A Tale of Two Winters
From One Station to Another
In Denmark, the cold is serious. As serious as your face numbed by the Baltic wind and the frozen puddles behind the wooden stalls of a deserted Bakken.
I still don’t understand how you agreed to come here in December. It’s my birthday, and I couldn’t make it home in time. Instead, you’ve let me bring you to Dyrehaven, my favourite place in Denmark. In winter, the amusement park falls silent, leaving the forest to the deer once again.
And it’s cold.
Very cold.
The path is torn open by the snow, and the only sound that breaks the silence is your voice.
“Dani... it’s so cold.”
“Please, we have just arrived.”
“I know... but it’s so cold.”
The steady crack of branches breaking overhead marked the path as the tall red wooden gates of Dyrehaven slowly disappeared behind us. The evening was sinking into the sea. It was late, and there wasn’t another visitor in the park.
The moment we stepped through the open gates of Bakken, the quiet sounds of the forest came to an abrupt halt. Only the clatter of our winter boots against the frozen pavement had anything left to say.
In late autumn, Bakken is a lonely place.
The rides lie dormant beneath enormous green plastic covers, soaked by the rain that had fallen before dawn, and where electricity should reclaim its kingdom, stillness and absence prevail.
Two strangers are reflected in the empty shop windows of the amusement park.
“I think we’re the only visitors.”
“Don’t move.”
“But it’s normal... it’s so cold.”
Click.
“Got you.”
“Let me see... We look good, don’t you think? Although with that hat you can barely see your face. You look beautiful today.”
“Well, since we’re here, I might as well take some pictures.”
“I bet you’ve never had an amusement park all to yourself.”
“Well... I’m here with you.”
Her reflection lifted the camera towards the glass, capturing us both. Her brown eyes glistened in the cold, and her red hair glowed against the empty park.
The space between the buildings of the amusement park and our bodies grew smaller and smaller, almost desperately so. Thin, cold snowflakes scratched against the glass. It was late.
The sunken paths of autumn faded between the trees as we walked on together, slowly, as if caught in a circular current. A single sound broke the silence.
Crack!
“Dani, what was that?”
Suddenly, a deer burst through the forest, weaving between the bare, blue-tinged trees. It reached the edge of the path and stopped, completely still, watching the two human figures standing beneath the smoking roof of the world.
Click!
“Deer are beautiful.”
“I think they belong to the Queen.”
“I’ve heard that if they get too used to humans, the keepers have the right to shoot them.”
“That’s horrible.”
“That, and many other things.”
“Something is rotten in Denmark, huh?”
The deer, like so many other creatures, did not know that it lived in a northern kingdom, or that its life, like so many others, was often beyond its own control. Yet its cold gaze remained fixed upon us, meeting ours.
A moment later, the deer lowered its head and began to run, disappearing deeper into the forest until it was gone.
I remained there, staring at the absence it had left behind on the autumn path.
“Shall we go? It’s getting late. It’s so cold.”
“I thought we could walk as far as Raadvad, and from there we could go to Skodsborg station and catch the train.”
“You’re crazy, Dani.”
“Perhaps. But it’s a beautiful place.”
“All right. We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”
“Yes. We’ll be there in no time.”
Raadvad is a narrow, little village, one of the few places in Denmark that never reminded me of Denmark. It reminded me, in some strange way, of the villages back home.
It is a small settlement opening onto a clearing in the forest, with a pond where swans glide with glassy, perfect eyes. Raadvad is a village where knives were once made, and the old factory still seems to spill into the village and around the little pond.
“You know, there’s a hotel here. I wish I could live here. Don’t you? It’s so peaceful.”
“No. You’d hate it. I know you. You always want to be somewhere else. You always want to leave.”
“I know. But right now, I’d like to stay here. Here with you. Just like this.”
“I don’t know how you’re not freezing.”
“Let’s get something hot.”
The door rattled in the wind as we sat down for a hot chocolate in a café in Raadvad.
“I’ve never been this cold.”
“We both come from cold places,” I said, wrapping my hands around hers as she held the cup of hot chocolate.
“Yes, but it’s really cold today.”
Snowflakes struck the windows of the café, and our faces, as we left Raadvad behind and made our way towards Skodsborg.
The path passed quickly, almost weightlessly, carrying us towards Skodsborg station. The train appeared through the darkness, dazzling us with its headlights, and we climbed aboard.
“You’re freezing.”
“So are you.”
“How long until we get home?”
“A while. Do you want to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“Shall we set an alarm?”
“Okay.”
“It was worth it, wasn’t it? We saw a deer.”
“Yes. That was really nice. And I took lots of pictures.”
“Hey, what if we come back in the summer?”
“Okay.”
“Come here. You can sleep on my shoulder.”
“You’re so cold, Dani.”
“Goodnight.”
“Dobranoc.”
When I woke up, the train was already empty.
Far away, snow covered the mountains of the Pyrenees. Sharp, solitary peaks began to emerge in the distance. I was returning to France, and I would have to stop once again at Canfranc station.
The mountains seemed to tear the minutes from the clock.
We never came back to Bakken.
The train slowed to a halt. I picked up my backpack and coat. Darkness pressed against the contours of the Aragonese mountains as I crossed the station concourse.
My shoulders were cold.
Very cold.
We never came back.
Two years later, another winter found me crossing the bridge towards the new church on my way back to France.
Snow held the horizon like a pillar of granite.
For a moment, I heard her voice once more.
A snowflake struck my face.
“Dani... it’s so cold.”