n Buenos Aires, the Zahir is a common 20-centavo coin; the letters N and T and the number 2 bear the marks of a knife or a letter opener; 1929 is the date engraved on the reverse. (In Gujarat, at the end of the eighteenth century, the Zahir was a tiger; in Java, it was a blind man from the Surakarta Mosque who was stoned by the faithful; in Persia, an astrolabe that Nadir Shah ordered to be thrown into the sea; in the Mahdi’s prisons, in around 1892, a small compass that had been touched by Rudolf Karl von Slatin….)

 

A year later, I wake thinking about the story by Jorge Luis Borges, about something which, once touched or seen, can never be forgotten, and which gradually so fills our thoughts that we are driven to madness. My Zahir is not a romantic metaphor—a blind man, a compass, a tiger, or a coin.

It has a name, and her name is Esther.

Immediately after leaving prison, I appeared on the covers of various scandal sheets: they began by alleging a possible crime, but, in order to avoid ending up in court, they always concluded with the statement that I had been cleared. (Cleared? I hadn’t even been accused!) They allowed a week to pass; they checked to see if the sales had been good (they had, because I was the kind of writer who was normally above suspicion, and everyone wanted to find out how it was possible for a man who writes about spirituality to have such a dark side). Then they returned to the attack, alleging that my wife had run away because of my many extramarital affairs: a German magazine even hinted at a possible relationship with a singer, twenty years my junior, who said she had met me in Oslo, in Norway (this was true, but the meeting had only taken place because of the Favor Bank—a friend of mine had asked me to go and had been with us throughout the only supper we had together). The singer said that there was nothing between us (so why put a photo of us on the cover?) and took the opportunity to announce that she was releasing a new album: she had used both the magazine and me, and I still don’t know whether the failure of the album was a consequence of this kind of cheap publicity. (The album wasn’t bad, by the way—what ruined everything were the press releases.)

The scandal over the famous writer did not last long; in Europe, and especially in France, infidelity is not only accepted, it is even secretly admired. And no one likes to read about the sort of thing that could so easily happen to them.

The topic disappeared from the front covers, but the hypotheses continued: she had been kidnapped, she had left home because of physical abuse (photo of a waiter saying that we often argued: I remember that I did, in fact, have an argument with Esther in a restaurant about her views on a South American writer, which were completely opposed to mine). A British tabloid alleged—and luckily this had no serious repercussions—that my wife had gone into hiding with an Islamist terrorist organization.

This world is so full of betrayals, divorces, murders, and assassination attempts that a month later the subject had been forgotten by the ordinary public. Years of experience had taught me that this kind of thing would never affect my faithful readership (it had happened before, when a journalist on an Argentinian television program claimed that he had “proof” that I had had a secret meeting in Chile with the future first lady of the country—but my books remained on the bestseller lists). As an American artist almost said: Sensationalism was only made to last fifteen minutes. My main concern was quite different: to reorganize my life, to find a new love, to go back to writing books, and to put away any memories of my wife in the little drawer that exists on the frontier between love and hate.

Or should I say memories of my ex-wife (I needed to get used to the term).

Part of what I had foreseen in that hotel room did come to pass. For a while, I barely left the apartment: I didn’t know how to face my friends, how to look them in the eye and say simply: “My wife has left me for a younger man.” When I did go out, no one asked me anything, but after a few glasses of wine I felt obliged to bring the subject up—as if I could read everyone’s mind, as if I really believed that they had nothing more to occupy them than what was happening in my life, but that they were too polite or smug to say anything. Depending on my mood, Esther was either a saint who deserved better or a treacherous, perfidious woman who had embroiled me in such a complicated situation that I had even been thought a criminal.

Friends, acquaintances, publishers, people I sat next to at the many gala dinners I was obliged to attend, listened with some curiosity at first. Gradually, though, I noticed that they tended to change the subject; they had been interested in the subject at some point, but it was no longer part of their current curiosities: they were more interested in talking about the actress who had been murdered by a singer or about the adolescent girl who had written a book about her affairs with well-known politicians. One day, in Madrid, I noticed that the number of guests at events and suppers was beginning to fall off. Although it may have been good for my soul to unburden myself of my feelings, to blame or to bless Esther, I began to realize that I was becoming something even worse than a betrayed husband: I was becoming the kind of boring person no one wants to be around.

I decided, from then on, to suffer in silence, and the invitations once more flooded in through my mailbox.

But the Zahir, about which I initially used to think with either irritation or affection, continued to grow in my soul. I started looking for Esther in every woman I met. I would see her in every bar, every cinema, at bus stops. More than once I ordered a taxi driver to stop in the middle of the street or to follow someone, until I could persuade myself that the person was not the person I was looking for.

With the Zahir beginning to occupy my every thought, I needed an antidote, something that would not take me to the brink of despair.

There was only one possible solution: a girlfriend.

I encountered three or four women I felt drawn to, but then I met Marie, a thirty-five-year-old French actress. She was the only one who did not spout such nonsense as: “I like you as a man, not as the celebrity everyone wants to meet” or “I wish you weren’t quite so famous,” or worse still: “I’m not interested in money.” She was the only one who was genuinely pleased at my success, because she too was famous and knew that celebrity counts. Celebrity is an aphrodisiac. It was good for a woman’s ego to be with a man and know that he had chosen her even though he had had the pick of many others.

We were often seen together at parties and receptions; there was speculation about our relationship, but neither she nor I confirmed or denied anything, and the matter was left hanging, and all that remained for the magazines was to wait for the photo of the famous kiss—which never came, because both she and I considered such public exhibitionism vulgar. She got on with her filming and I with my work; when I could, I would travel to Milan, and when she could, she would meet me in Paris; we were close, but not dependent on each other.

Marie pretended not to know what was going on in my soul, and I pretended not to know what was going on in hers (an impossible love for a married neighbor, even though she could have had any man she wanted). We were friends, companions, we enjoyed the same things; I would even go so far as to say that there was between us a kind of love, but different from the love I felt for Esther or that Marie felt for her neighbor.

I started taking part in book signings again, I accepted invitations to give lectures, write articles, attend charity dinners, appear on television programs, help out with projects for up-and-coming young artists. I did everything except what I should have been doing, namely, writing a book.

This didn’t matter to me, however, for in my heart of hearts I believed that my career as a writer was over, because the woman who had made me begin was no longer there. I had lived my dream intensely while it lasted, I had got further than most people are lucky enough to get, I could spend the rest of my life having fun.

I thought this every morning. In the afternoon, I realized that the only thing I really liked doing was writing. By nightfall, there I was once more trying to persuade myself that I had fulfilled my dream and should try something new.

 

The following year was a Holy Year in Spain, the Año Santo Compostelano, which occurs whenever the day of Saint James of Compostela, July 25, falls on a Sunday. A special door to the cathedral in Santiago stands open for 365 days, and, according to tradition, anyone who goes through that door receives a series of special blessings.

There were various commemorative events throughout Spain, and since I was extremely grateful for the pilgrimage I had made, I decided to take part in at least one event: a talk, in January, in the Basque country. In order to get out of my routine—trying to write a book/going to a party/to the airport/visiting Marie in Milan/going out to supper/to a hotel/to the airport/surfing the Internet/going to the airport/to an interview/to another airport—I chose to drive the 1,400 kilometers there alone.

Everywhere—even those places I have never visited before—reminds me of my private Zahir. I think how Esther would love to see this, how much she would enjoy eating in this restaurant or walking by this river. I spend the night in Bayonne and, before I go to sleep, I turn on the television and learn that there are about five thousand trucks stuck on the frontier between France and Spain, due to a violent and entirely unexpected snowstorm.

I wake up thinking that I should simply drive back to Paris: I have an excellent excuse for canceling the engagement, and the organizers will understand perfectly—the traffic is in chaos, there is ice on the roads, both the French and Spanish governments are advising people not to leave home this weekend because the risk of accidents is so high. The situation is worse than it was last night: the morning paper reports that on one stretch of road alone seventeen thousand people are trapped; civil defense teams have been mobilized to provide them with food and temporary shelters, since many people have already run out of fuel and cannot use their car heaters.

The hotel staff tell me that if I really have to travel, if it’s a matter of life or death, there is a minor road I can take, which, while it will avoid the blockages, will add about two hours to my journey time, and no one can guarantee what state the road will be in. Instinctively, I decide to go ahead; something is forcing me on, out onto the icy asphalt and to the hours spent patiently waiting in bottlenecks.

Perhaps it is the name of the city: Vitória—Victory. Perhaps it is the feeling that I have grown too used to comfort and have lost my ability to improvise in crisis situations. Perhaps it is the enthusiasm of the people who are, at this moment, trying to restore a cathedral built many centuries ago and who, in order to draw attention to their efforts, have invited a few writers to give talks. Or perhaps it is the old saying of the conquistadors of the Americas: “It is not life that matters, but the journey.”

And so I keep on journeying. After many long, tense hours, I reach Vitória, where some even tenser people are waiting for me. They say that there hasn’t been a snowstorm like it for more than thirty years, they thank me for making the effort, and continue with the official program, which includes a visit to the Cathedral of Santa María.

A young woman with shining eyes starts telling me the story. To begin with there was the city wall. The wall remained, but one part of it was used to build a chapel. Many years passed, and the chapel became a church. Another century passed, and the church became a Gothic cathedral. The cathedral had had its moments of glory, there had been structural problems, for a time it had been abandoned, then restoration work had distorted the whole shape of the building, but each generation thought it had solved the problem and would rework the original plans. Thus, in the centuries that followed, they raised a wall here, took down a beam there, added a buttress over there, created or bricked up stained-glass windows.

And the cathedral withstood it all.

I walk through the skeleton of the cathedral, studying the restoration work currently being carried out: this time the architects guarantee that they have found the perfect solution. Everywhere there are metal supports, scaffolding, grand theories about what to do next, and some criticism about what was done in the past.

And suddenly, in the middle of the central nave, I realize something very important: the cathedral is me, it is all of us. We are all growing and changing shape, we notice certain weaknesses that need to be corrected, we don’t always choose the best solution, but we carry on regardless, trying to remain upright and decent, in order to do honor not to the walls or the doors or the windows, but to the empty space inside, the space where we worship and venerate what is dearest and most important to us.

Yes, we are all cathedrals, there is no doubt about it; but what lies in the empty space of my inner cathedral?

Esther, the Zahir.

She fills everything. She is the only reason I am alive. I look around, I prepare myself for the talk I am to give, and I understand why I braved the snow, the traffic jams, and the ice on the roads: in order to be reminded that every day I need to rebuild myself and to accept—for the first time in my entire existence—that I love another human being more than I love myself.

On the way back to Paris—in far more favorable weather conditions—I am in a kind of trance: I do not think, I merely concentrate on the traffic. When I get home, I ask the maid not to let anyone in, and ask her if she can sleep over for the next few nights and make me breakfast, lunch, and supper. I stamp on the small apparatus that connects me to the Internet, destroying it completely. I unplug the telephone. I put my cell phone in a box and send it to my publisher, saying that he should only give it back to me when I come around personally to pick it up.

For a week, I walk by the Seine each morning, and when I get back, I lock myself in my study. As if I were listening to the voice of an angel, I write a book, or, rather, a letter, a long letter to the woman of my dreams, to the woman I love and will always love. This book might one day reach her hands and even if it doesn’t, I am now a man at peace with his spirit. I no longer wrestle with my wounded pride, I no longer look for Esther on every corner, in every bar and cinema, at every supper. I no longer look for her in Marie or in the newspapers.

On the contrary, I am pleased that she exists; she has shown me that I am capable of a love of which I myself knew nothing, and this leaves me in a state of grace.

I accept the Zahir, and will let it lead me into a state of either holiness or madness.

 

A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew—the title is from a line in Ecclesiastes—was published at the end of April. By the second week of May, it was already number one on the bestseller lists.

The literary supplements, which have never been kind to me, redoubled their attacks. I cut out some of the key phrases and stuck them in a notebook along with reviews from previous years; they said basically the same thing, merely changing the title of the book:

“…once again, despite the troubled times we live in, the author offers us an escape from reality with a story about love…” (as if people could live without love).

“…short sentences, superficial style…” (as if long sentences equaled profundity).

“…the author has discovered the secret of success—marketing…” (as if I had been born in a country with a long literary tradition and had had millions to invest in my first book).

“…it will sell as well as all his other books, which just proves how unprepared human beings are to face up to the encircling tragedy…” (as if they knew what it meant to be prepared).

Some reviews, however, were different, adding that I was profiting from last year’s scandal in order to make even more money. As always, these negative reviews only served to sell more of my books: my faithful readers bought the book anyway, and those who had forgotten about the whole sorry business were reminded of it again and so also bought copies, because they wanted to hear my version of Esther’s disappearance (since the book was not about that, but was, rather, a hymn to love, they must have been sorely disappointed and would doubtless have decided that the critics were spot-on). The rights were immediately sold to all the countries where my books were usually published.

Marie, who read the typescript before I sent it to the publisher, showed herself to be the woman I had hoped she was: instead of being jealous, or saying that I shouldn’t bare my soul like that, she encouraged me to go ahead with it and was thrilled when it was a success. At the time, she was reading the teachings of a little-known mystic, whom she quoted in all our conversations.

 

When people praise us, we should always keep a close eye on how we behave.”

“The critics never praise me.”

“I mean your readers: you’ve received more letters than ever. You’ll end up believing that you’re better than you are, and allow yourself to slip into a false sense of security, which could be very dangerous.”

“Ever since my visit to the cathedral in Vitória, I do think I’m better than I thought I was, but that has nothing to do with readers’ letters. Absurd though it may seem, I discovered love.”

“Great. What I like about the book is the fact that, at no point, do you blame your ex-wife. And you don’t blame yourself either.”

“I’ve learned not to waste my time doing that.”

“Good. The universe takes care of correcting our mistakes.”

“Do you think Esther’s disappearance was some kind of ‘correction,’ then?”

“I don’t believe in the curative powers of suffering and tragedy; they happen because they’re part of life and shouldn’t be seen as a punishment. Generally speaking, the universe tells us when we’re wrong by taking away what is most important to us: our friends. And that, I think I’m right in saying, is what was happening with you.”

“I learned something recently: our true friends are those who are with us when the good things happen. They cheer us on and are pleased by our triumphs. False friends only appear at difficult times, with their sad, supportive faces, when, in fact, our suffering is serving to console them for their miserable lives. When things were bad last year, various people I had never even seen before turned up to ‘console’ me. I hate that.”

“I’ve had the same thing happen to me.”

“But I’m very grateful that you came into my life, Marie.”

“Don’t be too grateful too soon, our relationship isn’t strong enough. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of moving to Paris or asking you to come and live in Milan: it wouldn’t make any difference to either of us in terms of work. You always work at home and I always work away. Would you like to change the subject now or shall we continue discussing it as a possibility?”

“I’d like to change the subject.”

“Let’s talk about something else then. It took a lot of courage to write that book. What surprises me, though, is that you don’t once mention the young man.”

“I’m not interested in him.”

“You must be. Every now and again you must ask yourself: Why did she choose him?”

“I never ask myself that.”

“You’re lying. I’d certainly like to know why my neighbor didn’t divorce his boring, smiling wife, always busy with the housework, the cooking, the children, and the bills. If I ask myself that, you must too.”

“Are you saying that I hate him because he stole my wife?”

“No, I want to hear you say that you forgive him.”

“I can’t do that.”

“It’s hard, I know, but you’ve no option. If you don’t do it, you’ll always be thinking of the pain he caused you and that pain will never pass. I’m not saying you’ve got to like him. I’m not saying you should seek him out. I’m not suggesting you should start thinking of him as an angel. What was his name now? Something Russian wasn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter what his name was.”

“You see? You don’t even want to say his name. Are you superstitious?”

“Mikhail. There you are, that’s his name.”

“The energy of hatred won’t get you anywhere; but the energy of forgiveness, which reveals itself through love, will transform your life in a positive way.”

“Now you’re sounding like some Tibetan sage, spouting stuff that is all very nice in theory, but impossible in practice. Don’t forget, I’ve been hurt before.”

