For Roald Amundsen

Rachmaninov’s third concerto has come to Troms. “The Snow Queen will be attending,” the whispers go. On the stage, the Polar Explorer takes a deep bow. He squints at her majesty’s white dress and yellow cape. She sends him an electrifying look that zig-zags his pupils. “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he responds telepathically. She starts laughing so hard that the entire front-row vibrates with renewed energy. It’s a good thing that she has all the seats reserved for herself, so that no one else can catch her face in embarrassing astonishment. How is this possible? You can’t do the fat notes with slim fingers. It’s just not possible. But he’s stubborn. He did after all conquer the North Pole. I’ll show her. A deep breath replaces the scepticism. Disbeliefs are shattered to splinters. Bonds are sealed. Faith confirmed. Daisies are placed over the winner’s eyes. The cold mouth turns red when a finger is stuck in it. The ghost-dog goes “wuf,” accompanying the final smooch. The crowd empties its pockets of pink snow flakes. Polarities converge in the hoods.


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