Chapter 47 Ulrika

He put the unsheathed Gramm sword between the two of them on the bed and asked. Volsun Saga, 27 My story must be faithful to the facts, or at least to the facts as far as my personal memory is concerned, and the two are not very far apart.It happened not so long ago, but I know people who write and write like to embellish and embellish.What I want to talk about is my chance encounter in York with Ulrika (I don't know her last name, and probably never will).Time only includes one night and one morning. I might say innocuously that I first saw her in the Five Nuns' convent in York (where the stained-glass mosaic windows are so impressive that even the Iconoclasts of Cromwell's time were well protected) , but the fact is that we met in the small hall of the Northern Hotel outside the city.There were not many people at that time, and she turned her back to me.She was offered a glass of wine, but she declined.

"I'm for the feminist movement," she said. "I don't want to imitate men. I hate men's drinking and smoking." She wanted to show her tact by saying that, and I guess it wasn't the first time she said it.Then I realized she wasn't like that, but we don't always live up to who we say we are. She said that when she went to visit the museum it was past opening hours, but the people in the museum heard that she was Norwegian and let her in anyway. Someone here said: "It's not the first time the city of York has had a Norwegian." "Exactly," she said. "England was ours and lost it, if one can have anything and lose it."

At that time, I paid attention to her.There is a line in William Blake's poem about a maiden who is soft as silver and fiery as gold, but there is soft gold in Ulrika.She is tall and light, with icy muscles and bones, and her eyes are light gray.In addition to her appearance, what impressed me deeply was her quiet and mysterious temperament.She smiled sweetly at every turn, but the smile made her look even more indifferent.She is dressed in black, which is rare in the northern region, because people there always like to use bright colors to add some cheerfulness to the dark environment.She spoke clear and precise English, with a slight emphasis on retroflex.I am not good at observation; these details are discovered gradually.

We were introduced.I told her that I was a professor at the Andean University in Bogota.Also said I was Colombian. She asked me thoughtfully: "What does it mean to be Colombian?" "I don't know," I said. "That's a question of supporting documents." "Just like I'm Norwegian," she agrees. What else was said that night, I can't remember.The next day, I went downstairs to the restaurant very early.It snowed at night, and the window was covered with a vast expanse of white, and the barren mountains and wild ridges were completely covered.There was no one else in the restaurant.Ulrika invited me to sit at her table.She said she likes to go out for a walk alone.

I remembered a joking remark by Schopenhauer, and said: "Me too. Let's go for a walk together." We stepped on fresh snow and left the hotel.There was no one outside.I proposed to go down the river to Thunder God's Gate, a few miles away.I knew that I was in love with Ulrika; I wished to be with no one but her. Suddenly I heard a wolf howling in the distance.I have never heard a wolf howl in my life, but I know it is a wolf.Ulrika was unmoved. After a while she said as if to herself: "The few broken swords I saw in York Chapel yesterday moved me more than the great ship in the museum in Oslo."

Our routes are staggered.Ulrika went to London that afternoon; I to Edinburgh. "De Quincey was looking for his Anna in the crowds of London," Ulrika told me. "I will follow in his footsteps on Oxford Street." "De Quincey stopped looking," I said back. "I've been searching endlessly until now." "Perhaps you've found her," she whispered. Blessed was my soul to know that the unexpected was not forbidden to me, and I kissed her mouth and eyes.She pushed me away gently but firmly, and said cheerfully: "When I get to the inn at Thunder God's Gate, I'll be at your mercy. Now I beg you not to touch me. It's better that way."

To an aging single man, promised love is a gift that is no longer expected.This miracle certainly has a right to conditions.I thought of my youth in Popayan with a girl in Texas who was fair and slender like Ulrika but had rejected my love. I didn't ask myself if she loved me.I know I'm not the first and I won't be the last.This adventure was perhaps the last for me, but the middle of many for that radiant, staunch follower of Ibsen. We continued walking arm in arm. "It's all like a dream," I said. "And I never dream." "Like the king in the myth," Ulrika said. "He didn't dream until the wizard made him sleep in a pigsty."

After a while she said again: "Listen carefully. A bird is about to sing." Soon we did hear birdsong. "People around here," I said, "think that people who are dying can see things." "Then I'm dying," she replied. I stared at her in surprise. "Let's take a shortcut through the woods," I urged her. "You can get to Thunder God's Gate soon." "It's too dangerous in the woods," she said. We are still walking on the wasteland. "I hope this moment lasts forever," I murmured. "Forever is a word that men are not allowed to say," Ulrika said with certainty.To soften the emphasis, she asked me to say the name again because I didn't hear it clearly the first time.

"Javier Otarola," I told her.She tried to say it again, but couldn't.I can't pronounce the name Ulrika well either. "I'll call you Sigurd anyway," she said with a small smile. "Okay, I'm Sigurd," I replied. "Then you are Brunhilt." She slowed down. "Do you know the story of that saga?" I asked. "Of course," she said. "A sad story, later screwed up by the Germans with their Nibelungen legends." I don't want to argue, so I say: "Brünnhilt, you walk as if you were holding a sword on the bed to fend off Sigurd."

We suddenly found that the inn was in front of us.It's also called the Northern Hotel like the other one, which doesn't surprise me. Ulrika yelled at me from the top of the stairs: "Don't you hear wolves howling? There are no wolves in England. Come up." When I went upstairs, I found that the walls were covered with crimson wallpaper in the style of William Morris, with intertwined fruit and birds.Ulrika entered the room first.The room was dark and low, with a gabled roof that sloped to either side.The bed of anticipation is reflected in a dim mirror, and the polished mahogany book reminds me of mirrors in the Bible.Ulrika had already undressed.She called me by my real name, Javier.I think the snow outside is getting heavier.Furniture and mirrors are gone.There is no steel sword between us.Time passes like grains of sand in an hourglass.For the first and last time I possessed the image of Ulrika's body in the shadows of eternal love.