“Exactly, and you’re still carrying inside you the little boy, the school weakling, who had to hide his tears from his parents. You still bear the marks of the skinny little boy who couldn’t get a girlfriend and who was never any good at sports. You still haven’t managed to heal the scars left by some of the injustices committed against you in your life. But what good does that do?”

“Who told you about that?”

“I just know. I can see it in your eyes, and it doesn’t do you any good. All it does is feed a constant desire to feel sorry for yourself, because you were the victim of people stronger than you. Or else it makes you go to the other extreme and disguise yourself as an avenger ready to strike out at the people who hurt you. Isn’t that a waste of time?”

“It’s just human.”

“Oh, it is, but it’s not intelligent or reasonable. Show some respect for your time on this earth, and know that God has always forgiven you and always will.”

 

Looking around at the crowd gathered for my book signing at a megastore on the Champs-Elysées, I thought: How many of these people will have had the same experience I had with my wife?

Very few. Perhaps one or two. Even so, most of them would identify with what was in my new book.

Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit down in front of the computer, gaze out on the unknown sea of my soul, and see a few islands—ideas that have developed and which are ripe to be explored. Then I climb into my boat—called The Word—and set out for the nearest island. On the way, I meet strong currents, winds, and storms, but I keep rowing, exhausted, knowing that I have drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach is no longer on my horizon.

I can’t turn back, though, I have to continue somehow or else I’ll be lost in the middle of the ocean; at that point, a series of terrifying scenarios flash through my mind, such as spending the rest of my life talking about past successes, or bitterly criticizing new writers, simply because I no longer have the courage to publish new books. Wasn’t my dream to be a writer? Then I must continue creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and go on writing until I die, and not allow myself to get caught in such traps as success or failure. Otherwise, what meaning does my life have? Being able to buy an old mill in the south of France and tending my garden? Giving lectures instead, because it’s easier to talk than to write? Withdrawing from the world in a calculated, mysterious way, in order to create a legend that will deprive me of many pleasures?

Shaken by these alarming thoughts, I find a strength and a courage I didn’t know I had: they help me to venture into an unknown part of my soul. I let myself be swept along by the current and finally anchor my boat at the island I was being carried toward. I spend days and nights describing what I see, wondering why I’m doing this, telling myself that it’s really not worth the pain and the effort, that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, that I’ve got what I wanted and far more than I ever dreamed of having.

I notice that I go through the same process as I did when writing my first book: I wake up at nine o’clock in the morning, ready to sit down at my computer immediately after breakfast; then I read the newspapers, go for a walk, visit the nearest bar for a chat, come home, look at the computer, discover that I need to make several phone calls, look at the computer again, by which time lunch is ready, and I sit eating and thinking that I really ought to have started writing at eleven o’clock, but now I need a nap, I wake at five in the afternoon, finally turn on the computer, go to check my e-mails, then remember that I’ve destroyed my Internet connection; I could go to a place ten minutes away where I can get online, but couldn’t I, just to free my conscience from these feelings of guilt, couldn’t I at least write for half an hour?

I begin out of a feeling of duty, but suddenly “the thing” takes hold of me and I can’t stop. The maid calls me for supper and I ask her not to interrupt me; an hour later, she calls me again; I’m hungry, but I must write just one more line, one more sentence, one more page. By the time I sit down at the table, the food is cold, I gobble it down and go back to the computer—I am no longer in control of where I place my feet, the island is being revealed to me, I am being propelled along its paths, finding things I have never even thought or dreamed of. I drink a cup of coffee, and another, and at two o’clock in the morning I finally stop writing, because my eyes are tired.

I go to bed, spend another hour making notes of things to use in the next paragraph—notes which always prove completely useless, they serve only to empty my mind so that sleep can come. I promise myself that the next morning, I’ll start at eleven o’clock prompt. And the following day, the same thing happens—the walk, the conversations, lunch, a nap, the feelings of guilt, then irritation at myself for destroying the Internet connection, until I, at last, make myself sit down and write the first page….

Suddenly, two, three, four, eleven weeks have passed, and I know that I’m near the end; I’m gripped by a feeling of emptiness, the feeling of someone who has set down in words things he should have kept to himself. Now, though, I have to reach the final sentence—and I do.

When I used to read biographies of writers, I always thought they were simply trying to make their profession seem more interesting when they said that “the book writes itself, the writer is just the typist.” Now I know that this is absolutely true, no one knows why the current took them to that particular island and not to the one they wanted to reach. The obsessive redrafting and editing begins, and when I can no longer bear to reread the same words one more time, I send it to my publisher, where it is edited again, and then published.

And it is a constant source of surprise to me to discover that other people were also in search of that very island and that they find it in my book. One person tells another person about it, the mysterious chain grows, and what the writer thought of as a solitary exercise becomes a bridge, a boat, a means by which souls can travel and communicate.

From then on, I am no longer the man lost in the storm: I find myself through my readers, I understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone.

 

At the appointed time, I start signing books. There is brief eye-to-eye contact and a feeling of solidarity, joy, and mutual respect. There are handshakes, a few letters, gifts, comments. Ninety minutes later, I ask for a ten-minute rest, no one complains, and my publisher (as has become traditional at my book signings in France) orders champagne to be served to everyone still in line. (I have tried to get this tradition adopted in other countries, but they always say that French champagne is too expensive and end up serving mineral water instead. But that, too, shows respect for those still waiting.)

I return to the table. Two hours later, contrary to what anyone observing the event might think, I am not tired, but full of energy; I could carry on all night. The shop, however, has closed its doors and the queue is dwindling. There are forty people left inside, they become thirty, twenty, eleven, five, four, three, two…and suddenly our eyes meet.

“I waited until the end. I wanted to be the last because I have a message for you.”

I don’t know what to say. I glance to one side, at the publishers, salespeople, and booksellers, who are all talking enthusiastically; soon we will go out to eat and drink and share the excitement of the day and describe some of the strange things that happened while I was signing books.

I have never seen him before, but I know who he is. I take the book from him and write: “For Mikhail, with best wishes.”

I say nothing. I must not lose him—a word, a sentence, a sudden movement might cause him to leave and never come back. In a fraction of a second, I understand that he and only he can save me from the blessing—or the curse—of the Zahir, because he is the only one who knows where to find it, and I will finally be able to ask the questions I have been repeating to myself for so long.

“I wanted you to know that she’s all right, that she may even have read your book.”

The publishers, salespeople, and booksellers come over. They all embrace me and say it’s been a great afternoon. Let’s go and relax and drink and talk about it all.

“I’d like to invite this young man to supper,” I say. “He was the last in the queue and he can be the representative of all the other readers who were here with us today.”

“I can’t, I’m afraid. I have another engagement.”

And turning to me, rather startled, he adds: “I only came to give you that message.”

“What message?” asks one of the salespeople.

“He never usually invites anyone!” says my publisher. “Come on, let’s all go and have supper!”

“It’s very kind of you, but I have a meeting I go to every Thursday.”

“When does it start?”

“In two hours’ time.”

“And where is it?”

“In an Armenian restaurant.”

My driver, who is himself Armenian, asks which one and says that it’s only fifteen minutes from the place where we are going to eat. Everyone is doing their best to please me: they think that the person I’m inviting to supper should be happy and pleased to be so honored, that anything else can surely wait.

“What’s your name?” asks Marie.

“Mikhail.”

“Well, Mikhail,” and I see that Marie has understood everything, “why don’t you come with us for an hour or so; the restaurant we’re going to is just around the corner. Then the driver will take you wherever you want to go. If you prefer, though, we can cancel our reservation and all go and have supper at the Armenian restaurant instead. That way, you’d feel less anxious.”

I can’t stop looking at him. He isn’t particularly handsome or particularly ugly. He’s neither tall nor short. He’s dressed in black, simple and elegant—and by elegance I mean a complete absence of brand names or designer labels.

Marie links arms with Mikhail and heads for the exit. The bookseller still has a pile of books waiting to be signed for readers who could not come to the signing, but I promise that I will drop by the following day. My legs are trembling, my heart pounding, and yet I have to pretend that everything is fine, that I’m glad the book signing was a success, that I’m interested in what other people are saying. We cross the Champs-Elysées, the sun is setting behind the Arc de Triomphe, and, for some reason, I know that this is a sign, a good sign.

As long as I can keep control of the situation.

Why do I want to speak to him? The people from the publishing house keep talking to me and I respond automatically; no one notices that I am far away, struggling to understand why I have invited to supper someone whom I should, by rights, hate. Do I want to find out where Esther is? Do I want to have my revenge on this young man, so lost, so insecure, and yet who was capable of luring away the person I love? Do I want to prove to myself that I am better, much better than he? Do I want to bribe him, seduce him, make him persuade my wife to come back?

I can’t answer any of these questions, and that doesn’t matter. The only thing I have said up until now is: “I’d like to invite this young man to supper.” I had imagined the scene so often before: we meet, I grab him by the throat, punch him, humiliate him in front of Esther; or I get a thrashing and make her see how hard I’m fighting for her, suffering for her. I had imagined scenes of aggression or feigned indifference or public scandal, but the words “I’d like to invite this young man to supper” had never once entered my head.

No need to ask what I will do next, all I have to do now is to keep an eye on Marie, who is walking along a few paces ahead of me, holding on to Mikhail’s arm, as if she were his girlfriend. She won’t let him go and yet I wonder, at the same time, why she’s helping me, when she knows that a meeting with this young man could also mean that I’ll find out where my wife is living.

We arrive. Mikhail makes a point of sitting far away from me; perhaps he wants to avoid getting caught up in a conversation with me. Laughter, champagne, vodka, and caviar—I glance at the menu and am horrified to see that the bookseller is spending about a thousand dollars on the entrées alone. There is general chatter; Mikhail is asked what he thought of the afternoon’s event; he says he enjoyed it; he is asked about the book; he says he enjoyed it very much. Then he is forgotten, and attention turns to me—was I happy with how things had gone, was the queue organized to my liking, had the security team been up to scratch? My heart is still pounding, but I present a calm front. I thank them for everything, for the efficient way in which the event was run.

Half an hour of conversation and a lot of vodka later, I can see that Mikhail is beginning to relax. He isn’t the center of attention anymore, he doesn’t need to say very much, he just has to endure it for a little while longer and then he can go. I know he wasn’t lying about the Armenian restaurant, so at least now I have a clue. My wife must still be in Paris! I must pretend to be friendly, try to win his confidence, the initial tensions have all disappeared.

An hour passes. Mikhail looks at his watch and I can see that he is about to leave. I must do something—now. Every time I look at him, I feel more and more insignificant and understand less and less how Esther could have exchanged me for someone who seems so unworldly (she mentioned that he had “magical” powers). However difficult it might be to pretend that I feel perfectly at ease talking to someone who is my enemy, I must do something.

“Let’s find out a bit more about our reader,” I say, and there is an immediate silence. “Here he is, about to leave at any moment, and he’s hardly said a word about his life. What do you do?”

Despite the number of vodkas he has drunk, Mikhail seems suddenly to recover his sobriety.

“I organize meetings at the Armenian restaurant.”

“What does that involve?”

“I stand on stage and tell stories. And I let the people in the audience tell their stories too.”

“I do the same thing in my books.”

“I know, that’s how I first met…”

He’s going to say who he is!

“Were you born here?” asks Marie, thus preventing him from finishing his sentence.

“I was born in the Kazakhstan steppes.”

Kazakhstan. Who’s going to be brave enough to ask where Kazakhstan is?

“Where’s Kazakhstan?” asks the sales representative.

Blessed are those who are not afraid to admit that they don’t know something.

“I was waiting for someone to ask that,” and there is an almost gleeful look in Mikhail’s eyes now. “Whenever I say where I was born, about ten minutes later people are saying that I’m from Pakistan or Afghanistan…. My country is in Central Asia. It has barely fourteen million inhabitants in an area far larger than France with its population of sixty million.”

“So it’s a place where no one can complain about the lack of space, then,” says my publisher, laughing.

“It’s a place where, during the last century, no one had the right to complain about anything, even if they wanted to. When the Communist regime abolished private ownership, the livestock were simply abandoned and 48.6 percent of the population died. Do you understand what that means? Nearly half the population of my country died of hunger between 1932 and 1933.”

Silence falls. After all, tragedies get in the way of celebrations, and one of the people present tries to change the subject. However, I insist that my “reader” tells us more about his country.

“What are the steppes like?” I ask.

“They’re vast plains with barely any vegetation, as I’m sure you know.”

I do know, but it had been my turn to ask a question, to keep the conversation going.

“I’ve just remembered something about Kazakhstan,” says my publisher. “Some time ago, I was sent a typescript by a writer who lives there, describing the atomic tests that were carried out on the steppes.”

“Our country has blood in its soil and in its soul. Those tests changed what cannot be changed, and we will be paying the price for many generations to come. We even made an entire sea disappear.”

It is Marie’s turn to speak.

“No one can make a sea disappear.”

“I’m twenty-five years old, and that is all the time it took, just one generation, for the water that had been there for millennia to be transformed into dust. Those in charge of the Communist regime decided to divert two rivers, Amu Darya and Syr Darya, so that they could irrigate some cotton plantations. They failed, but by then it was too late—the sea had ceased to exist, and the cultivated land became a desert.

“The lack of water affected the whole climate. Nowadays, vast sandstorms scatter 150,000 tons of salt and dust every year. Fifty million people in five countries were affected by the Soviet bureaucrats’ irresponsible—and irreversible—decision. The little water that was left is polluted and is the source of all kinds of diseases.”

I made a mental note of what he was saying. It could be useful in one of my lectures. Mikhail went on, and his tone of voice was no longer technical, but tragic.

“My grandfather says that the Aral Sea was once known as the Blue Sea, because of the color of its waters. It no longer exists, and yet the people there refuse to leave their houses and move somewhere else: they still dream of waves and fishes, they still have their fishing rods and talk about boats and bait.”

“Is it true about the atomic tests, though?” asks my publisher.

“I think that everyone born in my country feels what the land felt, because every Kazakh carries his land in his blood. For forty years, the plains were shaken by nuclear or thermonuclear bombs, a total of 456 in 1989. Of those tests, 116 were carried out in the open, which amounts to a bomb twenty-five hundred times more powerful than the one that was dropped on Hiroshima during the Second World War. As a result, thousands of people were contaminated by radioactivity and subsequently contracted lung cancer, while thousands of children were born with motor deficiencies, missing limbs, or mental problems.”

Mikhail looks at his watch.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go.”

Half of those around the table are sorry, the conversation was just getting interesting. The other half are glad: it’s absurd to talk about such tragic events on such a happy occasion.

Mikhail says goodbye to everyone with a nod of his head and gives me a hug, not because he feels a particular affection for me, but so that he can whisper:

“As I said before, she’s fine. Don’t worry.”

 

Don’t worry,’ he says. Why should I worry about a woman who left me? It was because of her that I was questioned by the police, splashed all over the front pages of the scandal sheets; it was because of her that I spent all those painful days and nights, nearly lost all my friends and…”

“…and wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew. Come on, we’re both adults, with plenty of life experience. Let’s not deceive ourselves. Of course, you’d like to know how she is. In fact, I’d go further: you’d like to see her.”

“If you’re so sure about that, why did you help persuade him to come to supper with us? Now I have a clue: he appears every Thursday at that Armenian restaurant.”

“I know. You’d better follow up on that.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“More than yesterday and less than tomorrow, as it says on those postcards you can buy in stationery shops. Yes, of course, I love you. I’m hopelessly in love, if you must know. I’m even considering changing my address and coming to live in this huge, empty apartment of yours, but whenever I suggest it, you always change the subject. Nevertheless, I forget my pride and try to explain what a big step it would be for us to live together, and hear you say that it’s too soon for that; perhaps you’re afraid you’ll lose me the way you lost Esther, or perhaps you’re still waiting for her to come back, or perhaps you don’t want to lose your freedom, or are simultaneously afraid of being alone and afraid of living with someone—in short, our relationship’s a complete disaster. But, now that you ask, there’s my answer: I love you very much.”

