Crossing the Sierra De Gredos by Peter Handke

feathers from her belt into her hatband.
    It was a man’s hat. Except that in the period when she undertook her legendary journey there was hardly anything for men that could not also be for women (the reverse, however, was hardly the case). From the top of her head to the tips of her boots she had on nothing that a man could not have worn just as well. Yet the way she wore it, and the way she strode along: there, under the open sky, on the shoulder of the highway, this was a woman if ever there was one, and not a woman disguised as a man, but a woman with rather broad shoulders, unusually large hands, and also rather large feet, recognizable from a distance, at first glance, as a woman to the core, as never before: Good God, what should one look at if not at her? And will she favor me now with so much as a glance?
    Yes, she did look at me as she passed, in fact straight at me, and so sweetly, it seems to me, with a positively kind smile, or was she just making fun of me? Or did she not even register my presence, and her miraculous smile was inspired by her mental images—remembered or anticipated? As I turned to look after her, expecting her to do the same, all I can see is her rolling shoulders, already at a distance, and I see her pull a handkerchief out of her deep pocket and ceremoniously unfold it to the rhythm of her stride and blow her nose in the same fashion (and yet heartily), a handkerchief, or snot rag, as if from olden times, with blue and red checks, an embroidered monogram, not hers but that of her village grandfather, from whom her tight-fitting, seemingly bulletproof vest may have come as well, with braid woven of fine bronze wire, broken in many places and sticking out like jewelry, her only jewelry? No, she was also
wearing earrings, a necklace, and bangles, which had jingled as she passed, and she looked made up, without any added color, even painted, her features seeming traced, her eyes in particular outlined to emphasize their shining. To whom was she on her way? To what party? And why was she walking alone, did not invite me to walk with her?
    And what did she have back there in her apparently weightless bag, that of a parachute jumper? A parachute? Whose cord she would pull when she needed it? Certainly none of the following were in it: a hairdryer; flares; a framed photograph; a gold-plated ballpoint pen that could double as a flashlight; a bathing suit; a sleeping bag; a compass; suntan oil; today’s newspaper; a nightgown; binoculars; a magnifying glass; a microscope; a lighter; a razor blade; a novel, a volume of poetry, a travel guide (at least not an ordinary one); small gifts; slippers; a survival kit; a spare hat, a spare vest, a spare pair of pants, spare boots, a spare vial of perfume.
    So she was wearing perfume? No. But as she passed me that time on the highway, she seemed to be surrounded by an invisible nimbus, a nimbus made up of the breeze caused by her motion and coldness, a perfume of unparalleled freshness, and she positively exuded this breath of coldness, her lips most of all. I wanted to turn back at once and follow it, follow her; catch up with her. But she moved too fast for me, and not only for me. (This kind of narrative, too, dear reader, this bowing and scraping, is supposed to remain a rarity as events unfold, if it in fact intrudes at all.)

5
    The day of her departure fell in the middle of the week. At any rate, Sunday was still far off; she already knew where she wanted to be by then, and was looking forward to it. The sudden change in the weather, the break in the cold, also swept away the last obstacle to her wanderlust: perhaps in compensation she would experience the frost, the continuation of pure winter weather that she had wanted to last as long as possible, as all the more persistent on her expedition, even if this expedition would be taking place far down in the south, which, with a view from the Pico de Almanzor, was almost all the way to Africa