki það sama, þá spratt upp í mér arfi afbrýðiseminnar og dreifði sér um huga minn—kæfði aðrar tilfinningar og þrár—svo að ég varð heltekinn af Jerome, fór meira að segja að stæla klæðaburð hans og hreyfingar, og ég vildi eiga hann út af fyrir mig; líf mitt fór að snúast um að ná eignarhaldi yfir honum og tíma hans, allt annað varð aukaatriði, ritgerðir skiluðu sér seint og illa, kennslustundir liðu hjá eins og kúahjörð í þoku—ef ég á annað borð mætti—vinasambönd kæfðust í arfanum því að vinir mínir urðu að sálfræðingum sem þurftu að hlusta á mig tala um og greina Jerome í þaula—þú mátt eiga það að þú nenntir alltaf að hlusta á mig rausa—leikhúslífið hvarf sjónum í óræktarþykkninu, eins og allt annað sem hafði gert mig að mér, og að lokum komst aðeins tvennt að: Jerome og elskhugi hans, Lionel.

Afbrýðin sáði sér enn víðar um hugann þegar Jerome hringdi í mig og sagðist ekki geta komið og hitt mig því að Lionel þyrfti á sér að halda, í fyrsta sinn sem hann gerði það var allt í lagi, ýmislegt getur komið upp á, en þegar hann tók Lionel fram yfir mig í annað sinn skildi ég að líf mitt yrði svona til frambúðar, að ég stæði skör neðar því að Jerome leit svo á að hann bæri ábyrgð á Lionel voru öll önnur áform—allt annað fólk—látin lönd og leið og hann fór til Lionels, sem þurfti ekki annað en að láta blístra í síma Jeromes til að kalla hann til sín þegar eitthvað bjátaði á, þó verð ég sanngirninnar vegna að minnast á það að Jerome gat líka alltaf reitt sig á Lionel, sem leit svo á að sér hefði verið bjargað úr hyldýpinu af sameiginlegum ástmanni okkar.

Jerome hafði kynnst Lionel á borgarbókasafni Boulder en þangað kom Lionel reglulega til að hitta dóttur sína, sem hán hafði misst forræði yfir þegar hán leiðrétti kyn sitt—leit hvorki á sig sem karl eða konu—Jerome fannst safnið þægilegur staður til að vinna að tónverkum sínum, fjarri áreiti háskólasamfélagsins, og eitt sinn veitti hann gaum stirðum samskiptum Lionels við fyrrverandi eiginmann sinn, tók að fylgjast með og fór að þekkja ferlið; beðið eftir dótturinni, spjallað við hana, hún kvödd eða, þegar sá fyrrverandi kom ekki, hvernig Lionel krumpaðist saman innan frá þegar hán gaf upp vonina að fá að sjá dóttur sína þann daginn, en í eitt þeirra skipta gaf Jerome sig að Lionel, sagðist hafa séð hán oft með dóttur sinni, og þau byrjuðu strax að ræða saman á mjög innilegum nótum.

Lionel sendi Jerome vinabeiðni á Facebook, þau fóru að spjalla saman og fljótlega fóru þau að hittast reglulega á kaffihúsi í bænum, en Lionel bjó í kofa inni í skógi, langt uppi í Klettafjöllum—einangrunin var bæði landfræðileg og félagsleg—hafði flutt hingað frá New York til að vera nálægt dóttur sinni þegar fyrrverandi eiginmaður háns fékk stöðu við tölvunarfræðideildina í Boulder svo hán lét langvinna þrá vísa sér leið og flutti í afskekkt hús til að skrifa, en síðan voru fjögur ár og hán hafði ekki eignast nána vini, heldur dvaldi í kofanum sínum og gekk um skóga Klettafjallanna í leit að innblæstri, sem hán fann reyndar, var búinn með handrit að skáldsögu sem hán var sífellt að endurskrifa—ég stalst til að senda sjálfum mér eina gerðina úr tölvu Jeromes þegar ég heimsótti hann á skrifstofuna—um Abelard og Helóísu, eða réttara sagt bara Helóísu, en í sögu Lionels var Abelard tilbúningur hennar, skáldanafn sem hún tók upp til að fá rit sín útgefin, síðan fékk dulnefnið sjálfstæða tilvist og sögur um snilldarlega rökfimi þess fóru vítt og breitt um Frakkland, svo að Helóísa fór að klæða sig upp sem Abelard og hóf að kenna við einn Parísarskólann, en þóttist vera að sækja einkatíma hjá hinum fræga menntamanni til að gera komur sínar í húsakynnin þar sem hún geymdi gervið ekki grunsamlegar, en með tímanum fór hún að vera æ lengur í hlutverki Abelards, leið smátt og smátt betur þannig en sem aðalskonu, þar til grunur frænda hennar um að eitthvað misjafnt væri í gangi milli hennar og kennarans varð til þess að saklaus nágranni hennar var geldur, og hún neyddist til að fara í nunnuklaustur.