“So why did you help?”

“Because I can’t live forever with the ghost of a woman who left without a word of explanation. I’ve read your book. I believe that only by finding her and resolving the matter will your heart ever truly be mine. That’s what happened with the neighbor I was in love with. I was close enough to him to be able to see what a coward he was when it came to our relationship, how he could never commit himself to the thing he wanted with all his heart, but which he always felt was too dangerous to actually have. You’ve often said that absolute freedom doesn’t exist; what does exist is the freedom to choose anything you like and then commit yourself to that decision. The closer I was to my neighbor, the more I admired you: a man who decided to go on loving the wife who had abandoned him and who wanted nothing more to do with him. You not only decided to do that, you made your decision public. This is what you say in your book; it’s a passage I know by heart:

“‘When I had nothing more to lose, I was given everything. When I ceased to be who I am, I found myself. When I experienced humiliation and yet kept on walking, I understood that I was free to choose my destiny. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me, I don’t know, perhaps my marriage was a dream I couldn’t understand while it lasted. All I know is that even though I can live without her, I would still like to see her again, to say what I never said when we were together: I love you more than I love myself. If I could say that, then I could go on living, at peace with myself, because that love has redeemed me.’”

“Mikhail told me that Esther had probably read my book. That’s enough.”

“Maybe, but for you to be able to love her fully, you need to find her and tell her that to her face. It might not be possible, she might not want to see you, but you would, at least, have tried. I would be free from the ‘ideal woman’ and you would be free from the absolute presence of what you call the Zahir.”

“You’re very brave.”

“No, I’m not, I’m afraid. But I have no choice.”

 

The following morning, I swore to myself that I would not try to find out where Esther was living. For two years, I had unconsciously preferred to believe that she had been forced to leave, that she had been kidnapped or was being blackmailed by some terrorist group. Now that I knew she was alive and well (that was what the young man had told me), why try to see her again? My ex-wife had the right to look for happiness, and I should respect her decision.

This idea lasted a little more than four hours; later in the afternoon, I went to a church, lit a candle, and made another promise, this time a sacred, ritual promise: to try to find her. Marie was right. I was too old to continue deceiving myself by pretending I didn’t care. I respected her decision to leave, but the very person who had helped me build my life had very nearly destroyed me. She had always been so brave. Why, this time, had she fled like a thief in the night, without looking her husband in the eye and explaining why? We were both old enough to act and face the consequences of our actions: my wife’s (or, rather, my ex-wife’s) behavior was completely out of character, and I needed to know why.

 

It was another week—an eternity—before the “performance” at the restaurant. In the next few days, I agreed to do interviews that I would never normally accept; I wrote various newspaper articles, practiced yoga and meditation, read a book about a Russian painter, another about a crime committed in Nepal, wrote prefaces for two books and recommendations for another four, something which publishers were always asking me to do, and which I usually refused.

There was still an awful lot of time to kill, so I decided to pay off a few debts at the Favor Bank—accepting supper invitations, giving brief talks at schools where the children of friends were studying, visiting a golf club, doing an improvised book signing at a bookshop on the Avenue de Suffren owned by a friend (he put an advertisement in the window three days before and all of twenty people turned up). My secretary remarked that I was obviously very happy, because she hadn’t seen me so active in ages; I said that having a book on the bestseller list encouraged me to work even harder than I usually did.

There were two things I didn’t do that week. First, I didn’t read any unsolicited typescripts: according to my lawyers, these should always be returned immediately to the sender; otherwise, sooner or later I would run the risk of someone claiming that I had plagiarized one of their stories. (I’ve never understood why people send me their typescripts anyway—after all, I’m not a publisher.)

Second, I didn’t look in an atlas to find out where Kazakhstan was, even though I knew that, in order to gain Mikhail’s trust, I should try to find out a bit more about where he came from.

 

People are waiting patiently for someone to open the door that leads to the room at the back of the restaurant. The place has none of the charm of bars in St-Germain-des-Prés, no cups of coffee served with a small glass of water, no well-dressed, well-spoken people. It has none of the elegance of theater foyers, none of the magic of other shows being put on all over the city in small bistros, with the actors always trying their hardest, in the hope that some famous impresario will be in the audience and will introduce himself at the end of the show, tell them they’re wonderful, and invite them to appear at some important arts center.

To be honest, I can’t understand why the place is so full: I’ve never seen it mentioned in the magazines that specialize in listing entertainment and the arts in Paris.

 

While I’m waiting, I talk to the owner and learn that he is planning to turn the whole restaurant area into a theater.

“More and more people come every week,” he says. “I agreed initially because a journalist asked me as a favor and said that, in return, he’d publish a review of my restaurant in his magazine. Besides, the room is rarely used on Thursdays, and while people are waiting, they have a meal; in fact, I probably make more money on a Thursday than I do on any other night of the week. The only thing that concerned me was that the actors might belong to a sect. As you probably know, the laws here are very strict.”

Yes, I did know; certain people had even suggested that my books were linked to some dangerous philosophical trend, to a strand of religious teaching that was out of step with commonly accepted values. France, normally so liberal, was slightly paranoid about the subject. There had been a recent long report about the “brainwashing” practiced on certain unwary people. As if those same people were able to make all kinds of other choices about school, university, toothpaste, cars, films, husbands, wives, lovers, but, when it came to matters of faith, were easily manipulated.

“How do they advertise these events?” I ask.

“I’ve no idea. If I did, I’d use the same person to promote my restaurant.”

And just to clear up any doubts, since he doesn’t know who I am, he adds: “By the way, it isn’t a sect. They really are just actors.”

 

The door to the room is opened, the people flock in, depositing five euros in a small basket. Inside, standing impassive on the improvised stage, are two young men and two young women, all wearing full, white skirts, stiffly starched to make them stand out. As well as these four, there is an older man carrying a conga drum and a woman with a huge bronze cymbal covered in small, tinkling attachments; every time she inadvertently brushes against this instrument, it emits a sound like metallic rain.

Mikhail is one of the young men, although he looks completely different from the person I met at the book signing: his eyes, fixed on some point in space, shine with a special light.

The audience sits down on the chairs scattered around the room. Young men and women dressed in such a way that if you met them on the street, you would think they were into hard drugs. Middle-aged executives or civil servants with their wives. A few nine- or ten-year-old children, possibly brought by their parents. A few older people, who must have made a great effort to get here, since the nearest metro station is five blocks away.

They drink, smoke, talk loudly, as if the people on the stage did not exist. The volume of conversation gradually increases; there is much laughter, it’s a real party atmosphere. A sect? Only if it’s a confraternity of smokers. I glance anxiously about, thinking I can see Esther in all the women there, sometimes even when they bear no physical resemblance at all to my wife. (Why can’t I get used to saying “my ex-wife”?)

I ask a well-dressed woman what this is all about. She doesn’t seem to have the patience to respond; she looks at me as if I were a novice, a person who needs to be educated in the mysteries of life.

“Love stories,” she says. “Stories and energy.”

Stories and energy. Perhaps I had better not pursue the subject, although the woman appears to be perfectly normal. I consider asking someone else, but decide that it’s best to say nothing. I’ll find out soon enough for myself. A gentleman sitting by my side looks at me and smiles:

“I’ve read your books and so, of course, I know why you’re here.”

I’m shocked. Does he know about the relationship between Mikhail and my wife—I must again correct myself—the relationship between one of the people on stage and my ex-wife?

“An author like you would be bound to know about the Tengri. They’re intimately connected with what you call ‘warriors of light.’”

“Of course,” I say, relieved.

And I think: I’ve never even heard of the Tengri.

Twenty minutes later, by which time the air in the room is thick with cigarette smoke, we hear the sound of that cymbal. Miraculously, the conversations stop, the anarchic atmosphere seems to take on a religious aura; audience and stage are equally silent; the only sounds one can hear come from the restaurant next door.

Mikhail, who appears to be in a trance and is still gazing at some point in the distance, begins:

“In the words of the Mongolian creation myth: ‘There came a wild dog who was blue and gray and whose destiny was imposed on him by the heavens. His mate was a roe deer.’”

His voice sounds different, more feminine, more confident.

“Thus begins another love story. The wild dog with his courage and strength, the doe with her gentleness, intuition, and elegance. Hunter and hunted meet and love each other. According to the laws of nature, one should destroy the other, but in love there is neither good nor evil, there is neither construction nor destruction, there is merely movement. And love changes the laws of nature.”

He gestures with his hand and the four people on stage turn on the spot.

“In the steppes where I come from, the wild dog is seen as a feminine creature. Sensitive, capable of hunting because he has honed his instincts, but timid too. He does not use brute force, but strategy. Courageous, cautious, quick. He can change in a second from a state of complete relaxation to the tension he needs to pounce on his prey.”

Accustomed as I am to writing stories, I think: “And what about the doe?” Mikhail is equally used to telling stories and answers the question hanging in the air:

“The roe deer has the male attributes of speed and an understanding of the earth. The two travel along together in their symbolic worlds, two impossibilities who have found each other, and because they overcome their own natures and their barriers, they make the world possible too. That is the Mongolian creation myth: out of two different natures love is born. In contradiction, love grows in strength. In confrontation and transformation, love is preserved.

“We have our life. It took the world a long time and much effort to get where it is, and we organize ourselves as best we can; it isn’t ideal, but we get along. And yet there is something missing, there is always something missing, and that is why we are gathered here tonight, so that we can help each other to think a little about the reason for our existence. Telling stories that make no sense, looking for facts that do not fit our usual way of perceiving reality, so that, perhaps in one or two generations, we can discover another way of living.

“As Dante wrote in The Divine Comedy, ‘The day that man allows true love to appear, those things which are well made will fall into confusion and will overturn everything we believe to be right and true.’ The world will become real when man learns how to love; until then we will live in the belief that we know what love is, but we will always lack the courage to confront it as it truly is.

“Love is an untamed force. When we try to control it, it destroys us. When we try to imprison it, it enslaves us. When we try to understand it, it leaves us feeling lost and confused.

“This force is on earth to make us happy, to bring us closer to God and to our neighbor, and yet, given the way that we love now, we enjoy one hour of anxiety for every minute of peace.”

Mikhail paused. The strange cymbal sounded again.

“As on every Thursday, we are not going to tell stories about love. We are going to tell stories about the lack of love. We will see what lies on the surface—the layer where we find all our customs and values—in order to understand what lies beneath. When we penetrate beneath that layer we will find ourselves. Who would like to begin?”

Several people raised their hand. Mikhail pointed to a young woman of Arab appearance. She turned to a man on his own, on the other side of the room.

“Have you ever failed to get an erection when you’ve been to bed with a woman?”

Everyone laughed. The man, however, avoided giving a direct answer.

“Are you asking that because your boyfriend is impotent?”

Again everyone laughed. While Mikhail had been speaking, I had once more begun to suspect that this was indeed some new sect, but when sects hold meetings, I can’t imagine that they smoke and drink and ask embarrassing questions about each other’s sex lives.

“No, he’s not,” said the girl firmly. “But it has occasionally happened to him. And I know that if you had taken my question seriously, your answer would have been ‘Yes, I have.’ All men, in all cultures and countries, independent of any feelings of love or sexual attraction, have all experienced impotence at one time or another, often when they’re with the person they most desire. It’s normal.”

Yes, it was normal, and the person who had told me this was a psychiatrist, to whom I went when I thought I had a problem.

The girl went on:

“But the story we’re told is that all men can always get an erection. When he can’t, the man feels useless, and the woman is convinced she isn’t attractive enough to arouse him. Since it’s a taboo subject, he can’t talk to his friends about it. He tells the woman the old lie: ‘It’s never happened to me before.’ He feels ashamed of himself and often runs away from someone with whom he could have had a really good relationship, if only he had allowed himself a second, third, or fourth chance. If he had trusted more in the love of his friends, if he had told the truth, he would have found out that he wasn’t the only one. If he had trusted more in the love of the woman, he would not have felt humiliated.”

Applause. Cigarettes are lit, as if a lot of the people there—men and women—feel a great sense of relief.

Mikhail points to a man who looks like an executive in some big multinational.

“I’m a lawyer and I specialize in contested divorces.”

“What does that mean?” asks someone in the audience.

“It’s when one of the parties won’t agree to the separation,” replies the lawyer, irritated at being interrupted and as if he found it absurd that anyone should not know the meaning of such a straightforward legal term.

“Go on,” says Mikhail, with an authority that I would never have imagined in the young man I had met at the book signing.

The lawyer continues:

“Today I received a report from the London-based firm Human and Legal Resources. This is what it says:

(a) ‘Two-thirds of all employees in a company have some kind of love relationship. Imagine! That means that in any office of three people, two will end up having some form of intimate contact.

(b) ‘Ten percent leave their job because of this, 40 percent have relationships that last more than three months, and in the case of certain professions that require people to spend long periods away from home, at least eight out of ten end up having an affair.’

“Isn’t that unbelievable?”

“Well, of course, we have to bow down to statistics!” remarks one of a group of young men who are all dressed as if they were members of some dangerous band of robbers. “We all believe in statistics! That means that my mother must be being unfaithful to my father, but it’s not her fault, it’s the fault of the statistics!”

More laughter, more cigarettes, more relief, as if the people in the audience were hearing things they had always been afraid to hear and that hearing them freed them from some kind of anxiety. I think about Esther and about Mikhail in “professions that require people to spend long periods away from home…”

I think about myself and the many times this has happened to me. They are, after all, statistics. We are not alone.

Other stories are told of jealousy, abandonment, depression, but I am no longer listening. My Zahir has returned in its full intensity—even though, for a few moments, I had believed I was merely engaging in a little group therapy, I am, in fact, in the same room as the man who stole my wife. My neighbor, the one who recognized me, asks if I’m enjoying myself. He distracts me for a moment from my Zahir, and I am happy to respond.

“I still can’t quite see the point. It’s like a self-help group, like Alcoholics Anonymous or marriage counseling.”

“But doesn’t what you hear strike you as genuine?”

“Possibly, but again, I can’t see the point.”

“This isn’t the most important part of the evening; it’s just a way of not feeling so alone. By talking about our lives, we come to realize that most people have experienced the same thing.”

“And what’s the practical result?”

“If we’re not alone, then we have more strength to find out where we went wrong and to change direction. But, as I said, this is just an interval between what the young man says at the beginning and the moment when we invoke the energy.”

“Who is the young man?”

Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the cymbal. This time, it is the older man with the conga drum who speaks.

“The time for reasoning is over. Let us move on now to the ritual, to the emotion that crowns and transforms everything. For those of you who are here for the first time tonight, this dance develops our capacity to accept love. Love is the only thing that activates our intelligence and our creativity, that purifies and liberates us.”

The cigarettes are extinguished, the clink of glasses stops. That same strange silence descends upon the room; one of the young women says a prayer:

“We will dance, Lady, in homage to you. May our dancing make us fly up to heaven.”

Did I hear right? Did she say “Lady”? She did.

The other young woman lights the candles in four candelabra; the other lights are switched off. The four figures in white, with their starched white skirts, come down from the stage and mingle with the audience. For nearly half an hour, the second young man, with a voice that seems to emerge from his belly, intones a monotonous, repetitive song, which, curiously, makes me forget the Zahir a little and slip into a kind of somnolence. Even one of the children, who had kept running up and down during the “talking about love” session, is now quiet and still, her eyes fixed on the stage. Some of those present have their eyes closed, others are staring at the floor or at some invisible point in space, as I had seen Mikhail do.

When he stops singing, the percussion—the cymbal and the drum—strike up a rhythm familiar to me from religious ceremonies originating in Africa.

The white-clothed figures start to spin, and in that packed space, the audience makes room so that the wide skirts can trace movements in the air. The instruments play faster, the four spin ever faster too, emitting sounds that belong to no known language, as if they were speaking directly with angels or with the Lady.

My neighbor gets to his feet and begins to dance too and to utter incomprehensible words. Ten or twelve other people in the audience do the same, while the rest watch with a mixture of reverence and amazement.

