The Distance

by Zoë Folbigg

  ‘Some idiot nearly knocked me off my bike,’ said Fredrik, without attempting to raise his voice so Cecilie might hear him on the first floor, as he poured green tea into his favourite mug. Cecilie hadn’t quite heard, and knew she ought to ask Fredrik to repeat himself. Fredrik was a man of few words, so when he spoke, Cecilie liked to listen, although she was bit reluctant to that particular morning.

  Arctic Fox: OK I have to go now. Chat later?

  I Feel You: Siiiiiii. You sure?

  Arctic Fox: Yes! I Feel You is my very favourite Depeche Mode song, if that’s your handle, we must chat more.

  I Feel You: It’s my favourite song too.

  Arctic Fox: What’s your real name?

  Hector looked over at Pilar, putting a swipe of ruby lipstick across thin lips.

  I Feel You: Doesn’t matter does it?

  Cecilie’s heart-shaped face flushed pink and she wiped her cheek with a newsprint-stained palm. Of course it didn’t.

  Arctic Fox: Nope. OK I gotta go.

  I Feel You: December 13.

  Arctic Fox: What?

  I Feel You: Depeche Mode are to play Oslo on December 13. Is that near you?

  Arctic Fox: Yes! Well, not really, but happy news. That made my day.

  You made my day.

  I Feel You: Cool. Make sure you get tickets.

  Arctic Fox: I will. Hadet!

  I Feel You: Hasta luego.

  Cecilie had never had a conversation in an online chatroom before, so she felt somewhat daring. She jumped down the stairs two at a time like a clumsy fairy in DM boots and saw Fredrik tending to his bicycle leaned up against the welcome desk.

  ‘Gosh, what happened?’

  ‘Some idiot nearly knocked me off. I buckled my wheel slamming into the kerb away from him.’

  Fredrik’s vast back leaned over his bike, his furrowed brow looking particularly irked, his man bun ruffled. Cecilie handed him his green tea and said she’d do his jobs too so Fredrik could tend to his bike.

  Cecilie spent all that morning in the library, busying herself by tidying, lending, answering, singing… It was only as she left at lunchtime that Fredrik noticed the newsprint on Cecilie’s cheek and went to wipe it off with a giant, gentle thumb.

  In the Hjornekafé that afternoon, I Feel You was all Cecilie could think about. The colours of the town in which he lived; how he knew what a Candela roof looked like; that ‘I Feel You’ was his favourite song by their favourite band.

  Then it occurred to her, she didn’t even know if I Feel You was a man. But that was how she pictured him. A man. Of about Hector’s actual age. Looking almost exactly as Hector did, in colour and stature, although the facial features were slightly blurred. Cecilie’s whimsical way meant she was rather good at dreamily imagining and accepting something far-fetched as a truth. It was something that made her mother worry. That Cecilie wasn’t streetwise enough, that she was too dreamy.

  ‘Your name means “blind”, you don’t question things enough like your brother does. Perhaps that’s my fault for giving you this name.’

  On the contrary, Cecilie’s daydreams made her feel far from blind; she could see things no one else around her could, she could imagine what a stranger looked like and almost get it right. When Cecilie drifted out of a conversation or closed her eyes as she played the harp, she could see more clearly than anyone.

  Either way, whether I Feel You was a man or woman, Cecilie couldn’t wait to go back online and chat some more.

  *

  The next morning, Cecilie woke to everlasting daylight at 6 a.m. She showered and grabbed a slice of soda bread and smeared it with honey, then slipped out of the family home quietly at 6.30 a.m., so as not to wake Espen. She trudged the kilometre-long footpath of the elegant cantilever bridge that arched over the strait like the spine of a whale, connecting the colourful wood-panelled houses at the foot of the mountain, to the hub of the town on Tromsøya island. As Cecilie crossed the bridge, she thought, as she often did, of her father Kjetil, and his secret that only the bridge knew, and she hurried to get to the library for 7 a.m., to try to catch I Feel You before he went to bed.

  I Feel You: Hey! I’m just on my way out.

