Agape: In Search of Universal Love
from the novel, The Lodging for the Rose
Rolf. A. F. Witzsche

Story 16 - Horizons of Snow.
page 105

      An hour later, the bell rang. It was time to get rolling again. Nicely warmed up now, the belly satisfied, and the soul filled with laughter, we ventured back out into the icy world. There remained only a faint hue now on the horizon where the sun had set. In the dark the frost crusted entrance of the terminal building had all the appearance of an ice tunnel leading out of an igloo, and we ourselves looked more like Eskimos than city dwellers. The only one who stood out as a misfit was Rostislav. His fancy uniform was woefully inadequate for the extreme cold. The night was clear. Minute fragments of ice crystals shimmered in the bitter cold, reflecting the light from the terminal building. It was -70'F. The rapidly falling temperature, after the sun had set, was freezing the last bit of moisture from the air, creating dazzling displays of ice fog. I felt rather sorry for Rostislav.
      "He is a man of principle!" Anton whispered.
      "Yes, but in a dangerous way," I whispered back. "His obedience will kill him some day if he doesn't watch out."
      The girls that followed him out of the terminal building looked at him and started to giggle. Embarrassed, one of the pilots stopped them.
      We didn't talk much after the engines started to roll again. The heating system, now repaired, brought a touch of warmth to the cabin. Comfortable and rested, engulfed by the noise of many vibrations and the unending drone of the turbo-props, we dozed off. I had strange dreams about this epic land of ice and snow, mixed with dreams about our days in Caracas. I saw the golden glow of the mountainsides that I had admired each evening at sunset.

      At one evening in Caracas, our friend Augustin had invited us to the top of the IBM tower from where we had watched the air traffic going in and out of the city airport, which handled everything from small aircraft to sleek personal jets. They came in flying along the slopes of the valley, then turned quickly and landed. Others took off. Afterwards, all seven of us had gone to 'Mr. Ribbs' for dinner, a fast food place that served giant steaks, ribs and beer. To get there, required a lengthy excursion across an ocean of cars parked on sidewalks, and dodging motorcycles that used the sidewalks whenever possible.
      I remembered fondly that most of the restaurants were open to the outside, and that the air had always been moist and wonderfully warm. Also, there had always been music and laughter wherever we went. The steaks at Mr. Ribbs had been as big as the plate they came on, and with dessert and beer included, they barely costed the equivalent of what would have been four dollars. This price had even included entertainment, except there was no room for dancing provided. But then, who expects to go dancing at a fast food restaurant?

      We arrived in the black of night in Yaktusk. I awoke when the turbo-props grew silent. According to a sign on the wall of the terminal building, we had landed in Yaktusk all right. The temperature had dropped to eighty-three below zero according to the official thermometer. Rostislav had a taxi waiting for us at the terminal. It was shaped more like an armored truck than a taxi. It was equipped with a flat, double-pane windshield that constantly froze up. The rest of the vehicle was crusted over. The ice must have been an inch thick. I had to laugh when the taxi driver made some remark that it was cold that night. He couldn't get his cargo hatch to open.
      "'s because of the wind," he added.
      I didn't figure out what he meant by that. I was too amazed that there was someone in this remote wilderness who spoke English.
      The hotel, for its part, tried to make up for the bitter cold. Behind triple pane windows and double storm-doors, the radiators vibrated with steam. I couldn't remember ever being as hot in Caracas as I was that night in the hotel at Yaktusk, two floors above the permafrost in the coldest parts of all of Russia. I wondered if Anton managed alright, in her separate room.

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 (c) Copyright 1998 - Rolf Witzsche
Published by Cygni Communications Ltd. North Vancouver, Canada