 

I don’t know how long the dance went on for, but the sound of the instruments seemed to keep time with the beating of my heart, and I felt an enormous desire to surrender myself, to say strange things, to move my body; it took a mixture of self-control and a sense of the absurd to stop myself from spinning like a mad thing on the spot. Meanwhile, as never before, the figure of Esther, my Zahir, seemed to hover before me, smiling, calling on me to praise the Lady.

I struggled not to enter into that unknown ritual, wanting it all to end as quickly as possible. I tried to concentrate on my main reason for being there that night—to talk to Mikhail, to have him take me to my Zahir—but I found it impossible to remain still. I got up from my chair and just as I was cautiously, shyly, taking my first steps, the music abruptly stopped.

In the room lit only by the candles, all I could hear was the labored breathing of those who had danced. Gradually, the sound faded, the lights were switched back on, and everything seemed to have returned to normal. Glasses were again filled with beer, wine, water, soft drinks; the children started running about and talking loudly, and soon everyone was chatting as if nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened.

“It’s nearly time to close the meeting,” said the young woman who had lit the candles. “Alma has one final story.”

Alma was the woman playing the cymbal. She spoke with the accent of someone who has lived in the East.

“The master had a buffalo. The animal’s widespread horns made him think that if he could manage to sit between them, it would be like sitting on a throne. One day, when the animal was distracted, he climbed up between the horns and did just that. The buffalo, however, immediately lumbered to its feet and threw him off. When his wife saw this, she began to cry.

“‘Don’t cry,’ said the master, once he had recovered. ‘I may have suffered, but I also realized my dream.’”

People started leaving. I asked my neighbor what he had felt.

“You should know. You write about it in your books.”

I didn’t know, but I had to pretend that I did.

“Maybe I do know, but I want to be sure.”

He looked at me, unconvinced, and clearly began to doubt that I really was the author he thought he knew.

“I was in touch with the energy of the universe,” he replied. “God passed through my soul.”

And he left, so as not to have to explain what he had said.

In the empty room there were now only the four actors, the two musicians, and myself. The women went off to the ladies’ bathroom, presumably to change their clothes. The men took off their white costumes right there in the room and donned their ordinary clothes. They immediately began putting away the candelabra and the musical instruments in two large cases.

The older man, who had played the drum during the ceremony, started counting the money and putting it into six equal piles. I think it was only then that Mikhail noticed my presence.

“I thought I’d see you here.”

“And I imagine you know the reason.”

“After I’ve let the divine energy pass through my body, I know the reason for everything. I know the reason for love and for war. I know why a man searches for the woman he loves.”

I again felt as if I were walking along a knife edge. If he knew that I was here because of my Zahir, then he also knew that this was a threat to his relationship with Esther.

“May we talk, like two men of honor fighting for something worthwhile?”

Mikhail seemed to hesitate slightly. I went on:

“I know that I’ll emerge bruised and battered, like the master who wanted to sit between the buffalo’s horns, but I deserve it. I deserve it because of the pain I inflicted, however unconsciously. I don’t believe Esther would have left me if I had respected her love.”

“You understand nothing,” said Mikhail.

These words irritated me. How could a twenty-five-year-old tell an experienced man who had suffered and been tested by life that he understood nothing? I had to control myself, to humble myself, to do whatever was necessary. I could not go on living with ghosts, I could not allow my whole universe to continue being dominated by the Zahir.

“Maybe I really don’t understand, but that’s precisely why I’m here—in order to understand. To free myself by understanding what happened.”

“You understood everything quite clearly, and then suddenly stopped understanding; at least that’s what Esther told me. As happens with all husbands, there came a point when you started to treat your wife as if she were just part of the goods and chattel.”

I was tempted to say: “Why didn’t she tell me that herself? Why didn’t she give me a chance to correct my mistakes and not leave me for a twenty-five-year-old who will only end up treating her just as I did.” Some more cautious words emerged from my mouth however.

“I don’t think that’s true. You’ve read my book, you came to my book signing because you knew what I felt and wanted to reassure me. My heart is still in pieces: have you ever heard of the Zahir?”

“I was brought up in the Islamic religion, so, yes, I’m familiar with the idea.”

“Well, Esther fills up every space in my life. I thought that by writing about my feelings, I would free myself from her presence. Now I love her in a more silent way, but I can’t think about anything else. I beg you, please, I’ll do anything you want, but I need you to explain to me why she disappeared like that. As you yourself said, I understand nothing.”

It was very hard to stand there pleading with my wife’s lover to help me understand what had happened. If Mikhail had not come to the book signing, perhaps that moment in the cathedral in Vitória, where I acknowledged my love for her and out of which I wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, would have been enough. Fate, however, had other plans, and the mere possibility of being able to see my wife again had upset everything.

“Let’s have lunch together,” said Mikhail, after a long pause. “You really don’t understand anything. But the divine energy that today passed through my body is generous with you.”

We arranged to meet the next day. On the way home, I remembered a conversation I had had with Esther three months before she disappeared.

A conversation about divine energy passing through the body.

 

Their eyes really are different. There’s the fear of death in them, of course, but beyond that, there’s the idea of sacrifice. Their lives are meaningful because they are ready to offer them up for a cause.”

“You’re talking about soldiers, are you?”

“Yes, and I’m talking as well about something I find terribly hard to accept, but which I can’t pretend I don’t see. War is a ritual. A blood ritual, but also a love ritual.”

“You’re mad.”

“Maybe I am. But I’ve met other war correspondents, too, who go from one country to the next, as if the routine of death were part of their lives. They’re not afraid of anything, they face danger the way a soldier does. And all for a news report? I don’t think so. They can no longer live without the danger, the adventure, the adrenaline in their blood. One of them, a married man with three children, told me that the place where he feels most at ease is in a war zone, even though he adores his family and talks all the time about his wife and kids.”

“I just can’t understand it at all. Look, Esther, I don’t want to interfere in your life, but I think this experience will end up doing you real harm.”

“It would harm me more to be living a life without meaning. In a war, everyone knows they’re experiencing something important.”

“A historic moment, you mean?”

“No, that isn’t enough of a reason for risking your life. No, I mean that they’re experiencing the true essence of man.”

“War?”

“No, love.”

“You’re becoming like them.”

“I think I am.”

“Tell your news agency you’ve had enough.”

“I can’t. It’s like a drug. As long as I’m in a war zone, my life has meaning. I go for days without having a bath, I eat whatever the soldiers eat, I sleep three hours a night and wake up to the sound of gunfire. I know that at any moment someone could lob a grenade into the place where we’re sitting, and that makes me live, do you see? Really live, I mean, loving every minute, every second. There’s no room for sadness, doubts, nothing; there’s just a great love for life. Are you listening?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s as if there was a divine light shining in the midst of every battle, in the midst of that worst of all possible situations. Fear exists before and after, but not while the shots are being fired, because, at that moment, you see men at their very limit, capable of the most heroic of actions and the most inhumane. They run out under a hail of bullets to rescue a comrade, and at the same time shoot anything that moves—children, women—anyone who comes within their line of fire will die. People from small, provincial towns where nothing ever happened and where they were always decent citizens find themselves invading museums, destroying centuries-old works of art, and stealing things they don’t need. They take photos of atrocities that they themselves committed and, rather than trying to conceal these, they feel proud. And people who, before, were always disloyal and treacherous feel a kind of camaraderie and solidarity and become incapable of doing wrong. It’s a mad world, completely topsy-turvy.”

“Has it helped you answer the question that Hans asked Fritz in that bar in Tokyo in the story you told me?”

“Yes, the answer lies in some words written by the Jesuit Teilhard de Chardin, the same man who said that our world is surrounded by a layer of love. He said: ‘We can harness the energy of the winds, the seas, the sun. But the day man learns to harness the energy of love, that will be as important as the discovery of fire.’”

“And you could only learn that by going to a war zone?”

“I’m not sure, but it did allow me to see that, paradoxical though it may seem, people are happy when they’re at war. For them, the world has meaning. As I said before, total power or sacrificing themselves for a cause gives meaning to their lives. They are capable of limitless love, because they no longer have anything to lose. A fatally wounded soldier never asks the medical team: ‘Please save me!’ His last words are usually: ‘Tell my wife and my son that I love them.’ At the last moment, they speak of love!”

“So, in your opinion, human beings only find life meaningful when they’re at war.”

“But we’re always at war. We’re at war with death, and we know that death will win in the end. In armed conflicts, this is simply more obvious, but the same thing happens in daily life. We can’t allow ourselves the luxury of being unhappy all the time.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need help. And that doesn’t mean saying to me, ‘Go and hand in your notice,’ because that would only leave me feeling even more confused than before. We need to find a way of channeling all this, of allowing the energy of this pure, absolute love to flow through our bodies and spread around us. The only person so far who has helped me understand this is a rather otherworldly interpreter who says he’s had revelations about this energy.”

“Are you talking about the love of God?”

“If someone is capable of loving his partner without restrictions, unconditionally, then he is manifesting the love of God. If the love of God becomes manifest, he will love his neighbor. If he loves his neighbor, he will love himself. If he loves himself, then everything returns to its proper place. History changes.”

“History will never change because of politics or conquests or theories or wars; that’s mere repetition, it’s been going on since the beginning of time. History will only change when we are able to use the energy of love, just as we use the energy of the wind, the seas, the atom.”

“Do you think we two could save the world?”

“I think there are more people out there who think the same way. Will you help me?”

“Yes, as long as you tell what I have to do.”

“But that’s precisely what I don’t know!”

 

I had been a regular customer at this charming pizzeria ever since my very first visit to Paris, so much so that it has become part of my history. Most recently, I had held a supper here to celebrate receiving the medal of Officer of Arts and Literature presented to me by the Ministry of Culture, even though many people felt that the commemoration of such an important event should have taken place somewhere more elegant and more expensive. But Roberto, the owner, had become a kind of good-luck charm to me; whenever I went to his restaurant, something good happened in my life.

“I could start with some small talk about the success of A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew or the contradictory emotions I felt last night as I watched your performance.”

“It’s not a performance, it’s a meeting,” he said. “We tell stories and we dance in order to feel the energy of love.”

“I could talk about anything just to put you at your ease, but we both know why we’re here.”

“We’re here because of your wife,” said Mikhail, who was now full of a young man’s defiance and in no way resembled the shy boy at the book signing or the spiritual leader of that “meeting.”

“You mean my ex-wife. And I would like to ask you a favor: take me to her. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me why she left. Only then will I be free of the Zahir. Otherwise, I’ll go on thinking about her day and night, night and day, going over and over our story, our history, again and again, trying to pinpoint the moment when I went wrong and our paths began to diverge.”

He laughed.

“Reviewing history’s a great idea, that’s the only way you can make things change.”

“Very clever, but I’d prefer to leave philosophical discussions to one side for the moment. I’m sure that, like all young men, you hold in your hands the precise formula for putting the world to rights. However, like all young men, you will one day be as old as me and then you’ll see that it’s not so easy to change things. But there’s no point talking about that now. Can you grant me that favor?”

“I must first ask you something: Did she say goodbye?”

“No.”

“Did she say she was going away?”

“No, she didn’t. You know that.”

“Do you think that, given the kind of person Esther is, she would be capable of leaving a man she had lived with for more than ten years without first confronting him and explaining her reasons?”

“That’s precisely what I find most troubling. But what are you getting at?”

The conversation was interrupted by Roberto, who wanted to know if we were ready to order. Mikhail asked for a Napolitana and I told Roberto to choose for me—this was hardly the moment to be worrying about what I should eat. The only thing we needed urgently was a bottle of red wine, as quickly as possible. When Roberto asked me what sort of wine and I muttered an inaudible reply, he understood that he should simply leave us alone and not ask me anything else during lunch, but take all the necessary decisions himself, thus leaving me free to concentrate on my conversation with the young man before me.

The wine arrived within thirty seconds. I filled our glasses.

“What’s she doing?”

“Do you really want to know?”

It irritated me to receive a question in response to mine.

“Yes, I do.”

“She’s making carpets and giving French lessons.”

Carpets! My wife (ex-wife, please, do try and get used to it), who had all the money she could possibly need, had a degree in journalism, spoke four languages, was now obliged to making a living weaving carpets and giving French lessons to foreigners? I must get a grip on myself. I couldn’t risk wounding the young man’s male pride, even though I thought it shameful that he couldn’t give Esther everything she deserved.

“Please, you must understand what I’ve been going through for the last year or more. I’m no threat to your relationship with Esther. I just need a couple of hours with her, or one hour, it doesn’t matter.”

Mikhail appeared to be savoring my words.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said, with a smile. “Do you think that, given the kind of person Esther is, she would leave the man of her life without at least saying goodbye and without explaining why?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why all this stuff about ‘she left me’? Why do you say, ‘I’m no threat to your relationship with Esther’?”

I was confused. I felt something like hope stirring inside me—not that I knew what I was hoping for or where that hope had come from.

“Are you telling me that…”

“Exactly. I’m telling you that she hasn’t left you or me. She has just disappeared for a while, possibly forever, but we must both respect that.”

It was as if a bright light were suddenly shining in that pizzeria, a place that had always brought me good memories and good stories. I desperately wanted to believe what the young man was saying; the Zahir was now pulsating all around me.

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes, I do. But even though I miss her as much as you do, I must respect her silence. I find this whole situation as confusing as you do. Esther may have found satisfaction in the Love That Devours, she might be waiting for one of us to go and find her, she may have met a new man, or she may have withdrawn from the world altogether. Whatever the truth, if you do decide to go and find her, I can’t stop you. But, if you do, you must know one thing: you must find not only her body, but also her soul.”

I felt like laughing. I felt like hugging him, or possibly killing him—my emotions changed with startling speed.

“Did you and she…”

“Did we sleep together? That’s none of your business. I found in Esther the partner I was looking for, the person who helped me set out on the mission I was entrusted with, the angel who opened the doors, the roads, the paths that will allow us—if our Lady is willing—to restore the energy of love to the earth. We share the same mission. And just to put your mind at rest: I have a girlfriend, the blonde girl who was on stage with me last night. Her name’s Lucrecia; she’s Italian.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes, in the name of the Divine Energy, I am.”

He took a scrap of dark fabric out of his pocket.

“Do you see this? The cloth is actually green; it looks black because it’s caked with dried blood. A soldier somewhere in the world asked her before he died to remove his shirt, then cut it into tiny pieces and distribute those pieces to anyone capable of understanding the message of his death. Do you have a piece?”

“No, Esther has never even mentioned it to me.”

“Whenever she meets someone whom she feels should receive the message, she also gives them a little of the soldier’s blood.”

“And what is the message?”

“If she didn’t give you a piece of the shirt, I don’t think I can tell you; not, of course, that she swore me to secrecy.”

“Do you know anyone else who has a piece of that cloth?”

“All the people who appear with me at the restaurant do. We’re only there because Esther brought us together.”

I needed to tread carefully, to build up a relationship, to make a deposit in the Favor Bank. I mustn’t frighten him or seem overeager; I should ask him about himself and his work, about his country, of which he had spoken with such pride; I needed to find out if what he was telling me was true or if he had some ulterior motive; I needed to be absolutely sure that he was still in touch with Esther or if he had lost track of her as well. He may have come from a remote country, where the values are different, but I knew that the Favor Bank operated everywhere: it was an institution that knew no frontiers.

On the one hand, I wanted to believe everything he was saying. On the other, my heart had suffered and bled enough during the thousand and one nights I had lain awake, waiting for the sound of the key in the door, for Esther to come in and lie down beside me, without saying a word. I had promised myself that if this ever happened, I would ask her no questions. I would just kiss her and say, “Sleep well, my love,” and we would wake the next day, hand in hand, as if this whole nightmare had never happened.

Roberto arrived with the pizzas. He seemed to be endowed with some kind of sixth sense that told him when I needed time to think.

I looked at Mikhail again. Keep calm; if you don’t get your pulse rate under control, you’ll have a heart attack. I drank a whole glass of wine and noticed that he had done the same.

Why was he so nervous?

“Oh, I believe what you say. But we’ve got plenty of time to talk.”

