the tunic he wore motorcycle pants. I took out the photos.
“I was curious if you ever knew this woman? She was here during the Alta Dam protests, staying in this town.”
The man took the photos in his hand and leafed through them slowly. I appreciated how delicately he handled them.
“I don’t think I remember,” he said. Two men walked into the store, and he greeted them by name—Henrik and something else. Everyone in the town knew each other.
“She was American, maybe that helps,” I said.
“It was a very long time ago,” he said, and he handed the photos back to me. He looked at me with concern. “You are okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I wondered what he was seeing.
The men he had addressed approached the counter. They were young, in their early twenties.
“What are the pictures of ?” one of them said to me. His English was good.
“Oh,” I said, looking at the photo on top of the stack. My mother had a mole on her collarbone, something I hadn’t noticed before, or had forgotten. “I was curious if anyone knew anything about this woman. She was here a long time ago. You’re too young to have known her.”
The man had blondish hair and smelled like cold. He stood next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder, and examined the photos, as though we were friends sharing pictures after a trip.
“She looks like you,” he said.
“Really?” No one had ever told me that before.
“Yeah, the shape of her eyes. I’m Henrik,” he said. He had a smile that started slowly and spread from the right side of his face to the left.
“Clarissa.” I didn’t want the conversation to end. “How did you learn English?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in Barcelona,” he said.
Henrik’s friend was buying tobacco and rolling paper. Henrik called out to him, and the friend picked up another package of tobacco.
“Nice to meet you,” Henrik said. “Likewise,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Nothing. Nice meeting you,” I said. I blushed and turned toward the door. I had been dismissed, but I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to be alone again.
“Welcome to beautiful Kautokeino,” Henrik called after me. “Kautokeino welcomes you.”
I waved.
Outside, at the gas station pumps, I saw the men’s snowmobiles. Whom did Henrik remind me of? No one. He seemed familiar because I wanted to know him.
11.
I walked to the bus stop, waited, and boarded a bus going to Masi. Outside, the sky turned the sherbet colors of Hawaiian
hotels. My mind was deceiving me: if I squinted, a snow field became a beach.
I held my mother’s photos between my hands the way I would a map. “When I gave birth to you,” my mother once said to me, “it felt like someone was stabbing me with a knife.”
The bus let me out at the turnoff to Masi. The town, from what I could see, was to the north of the bus stop, on a slop-ing hill. I started down the road, past the modest one-story houses. Most homes had a car in the driveway, a simple strand of Christmas lights outlining a door. Through one lit window, I saw twin girls practicing cartwheels.
I had thought that I’d be looking for a person, not a place, but now that I was here, I found myself walking slightly faster downhill, toward the clearing. I assumed it was the Alta River, though now it was covered with snow. I approached the river, and the road took a turn. I followed it, passing larger two-story houses, and, on my left, a white wooden church. It was the first building I’d seen in this town that wasn’t a home—there appeared to be no restaurants, stores, bars.
Turning off the road, I followed a set of snowmobile tracks that cut through the riverbank. I was cautious of slipping—the grooves had turned icy, but the only alternative was to walk in the snow, which was too deep. It had been a mistake to wear such tractionless boots.
A brown car was parked on the side of the river. Empty. I tightened the forgotten scarf around my neck and tucked the
ends into
“I was curious if you ever knew this woman? She was here during the Alta Dam protests, staying in this town.”
The man took the photos in his hand and leafed through them slowly. I appreciated how delicately he handled them.
“I don’t think I remember,” he said. Two men walked into the store, and he greeted them by name—Henrik and something else. Everyone in the town knew each other.
“She was American, maybe that helps,” I said.
“It was a very long time ago,” he said, and he handed the photos back to me. He looked at me with concern. “You are okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I wondered what he was seeing.
The men he had addressed approached the counter. They were young, in their early twenties.
“What are the pictures of ?” one of them said to me. His English was good.
“Oh,” I said, looking at the photo on top of the stack. My mother had a mole on her collarbone, something I hadn’t noticed before, or had forgotten. “I was curious if anyone knew anything about this woman. She was here a long time ago. You’re too young to have known her.”
The man had blondish hair and smelled like cold. He stood next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder, and examined the photos, as though we were friends sharing pictures after a trip.
“She looks like you,” he said.
“Really?” No one had ever told me that before.
“Yeah, the shape of her eyes. I’m Henrik,” he said. He had a smile that started slowly and spread from the right side of his face to the left.
“Clarissa.” I didn’t want the conversation to end. “How did you learn English?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in Barcelona,” he said.
Henrik’s friend was buying tobacco and rolling paper. Henrik called out to him, and the friend picked up another package of tobacco.
“Nice to meet you,” Henrik said. “Likewise,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Nothing. Nice meeting you,” I said. I blushed and turned toward the door. I had been dismissed, but I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to be alone again.
“Welcome to beautiful Kautokeino,” Henrik called after me. “Kautokeino welcomes you.”
I waved.
Outside, at the gas station pumps, I saw the men’s snowmobiles. Whom did Henrik remind me of? No one. He seemed familiar because I wanted to know him.
11.
I walked to the bus stop, waited, and boarded a bus going to Masi. Outside, the sky turned the sherbet colors of Hawaiian
hotels. My mind was deceiving me: if I squinted, a snow field became a beach.
I held my mother’s photos between my hands the way I would a map. “When I gave birth to you,” my mother once said to me, “it felt like someone was stabbing me with a knife.”
The bus let me out at the turnoff to Masi. The town, from what I could see, was to the north of the bus stop, on a slop-ing hill. I started down the road, past the modest one-story houses. Most homes had a car in the driveway, a simple strand of Christmas lights outlining a door. Through one lit window, I saw twin girls practicing cartwheels.
I had thought that I’d be looking for a person, not a place, but now that I was here, I found myself walking slightly faster downhill, toward the clearing. I assumed it was the Alta River, though now it was covered with snow. I approached the river, and the road took a turn. I followed it, passing larger two-story houses, and, on my left, a white wooden church. It was the first building I’d seen in this town that wasn’t a home—there appeared to be no restaurants, stores, bars.
Turning off the road, I followed a set of snowmobile tracks that cut through the riverbank. I was cautious of slipping—the grooves had turned icy, but the only alternative was to walk in the snow, which was too deep. It had been a mistake to wear such tractionless boots.
A brown car was parked on the side of the river. Empty. I tightened the forgotten scarf around my neck and tucked the
ends into
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