The Bridge to Stoya

 

 

It is always a pleasure to drive at night. Especially on the nearly deserted highways where the darkness is only seldom interrupted by an oncoming car. The many lights that are divided on the truck’s trailer, combined with the long tongues of the headlights gives me the feeling of sitting in a flying object. A UFO. Deftly the pilot manoeuvers between trees, rocks, and in and out of tunnels close to the earth’s surface. Almost brushes a massive stone outcropping here—adroitly slips through a tunnel there. The engine roars powerfully into the night and sends vibrations all the way through the 60-tons-heavy truck. The King of the Machine marks his territory.

 

I found myself on unfamiliar roads. Supposed to deliver a load of lumber to the Stoya peninsula the next evening and hadn’t driven the route before. As usual, before I left I typed the address into the GPS, which sent me on some smaller highway over Mount Hûfda. I would have thought that the expressway that connected southern Stoya with the mainland would have been faster. But it promised to save me a couple of hours if I took the more tortuous route over Hûfda. I also picked that route partly because I expected that, by and large, there wouldn’t be any traffic and because it was faster. But also because that route meant I’d cross the newly opened Stoya bridge, which now offered a much faster way into Stoya’s north-lying industrial park, where I was supposed to deliver the lumber. As I mentioned, the route was new to me. Altogether I’d only been to Stoya a couple of times in my twenty-five years of truck driving. The majority of the time I drove in the opposite direction, that is to say to the west, while a handful of the other drivers from my company took care of the eastern regions. I’d heard all about the plans for the Stoya bridge, but to tell the truth hadn’t really followed the debate. As always, when such a big project gets proposed there are supporters and detractors. As far as I recalled, the debate finally ended with the bridge being built. That it was already finished surprised me a little. But then again it had been a couple of years since the controversy had last heated up in the media.

 

I had coffee in my thermos and the latest by Dogville in the CD-player. I never listen to the radio when I drive. I did that the first year, but after a while you figure out that by and large it’s the same thing being said over and over. The same programs with different packaging. The same songs played by groups with new names. The same incidents and accidents, just at different addresses. I didn’t care for it. So better to choose your own music and play whatever fits the mood of the moment. That’s the frame of mind I work in. The vastness out there becomes second place. It is really a delight. I tear through the night like a big ball of light. Not dependent on anything. With everything I need within reach and plenty of time to occupy myself with my own thoughts. The world out there whizzes by in a flood of shadows and rain-drenched glimmer. Unpeopled.

 

But I mustn’t lose myself.

 

That night, on the way to Stoya, it was just like most other nights. The darkness, the light, the music, the coffee—and the warm cab. Roads were good. Plenty of space for driving. Hardly any sharp curves and not a single oncoming car. I could hold steady at 70 km/h most of the way, so there wasn’t any doubt about making it to Stoya a lot faster than if I’d gone the expressway. For just a few spots on the way up Hûfda I had to go down to third gear, but it wasn’t anything the engine couldn’t take. Downhill went easy, even though you had to remember to be extra careful driving down with a 60 ton load on back. The main thing was to keep your head clear, pick the right gear, and have your foot on the brakes.

 

From way up high, I already saw the Stoya bridge lights in the distance. And even though they sometimes disappeared in the spaces behind spruce trees and rock outcroppings, still they’d always pop back out again. A ways down from Hûfda there was a relatively straight stretch for about 50 kilometers, just before I got to the Stoya bridge. It wasn’t possible to see the bridge on this stretch because here I drove down under the trees. A short kilometer before the bridge I first saw it. An impressive sight. The bridge stretched some 10 kilometers, and in the clear night I could see the lights from Fyinhus, the little town on the other side of the strait. The entire bridge was hung with lights, both at vehicle height and on the enormous pylons all the way to its end. The whole thing reminded me of Christmas garlands strung up back home in Ugtebo—although what we had here was on a grander scale.

 

There was plenty of space to speed up while I drove the last kilometer to the bridge. Still no other drivers on the road, and it made me wonder why this huge structure didn’t have more traffic, even if it was closing in on three a.m. I vaguely recalled there being talk at one point about how many vehicles would cross the bridge once it was finished. But of course traffic would be the worst during the daytime.