“You’re going to ask me to take you to her.”

He had spoiled my game. I would have to start again.

“Yes, I am. I’m going to try to persuade you. I’m going to do everything in my power to do just that. I’m in no hurry though; we’ve got a whole pizza to eat first. Besides, I want to know more about you.”

I noticed that he was trying to keep his hands from trembling.

“I’m a person with a mission. I haven’t yet managed to fulfill it, but I think I still have time to do so.”

“Perhaps I can help you.”

“Oh, you can. Anyone can; you just have to help spread the energy of love throughout the world.”

“I can do more than that.”

I didn’t want to go any further; I didn’t want it to look as if I were trying to buy his loyalty. Careful. I had to be very careful. He could be telling the truth, but he could also be lying, trying to take advantage of my suffering.

“I only know of one kind of loving energy,” I went on. “The one I feel for the woman who left, or, rather, went away and who is waiting for me. If I could see her again, I would be a happy man. And the world would be a better place because one soul would be content.”

He glanced up at the ceiling and back down at the table, and I allowed the silence to last as long as possible.

“I can hear a voice,” he said at last, unable to look at me.

The great advantage of writing about spirituality is that I know I’m bound to keep encountering people with some kind of gift. Some of those gifts are real, others are fraudulent, some of those people are trying to use me, others are merely testing me out. I have seen so many amazing things that I no longer have the slightest doubt that miracles can happen, that everything is possible, and that people are beginning to relearn the inner powers they long ago forgot.

However, this was not the ideal moment to speak of such matters. I was only interested in the Zahir. I needed the Zahir to become Esther again.

“Mikhail…”

“Mikhail isn’t my real name. My real name is Oleg.”

“Oleg, then…”

“Mikhail is the name I chose when I decided to be reborn to life. Like the warrior archangel, with his fiery sword, opening up a path so that—what is it you call them?—so that the ‘warriors of light’ can find each other. That is my mission.”

“It’s my mission too.”

“Wouldn’t you rather talk about Esther?”

What? Was he changing the subject again back to the very thing that interested me?

“I’m not feeling very well.” His gaze was starting to wander; he kept glancing around the restaurant as if I were not there. “I don’t want to talk about that. The voice…”

Something strange, something very strange, was happening. How far was he prepared to go in order to impress me? Would he end up asking me to write a book about his life and powers, like so many others had before him?

Whenever I have a clear objective, I will do anything to achieve it; that, after all, was what I said in my books and I could hardly betray my own words. I had an objective now: to gaze once more into the eyes of the Zahir. Mikhail had given me a lot of new information: He wasn’t her lover, Esther hadn’t left me, it was just a matter of time before I could bring her back. There was also the possibility that this meeting in the pizzeria was all a farce, that he was just someone with no other means of earning a living than by exploiting someone else’s pain in order to achieve his own ends.

I drank another glass of wine; Mikhail did the same.

Take care, my instinct was telling me.

“Yes, I do want to talk about Esther, but I want to know more about you too.”

“That’s not true. You’re just trying to seduce me, to persuade me to do things I was perfectly prepared to do anyway. Your pain is preventing you from seeing things clearly; you think I could be lying, that I’m trying to take advantage of the situation.”

Mikhail might know exactly what I was thinking, but he was speaking more loudly than good manners permit. People were starting to turn around to see what was going on.

“You’re just trying to impress me; you don’t realize what an impact your books had on my life or how much I learned from them. Your pain has made you blind, mean-spirited, and obsessed with the Zahir. It isn’t your love for her that made me accept your invitation to have lunch; in fact, I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced of your love; it might just be wounded pride. The reason I’m here…”

His voice was growing louder; he was still glancing wildly around, as if he were losing control.

“The lights…”

“What’s wrong?”

“The reason I’m here is her love for you!”

“Are you all right?”

Roberto had noticed that something was wrong. He came over to the table, smiling, and put his hand casually on Mikhail’s shoulder.

“Well, the pizza was obviously pretty terrible. No need to pay, you can leave when you like.”

That was the way out we needed. We could simply get up and go, thus avoiding the depressing spectacle of someone in a pizzeria pretending to be communing with the spirit world just to impress or embarrass me, although I did feel that this was more than just a theatrical performance.

“Can you feel the wind blowing?”

At that moment, I was sure he wasn’t acting; on the contrary, he was making an enormous effort to control himself and was more frightened by what was happening than I was.

“The lights, the lights are starting to appear! Please, get me out of here!”

His body began to be shaken by tremors. There was now no hiding what was going on; the people at the other tables had got up.

“In Kazakh…”

He did not manage to finish the sentence. He pushed the table away from him; pizzas, glasses, and cutlery went flying, hitting the diners on the next table. His expression had changed completely. His whole body was shaking and only the whites of his eyes were now visible. His head was violently thrown back and I heard the sound of bones cracking. A gentleman from one of the other tables leapt to his feet. Roberto caught Mikhail before he fell, while the other man picked up a spoon from the floor and placed it in Mikhail’s mouth.

The whole thing can only have lasted a matter of seconds, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I could imagine the tabloids describing how a famous writer—and, despite all the adverse reviews, a possible candidate for a major literary prize—had concocted some sort of séance in a pizzeria just to get publicity for his new book. My paranoia was racing out of control. They would find out that the medium in question was the same man who had run off with my wife. It would all start again, and this time I wouldn’t have the necessary courage or energy to face the same test.

I knew a few of the other diners, but which of them were really my friends? Who would be capable of remaining silent about what they were seeing?

Mikhail’s body stopped shaking and relaxed; Roberto was holding him upright in his chair. The other man took Mikhail’s pulse, examined his eyes, and then turned to me:

“It’s obviously not the first time this has happened. How long have you known him?”

“Oh, they’re regular customers,” replied Roberto, seeing that I had become incapable of speech. “But this is the first time it’s happened in public, although, of course, I’ve had other such cases in my restaurant before.”

“Yes,” said the man. “I noticed that you didn’t panic.”

The remark was clearly aimed at me, for I must have looked deathly pale. The man went back to his table and Roberto tried to reassure me:

“He’s the personal physician of a very famous actress,” he said. “Although it looks to me as if you’re more in need of medical attention than your guest here.”

Mikhail—or Oleg or whatever the name was of the young man sitting opposite me—was beginning to come to. He looked around him and, far from seeming embarrassed, he merely smiled rather shyly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did try to control it.”

I was doing my best to remain calm. Roberto again came to my rescue.

“Don’t worry. Our writer here has enough money to pay for the broken plates.”

Then he turned to me: “Epilepsy. It was just an epileptic fit, that’s all.”

I left the restaurant with Mikhail, who immediately hailed a taxi.

“But we haven’t talked yet! Where are you going?”

“I’m in no state to talk now. And you know where to find me.”

 

There are two kinds of world: the one we dream about and the real one.

In my dream world, Mikhail had told the truth: I was just going through a difficult patch, experiencing the kind of misunderstanding that can occur in any love relationship. Esther was somewhere, waiting patiently for me to discover what had gone wrong in our marriage and then to go to her and ask her forgiveness so that we could resume our life together.

In that dream world, Mikhail and I talked calmly, left the pizzeria, took a taxi, rang the doorbell of a house where my ex-wife (or my wife? The question now formulated itself the other way around) wove carpets in the morning, gave French lessons in the afternoon, and slept alone at night, waiting, like me, for the bell to ring, for her husband to enter bearing a large bouquet of flowers and carry her off to drink hot chocolate in a hotel near the Champs-Elysées.

In the real world, any meeting with Mikhail would always be tense, because I feared a recurrence of what had happened at the pizzeria. Everything he had said was just the product of his imagination; he had no more idea where Esther was than I did. In the real world, I was at the Gare de l’Est at 11:45 in the morning, waiting for the Strasbourg train to arrive, bringing with it an important American actor and director who very much wanted to produce a film based on one of my books.

Up until then, whenever anyone had mentioned the possibility of making a film adaptation, my answer had always been, “No, I’m not interested.” I believe that each reader creates his own film inside his head, gives faces to the characters, constructs every scene, hears the voices, smells the smells. And that is why, whenever a reader goes to see a film based on a novel that he likes, he leaves feeling disappointed, saying: “The book is so much better than the film.”

This time, my agent had been more insistent. She told me that this actor-filmmaker was very much “on our side,” and was hoping to do something entirely different from any of the other proposals we had received. The meeting had been arranged two months earlier, and we were to have supper that night to discuss details and see if we really were thinking along the same lines.

In the last two weeks, however, my diary had changed completely: it was Thursday, and I needed to go to the Armenian restaurant, to try to reestablish contact with the young epileptic who swore that he could hear voices, but who was nevertheless the only person who knew where to find the Zahir. I interpreted this as a sign not to sell the film rights of the book and so tried to cancel the meeting with the actor; he insisted and said that it didn’t matter in the least; we could have lunch instead the following day: “No one could possibly feel sad about having to spend a night in Paris alone,” he said, leaving me with no possible comeback.

In the world of my imagination, Esther was still my companion, and her love gave me the strength to go forward and explore all my frontiers.

In the real world, she was pure obsession, sapping my energy, taking up all the available space, and obliging me to make an enormous effort just to continue with my life, my work, my meetings with film producers, my interviews.

How was it possible that, even after two years, I had still not managed to forget her? I could not bear having to think about it anymore, analyzing all the possibilities, and trying various ways out: deciding simply to accept the situation, writing a book, practicing yoga, doing some charity work, seeing friends, seducing women, going out to supper, to the cinema (always avoiding adaptations of books, of course, and seeking out films that had been specially written for the screen), to the theater, the ballet, to soccer games. The Zahir always won, though; it was always there, making me think, “I wish she was here with me.”

I looked at the station clock—fifteen minutes to go. In the world of my imagination, Mikhail was an ally. In the real world, I had no concrete proof of this, apart from my great desire to believe what he was saying; he could well be an enemy in disguise.

I returned to the usual questions: Why had she said nothing to me? Or had she been trying to do just that when she asked me the question that Hans had asked? Had Esther decided to save the world, as she had hinted in our conversation about love and war, and was she preparing me to join her on this mission?

My eyes were fixed on the railway tracks. Esther and I, walking along parallel to each other, never touching. Two destinies that…

Railway tracks.

How far apart were they?

In order to forget about the Zahir, I tried asking one of the platform staff.

“They’re 143.5 centimeters, or 4 feet 8½ inches, apart,” he replied.

He seemed to be a man at peace with life, proud of his job; he didn’t fit Esther’s stereotype at all, that we all harbor a great sadness in our soul.

But his answer didn’t make any sense at all: 143.5 centimeters or 4 feet 8½ inches?

Absurd. Logically, it should be either 150 centimeters or 5 feet. A round number, easy for builders of carriages and railway employees to remember.

“But why?” I asked the man.

“Because that’s the width between the wheels on the carriages.”

“But surely the wheels are that distance apart because the tracks are.”

“Look, just because I work in a railway station doesn’t mean I know everything about trains. That’s just the way things are.”

He was no longer a happy person, at peace with his work; he could answer one question, but could go no further. I apologized and spent what remained of the fifteen minutes staring at the tracks, feeling intuitively that they were trying to tell me something.

Strange though it may seem, the tracks seemed to be saying something about my marriage, and about all marriages.

The actor arrived, and he was far nicer than I expected, despite being so famous. I left him at my favorite hotel and went home. To my surprise, Marie was there waiting for me, saying that, due to adverse weather conditions, filming had been put off until the following week.

 

I assume that, since today is Thursday, you’ll be going to the restaurant.”

“Do you want to come too?”

“Yes, I do. Why? Would you prefer to go alone?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Well, I’ve decided to come anyway. The man hasn’t yet been born who can tell me where I can and cannot go.”

“Do you know why all railway tracks are 143.5 centimeters apart?”

“I can try and find out on the Internet. Is it important?”

“Very.”

“Leaving railway tracks to one side for the moment, I was talking to some friends of mine who are fans of your books. They think that anyone who can write books like A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, or the one about the shepherd or the pilgimage to Santiago, must be some kind of sage who has an answer for everything.”

“Which is not quite true, as you know.”

“What is the truth, then? How is it that you can pass on to your readers things that are beyond your own knowledge?”

“They’re not beyond my knowledge. Everything that’s written in my books is part of my soul, part of the lessons I’ve learned throughout my life, and which I try to apply to myself. I’m a reader of my own books. They show me things that I already knew, even if only unconsciously.”

“What about the reader?”

“I think it’s the same for the reader. A book—and we could be talking about anything here, a film, a piece of music, a garden, the view of a mountain—reveals something. ‘Reveal’ means both to unveil and to reveil. Removing the veil from something that already exists is different from me trying to teach others the secret of how to live a better life.

“Love is giving me a pretty hard time at the moment, as you know. Now this could be seen as a descent into hell or it could be seen as a revelation. It was only when I wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew that I understood my own capacity for love. And I learned this while I was actually typing the words and sentences.”

“But what about the spiritual side? What about the spirituality that appears to be present on every page of your books?”

“I’m beginning to like the idea of you coming with me to the Armenian restaurant, because you’ll learn—or, rather, become conscious of—three important things. First, that as soon as people decide to confront a problem, they realize that they are far more capable than they thought they were. Second, that all energy and all knowledge come from the same unknown source, which we usually call God. What I’ve tried to do in my life, ever since I first started out on what I believe to be my path, is to honor that energy, to connect up with it every day, to allow myself to be guided by the signs, to learn by doing and not by thinking about doing.

“Third, that no one is alone in their troubles; there is always someone else thinking, rejoicing, or suffering in the same way, and that gives us the strength to confront the challenge before us.”

“Does that include suffering for love?”

“It includes everything. If there is suffering, then it’s best to accept it, because it won’t go away just because you pretend it’s not there. If there is joy, then it’s best to accept that too, even though you’re afraid it might end one day. Some people can only relate to life through sacrifice and renunciation. Some people can only feel part of humanity when they think they are ‘happy.’ But why all these questions?”

“Because I’m in love and I’m afraid of suffering.”

“Don’t be afraid; the only way to avoid that suffering would be to refuse to love.”

“I can feel Esther’s presence. Apart from the young man’s epileptic fit, you haven’t told me anything else about what happened at the pizzeria. That’s a bad sign for me, although it might be a good sign for you.”

“It might be a bad sign for me too.”

“Do you know what I would like to know? I’d like to know if you love me as much as I love you. But I don’t have the courage to ask. Why do I have such frustrating relationships with men? I always feel like I have to be in a relationship and that means I have to be this fantastic, intelligent, sensitive, exceptional person. The effort of seduction forces me to give of my best and that helps me. Besides, it’s really hard living on your own, and I don’t know if that’s the best option either.”

“So you want to know if I’m still capable of loving a woman, even though she left me without a word of explanation.”

“I read your book. I know you are.”

“You want to know whether, despite loving Esther, I’m still capable of loving you?”

“I wouldn’t dare ask that question because the answer could ruin my life.”

“You want to know if the heart of a man or a woman can contain enough love for more than one person?”

“Since that’s a less direct question than the previous one, yes, I’d like an answer.”

“I think it’s perfectly possible as long as one of those people doesn’t turn into…”

“…a Zahir. Well, I’m going to fight for you anyway, because I think you’re worth it. Any man capable of loving a woman as much as you loved—or love—Esther deserves all my respect and all my efforts. And to show that I want to keep you by my side, to show how important you are in my life, I’m going to do as you ask, however absurd it might be: I’m going to find out why railway tracks are always 4 feet 8½ inches apart.”

 

The owner of the Armenian restaurant had done exactly what he had told me he was planning to do: the whole restaurant, and not just the room at the back, was now full of people who had come for the meeting. Marie eyed them with some curiosity and occasionally commented on what a varied crowd they were.

“Why bring children to something like this? It’s absurd.”

“Perhaps they haven’t got anyone they can leave them with.”

At nine o’clock on the dot, the six performers—the two musicians in oriental dress and the four young people in their white shirts and full skirts—walked onto the stage. Service at the tables came to an immediate halt, and the people in the audience fell silent.

