In the kitchen nook the noise starts up again and it turns out to be coming from a small refrigerator on the countertop, seemingly running off a generator placed on an open shelf near the floor.

I open the refrigerator and there is a bottle of white wine and a pint of milk, both open. There is a plate of cooked margherita pizza, but it has patches of mold on it. There are a couple of browning, shrunken limes and a wilting bunch of coriander. At the back, I find an unopened packet of minced meat, which expired two days ago. Another sound insists itself into the cocoon space of Leah’s cabin. It is the wind chasing up the mountainsides from the lake in the valley, and it carries with it a smattering of snow, tiny perfect snowflakes kissing the diamond-gridded windows. I close the refrigerator and stand for a while looking out into the main room; its hushed, peaceful atmosphere is intoxicating and instantly soothing, like standing inside a hug. And yet, there is something not right about this place and Leah’s absence. Then I notice something I missed on my first sweep of the room. Next to the sofa is a small, low table on top of which sits a MacBook Air, exactly the size of the tabletop. I stare at it and have the disturbing feeling I often get when I try to reach back in time through my own life and come up against that blank wall of nothingness that shrouds significant chunks of my experiences. I know that something dark is there beneath the ominous white haze, like the charred bones of a burned-out house beneath deep snow, but I can’t quite grasp it. Now, I feel as though I am looking straight at the missing piece of the puzzle, but still can’t make out what the bigger picture is.

I move toward the laptop but feel a headache coming on, so I sit down on the sofa and press my fingers against my eyes, and I see Leah so clearly in my mind, as if she was stamped on my retinas like the blurred shadows that roam across my field of vision. That last session, her last day. Pleading with me, eyes wild. Come to my cabin. Please, please, please. I open the computer and it instantly lights up to the home screen, its backdrop a beautiful photograph of the valley below Bekkebu in summer, the hillsides draped in heather and the lake reflecting a bruised evening sky. The desktop is empty besides a document titled with a single word: ‘Supernova’. I shiver lightly at the memory of her disturbing words.

This is about the truth.

I wrote about you.

I called it Supernova because that’s the word that comes to mind when it comes to you and me.

And I want to talk to you about Carúpano.

30

Supernova