He afterwards. The Norwegian was locked in

He was about thirty years old when he left Ireland on an English ship, although his trade as a sailor was lifelong, he had never climbed to another ship that was not of his nationality. Although, at that time the icy Nordic port had fallen prey to a terrible depression followed by a port strike and he did not want to fail the fellow navigators, had to leave on the English ship because in his house there were two new twins that must be fed by a very young mother.The comrades accepted without reproaches and he managed to get hired by the English, he did not know a word of English, but in the engine of the giant ships, the language of the gears was his specialty.The trip, tedious at first, became unbearable afterwards. The Norwegian was locked in between the grease, the screws, the engines, he did not bother to understand his English-speaking companions, he did not communicate practically with anyone, if he needed something special, he asked for it with crude signs.

Due to the deterioration of the ship, the unforeseen scales were several. Once the supplies of whiskey were over, the Norwegian went down to some port in search of different spirits.Without speaking, mute, taciturn, the man went down bought his drinks and went back to work. The others, seasoned seamen too, shrugged their shoulders at the hostile attitude of the guy locked between the engines and the bottles. Perhaps someone tried to talk to him some time, but we know that he did not allow dialogue or communication. He shut himself up every day more in his silence, work and drinking. The trip, and that is part of the real story, lasted almost three times what was scheduled.

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The ship anchored in Rio de Janeiro as it was his real destiny. The Norwegian went down in that harbor for his drinks, but never returned to the ship.The man drank and continued to do so, as if punishing himself, as if blaming himself, he did not stop drinking in three days and three full nights. When the English sailors went out to look for him because the ship was leaving, when they saw him, they did not recognize him, the man was no longer himself.

He turned into a beast: he broke bottles, doors, tables, shouting in an absolutely unknown language, completely out of total control, he was found by the sirens of the police cars that took him away. Four uniformed policemen tried took him on but the Ursus of the north was like an unbreakable giant, the blue eyes flared and turned them into rag dolls.Then they arrived with the ambulance of the local asylum,I do not know how long his state of alcoholic dementia lasted.

I was told that several young doctors came very close at first, tried with English, or French, even a German persistently tried to seek understanding but the man, listening to them was more locked in his obsessive way of lowering his head and not talking not gesturing, nothing. He closed the doors of his understanding, of his ears and murmured in his language without waiting for answers. He was never seen making an effort to communicate.He was still very tall and strong, blond at the end and his eyes were deep blue. His back was always upright and his murmur was like monosyllabic and peaceful, it was like a prayer in a litany. The other patients, respected him, did not bother him. The nurses and doctors ignored him.

He did not bother anyone, he chewed his food with his mouth closed, he did not drool or make obscenities, he did not argue, he did not howl, he did not persecute visitors.I assisted him in my volunteer work by a random fate that led me to that place, I wondered if the problem wasn’t just the language, that perhaps it was a problem in his hearing. But they had already ruled out that possibility by reflexes he had to certain sounds. He could not, or did not want to, make himself understood and less, understand what he was being told. That’s how I got used to his routine like everyone else and I was not interested in the story of the blond colossus who hummed in his own language. However, every time I crossed him in the patio and looked at him, I could not sustain the second one that lasted the crossing of looks: a deep sea in the blue background of his eyes told me of something beyond his crazy, vague routine. A deeply tormented soul walked with its back straight as if looking for a footprint.

I had forgotten him when another fate of destiny brought Dr. Shueider to the hospice, he was a nice man in his fifties who had lived for different political circumstances in Europe for many years. He also came trying to collaborate for a year like us but, overcrowding and the impoverishment of the place prolonged his stay. And it happened.

One day he crossed to the Norwegian in the central courtyard, stopped and began to follow his walk listening to his singing. I tried immediately to inform him of the case of the crazy blond man who handled his own unknown lexicon but stopped me with a gesture, and kept walking with the man.Suddenly he spoke those words and the blond with a lost look stopped. A few seconds later, he answered. The dialogue lasted more or less half an hour, with advances and setbacks, I suppose, but it was the revolution of that day and the two months that followed.


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