“In the Mongolian creation myth, doe and wild dog come together,” said Mikhail in that voice which was not his own. “Two beings with very different natures: in the wild, the dog would normally kill the deer for food. In the Mongolian myth, they both understand that they each need the qualities of the other if they are to survive in a hostile world, and that they should, therefore, join forces.

“To do this, they must first learn to love. And in order to love, they must cease to be who they are, otherwise they will never be able to live together. With the passing of time, the wild dog comes to accept that his instinct, always focused on the struggle to survive, now serves a greater purpose: finding someone with whom he can rebuild the world.”

He paused.

“When we dance, we spin around that same Energy, which rises up to our Lady and returns to us imbued with all her strength, just as the water in rivers evaporates, is transformed into clouds, and returns in the form of rain. My story today is about the circle of love.

“One morning, a farmer knocked loudly on the door of a monastery. When Brother Porter opened the door, the farmer held out to him a magnificent bunch of grapes.

“‘Dear Brother Porter, these are the finest grapes from my vineyard. Please accept them as a gift from me.’

“‘Why, thank you! I’ll take them straight to the Abbot, who will be thrilled with such a gift.’

“‘No, no. I brought them for you.’

“‘For me? But I don’t deserve such a beautiful gift from nature.’

“‘Whenever I knocked on the door, you opened it. When the harvest had been ruined by drought, you gave me a piece of bread and a glass of wine every day. I want this bunch of grapes to bring you a little of the sun’s love, the rain’s beauty, and God’s miraculous power.’

“Brother Porter put the grapes down where he could see them and spent the whole morning admiring them: they really were lovely. Because of this, he decided to give the present to the Abbot, whose words of wisdom had always been such a boon to him.

“The Abbot was very pleased with the grapes, but then he remembered that one of the other monks was ill and thought: ‘I’ll give him the grapes. Who knows, they might bring a little joy into his life.’

“But the grapes did not remain for very long in the room of the ailing monk, for he in turn thought: ‘Brother Cook has taken such good care of me, giving me only the very best food to eat. I’m sure these grapes will bring him great happiness.’ And when Brother Cook brought him his lunch, the monk gave him the grapes.

“‘These are for you. You are in close touch with the gifts nature gives us and will know what to do with this, God’s produce.’

“Brother Cook was amazed at the beauty of the grapes and drew his assistant’s attention to their perfection. They were so perfect that no one could possibly appreciate them more than Brother Sacristan, who had charge of the Holy Sacrament, and whom many in the monastery considered to be a truly saintly man.

“Brother Sacristan, in turn, gave the grapes to the youngest of the novices in order to help him understand that God’s work is to be found in the smallest details of the Creation. When the novice received them, his heart was filled with the Glory of God, because he had never before seen such a beautiful bunch of grapes. At the same time, he remembered the day he had arrived at the monastery and the person who had opened the door to him; that gesture of opening the door had allowed him to be there now in that community of people who knew the value of miracles.

“Shortly before dark, he took the bunch of grapes to Brother Porter.

“‘Eat and enjoy. You spend most of your time here all alone, and these grapes will do you good.’

“Brother Porter understood then that the gift really was intended for him; he savored every grape and went to sleep a happy man. In this way, the circle was closed; the circle of happiness and joy which always wraps around those who are in contact with the energy of love.”

The woman called Alma sounded the cymbal.

“As we do every Thursday, we listen to a story of love and tell stories about the lack of love. Let us look at what is on the surface and then, little by little, we will understand what lies beneath: our habits, our values. And when we can penetrate that layer, we will be able to find ourselves. Who would like to begin?”

Several hands went up, including—to Marie’s surprise—mine. The noise started up again; people shifted in their seats. Mikhail pointed to a tall, pretty woman with blue eyes.

“Last week, I went to see a male friend of mine who lives alone in the mountains, near the border with Spain; he loves the good things of life and has often said that any wisdom he may have acquired comes from the fact that he lives each moment to the fullest. Now, right from the start, my husband was against my going to see this friend. He knows what he’s like, that his favorite pastimes are shooting birds and seducing women. But I needed to talk to this friend; I was going through a difficult time and only he could help me. My husband suggested I see a psychiatrist or go on a trip; we even had a row about it, but despite all these domestic pressures, I set off. My friend came to meet me at the airport and we spent the afternoon talking; we ate supper, drank some wine, talked a bit more and then I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, we went for a walk near where he lives and he dropped me back at the airport.

“As soon as I got home, the questions began. Was he alone? Yes. You mean he didn’t have a girlfriend with him? No, he didn’t. Did you have anything to drink? Yes, I did. Why don’t you want to talk about it? But I am talking about it! Alone together in a house in the mountains, eh? Very romantic. So? And all you did was talk, you say? Yes, that’s all. And you expect me to believe that? Why shouldn’t you believe it? Because it goes against human nature—if a man and a woman get together, have a bit to drink, and talk about personal things, they’re bound to end up in bed!

“I agree with my husband. It does go against everything we’re taught. He’ll never believe the story I’ve just told, but it’s absolutely true. Since then, our life has become a little hell. It will pass, but going through all this pain is pointless, and all because we’ve been told that if a man and a woman like each other and circumstances allow, they’re bound to end up in bed together.”

Applause. Cigarettes were lit. The clink of glasses and bottles.

“What’s going on?” whispered Marie. “Group therapy for couples?”

“It’s all part of the meeting. No one says whether it’s right or wrong, they just tell stories.”

“But why do they do it in public, in this irreverent way, with people drinking and smoking?”

“Perhaps it’s to stop things from getting too heavy. That way it’s easier. And if it helps to make things easier, what’s wrong with that?”

“Easier? Talking to a load of strangers who might go and repeat this story to her husband tomorrow?”

Someone else had started talking, and so I wasn’t able to tell Marie that it didn’t matter: everyone was there to talk about the lack of love disguised as love.

“I’m the husband of the woman who just told that story,” said a man, who must have been at least twenty years older than the pretty, young blonde woman. “Everything she said is true, but there’s something she doesn’t know and which I haven’t had the courage to tell her. I’ll do so now.

“When she went off to the mountains, I couldn’t sleep all night, and I started imagining, in detail, what was going on. When she arrives, the fire is already lit; she takes off her coat, takes off her sweater; she’s not wearing a bra under her thin T-shirt. He can clearly see the shape of her breasts.

“She pretends not to notice him looking at her. She says she’s going to the kitchen to get another bottle of champagne. She’s wearing very tight jeans, she walks slowly, and she doesn’t need to turn around to know that he’s watching her every move. She comes back, they talk about very personal things, which makes them feel even closer.

“They finish talking about the problem that took her there. Her cell phone rings; it’s me, wanting to know if she’s all right. She goes over to him, puts the phone to his ear, and they both listen to what I have to say; it’s an awkward conversation, because I know it’s too late to put any kind of pressure on her, it’s best just to pretend that everything’s fine and tell her to enjoy her time in the mountains, because the following day she’ll be back in Paris, taking care of the kids and doing the shopping.

“I hang up, knowing that he has heard the whole conversation. The two of them—because, before, they were sitting on separate sofas—are now very close indeed.

“At that point, I stopped thinking about what was happening in the mountains. I got up, went into my children’s bedroom, walked over to the window, and looked out over Paris, and do you know what I felt? I felt excited, very, very excited; the thought of the two of them together, knowing that my wife could, at that very moment, be kissing another man, making love with him, had aroused me sexually.

“I felt awful. How could I possibly get excited over something like that? The next day, I talked to two friends; obviously, I didn’t use myself as an example, but I asked them if they had ever felt aroused when they caught another man staring at their wife’s cleavage. They didn’t really answer the question because it’s such a taboo. But they both agreed that it’s always nice to know that your wife is desired by another man, although they wouldn’t go any further than that. Is this a secret fantasy hidden in the hearts of all men? I don’t know. This last week has been a little hell for both of us simply because I didn’t understand my own feelings. And because I can’t understand them, I blame her for provoking in me feelings that make my world seem suddenly unsafe.”

This time a lot of cigarettes were lit, but there was no applause. It was as if, even there, the subject continued to be a taboo.

I put up my hand again, and meanwhile asked myself if I agreed with what the man had just said. Yes, I did. I had imagined similar scenarios involving Esther and the soldiers she met in war zones, but I had never dared say as much, not even to myself.

Mikhail looked in my direction and nodded.

I don’t know how I managed to get to my feet and look at that audience, who were still visibly shocked by the story of the man who had felt aroused by the thought of his wife having sex with another man. No one seemed to be listening, and that helped me make a start.

“I apologize for not being as direct as the two previous speakers, but I nevertheless have something to say. I went to a train station today and learned that the distance between railway tracks is always 143.5 centimeters, or 4 feet 8½ inches. Why this absurd measurement? I asked my girlfriend to find out and this is what she discovered. When they built the first train carriages, they used the same tools as they had for building horse-drawn carriages. And why that distance between the wheels on carriages? Because that was the width of the old roads along which the carriages had to travel. And who decided that roads should be that width? Well, suddenly, we are plunged back into the distant past. It was the Romans, the first great road builders, who decided to make their roads that width. And why? Because their war chariots were pulled by two horses, and when placed side by side, the horses they used at the time took up 143.5 centimeters.

“So the distance between the tracks I saw today, used by our state-of-the-art high-speed trains, was determined by the Romans. When people went to the United States and started building railways there, it didn’t occur to them to change the width and so it stayed as it was. This even affected the building of space shuttles. American engineers thought the fuel tanks should be wider, but the tanks were built in Utah and had to be transported by train to the Space Center in Florida, and the tunnels couldn’t take anything wider. And so they had to accept the measurement that the Romans had decided was the ideal. But what has all this to do with marriage?”

I paused. Some people were not in the slightest bit interested in railway tracks and had started talking among themselves. Others were listening attentively, among them Marie and Mikhail.

“It has everything to do with marriage and with the two stories we have just heard. At some point in history, someone turned up and said: When two people get married, they must stay frozen like that for the rest of their lives. You will move along side by side like two tracks, keeping always that same distance apart. Even if sometimes one of you needs to be a little farther away or a little closer, that is against the rules. The rules say: Be sensible, think of the future, think of your children. You can’t change, you must be like two railway tracks that remain the same distance apart all the way from their point of departure to their destination. The rules don’t allow for love to change, or to grow at the start and diminish halfway through—it’s too dangerous. And so, after the enthusiasm of the first few years, they maintain the same distance, the same solidity, the same functional nature. Your purpose is to allow the train bearing the survival of the species to head off into the future: your children will only be happy if you stay just as you were—143.5 centimeters apart. If you’re not happy with something that never changes, think of them, think of the children you brought into the world.

“Think of your neighbors. Show them that you’re happy, eat roast beef on Sundays, watch television, help the community. Think of society. Dress in such a way that everyone knows you’re in perfect harmony. Never glance to the side, someone might be watching you, and that could bring temptation; it could mean divorce, crisis, depression.

“Smile in all the photos. Put the photos in the living room, so that everyone can see them. Cut the grass, practice a sport—oh, yes, you must practice a sport in order to stay frozen in time. When sport isn’t enough, have plastic surgery. But never forget, these rules were established long ago and must be respected. Who established these rules? That doesn’t matter. Don’t question them, because they will always apply, even if you don’t agree with them.”

I sat down. There was a mixture of enthusiastic applause and indifference, and I wondered if I had gone too far. Marie was looking at me with a mixture of admiration and surprise.

The woman on stage sounded the cymbal.

I told Marie to stay where she was, while I went outside to smoke a cigarette:

“They’ll perform a dance now in the name of love, in the name of the Lady.”

“You can smoke in here, can’t you?”

“Yes, but I need to be alone.”

 

It may have been early spring, but it was still very cold; nevertheless, I was in need of some fresh air. Why had I told that story? My marriage to Esther had never been the way I described: two railway tracks, always beside each other, always forming two correct, straight lines, We had had our ups and downs; one or other of us had occasionally threatened to leave for good; and yet we continued on together.

Until two years ago.

Or until the moment when she began to want to know why she was unhappy.

No one should ever ask themselves that: Why am I unhappy? The question carries within it the virus that will destroy everything. If we ask that question, it means we want to find out what makes us happy. If what makes us happy is different from what we have now, then we must either change once and for all or stay as we are, feeling even more unhappy.

I now found myself in precisely that situation: I had a lively, interesting girlfriend, my work was going well, and there was every chance that, in the fullness of time, things would sort themselves out. I should resign myself to the situation. I should accept what life was offering me, not follow Esther’s example, not look at anyone else, but remember Marie’s words, and build a new life with her.

No, I can’t think like that. If I behave in the way people expect me to behave, I will become their slave. It requires enormous self-control not to succumb, because our natural tendency is to want to please, even if the person to be pleased is us. If I do that, I will lose not only Esther, but Marie, my work, my future, as well as any respect I have for myself and for what I have said and written.

 

When I went back in, I found that people were starting to leave. Mikhail appeared, having already changed out of his stage clothes.

“Listen, what happened at the pizzeria…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “Let’s go for a walk by the Seine.”

Marie got the message and said that she needed an early night. I asked her to give us a lift in her taxi as far as the bridge just opposite the Eiffel Tower; that way, I could walk home afterward. I thought of asking where Mikhail lived, but felt that the question might be construed as an attempt to verify, with my own eyes, that Esther really wasn’t living with him.

On the way, Marie kept asking him what the meeting was about, and he always gave the same answer: it’s a way of recovering love. He said that he had liked my story about the railway tracks.

“That’s how love got lost,” he said. “When we started laying down rules for when love should or shouldn’t appear.”

“When was that?” Marie asked.

“I don’t know, but I know it’s possible to retrieve that Energy. I know, because when I dance, or when I hear the voice, love speaks to me.”

Marie didn’t know what he meant by “hearing the voice,” but, by then, we had reached the bridge. Mikhail and I got out and started walking in the cold Paris night.

 

“I know you were frightened by what you saw. The biggest danger when someone has a fit is that their tongue will roll back and they’ll suffocate. The owner of the restaurant knew what to do, so it’s obviously happened there before. It’s not that unusual. But your diagnosis is wrong. I’m not an epileptic. It happens whenever I get in touch with the Energy.”

Of course he was an epileptic, but there was no point in contradicting him. I was trying to act normally. I needed to keep the situation under control. I was surprised how easily he had agreed to this second meeting.

“I need you. I need you to write something about the importance of love,” said Mikhail.

“Everyone knows that love is important. That’s what most books are about.”

“All right, let me put my request another way. I need you to write something about the new Renaissance.”

“What’s the new Renaissance?”

“It’s similar to the Italian Renaissance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when geniuses like Erasmus, Leonardo, and Michelangelo rejected the limitations of the present and the oppressive conventions of their own time and turned instead to the past. We’re beginning to see a return to a magical language, to alchemy and the idea of the Mother Goddess, to people reclaiming the freedom to do what they believe in and not what the church or the government demand of them. As in fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Florence, we are discovering that the past contains the answers to the future.

“Your story about the railway tracks, for example: In how many other areas of our lives are we obeying rules we don’t understand? People read what you write—couldn’t you introduce the subject somewhere?”

“I never make deals over what I write,” I replied, remembering once more that I needed to keep my self-respect. “If it’s an interesting subject, if it’s in my soul, if the boat called The Word carries me to that particular island, I might write about it. But none of this has anything to do with my search for Esther.”

“I know, and I’m not trying to impose any conditions, I’m just suggesting something that seems important to me.”

“Did she tell you about the Favor Bank?”

“She did. But this isn’t a matter for the Favor Bank. It’s to do with a mission that I can’t fulfill on my own.”

“What you do in the Armenian restaurant, is that your mission?”

“That’s just a tiny part of it. We do the same thing on Fridays with a group of beggars. And on Wednesdays we work with a group of new nomads.”

New nomads? It was best not to interrupt; the Mikhail who was talking to me now had none of the arrogance he had shown in the pizzeria, none of the charisma he had revealed on stage or the vulnerability he had revealed on that evening at the book signing. He was a normal person, a colleague with whom we always end up, late at night, talking over the world’s problems.

“I can only write about things that really touch my soul,” I insist.

