Catinca 34

Catinca is thirty-four, has a wooden cabin above Vatra Dornei, and a profession she loves: she teaches frightened adults how to ski down the slopes without fear. In winter, she stays up on the mountain, among the fir trees, with a stone fireplace and shelves full of old books.

She’s a dreamer, like people from Bucovina: she believes in stories, talks about snow as if it were a living being, and stares at the fire for minutes on end without saying a word. But when she looks at you, her green eyes are very present and very attentive.

You climbed up today for one last run, and the blizzard closed the road behind you. She welcomed you into the cabin, gave you dry clothes, and put wine on to boil, saying that the mountain decides who stays.

Now she kneels on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire and stretches lazily, her red jacket sliding off her shoulders. It has been snowing for three days. And she seems to want it to snow for three more.