 

On the bridge I slowed down to 60 km/h to take in the view as best as I could in the dark. Like I said, I could see the lights from Fyinhus up ahead, and I could also see moonlight reflected on the surface of the harbor. I told myself that as soon as I’d unloaded my trailer and gotten a little sleep, I’d drive back while there was still light and get a look at the whole thing in daylight, too. But first I wanted to find a place to pull off and get some rest. I could easily sleep 3-4 hours before I drove the last stretch early in the morning. At any rate, no one would be around to unload me before seven o’clock.

 

The next morning I woke up at six thirty, ate a little of the breakfast I’d brought with me, started up and drove the last 60 kilometers out to the sawmill north of Fyinhus. There was an open ramp as soon as I arrived. I backed her in, then jumped out to get things set for unloading. I could see the forklift on its way from the shop, waved to the operator, and signaled for him to go ahead and get started. In the meantime I headed over to the manager’s office to fill out the paperwork.

 

The first question that always comes when you step into the office is, did the trip go all right? The next one is, so which route did you take, and did you have any stops along the way? That’s just how it went when I stepped into this office. I had to answer, it being true, that the trip went fine—surprisingly quick, and that it was my first time over the new Stoya bridge. The reaction from the manager surprised me a bit, because at first he looked at me a little oddly, and then started to laugh. His response was to say, sure, it would’ve made things a lot easier if that bridge had ever been built. Especially for industry out here in Stoya. But that of course it hadn’t come to anything. Too expensive. Too involved. Too much everything, as he reeled it off. I could only listen to him in wonder until he finished. After which, naturally, I insisted that it most certainly was a bridge I’d crossed, that it was an impressive sight, and that I was planning on crossing it again on the way back, too.

 

While we talked, I think we were both just waiting for the other one to cut the joke and admit the truth. But it never happened. Far from it—by the end the mood got a little tense. He insisted that the Stoya bridge never had been and never would be built. While I, having driven over that very same bridge myself, was no less insistent and suggested that we have a look at my GPS—then we could each drive out to the bridge. But the manager was completely unwilling to try anything like that, and said he didn’t have time for any more nonsense. The paperwork was, as he said, all in order, and now I should have a nice trip back—but don’t forget my snorkel.

 

The fact that the manager and—so it appeared—the truck driver weren’t aware of the bridge actually being open left me speechless, to put it mildly.  Extremely surprised and, I must admit, somewhat disturbed, I quickly went my way once the trailer was empty and promptly headed home.

 

How do I explain what happened next? I have no way of describing it. And every day I still think about the night I drove over Hûfda and the bridge. On the way back through Fyinhus, I quickly sensed that something wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. To start with, I couldn’t get the GPS to locate the route back over the bridge. It kept giving me the expressway to the south of Stoya. The other thing I noticed was the complete lack of signs or any directions to the new bridge. Not even in Fyinhus could I find any signs. And when I reached the spot where I was positive the road should take me out to the bridge, there quite simply was no road. But that wasn’t all. There wasn’t a bridge to be seen! I was not in any doubt, not for a second, that from where I’d parked you should be able to see the bridge—if the bridge were there. But there was nothing. No new road through Fyinhus. No road out to the bridge. No lights. No extra traffic. The bridge wasn’t there, no matter how hard I tried to focus my eyes on it. After I questioned a couple of the locals, who gave me the same puzzled looks and the same answer as the manager, I got back in my truck. Started up and began slowly to drive south to the expressway.

 

Now I’ve told it.

 

It’s impossible for me to prove that I crossed the Stoya bridge that night. And when I insist to people that I did, they end the conversation. Now I’ve reached the place where I’ve given up trying to prove to anyone what happened that night. I know I drove over that bridge. I was awake the whole way, and I would not have arrived so early if I’d driven a different route.

 

I myself have no explanation. The bridge isn’t there. I’ve tried to find the road again, but always end up down at the water by the mainland, demonstrating again what I now know. That the bridge, which was never built, only let itself be seen one single night. Could only be driven one time by one vehicle with one person inside. A person, there like a fire ball floating through the darkness of night. A flying object, whose pilot cleverly manoeuvered around invisible pylons and extinguished garlands of light...