“Would you like to come with us to talk to the beggars?”

I remembered Esther’s remark about the phony sadness in the eyes of those who should be the most wretched people in the world.

“Let me think about it first.”

We were approaching the Louvre, but he paused to lean on the parapet, and we both stood there contemplating the passing boats, which dazzled us with their spotlights.

“Look at them,” I said, because I needed to talk about something, afraid that he might get bored and go home. “They only see what the spotlights show them. When they go home, they’ll say they know Paris. Tomorrow, they’ll go and see the Mona Lisa and claim they’ve visited the Louvre. But they don’t know Paris and have never really been to the Louvre. All they did was go on a boat and look at a painting, one painting, instead of looking at a whole city and trying to find out what’s happening in it, visiting the bars, going down streets that don’t appear in any of the tourist guides, and getting lost in order to find themselves again. It’s the difference between watching a porn movie and making love.”

“I admire your self-control. There you are talking about the boats on the Seine, all the while waiting for the right moment to ask the question that brought you to me. Feel free to talk openly about anything you like.”

There was no hint of aggression in his voice, and so I decided to come straight to the point.

“Where is Esther?”

“Physically, she’s a long way away, in Central Asia. Spiritually, she’s very close, accompanying me day and night with her smile and the memory of her enthusiastic words. She was the one who brought me here, a poor twenty-one-year-old with no future, an aberration in the eyes of the people in my village, or else a madman or some sort of shaman who had made a pact with the devil, and, in the eyes of the people in the city, a mere peasant looking for work.

“I’ll tell you my story another day, but the long and the short of it is that I knew English and started working as her interpreter. We were near the border of a country where the Americans were building a lot of military bases, preparing for the war in Afghanistan, and it was impossible to get a visa. I helped her cross the mountains illegally. During the week we spent together, she made me realize that I was not alone, that she understood me.

“I asked her what she was doing so far from home. After a few evasive answers, she finally told me what she must have told you: that she was looking for the place where love had hidden itself away. I told her about my mission to make the energy of love circulate freely in the world again. Basically, we were both looking for the same thing.

“Esther went to the French embassy and arranged a visa for me, as an interpreter of the Kazakh language, even though no one in my country speaks anything but Russian. I came to live here. We always met up when she returned from her missions abroad; we made two more trips together to Kazakhstan. She was fascinated by the Tengri culture, and by a nomad she had met and whom she believed held the key to everything.”

I would have liked to know what Tengri was, but the question could wait. Mikhail continued talking, and in his eyes I saw the same longing to be with Esther that I myself was feeling.

“We started working here in Paris. It was her idea to get people together once a week. She said, ‘The most important thing in all human relationships is conversation, but people don’t talk anymore, they don’t sit down to talk and listen. They go to the theater, the cinema, watch television, listen to the radio, read books, but they almost never talk. If we want to change the world, we have to go back to a time when warriors would gather around a fire and tell stories.’”

I remember Esther saying that all the really important things in our lives had arisen out of long conversations we’d had sitting at a table in some bar or walking along a street or in a park.

“It was my idea that these meetings should be on a Thursday because that’s how it is in the tradition in which I was brought up. But it was her idea to make occasional forays into the Paris streets at night. She said that beggars were the only ones who never pretend to be happy; on the contrary, they pretend to be sad.

“She gave me your books to read. I sensed that you too—possibly unconsciously—imagined the same world as we did. I realized that I wasn’t alone, even if I was the only one to hear the voice. Gradually, as more and more people started coming to the meetings, I began to believe that I really could fulfill my mission and help the energy of love to return, even if that meant going back into the past, back to the moment when that Energy left or went into hiding.”

“Why did Esther leave me?”

Was that all I was interested in? The question irritated Mikhail slightly.

“Out of love. Today, you used the example of the railway tracks. Well, she isn’t just another track running along beside you. She doesn’t follow rules, nor, I imagine, do you. I miss her too, you know.”

“So…”

“So if you want to find her, I can tell you where she is. I’ve already felt the same impulse, but the voice tells me that now is not the moment, that no one should interrupt her encounter with the energy of love. I respect the voice, the voice protects us, protects me, you, Esther.”

“When will the moment be right?”

“Perhaps tomorrow, in a year’s time, or never, and, if that were the case, then we would have to respect that decision. The voice is the Energy, and that is why she only brings people together when they are both truly prepared for that moment. And yet we all try and force the situation even if it means hearing the very words we don’t want to hear: ‘Go away.’ Anyone who fails to obey the voice and arrives earlier or later than he should, will never get the thing he wants.”

“I’d rather hear her tell me to go away than be stuck with the Zahir day and night. If she said that, she would at least cease to be an idée fixe and become a woman who now has a different life and different thoughts.”

“She would no longer be the Zahir, but it would be a great loss. If a man and a woman can make the Energy manifest, then they are helping all the men and women of the world.”

“You’re frightening me. I love her, you know I do, and you say that she still loves me. I don’t know what you mean by being prepared; I can’t live according to other people’s expectations, not even Esther’s.”

“As I understand it from conversations I had with her, at some point you got lost. The world started revolving exclusively around you.”

“That’s not true. She was free to forge her own path. She decided to become a war correspondent, even though I didn’t want her to. She felt driven to find out why people were unhappy, even though I told her this was impossible. Does she want me to go back to being a railway track running alongside another railway track, always keeping the same stupid distance apart, just because the Romans decided that was the way it should be?”

“On the contrary.”

Mikhail started walking again, and I followed him.

“Do you believe that I hear a voice?”

“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But now that we’re here, let me show you something.”

“Everyone thinks I’m just having an epileptic fit, and I let them believe that because it’s easier. But the voice has been speaking to me ever since I was a child, when I first saw the Lady.”

“What lady?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Whenever I ask you something, you say: ‘I’ll tell you later.’”

“The voice is telling me something now. I know that you’re anxious and frightened. In the pizzeria, when I felt that warm wind and saw the lights, I knew that these were symptoms of my connection with the Power. I knew it was there to help us both. If you think that all the things I’ve been telling you are just the ravings of a young epileptic who wants to manipulate the feelings of a famous writer, I’ll bring you a map tomorrow showing you where Esther is living, and you can go and find her. But the voice is telling us something.”

“Are you going to say what exactly, or will you tell me later?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. I haven’t yet properly understood the message.”

“But you promise to give me the address and the map.”

“I promise. In the name of the divine energy of love, I promise. Now what was it you wanted to show me?”

I pointed to a golden statue of a young woman riding a horse.

“This. She used to hear voices. As long as people respected what she said, everything was fine. When they started to doubt her, the wind of victory changed direction.”

Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans, the heroine of the Hundred Years War, who, at the age of seventeen, was made commander of the French troops because she heard voices and the voices told her the best strategy for defeating the English. Two years later, she was condemned to be burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft. I had used part of the interrogation, dated February 24, 1431, in one of my books.

She was questioned by Maître Jean Beaupère. Asked how long it had been since she had heard the voice, she replied:

“I heard it three times, yesterday and today. In the morning, at Vespers, and again when the Ave Maria rang in the evening…”

Asked if the voice was in the room, she replied that she did not know, but that she had been woken by the voice. It wasn’t in the room, but it was in the castle.

She asked the voice what she should do, and the voice asked her to get out of bed and place the palms of her hands together.

Then she said to the bishop who was questioning her:

“You say you are my judge. Take care what you are doing; for in truth I am sent by God, and you place yourself in great danger. My voices have entrusted to me certain things to tell to the King, not to you. The voice comes to me from God. I have far greater fear of doing wrong in saying to you things that would displease it than I have of answering you.”

Mikhail looked at me: “Are you suggesting…”

“That you’re the reincarnation of Joan of Arc? No, I don’t think so. She died when she was barely nineteen, and you’re twenty-five. She took command of the French troops and, according to what you’ve told me, you can’t even take command of your own life.”

We sat down on the wall by the Seine.

“I believe in signs,” I said. “I believe in fate. I believe that every single day people are offered the chance to make the best possible decision about everything they do. I believe that I failed and that, at some point, I lost my connection with the woman I loved. And now, all I need is to put an end to that cycle. That’s why I want the map, so that I can go to her.”

He looked at me and he was once more the person who appeared on stage and went into a trancelike state. I feared another epileptic fit—in the middle of the night, here, in an almost deserted place.

“The vision gave me power. That power is almost visible, palpable. I can manage it, but I can’t control it.”

“It’s getting a bit late for this kind of conversation. I’m tired, and so are you. Will you give me that map and the address?”

“The voice…Yes, I’ll give you the map tomorrow afternoon. What’s your address?”

I gave him my address and was surprised to realize that he didn’t know where Esther and I had lived.

“Do you think I slept with your wife?”

“I would never even ask. It’s none of my business.”

“But you did ask when we were in the pizzeria.”

I had forgotten. Of course it was my business, but I was no longer interested in his answer.

Mikhail’s eyes changed. I felt in my pocket for something to place in his mouth should he have a fit, but he seemed calm and in control.

“I can hear the voice now. Tomorrow I will bring you the map, detailed directions, and times of flights. I believe that she is waiting for you. I believe that the world would be happier if just two people, even two, were happier. Yet the voice is telling me that we will not see each other tomorrow.”

“I’m having lunch with an actor over from the States, and I can’t possibly cancel, but I’ll be home during the rest of the afternoon.”

“That’s not what the voice is telling me.”

“Is the voice forbidding you to help me find Esther?”

“No, I don’t think so. It was the voice that encouraged me to go to the book signing. From then on, I knew more or less how things would turn out because I had read A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew.”

“Right, then,” and I was terrified he might change his mind, “let’s stick to our arrangement. I’ll be at home from two o’clock onward.”

“But the voice says the moment is not right.”

“You promised.”

“All right.”

He held out his hand and said that he would come to my apartment late tomorrow afternoon. His last words to me that night were:

“The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right.”

As I walked back home, the only voice I could hear was Esther’s, speaking of love. And as I remembered that conversation, I realized that she had been talking about our marriage.

 

When I was fifteen, I was desperate to find out about sex. But it was a sin, it was forbidden. I couldn’t understand why it was a sin, could you? Can you tell me why all religions, all over the world, even the most primitive of religions and cultures, consider that sex is something that should be forbidden?”

“How did we get onto this subject? All right, why is sex something to be forbidden?”

“Because of food.”

“Food?”

“Thousands of years ago, tribes were constantly on the move; men could make love with as many women as they wanted and, of course, have children by them. However, the larger the tribe, the greater chance there was of it disappearing. Tribes fought among themselves for food, killing first the children and then the women, because they were the weakest. Only the strongest survived, but they were all men. And without women, men cannot continue to perpetuate the species.

“Then someone, seeing what was happening in a neighboring tribe, decided to avoid the same thing happening in his. He invented a story according to which the gods forbade men to make love indiscriminately with any of the women in a tribe. They could only make love with one or, at most, two. Some men were impotent, some women were sterile, some members of the tribe, for perfectly natural reasons, thus had no children at all, but no one was allowed to change partners.

“They all believed the story because the person who told it to them was speaking in the name of the gods. He must have been different in some way: he perhaps had a deformity, an illness that caused convulsions, or some special gift, something, at any rate, that marked him out from the others, because that is how the first leaders emerged. In a few years, the tribe grew stronger, with just the right number of men needed to feed everyone, with enough women capable of reproducing and enough children to replace the hunters and reproducers. Do you know what gives a woman most pleasure within marriage?”

“Sex.”

“No, making food. Watching her man eat. That is a woman’s moment of glory, because she spends all day thinking about supper. And the reason must lie in that story hidden in the past—in hunger, the threat of extinction, and the path to survival.”

“Do you regret not having had any children?”

“It didn’t happen, did it? How can I regret something that didn’t happen?”

“Do you think that would have changed our marriage?”

“How can I possibly know? I look at my friends, both male and female. Are they any happier because they have children? Some are, some aren’t. And if they are happy with their children that doesn’t make their relationship either better or worse. They still think they have the right to control each other. They still think that the promise to live happily ever after must be kept, even at the cost of daily unhappiness.”

“War isn’t good for you, Esther. It brings you into contact with a very different reality from the one we experience here. I know I’ll die one day, but that just makes me live each day as if it were a miracle. It doesn’t make me think obsessively about love, happiness, sex, food, and marriage.”

“War doesn’t leave me time to think. I simply am, full stop. Whenever it occurs to me that, at any moment, I could be hit by a stray bullet, I just think: ‘Good, at least I don’t have to worry about what will happen to my child.’ But I think too: ‘What a shame, I’m going to die and nothing will be left of me. I am only capable of losing a life, not bringing a life into the world.’”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with our relationship? I only ask because I get the feeling sometimes that you want to tell me something, but that you keep stopping yourself.”

“Yes, there is something wrong. We feel obliged to be happy together. You think you owe me everything that you are, and I feel privileged to have a man like you at my side.”

“I have a wife whom I love, but I don’t always remember that and find myself asking: ‘What’s wrong with me?’”

“It’s good that you’re able to recognize that, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, or with me, because I ask myself the same question. What’s wrong is the way in which we show our love now. If we were to accept that this creates problems, we could live with those problems and be happy. It would be a constant battle, but it would at least keep us active, alive and cheerful, with many universes to conquer; the trouble is we’re heading toward a point where things are becoming too comfortable, where love stops creating problems and confrontations and becomes instead merely a solution.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything. I can no longer feel the energy of love, what people call passion, flowing through my flesh and through my soul.”

“But something is left.”

“Left? Does every marriage have to end like this, with passion giving way to something people call ‘a mature relationship’? I need you. I miss you. Sometimes I’m jealous. I like thinking about what to give you for supper, even though sometimes you don’t even notice what you’re eating. But there’s a lack of joy.”

“No, there isn’t. Whenever you’re far away, I wish you were near. I imagine the conversations we’ll have when you or I come back from a trip. I phone you to make sure everything’s all right. I need to hear your voice every day. I’m still passionate about you, I can guarantee you that.”

“It’s the same with me, but what happens when we’re together? We argue, we quarrel over nothing, one of us wants to change the other, to impose his or her view of reality. You demand things of me that make no sense at all, and I do the same. Sometimes, in the silence of our hearts, we say to ourselves: ‘How good it would be to be free, to have no commitments.’”

“You’re right. And at moments like that, I feel lost, because I know that I’m with the woman I want to be with.”

“And I’m with the man I always wanted to have by my side.”

“Do you think that could change?”

“As I get older, and fewer men look at me, I find myself thinking: ‘Just leave things as they are.’ I’m sure I can happily deceive myself for the rest of my life. And yet, whenever I go off to cover a war, I see that a greater love exists, much greater than the hatred that makes men kill each other. And then, and only then, do I think I can change things.”

“But you can’t be constantly covering wars.”

“Nor can I live constantly in the sort of peace that I find with you. It’s destroying the one important thing I have: my relationship with you, even if the intensity of my love remains undiminished.”

“Millions of people the world over are thinking the same thing right now, they resist fiercely and allow those moments of depression to pass. They withstand one, two, three crises and, finally, find peace.”

“You know that isn’t how it is. Otherwise you wouldn’t have written the books you’ve written.”

 

I had arranged to meet the American actor-director for lunch at Roberto’s pizzeria. I needed to go back there as soon as possible in order to dispel any bad impression I might have made. Before I left, I told the maid and the caretaker of the apartment building that if I was not back in time and a young man with Mongolian features should deliver a package for me, they must take him up to my apartment, ask him to wait in the living room, and give him anything he needed. If, for some reason, the young man could not wait, then they should ask him to leave the package with one of them.

Above all, they must not let him leave without handing over the package!

I caught a taxi and asked to be dropped off on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Pères. A fine rain was falling, but it was only a few yards to the restaurant, its discreet sign, and Roberto’s generous smile, for he sometimes stood outside, smoking a cigarette. A woman with a baby stroller was coming toward me along the narrow pavement, and because there wasn’t room for both of us, I stepped off the curb to let her pass.