Lionel fannst samfélagið vera á móti sér, bæði hið bandaríska almennt og bókmenntaheimurinn—hán var með meistaragráðu í ritlist frá Brooklyn-háskóla en fékk hvergi að kenna og ekkert útgefið—og átti erfitt með að treysta neinum nema Jerome, sem vann traust háns með því að vera alltaf hreinskilinn og opinskár, lýsti ástarævintýrum sínum og leyfði háni að fylgjast með öllu—Lionel kom líka stundum í heimsókn bara til að hlusta á Jerome æfa sig á klarinett—en fyrir utan ástmann sinn og dóttur forðaðist Lionel mannkynið sem mest hán mátti, enda fannst háni samfélagið ýta sér út í skóg.

Mér fannst ég þurfa að kynnast háni, komast að því hver það væri sem héldi Jerome föngnum—tilfinningarnar höfðu stjórn á mér—finna leið til að losa hann úr prísundinni, fá að hafa hann út af fyrir mig—þankagangur sem ég skammast mín fyrir—vandræðalegur en mikilvægur hluti af lífi mínu; ég væri ekki ég án þráhyggju minnar, eða réttara sagt gæti ég ekki verið ég án þeirrar reynslu, því þegar ég eignaðist fyrirmynd í Jerome þá gat ég leyft karlmennsku minni að vaxa eins og eplatré við tæra lind og verða ég sjálfur; áður hafði pabbi verið minn eini vegvísir, en af Jerome nam ég hvernig ætti að hreyfa sig og standa kyrr, hnýta bindi og strauja skyrtur, tala og hlusta.

Til að byrja með hittumst við Jerome ekki mjög oft utan leikhússins, en eftir því sem leið á haustmisserið var ég farinn að heimsækja hann flesta daga, og að lokum dvaldi ég hjá honum allar nætur, nema voru þegar Lionel var í bænum eða þurfti á honum að halda inni í skógi, en afbrýðisemin lá svo þungt á mér að ég gat ekki annað en öfundað Lionel og verið bitur út í Jerome fyrir að skilja mig út undan, svo að æ oftar lagði ég leið mína fram hjá húsinu þegar þau voru saman í von um að sjá til þeirra, án þess beinlínis að hafa ákveðið hvað ég myndi gera ef þeim brygði fyrir.

Aldrei varð ég var við þau í þessum framhjágöngum, en einn daginn sá ég tölvupóst frá Lionel til Jerome—ég stalst í bréfið meðan Jerome var að búa til te—þar sem hán mæltist til að þau hittust á kaffihúsi sem hét Erhard’s og var nokkuð langt frá miðbænum og háskólanum—í fyrstu ætlaði ég ekkert að njósna en forvitnin náði tökum á mér—eftir að Jerome hafði skilið við mig hjá skólabyggingunni þar sem ég átti að fara í tíma, fór ég á kaffihúsið í stað þess að mæta í kennslustundina—tók næsta strætó á eftir honum—um leið og ég var kominn þangað vissi ég að ég hafði gert mistök, þetta var lítið kaffihús, eiginlega bakarí með nokkrum borðum fyrir gesti, í verslunarkjarna þar sem hver búð sneri út að bílastæði, þannig að ég gat hvergi falið mig, og staðnæmdist því nokkuð langt í burtu; sýndist mér sá þau tvo sitja við borð ásamt lítilli stúlku—líklega dóttur Lionels—og rölti svo til baka í átt að háskólanum.

Ég fer hjá mér þegar ég hugsa um þessa asnalegu hegðun en samt ákvað ég að ganga enn lengra, því þegar ég komst að því með póstnjósnum að Lionel ætlaði upp í fjöll með Jerome einsetti ég mér að elta; ég vildi sjá þau saman svo að ég gæti skilið hvers vegna Jerome tæki Lionel fram yfir mig; þurfti bara að útvega mér bíl og svo varð ég líka að klæða mig þannig að Jerome myndi ekki þekkja mig úr fjarlægð.