  Arctic Fox: Oh, how funny!

  Cecilie felt silly for not realising people in Mexico went out partying at midnight on a Wednesday, although of course, not all of them did.

  I Feel You: That’s OK though, I can talk. My girlfriend is doing her nails, so I guess that’ll be another hour.

  A nail polish emoji popped up, followed by a face crying with laughter, but strangely Cecilie didn’t feel like laughing.

  He is a boy. He has a girlfriend. Who has pretty nails.

  She looked at her own nails, pale and unspectacular other than for the damage done by playing the harp, peeping out from under the cuffs of her long fluffy jumper.

  I Feel You: Did you get tickets for Oslo?

  In the space of twenty-three hours, Cecilie had worked out an entire backstory for The Mexican and had filled in the blurred details of his face. He had sun-dappled terracotta skin, wide, bronze eyes as passionate as an insurgent and as romantic as a revolutionary. His lips were still and plump as he concentrated on typing, and his shoulders were not tall but strong, curled over the keyboard of his computer. She had no idea that was precisely what I Feel You looked like.

  Cecilie hadn’t factored in the girlfriend, so she felt a bit embarrassed for having completely conjured a handsome man based on a few minutes’ chat in a fan forum – and not thinking he would have a girlfriend.

  Silly me.

  She hoped now I Feel You was in fact female, and girlfriend meant girlfriend the way Grethe was to Cecilie. They could be long-distance buddies, like the pen pal her mother once procured for her, the daughter of the German chancellor, and forced Cecilie into writing correspondence to in stilted English.

  Arctic Fox: Nei, no tickets yet, not on sale for a few weeks. And I’d need to get a flight down to Oslo, so I’ll think about it.

  I Feel You: You have to see them. I saw them in Mexico City, 2009. Changed my life.

  In the quiet of the library, secure that Fredrik wouldn’t wheel his bike in for at least another hour, Cecilie wondered what I Feel You’s life was like before he saw Depeche Mode and how it had changed since. She suddenly felt unadventurous and naïve. She wanted to connect with this stranger, but knew deep down she wouldn’t book tickets and fly two hours to see a band play, even one of her favourites. She would love to have the confidence to jump on a plane and fly on her own. Her mother would easily do something as daring as that. Grethe too. But Cecilie, who so often relied on her imagination to take her on adventures, was crippled by not knowing how to have them in real life.

  Arctic Fox: So where are you and your girlfriend off to tonight?

  Hector didn’t sense the disappointment in Cecilie’s fifty-two characters. He didn’t notice Pilar swear at her nailbrush because a little hair had dragged some oxblood polish onto her finger, and now it was on her beige bandage dress.

  I Feel You: Chupar. In a bar. Or not. She’s just told me she doesn’t want to go now.

  He added an emoji of a face crying with laughter.

  I Feel You: Looks like we’re staying in.

  Cecilie didn’t know what to say, so she carried on dreaming, imagining I Feel You’s apartment or house: was it a shack or a hacienda? She’d looked at a few of both on Streetmap in the past day. She wondered what his girlfriend looked like. Beautiful of course.

  I Feel You: Correction. She doesn’t want me to go now. Looks like I’m staying in! Jajajajaja.

  Two crying with laughter faces popped up.

  Cecilie still didn’t know how to respond. So she didn’t say anything, she waited for the waving ellipsis to see what else I Feel You was typing.

  I Feel You: And she’s gone!

  I Feel You: I pissed her off by going online. Never mind, we’ll be OK.

  Cecilie had a strange feeling of triumph, to have I
Feel You to herself, so they could chat.

  *

  The next morning, I Feel You told Arctic Fox he was an illustrator and a cartoonist for the local newspaper, and he wasn’t going out tonight because he had an early start tomorrow covering the student march to the Palacio de Gobierno. Oh, and his head felt as if the Cocos and the North American plates were groaning through his brain, such was his hangover of tectonic proportions. He had gone out after all, he had to find Pilar – his girlfriend had a name – to make up with her. When I Feel You told Cecilie that his girlfriend was called Pilar, Cecilie thought she’d better know his name, and asked again.

