Tactful Devotion

Amid all excess, you were always cautious. Gentle touch was possible. Your devotion remained tactful. Yet I sensed the paths you had taken with other women. We looked over a cliff wall two hundred meters sheer. Beneath a sky in the colors of oxidized copper, an ancient ritual unfolded under the signs of the present. Carried out by youths in improvised ceremonial costumes—moccasins and jeans, feathered headdresses and sneakers. Rarely had I seen something so archaic as this stamp dance. Every step quoted ancestors, every gesture corresponded to a syllable in traditions older than the oldest map of the region. They danced to remember things that had set beginnings. For them, it was natural to understand themselves as part of a chain of ancestors. Our individualism must have seemed like a disease to them.

I grew dizzy thinking of your significance in my life. Later, we lay on a stone that responded to the heat like a breathing body.

“This stone was once sand at the bottom of a shallow, warm sea,” you said.

Your voice made me believe I could see into the Devon. I shivered. It was not just arousal—it was a polytoxic cocktail of sensation. Among it was the thrill of a newfound permeability. I was guided by the knowledge that the body is a membrane, not a vessel. My breath was of cosmic origin.

We stayed at La Estancia del Plata, a sophisticated albergue in historicist hacienda style. A parade of the museum-like. Replications of rustic colonial decor: clay tiles, natural stone, timber framing, Otomí and Purépecha blankets, copper wrought iron à la Sonora, and taxidermy—including a lithe, stretched jaguar, vividly present in my mind. A thunderstorm rolled across the plateau. The air was rich with juniper aromas. Among agaves and cacti, violet jacaranda blossoms glowed. The ground rippled as if stirred by geological excitement—an event in the dimension of deep time. The illusion of prehistory obscured a colossal exploitation of humans and nature. All this upheaval originated in mining.

The inn sat two thousand meters above sea level, offering dramatic vistas. Its salon had a solid masonry fireplace. Not a mere facade, yet still no more than a comfort mirage. Impeccably dressed couples fulfilled life-long dreams in the room. A grandseigneur leafed absentmindedly through an Artes de México. Undoubtedly, his attention was caught by the youngest couple present. He masked his interest. I measured the extra attention. It provided a side allure, one I could have easily ignored.

Arctic Sunshine

Two weeks later, we arrived in Kiruna. Guanajuato lies in the Sierra Madre; Kiruna is nearly at the Arctic Circle, bathed in perpetual sunlight. We picked up the rental— a Land Rover— and equipped ourselves in Arctic gear. In Terrain Response mode, we drove to the vacation home (key stashed nearby by one of your eternally invisible friends) on an island in Lake Torneträsk, near Abisko. I had heard of the Abisko spirit: the dissolution of work-life separation, a Scandinavian outdoor aesthetic without pretense. Raw elegance. Robust sneakers with technical optimization. Rough surfaces, clean lines. Materials spoke their stories. My style fit the local ethos—reduced, clear, austere. No coquettishness. Coherence was the magic word of the hour.

Abisko was not a retreat, not a refuge from the world, but a laboratory in the geological sense—a forward post of long-term processes. Fjälls and bogs, wind and water—at the center, an ecological system. Rural meets research. The codes were organic, data-based, readable in layers, measurement series, and tree rings.

You had so many exceedingly generous friends and acquaintances without me ever seeing a single one. You were a master of smooth operations, living in two speeds. We often moved at a Stone Age tempo. We loved deserts, forests, mountains. Together, we felt the heartbeat of the earth and the breath of the wind. At the same time, a mysterious network accelerated you—an email here, a quick call there. Never did you have to remind anyone of obligations or appointments. The flow of money never ceased. The world responded to you like a horse to leg pressure.

We acclimated in a landscape modulated by fjäll valleys and bog lakes. Two days after arrival, we met Annika Mossberg at 10 a.m. She was in her early forties, raised on the edge of Abisko National Park, daughter of a ranger. In areas frequented by semi-wild reindeer herds, the wardens are called Parkförvaltare and Naturvårdare. Annika worked in an educational unit, specializing in geological formats, focusing on plateau stability and periglacial formations.

The region had once been sculpted by glaciers. Then bogs and wetlands formed. Annika observed a transitional biotope. In spring, elk moved through the valleys. The ground constantly shifted with freeze-thaw cycles. The ranger lived on moving land.

“What does this mean to you?” I asked.

Annika regarded me intently.

“That I should not imagine my own stability.”

Later, she added:

“I don’t think the park needs me. But I need it. To locate myself.”

I wanted to hug her.