Eftir að hafa spurt nokkra vini hvort ég gæti fengið lánaðan bíl—meira að segja bjó ég til þá óþarflega flóknu afsökun að frændfólk mitt ætti tólf tíma stopp á flugvellinum í Denver og ég ætlaði með þau í skreppitúr í Klettafjöllin—þá sagði Cynthia mér að ég gæti fengið Corolluna hennar ef ég skilaði henni þveginni og fyllti á tankinn, síðan fór ég og keypti gamla, ljóta peysu og stóra ullarhúfu, það var óþarfi að gera mikið meira en svona til öryggis greip ég gervigleraugu úr leikmunageymslunni, svo og tebrúsa og kexpakka að heiman.

Biðin var ekki löng því að Lionel kom á pallbílnum sínum fimm mínútum eftir að ég lagði smáspöl neðar í götunni, og Jerome kom strax út—yfirleitt lét hann mig bíða—og þau lögðu af stað og ég á eftir, óku beinustu leið út úr bænum og upp í Klettafjöll, sem voru farin grána lengst niður í hlíðar, og allt í einu fattaði ég að ég hafði hvorki hugmynd um hvar Lionel bjó, né hvort þau ætluðu beint heim til háns; ég hafði einbeitt mér svo mikið að því hvernig ég ætti að fara að því að elta þau að ég hafði ekki hugsað út í ferðina sjálfa nema það eitt að hafa að minnsta kosti einn bíl á milli okkar, sem var ráð sem ég hafði þegið frá glæpasögum.

Lionel keyrði hlykkjóttan veg eftir dalbotni sem lá fyrst inn á milli hæða en brátt voru brött, skógi vaxin fjöll beggja vegna bílsins og í hvert skipti sem þau hurfu fyrir eina bugðuna varð ég hræddur um að missa af þeim, sem gerðist þó ekki, og að lokum komum við að stíflunni og uppistöðulóninu sem Nederland stendur við, en þau héldu áfram gegnum bæinn og upp í fjöll, og ég fylgdi eftir á Corollunni, lengra og lengra upp í fjallgarðinn—það byrjaði að snjóa—og eftir því sem vegurinn varð mjórri og hlykkjóttari missti ég oftar sjónar á þeim bak við trjáþykknið en fann þau ávallt aftur, þar til þau voru allt í einu horfin.

Í fyrstu fór ég áfram dágóðan spöl í von um að finna þau en sannfærðist fljótt um að þau hefðu beygt af veginum einhvers staðar, svo ég sneri bílnum við og keyrði hægt til baka og reyndi að skima eftir slóðum sem lágu inn í skóginn, og fljótlega rakst ég á einn, en þegar ég hægði á mér til að athuga hvort ég sæi einhver ummerki um bíl kom ég auga á annan slóða neðar, og þannig koll af kolli því að á þessum stutta spotta sem ég ók til baka var fjöldinn allur af slóðum inn í skóginn, og víða mátti sjá hjólför í nýföllnum snjónum.

Ég vildi ekki gefast upp og ákvað að keyra eftir slóða með hjólförum sem mér virtust líkleg til að vera af pallbíl—nú skil ég ekki hvernig ég taldi mig geta vitað það—í fyrstu gekk það mjög vel, en svo fóru hjólin á Corollunni að missa gripið og spóluðu aðeins, samt hélt ég áfram, vildi ekki hafa eytt öllum þessum tíma og orku í að elta þau uppi til þess eins að missa þau frá mér á síðustu metrunum, en svo endaði slóðinn við gamlan veiðikofa—enginn bíll—Jerome og Lionel hvergi sýnileg.

Mér brá—brast næstum í grát—fór út úr bílnum til að athuga hvort vegurinn héldi kannski áfram, en svo var ekki, hjólförin enduðu—réttara sagt byrjuðu—við kofann og það var ekkert að sjá gegnum hríðarkóf nema skóginn allt í kring; , svo ég sneri við og fór til baka, en kom fljótlega að stað þar sem slóðinn kvíslaðist, ók spölkorn eftir hliðarslóðanum, stöðvaði bílinn, stökk út, fullvissaði mig um að þar hefði enginn farið um, settist svo aftur inn, bakkaði að aðalslóðanum, skipti um gír, en þegar ég ætlaði af stað fór bíllinn að spóla, kipptist svo áfram, endaði út í kanti og ég kom honum hvorki aftur á bak eða áfram, og þegar ég tók upp símann til að kalla á hjálp náði ég ekki sambandi—bjargarlaus fastur inni í skógi—ofankoman var orðin að hríð, endalausum flaumi af hvítum flekkjum sem féllu á furutrén, Corolluna, og mig.