  I Feel You: Oh, didn’t I tell you? Sorry I was borracho the other night. Hector. Hector Herrera. Encantado. I like Arctic Fox for your name, maybe it’s best I don’t ask you in case I don’t like your real name.

  Hector Herrera.

  Cecilie found Hector’s blunt exchange endearing. She was so used to tiptoeing around people in the library. Polite talks with Fredrik about a new recipe one of them had discovered (Fredrik was a vegan, which always made Morten marvel: how could such a beefy man live on a plant-based diet?); whispering in the library; apologising to customers in the cafe for no particular reason.

  In the silence of Tromsø library that morning, Hector Herrera made Cecilie feel bolder, without her saying a word.

  Arctic Fox: Well I might not like your name!

  I Feel You: You don’t?

  Arctic Fox: Actually I do. Hector Herrera. I like an alliteration.

  I Feel You: Alliteration? Lemme look it up…

  Hector Herrera’s knowledge of British slang was better than Cecilie’s, but her English was stronger.

  I Feel You: Ahhh I see. Like Daffy Duck.

  Arctic Fox: Greta Garbo.

  I Feel You: Fred Flintstone.

  Arctic Fox: Marilyn Manson.

  I Feel You: Mickey Mouse.

  Arctic Fox: I can tell you’re a cartoonist!

  Hector laughed. As his shoulders shook, he remembered how chaotic the night before had become, and he scratched the brown waves that licked his sore temples.

  Arctic Fox: Well I’m Cecilie. Cecilie Wiig. Pleased to meet you Hector Herrera. Hyggelig å møte deg.

  I Feel You: Cecilie Wiig. Me gusta mucho. Encantado.

  *

  On day four, a Friday, Hector wasn’t there. Cecilie frowned at the screen and she played ‘Condemnation’ through the PA system of the library. Dave Gahan’s rough plea rattled through the building, making it feel like a church quivering in an earthquake. Nymph-like despite Dr Martens boots, Cecilie fluttered up and down the stairs, channelling her disappointment and yearning into very efficient tidying.

  Fredrik was almost alarmed when he wheeled his repaired bike through the staff entrance to hear a choir on the ground floor.

  *

  On day five, Cecilie offered to work an extra shift, even though it was Saturday and she didn’t usually work on Saturdays, but the internet was down at home. Two extra staff worked at the library on a Saturday, Pernille and Leif, and neither wanted the day off. But Cecilie went to the library on the pretext of doing an inventory of the 120 journals and magazines the library regularly ordered.

  Usually on a Saturday, Cecilie would catch up on her chores; play the harp, clean the house and keep it nice for Karin if her mother was away; or if Karin were in town they would see a movie or a play. Sometimes Cecilie would go to see her friend Grethe in the ice cream parlour, or meet Morten on his lunch break at the salon. Espen was far too busy at the i-Scand hotel to ever take lunch, but Cecilie liked her lunches with Morten, and sometimes they would go to the hotel restaurant so they could catch Espen while they ate club sandwiches overlooking the harbour and the Hurtigruten waiting to set sail.

  As Cecilie looked at her watch and wiped newsprint on her brow, she couldn’t think of anything other than Hector Herrera. It was 11 a.m. With a quick count back on the thumb and four fingers on her left hand and the thumb and index finger on her right hand, she worked out it must be 4 a.m. in Mexico, so the chances of chatting were slim. Still she went back to the computer she had turned on when she first arrived that morning, and checked the window of their conversation.

  I Feel You: I mished you!

  He was online. Cecilie felt a pang of relief, although she wondered how hard Hector Herrera must have been partying if he was still up at 4 a.m. Plus his English wasn’t so good at this time of night/day. His words seemed to slur, even on screen, but she was relieved to read them, however chaotic. One day without a chat had passed by very slowly and Cecilie had a feeling that Hector Herrera made everyone’s day a little bit more interesting; she felt a pang of envy that he wasn’t her friend in real life.

  Their conversation went around in circles, frustratingly. Cecilie preferred it when Hector made more sense. She liked his bluntness, his honesty, his humour. So she made her excuses.

