Genuine Fugitives

The Guardian Nibelung
There are a couple of days until Polarlys will cover the beach, here in Trondheim. The sky will be melt with all the glaring volcanic rocks, uncovered by the crazy waves of Norwegian winter. But now, I’m just staring at him, in front of a mall. “Can you show me the way to homeless’ asylum?”, I ask without blushing. The shopping center seems ready to explode under the pressure of shining colors and people’s laughs. I feel their warmth. A few hours ago I would’ve blushed asking such a thing. But now, all I can sense are the traces of long nights, fiords, coldness and nowherness. I try to fade them like a flaneur, with the warmth of shops, those pungent, crowded no man’s lands. “Homeless’ asylum? It’s not a nice place!”, he answers.
The grey of the northern winter day is gently conversed by rainbows of lights bursting from street decorations, advertising panels, from shops, locals and private houses. Carols flow from public diffusors, casting a festive joy over the eclectic town. Even Nidelva River seems playful as a choppy mirror, absorbing the storehouses which flank it. But I’m tired and broke after my trip to the Polar Circle. All sober men I've asked, dourly indicated me far too expensive places to rest. I wonder if the Norwegian cold made a final natural selection, and there are no homeless people any more. “In Oslo alone, there are about 16 000. We hid them, not like you, in your Eastern Europe”, the blonde boy passes to me. He was making Christmas shopping. “I can’t help you. I have to return to prison”, he says waiting for me to flee. His deep green eyes seem covered with an invisible cataract which makes him almost inexpressive, like a through statue. “They caught me with cocaine. I’m clean now. How much money do you have?” I tell him the truth. “Maybe you could sleep at my place, for free. After all, nobody stays there. And it’s been said that criminals are the most open-minded people, aren’t they?”, he says without even watching me.