Ég vissi ekki hvað ég átti að gera í þessari klemmu minni þar sem ég hafði lært að keyra að sumri til í Issaquah, hafði aldrei þurft að hugsa út í hvernig ætti að losa bíl sem var fastur í snjó—aldrei verið kennd rétt handtök—í Nýja Englandi, þar sem ég hefði kannski getað lært það, keyrði ég aldrei, fór varla upp í fólksbíl, fór varla út fyrir lóðarmörk skólans því að þar leið mér vel, en nú vildi ég hafa prófað að keyra í snjó, bara til að vita hvort ég væri í miklum vandræðum eða bara smávægilegum, en ég upplifði mig algerlega hjálparlausan, jafnvel í lífshættu.

Bíllinn var í lausagangi meðan ég sat og íhugaði hvað væri best í stöðunni, en fyrsta ágiskun mín—það er ekki hægt að kalla það ákvörðun—var að líklegast væri þessi slóði fáfarinn, svo að ég ákvað að best væri að ganga til baka út á veginn sem ég hafði beygt út af, sérstaklega þar sem ég var hræddur um að ef ég biði morguns myndi snjóa yfir hjólförin og fönnin jafnvel verða illfær, og enn var nokkuð eftir af deginum, þannig að ég fór í úlpuna yfir peysuna—sem ég þakkaði forsjálninni fyrir að hafa keypt—tók af mér gervigleraugun, setti á mig húfu og hanska, slökkti á Corollunni, fór út, greip hitabrúsann og kexpakkann, hélt af stað út í hríðina, og varð allt í einu helltust yfir mig áhyggjur af bílnum hennar Cynthiu, en mér tókst að hrista þær af mér þar sem ég vissi að hún yrði fyrst til að segja mér að hafa ekki áhyggjur af dauðum hlutum, að ef ég hefði dáið vegna þess að ég hefði ekki viljað skilja ökutækið hennar eftir, þá hefði hún elt mig inn í handanheima eins og veiðibráð.

Gangan gekk vel, hjólförin vísuðu mér leið og ég varð fljótt fullur öryggis, hefði jafnvel blístrað ef snjókornin hefðu ekki kælt eldmóðinn, en ískrandi sporin urðu örari, brátt sóttist gangan nokkuð vel og ég var orðinn viss um að ég myndi fljótlega komast út á veginn, en hægt og rólega urðu hjólförin ógreinilegri, smám saman dimmdi, sjálfsöryggið þraut og mér hætti að lítast á blikuna, hugsaði til þess að gott hefði verið að hafa þig við hlið mér í stórhríð, Íslending sem vissi hvað ætti að gera við aðstæður sem þessar.

Umhverfið kringum mig myrkvaðist snögglega, mun fyrr en ég átti von á—ég hafði ekki hugsað út í það að í fjöllunum hverfur sólin bak við tind löngu áður en hún hnígur til viðar—fljótlega sá ég ekki neitt nema það sem lýstist upp þegar ég tékkaði á því hvort síminn næði sambandi—sem var ekki—mér var orðið kalt, og allt í einu gerði ég mér grein fyrir því að ég hafði ekki hugmynd hve lengi ég hefði keyrt eftir slóðanum eða hve langt frá veginum ég hefði farið, allri einbeitingunni var beint að því sem fram undan var og ummerkjum sem bentu til þess að Jerome og Lionel hefðu farið þar um, svo að ég hafði ekkert spáð í klukku eða mílumæli, en nú skildi ég hvílíka hættu ég var kominn í, og að ég hefði verið leiddur hingað af eigin þráhyggju—leyft sjálfum mér að vera afbrýðisamur vitleysingur—og nú gæti ég dáið vegna eigin heimsku, svo að ég settist niður með bakið upp að tré, setti fótleggina undir gömlu peysuna, grúfði hausinn ofan í hálsmálið og hreyfði mig aðeins til að fá mér tesopa og narta í kex, meðan ég hugsaði um að nú myndi ég kannski deyja, að í fífldirfsku minni hefði ég komið mér í lífshættu, að ég myndi kannski frjósa í hel undir tré við vegarslóða hátt uppi í Klettafjöllum, bara af því að ég varð heltekinn af manneskju sem ég hafði aldrei hitt, elskhuga ástmanns míns.