  Arctic Fox: I’d better get back to work. You go to sleep!

  I Feel You: Yeah I can’t really talk. Pilar just ask what I’m doing. I better get back to the missus.

  Missus?

  Cecilie didn’t like it, and regretted coming in and committing to doing the inventory of journals, all for this.

  Arctic Fox: Yeah I’d better get back to work anyway…

  Even though I’m not needed and this is my day off.

  Suddenly Cecilie felt quite unwanted and decided to cool off a bit.

  Why am I wasting so much time thinking about this guy?

  Cecilie logged off and went back to counting magazines, annoyed that she couldn’t get the word Missus out of her head.

  *

  On the Sunday, Hector and Cecilie saw each other for the first time.

  Pilar had gone to Mexico City to get an inking on her thigh and was angry that Hector hadn’t gone with her for this big life event. Espen was working a late shift at the i-Scand, and their mother was in the capital. Cecilie decided to use Espen’s laptop to try her luck, to see if the internet was back up on this side of the fjord. She really couldn’t get him out of her head.

  Fuck it.

  An impish smile fluttered across her cheeks. She’d been on her feet all day in the cafe, having worked a seven-day week, and was exhausted and curious. Her heart started to race. She opened the lid of the MacBook, negotiated Espen’s predictable password (their date of birth) and discovered the broadband was back up. She counted back. It was 4 p.m. in Mexico, 11 p.m. in Norway. It was light outside in both countries.

  Arctic Fox: Wanna FaceTime?

  Cecilie worried that Hector’s girlfriend might be there, but if she was that could be a good thing – maybe they could become friends too. It’s not like she was ever going to meet Hector Herrera, or be a threat to Pilar.

  I Feel You: Siiiiii!

  Arctic Fox: OK, be right back.

  They exchanged numbers and ended the chat, never to meet in the fan forum again. Cecilie turned on the camera of Espen’s laptop and ensured her face fitted perfectly into the rectangle on the screen. She checked herself over before pressing the green button. She looked OK. Tired but OK. Anyway, this wasn’t a dating site like the one Espen had tried to get her a profile on, when he tried to convince her to cut off her dreadlocked hair before he set her up with a nice account and picture. ‘It’ll give you wider appeal,’ he’d said. Morten had told Espen off for that. No, this was just a friendly chat.

  A shrill tone rang out and an ellipsis as wide as the ocean that separated them fanned in front of her. And then Hector Herrera filled the screen. They looked at each other for the first time, and both laughed nervously.

  Hector spoke first, words Cecilie didn’t understand.

  ‘A su madre, no mames…’

  Hector stood up and walked away from the camera, circling the room behind the chair with his hands over his mouth, as if he had just received shock news. Cecilie saw a glimpse of Hector’s home. A bright, lime-green wall and a wooden chair with a holy cross cut out in the back of it. T
here was a filled ashtray on a counter to the right, and beyond that an open kitchen. A colourful rug hung on the wall in stripes of fuchsia, red and orange. It looked very different to her sedate and spacious home in the Arctic Circle. Muted tones of grey, brown and white. Wooden interior walls as solid and reliable as the oak of the coffee table the MacBook was resting on. Modern clean lines. The thick rug under foot. The motionless Calder.

  Hector paced in a circle in the small apartment, what must have been three of four times, with his hands clasped to his mouth. Through the small rectangular window into Hector’s home, Cecilie could see his strong arms curving, a tattoo, of a hand perhaps, peering out below the khaki sleeve of his T-shirt. He wore brown utility shorts; his legs were lean but muscular. The screen pixelated and Cecilie lost perspective, lost her sight, as Hector came back to the chair and put his face close to the camera, searching his befuddled brain for words.

  The screen smoothed out and Cecilie saw Hector up close again, sitting back down, and she was struck by how he looked exactly like the man she’d imagined. Although now she could see the clarity of his features. His far-apart eyes, bronze and glimmering, more earnest than flirtatious. He kept rubbing his small nose and covering his mouth in disbelief.