pilgrim’s route, which crosses three borders, I’m bound to end up taking unforeseen detours and prolonging my journey. But, on the other hand, that would give me a chance to familiarize myself with the vegetation and chat with some of the natives. Since I’m going to have to frequently ask for directions, I’ll be meeting people and practicing the local language and eating in homey restaurants. I randomly plant my index on the map and decide that’s where I’ll stay tonight, somewhere around there, give or take a centimeter or two. Which corresponds to give-or-take one hundred twenty-five miles in the real world. Great wars had been waged for far less, even just for a few millimeters here and there. I drag my index finger all along the route to my destination, which is way out on the very edge of the map, at the very bottom of the hood. The place isn’t specifically marked on the map, but I think the pilgrim’s route ends close by. I give myself five days to reach my destination, the rose garden.
Seventeen
With both hands on the wheel, I watch the pilgrim’s way unwind, bend after bend, as I drive through the forest with trees on all sides. I’m facing the sun until noon, but then it shifts between mirrors as the day passes.
It suits me fine to be on my own, although it might have been easier if I’d had a copilot with me to read the map and avoid wrong turns. Instead every now and then I turn on the turn signal and pull to the side of the road in this dark green forest, turn off the engine, peer over the map, and then water the plants in the trunk while I’m at it. Of course, you have to keep your eyes peeled for wild deer or boar and other small creatures on this road. I try to remember what kind of animals I might expect to find. I can almost hear Dad’s voice beside me:
—Woods can be dodgy places, they’ve got bears and wolves in them and wicked people, too. Some crime is probably being committed right now in the thick of the woods just a few yards away, and it’ll probably be reported in the local press tomorrow. And young girls posing as hitchhikers could easily be the bait used by criminal gangs. Once they’ve stopped a car the gang pops up from the behind the bushes.
Dad’s worries can be smothering; unlike him, I trust people. I suddenly look to my side; no, Mom isn’t there.
I feel Mom is beginning to fade; I’m so scared that soon I won’t be able to conjure it all up again. I therefore replay our final conversation in my mind when she called me from the car wreckage, and I dwell on every conceivable detail. Mom had intended to phone Dad but I answered. He’d given her the mobile phone shortly before it happened, but I didn’t realize she actually used it or carried it around with her. In order for her to continue to exist I constantly have to discover new things about her; with each flashback I collect new information about things I didn’t know before.
Dad hadn’t said bye to her any differently that morning, but he found it difficult to forgive me for having answered the phone and even more difficult to forgive himself for not being at home. He wanted to be the one to own Mom’s last words, for her not to leave without delivering her last words to him.
—She needed me and I was out in a store buying an extension, he said.
He was so terribly disappointed that Mom died before he did, sixteen years younger, she was, as he constantly repeated, only fifty-nine. He’d imagined things so differently.
She says she’s had a little mishap and that the “road crew” have come to help her, strong fellows—and that I needn’t worry, she was in good hands, they were working fast, the boys, and on top of things.
—Did you burst a tire, Mom?
—I must have, she says in a calm and collected voice. I could well believe I burst a tire. The car seemed to go a bit wobbly.
There might have been a slight tremor in her voice, but she told me not to worry about her twice, she’d
Seventeen
With both hands on the wheel, I watch the pilgrim’s way unwind, bend after bend, as I drive through the forest with trees on all sides. I’m facing the sun until noon, but then it shifts between mirrors as the day passes.
It suits me fine to be on my own, although it might have been easier if I’d had a copilot with me to read the map and avoid wrong turns. Instead every now and then I turn on the turn signal and pull to the side of the road in this dark green forest, turn off the engine, peer over the map, and then water the plants in the trunk while I’m at it. Of course, you have to keep your eyes peeled for wild deer or boar and other small creatures on this road. I try to remember what kind of animals I might expect to find. I can almost hear Dad’s voice beside me:
—Woods can be dodgy places, they’ve got bears and wolves in them and wicked people, too. Some crime is probably being committed right now in the thick of the woods just a few yards away, and it’ll probably be reported in the local press tomorrow. And young girls posing as hitchhikers could easily be the bait used by criminal gangs. Once they’ve stopped a car the gang pops up from the behind the bushes.
Dad’s worries can be smothering; unlike him, I trust people. I suddenly look to my side; no, Mom isn’t there.
I feel Mom is beginning to fade; I’m so scared that soon I won’t be able to conjure it all up again. I therefore replay our final conversation in my mind when she called me from the car wreckage, and I dwell on every conceivable detail. Mom had intended to phone Dad but I answered. He’d given her the mobile phone shortly before it happened, but I didn’t realize she actually used it or carried it around with her. In order for her to continue to exist I constantly have to discover new things about her; with each flashback I collect new information about things I didn’t know before.
Dad hadn’t said bye to her any differently that morning, but he found it difficult to forgive me for having answered the phone and even more difficult to forgive himself for not being at home. He wanted to be the one to own Mom’s last words, for her not to leave without delivering her last words to him.
—She needed me and I was out in a store buying an extension, he said.
He was so terribly disappointed that Mom died before he did, sixteen years younger, she was, as he constantly repeated, only fifty-nine. He’d imagined things so differently.
She says she’s had a little mishap and that the “road crew” have come to help her, strong fellows—and that I needn’t worry, she was in good hands, they were working fast, the boys, and on top of things.
—Did you burst a tire, Mom?
—I must have, she says in a calm and collected voice. I could well believe I burst a tire. The car seemed to go a bit wobbly.
There might have been a slight tremor in her voice, but she told me not to worry about her twice, she’d