Það var um tvennt að velja: Ég yrði að ná aftur tangarhaldi á lífinu eða ég myndi deyja, annaðhvort núna eða seinna, þegar ég tæki aftur ákvörðun blindaður af þráhyggju, svo að ég ákvað að hætta að elska Jerome, hætta að hugsa um Lionel, og hætta að lifa fyrir aðra, lifa heldur fyrir sjálfan mig, svo að ég afneitaði Jerome, ég afneitaði ástinni, afneitaði valdi tilfinninganna yfir mér.

Til að stappa í mig stálinu fór ég að ímynda mér að ég væri Súpermann, örmagna af þreytu eftir að hafa bjargað jörðinni frá innrás einn míns liðs, og væri nú að jafna mig af sárum mínum í skógi nálægt bóndabænum þar sem ég hafði alist upp þegar uppeldisfaðir minn birtist út úr kófinu og settist hjá mér, klæddur flannelskyrtu, gallabuxum og í grænum stígvélum; vitandi vel að hann væri draugur, enda höfðu óvinir mínir oft myrt hann með köldu blóði, en hann lagði hönd á öxl mína og við rifjuðum upp æskuár mín þegar allir héldu að ég væri jarðarbúi.

Ég vaknaði kaldur og stífur, gleypti í mig það sem eftir var af kexi, drakk síðustu dropana af teinu og reyndi að ganga á eftir slóðanum, sem var svo sem ekki hægt þar sem hann var með öllu ósýnilegur, en tálsýnin hélt mér á fótum, og brátt heyrði ég bílhljóð og gekk fram á veginn sem ég hafði beygt út af daginn áður, veifaði uppnuminn af gleði, hjón um sextugt á jeppa stoppuðu, fóru með mig til baka að bílnum hennar Cynthiu, kipptu honum upp á slóðann og þegar ég keyrði heim fannst mér sem ég hefði hreinsast um nóttina, allt sem var ekki ég var horfið, ekkert eftir nema Abel, nema allt það sem ég er.

Á leiðinni niður úr fjöllunum kom til mín sú hugsun að manneskjur eru ekki ein órofa heild, heldur er heilinn samansafn ótal stöðva og eininga í flóknu kerfi samvinnu og samkeppni, rökhugsunin er bara einn þáttur, en þar sem námsárin fara í að læra að vera hugsuður—rökrænn og gagnrýninn—er það nánast eðlislægt að prísa lógík framar öllu öðru sem í huganum býr, ég hef ég alltaf haft tilhneigingu til að líta á líkama og sjálf sem eina órofa heild, eina persónu; en ég er ekki persóna, heldur margradda lýðræði þögulla hvata því að enginn er sammála sínu innra sjálfi, vegna þess að sjálfin eru mörg og enginn einn hugur bindur þetta allt saman, heldur er hugurinn froða sem þyrlast upp á yfirborði heilans þegar þessi kerfi og einingar flæða saman eins og Kyrrahafið og Atlantshafið um Magellansund.

Í sínu náttúrulega ástandi er manneskjan einfaldlega sú sem hún er, en með samfélaginu varð til flækja af hlutverkum, sjálfsmyndum og lífstilgangi, allt í mótsagnakenndri formgerð sem fólk vefur saman í siðmenningu sem er hlutgerð í borgum, hofum, skrift og myndum, og svo á netinu þar sem hver einstaklingur fær sína persónulegu hlutgervingu í bloggi, myndböndum og á Facebook; öllum manneskjum hlotnast rafeindasálir sem hafa sjálfstæða tilvist og geta lifað af dauða líkamans eins og draugar sem er bara hægt að kveða niður með því að eyða öllum upplýsingum, en í siðmenningu er það alltaf glæpur að eyða upplýsingum—aðeins verstu illmenni brenna bókasöfn—en ég óskaði þess stundum að ég gæti þurrkað út mína eigin rafeindasál og reynt að finna eitthvað til að fylla upp í tómið, fundið eilíft líf annars staðar en í gagnagrunnum, já, eða hent mér út í tómið og séð hvað er handan þess.

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