Four Snowfalls
The first time the snow arrived early in the morning, and the flakes came to rest on the ground slowly, so slowly, like butterflies, or rather, like butterflies that had fallen asleep, and the old woman who used to take care of us back then looked out of the kitchen window and they’ll say there is no God, she laughed in delight, and that delighted laughter arose from her profound faith, like fire from embers. And then, like a conductor cueing an orchestra, she raised her hand to the top of her apron and began the silence that was quietly so quietly covering everything, and then we too, my brother, my sister, all three of us, never leaving the window, or quite the opposite, moving even closer to the window, fell silent like moles, birds, wild boars and mountain tigers, silent like the madman always screaming, silent like the delivery boy always whistling, and even the angels stopped playing their trumpets, and the bell-ringers released the bell-ropes, and in the gypsy camp too the violin and drum were returned to their cases, and the school emptied, and the carpenter’s too, and the butcher’s, and in the end everything, but everything was left empty, still and quiet, our town, province, country, France, Sweden, and Asia, and the planets, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Pluto, everything, but everything was left empty, still and quiet until the end of the movement. And when it finished, the old woman that used to take care of us repeated again and they’ll say there is no God pointing at the snowflakes like butterflies, and at that very moment two dogs began barking and pirouetting in the snow, and the church bell ringing, and the madman screaming, and the delivery boy whistled his tune over and over, and the gypsies danced, and the school teacher also danced, and the carpenter went to the baker’s for bread, and the baker went to the carpenter’s for a plank of wood, and our town, our province, our country and all the other countries, our planet and all the other planets, all those places awoke from their stupor and returned to their everyday lives, and we too, my brother, my sister, all three of us, put our coats on and went out, to slide on the sledge, or play with the dogs, or dance with the teacher.
Twenty years later, the snow appeared on the upper pane of the window, and a woman got out of bed completely naked and, oh look, she 12 / Atxaga said, it is snowing after all, the weather man on TV was right, and at that exact moment the snow seemed to flicker around her hair, or so it appeared at least, the flakes creating an aura that turned her into one of those queens in an astrology magazine, and, oh, how white everything is, she sighed, that mountain in front of us looks like whipped cream. I pushed the sheets and covers aside and looked out of the window too, and realised the sky looked leaden, and that for once the chatterbox had got it completely right and that we would have snow for a few days or perhaps a week. We’re a bit isolated in this cabin, I said. Fantastic, she answered. Come, come here, I said, come to bed so we don’t get cold, how beautiful the snow is, how beautiful winter, how beautiful you are with your two little mounds that look like whipped cream.
Twenty years later, the snow arrived all of a sudden, with daybreak once again, and before I realised the roof of the car and the windows were covered in snow, and the temperature inside was steadily dropping. Moments later, as I reached a slope I’d never noticed before, my wheels started to skid and I ended up on the side of the road trapped in the midst of a white tornado. I switched the radio on. Don’t go out on the roads, said the reporter, don’t go out on the roads without making the necessary telephone enquiries first, or better still, stay calmly at home listening to our programme. I switched the radio off. Opened the window a few centimetres and looked out. Not a thing in sight, not even a lorry. I was alone. As in a dream, I felt everything in my life began to fade away. My wife, my children, my job, my opinions, everything seemed foreign to me. I tried to make the windscreen-wipers work, but to no avail. The snow had almost covered the car. It began snowing even more heavily, the snowflakes were now grey, as if made of ash. I switched the radio on. Don’t go out, said the reporter right then, take my advice, don’t go out on the roads all morning. I swore to myself that if I didn’t die of the cold I’d find that radio reporter and hit him over the head with a bottle. It seemed a very sensible idea to me: in the event of having to reorganise my life, the wisest starting point I could possibly hope for.
Twenty years later, the snow was two metres high and we were unable to get out of the old-folks home for three days; in the end, bored with doing nothing, I took my walking stick and out I went. The sky was blue, the air cleaner than ever and I slapped my thighs standing in front of a patch of dirty snow that hadn’t melted, very soon afterwards I broke my leg when I slipped on a frozen puddle on the pavement and fell over one of those concrete flower pots decorating the doorway. Thankfully, they took me to hospital, or perhaps I should more accurately say they took me to the hospital where they gave me a room all for myself, thankfully, and not sharing with someone else, like in the old-folks home. So, are you getting very bored? asks the nurse every now and then. Not at all, I answer. This room has a very nice view, adds the nurse, you can see the whole city from here. Yes you’re right, I say, and stare out of the window until she leaves me alone again. This window for me is the same window in the kitchen of the house where my brother, my sister, all three of us, were born. It is snowing again, and the flakes of snow, looking like butterflies that have fallen asleep, come to rest ever so slowly, and the old woman that takes care of us looks out of the kitchen window and they’ll say there is no God, she laughs in delight, and that delighted laughter arises from her profound faith, like fire from embers. And then, like a conductor cueing an orchestra, she raises her hand to the top of her apron and begins the silence that is quietly so quietly covering everything, and then we too, my brother, my sister, all three of us, never leaving the window, or quite the opposite, moving even closer to the window, fall silent like moles, birds, wild boars and mountain tigers, silent like the madman always screaming, silent like the delivery boy always whistling, and even the angels stop playing their trumpets, and the bell-ringers release the bell-ropes, and in the gypsy camp too the violin and drum are returned to their cases, and the school is emptied, and the carpenter’s too, and the butcher’s, and in the end everything, but everything is left empty, still and quiet, our town, province, country, France, Sweden, and Asia, and the planets, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Pluto, everything, but everything is left empty, still and quiet . How’s that leg doing? I hear all of a sudden. It’s the doctor who’s looking after me. She’s wearing a white coat. Same as usual, I reply, same as usual.
Translated by Amaia Gabantxo
Page(s) 11-13
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