It was then, in slow motion, that the world gave a giant lurch: the ground became the sky, the sky became the ground; I had time to notice a few architectural details on the top of the building on the corner—I had often walked past before, but had never looked up. I remember the sensation of surprise, the feeling of a wind blowing hard in my ear, and the sound of a dog barking in the distance; then everything went dark.

I was bundled abruptly down a black hole at the end of which was a light. Before I could reach it, however, invisible hands were dragging me roughly back up, and I woke to voices and shouts all around me: it could only have lasted a matter of seconds. I was aware of the taste of blood in my mouth, the smell of wet asphalt, and then I realized that I had had an accident. I was conscious and unconscious at the same time; I tried without success to move; I could make out another person lying on the ground beside me; I could smell that person’s smell, her perfume; I imagined it must be the woman who had been pushing her baby along the pavement. Oh, dear God!

Someone came over and tried to help me up; I yelled at them not to touch me, any movement could be dangerous. I had learned during a trivial conversation one trivial night that if I ever injured my neck, any sudden movement could leave me permanently paralyzed.

I struggled to remain conscious; I waited for a pain that never came; I tried to move, then thought better of it. I experienced a feeling like cramp, like torpor. I again asked not to be moved. I heard a distant siren and knew then that I could sleep, that I no longer needed to fight to save my life; whether it was won or lost, it was no longer up to me, it was up to the doctors, to the nurses, to fate, to “the thing,” to God.

I heard the voice of a child—she told me her name, but I couldn’t quite grasp it—telling me to keep calm, promising me that I wouldn’t die. I wanted to believe what she said, I begged her to stay by my side, but she vanished; I was aware of someone placing something plastic around my neck, putting a mask over my face, and then I went to sleep again, and this time there were no dreams.

 

When I regained consciousness, all I could hear was a horrible buzzing in my ears; the rest was silence and utter darkness. Suddenly, I felt everything moving, and I was sure I was being carried along in my coffin, that I was about to be buried alive!

I tried banging on the walls, but I couldn’t move a muscle. For what seemed an eternity, I felt as if I were being propelled helplessly forward; then, mustering all my remaining strength, I uttered a scream that echoed around the enclosed space and came back to my own ears, almost deafening me; but I knew that once I had screamed, I was safe, for a light immediately began to appear at my feet: they had realized I wasn’t dead!

Light, blessed light—which would save me from that worst of all tortures, suffocation—was gradually illuminating my whole body: they were finally removing the coffin lid. I broke out in a cold sweat, felt the most terrible pain, but was also happy and relieved that they had realized their mistake and that joy could return to the world!

The light finally reached my eyes: a soft hand touched mine, someone with an angelic face was wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Don’t worry,” said the angelic face, with its golden hair and white robes. “I’m not an angel, you didn’t die, and this isn’t a coffin, it’s just a body scanner, to find out if you suffered any other injuries. There doesn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong, but you’ll have to stay in for observation.”

“No broken bones?”

“Just general abrasions. If I brought you a mirror, you’d be horrified, but the swelling will go down in a few days.”

I tried to get up, but she very gently stopped me. Then I felt a terrible pain in my head and groaned.

“You’ve had an accident; it’s only natural that you should be in pain.”

“I think you’re lying to me,” I managed to say. “I’m a grown man, I’ve had a good life, I can take bad news without panicking. Some blood vessel in my head is about to burst, isn’t it?”

Two nurses appeared and put me on a stretcher. I realized that I had an orthopedic collar around my neck.

“Someone told us that you asked not to be moved,” said the angel. “Just as well. You’ll have to wear this collar for a while, but barring any unforeseen events—because one can never tell what might happen—you’ll just have had a nasty shock. You’re very lucky.”

“How long? I can’t stay here.”

No one said anything. Marie was waiting for me outside the radiology unit, smiling. The doctors had obviously already told her that my injuries were not, in principle, very serious. She stroked my hair and carefully disguised any shock she might feel at my appearance.

Our small cortège proceeded along the corridor—Marie, the two nurses pushing the stretcher, and the angel in white. The pain in my head was getting worse all the time.

“Nurse, my head…”

“I’m not a nurse. I’m your doctor for the moment. We’re waiting for your own doctor to arrive. As for your head, don’t worry. When you have an accident, your body closes down all the blood vessels as a defense mechanism, to avoid loss of blood. When it sees that the danger is over, the vessels open up again, the blood starts to flow, and that feels painful, but that’s all it is. Anyway, if you like, I can give you something to help you sleep.”

I refused. And as if surfacing from some dark corner of my soul, I remembered the words I had heard the day before:

“The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right.”

He couldn’t have known. It wasn’t possible that everything that had happened on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Pères was the result of some universal conspiracy, of something predetermined by the gods, who, despite being fully occupied in taking care of this precariously balanced planet on the verge of extinction, had all downed tools merely to prevent me from going in search of the Zahir. Mikhail could not possibly have foreseen the future, unless he really had heard a voice and there was a plan and this was all far more important than I imagined.

Everything was beginning to be too much for me: Marie’s smiles, the possibility that someone really had heard a voice, the increasingly agonizing pain in my head.

“Doctor, I’ve changed my mind. I want to sleep. I can’t stand the pain.”

She said something to one of the nurses pushing the trolley, who went off and returned even before we had reached my room. I felt a prick in my arm and immediately fell asleep.

 

When I woke up, I wanted to know exactly what had happened; I wanted to know if the woman passing me on the pavement had escaped injury and what had happened to her baby. Marie said that I needed to rest, but, by then, Dr. Louit, my doctor and friend, had arrived and felt that there was no reason not to tell me. I had been knocked down by a motorbike. The body I had seen lying on the ground beside me had been the young male driver. He had been taken to the same hospital and, like me, had escaped with only minor abrasions. The police investigation carried out immediately after the accident made it clear that I had been standing in the middle of the road at the time of the accident, thus putting the motorcyclist’s life at risk.

It was, apparently, all my fault, but the motorcyclist had decided not to press charges. Marie had been to see him and talk to him; she had learned that he was an immigrant working illegally and was afraid of having any dealings with the police. He had been discharged twenty-four hours later, because he had been wearing a helmet, which lessened the risk of any damage to the brain.

“Did you say he left twenty-four hours later? Does that mean I’ve been in here more than a day?”

“You’ve been in here for three days. When you came out of the body scanner, the doctor here phoned me to ask if she could keep you on sedatives. It seemed to me that you’d been rather tense, irritated, and depressed lately, and so I told her she could.”

“So what happens next?”

“Two more days in the hospital and then three weeks with that contraption around your neck; you’re through the critical forty-eight-hour period. Of course, part of your body could still rebel against the idea of continuing to behave itself and then we’d have a problem on our hands. But let’s face that emergency if and when it arises; there’s no point in worrying unnecessarily.”

“So, I could still die?”

“As you well know, all of us not only can, but will, die.”

“Yes, but could I still die as a result of the accident?”

Dr. Louit paused.

“Yes. There’s always the chance that a blood clot could have formed which the machines have failed to pick up and that it could break free at any moment and cause an embolism. There’s also the possibility that a cell has gone berserk and is starting to form a cancer.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” said Marie.

“We’ve been friends for five years. He asked me a question and I gave him an answer. And now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my office. Medicine isn’t quite as you think. In the world we live in, if a boy goes out to buy five apples, but arrives home with only two, people would conclude that he had eaten the three missing apples. In my world, there are other possibilities: he could have eaten them, but he could also have been robbed; the money he’d been given might not have been enough to buy the five apples he’d been sent for; he could have lost them on the way home; he could have met someone who was hungry and decided to share the fruit with that person, and so on. In my world, everything is possible and everything is relative.”

“What do you know about epilepsy?”

Marie knew at once that I was talking about Mikhail and could not conceal a flicker of displeasure. She said she had to go, there was a film crew waiting.

Dr. Louit, however, having picked up his things ready to leave, stopped to answer my question.

“It’s an excess of electrical impulses in one specific area of the brain, which provokes convulsions of greater or lesser severity. There’s no definitive study on the subject, but they think attacks may be provoked when the person is under great strain. But don’t worry, while epileptic symptoms can appear at any age, epilepsy itself is unlikely to be brought on by colliding with a motorcycle.”

“So what causes it?”

“I’m not a specialist, but, if you like, I can find out.”

“Yes, if you would. And I have another question too, but please don’t go thinking that my brain’s been affected by the accident. Is it possible that epileptics can hear voices and have premonitions?”

“Did someone tell you this accident was going to happen?”

“Not exactly, but that’s what I took it to mean.”

“Look, I can’t stay any longer, I’m giving Marie a lift, but I’ll see what I can find out about epilepsy for you.”

 

For the two days that Marie was away, and despite the shock of the accident, the Zahir took up its usual space in my life. I knew that if Mikhail had kept his word, there would be an envelope waiting for me at home containing Esther’s address; now, however, the thought frightened me.

What if Mikhail was telling the truth about the voice?

I started trying to remember the details of the accident: I had stepped down from the curb, automatically looking to see if anything was coming; I’d seen a car approaching, but it had appeared to be a safe distance away. And yet I had still been hit, possibly by a motorbike that was trying to overtake the car and was outside my field of vision.

I believe in signs. After I had walked the road to Santiago, everything had changed completely: what we need to learn is always there before us, we just have to look around us with respect and attention in order to discover where God is leading us and which step we should take next. I also learned a respect for mystery. As Einstein said, God does not play dice with the universe; everything is interconnected and has a meaning. That meaning may remain hidden nearly all the time, but we always know we are close to our true mission on earth when what we are doing is touched with the energy of enthusiasm.

If it is, then all is well. If not, then we had better change direction.

When we are on the right path, we follow the signs, and if we occasionally stumble, the Divine comes to our aid, preventing us from making a mistake. Was the accident a sign? Had Mikhail intuited a sign that was intended for me?

I decided that the answer to these questions was yes.

And perhaps because of this, because I accepted my destiny and allowed myself to be guided by something greater than myself, I noticed that, during the day, the Zahir began to diminish in intensity. I knew that all I had to do was open the envelope, read her address, and go and knock on her door, but the signs all indicated that this was not the moment. If Esther really was as important in my life as I thought, if she still loved me (as Mikhail said she did), why force a situation that would simply lead me into making the same mistakes I had made in the past?

How to avoid repeating them?

By knowing myself better, by finding out what had changed and what had provoked this sudden break in a road that had always been marked by joy.

Was that enough?

No, I also needed to know who Esther was, what changes she had undergone during the time we were together.

And was it enough to be able to answer these two questions?

There was a third: Why had fate brought us together?

I had a lot of free time in that hospital room, and so I made a general review of my life. I had always sought both adventure and security, knowing that the two things did not really mix. I was sure of my love for Esther and yet I easily fell in love with other women, merely because the game of seduction is the most interesting game in the world.

Had I shown my wife that I loved her? Perhaps for a while, but not always. Why? Because I didn’t think it was necessary; she must know I loved her; she couldn’t possibly doubt my feelings.

I remember that, many years ago, someone asked me if there was a common denominator among all the various girlfriends I had had in my life. The answer was easy: me. And when I realized this, I saw how much time I had wasted looking for the right person—the women changed, but I remained the same and so got nothing from those shared experiences. I had lots of girlfriends, but I was always waiting for the right person. I controlled and was controlled and the relationship never went any further than that, until Esther arrived and changed everything.

I was thinking tenderly of my ex-wife; I was no longer obsessed with finding her, with finding out why she had left without a word of explanation. A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew had been a true account of my marriage, but it was, above all, my own testimony, declaring that I am capable of loving and needing someone else. Esther deserved more than just words, especially since I had never said those words while we were together.

It is always important to know when something has reached its end. Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over. Slowly, I began to realize that I could not go back and force things to be as they once were: those two years, which up until then had seemed an endless inferno, were now beginning to show me their true meaning.

 

And that meaning went far beyond my marriage: all men and all women are connected by an energy which many people call love, but which is, in fact, the raw material from which the universe was built. This energy cannot be manipulated, it leads us gently forward, it contains all we have to learn in this life. If we try to make it go in the direction we want, we end up desperate, frustrated, disillusioned, because that energy is free and wild.

We could spend the rest of our life saying that we love such a person or thing, when the truth is that we are merely suffering because, instead of accepting love’s strength, we are trying to diminish it so that it fits the world in which we imagine we live.

The more I thought about this, the weaker the Zahir became and the closer I moved to myself. I prepared myself mentally to do a great deal of work, work that would require much silence, meditation, and perseverance. The accident had helped me understand that I could not force something that had not yet reached its time to sew.

I remembered what Dr. Louit had said: after such a trauma to the body, death could come at any moment. What if that were true? What if in ten minutes’ time, my heart stopped beating?

A nurse came into the room to bring me my supper and I asked him:

“Have you thought about your funeral?”

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “You’ll survive; you already look much better.”

“I’m not worried. I know I’m going to survive. A voice told me I would.”

I mentioned the “voice” deliberately, just to provoke him. He eyed me suspiciously, thinking that perhaps it was time to call for another examination and check that my brain really hadn’t been affected.

“I know I’m going to survive,” I went on. “Perhaps for a day, for a year, for thirty or forty years, but one day, despite all the scientific advances, I’ll leave this world and I’ll have a funeral. I was thinking about it just now and I wondered if you had ever thought about it.”

“Never. And I don’t want to either; besides, that’s what really terrifies me, knowing that everything will end.”

“Whether you like it or not, whether you agree or disagree, that is a reality none of us can escape. Do you fancy having a little chat about it?”

“I’ve got other patients to see, I’m afraid,” he said, putting the food down on the table and leaving as quickly as possible, as if running away—not from me, but from my words.

The nurse might not want to talk about it, but how about me thinking about it alone? I remembered some lines from a poem I had learned as a child:

 

     When the Unwanted Guest arrives…

     I might be afraid.

     I might smile or say:

     My day was good, let night fall.

     You will find the fields ploughed, the house clean,

     the table set,

     and everything in its place.

 

It would be nice if that were true—everything in its place. And what would my epitaph be? Esther and I had both made wills, in which, among other things, we had chosen cremation: my ashes were to be scattered to the winds in a place called Cebreiro, on the road to Santiago, and her ashes were to be scattered over the sea. So there would be no inscribed headstone.

But what if I could choose an epitaph? I would ask to have these words engraved:

“He died while he was still alive.”

That might sound like a contradiction in terms, but I knew many people who had ceased to live, even though they continued to work and eat and engage in their usual social activities. They did everything automatically, oblivious to the magic moment that each day brings with it, never stopping to think about the miracle of life, never understanding that the next minute could be their last on the face of this planet.

It was pointless trying to explain this to the nurse, largely because it was a different nurse who came to collect the supper dish. This new nurse started bombarding me with questions, possibly on the orders of some doctor. He wanted to know if I could remember my name, if I knew what year it was, the name of the president of the United States, the sort of thing they ask when they’re assessing your mental state.

And all because I asked the questions that every human being should ask: Have you thought about your funeral? Do you realize that sooner or later you’re going to die?

That night, I went to sleep smiling. The Zahir was disappearing, and Esther was returning, and if I were to die then, despite all that had happened in my life, despite all my failures, despite the disappearance of the woman I loved, the injustices I had suffered or inflicted on others, I had remained alive until the last moment, and could, with all certainty, affirm: “My day was good, let night fall.”

 

Two days later, I was back home. Marie went to prepare lunch, and I glanced through the accumulated correspondence. The entry phone rang. It was the caretaker to say that the envelope I had expected the previous week had been delivered and should be on my desk.

I thanked him, but, contrary to all my expectations, I was not in a rush to open it. Marie and I had lunch; I asked her how filming had gone and she asked me about my immediate plans, given that I wouldn’t be able to go out much while I was wearing the orthopedic collar. She said that she could, if necessary, come and stay.

“I’m supposed to do an appearance on some Korean TV channel, but I can always put it off or even cancel it altogether. That’s, of course, if you need my company.”

“Oh, I do, and it would be lovely to have you around.”

She smiled broadly and picked up the phone to call her manager and ask her to change her engagements. I heard her say: “Don’t tell them I’m ill though. I’m superstitious, and whenever I’ve used that excuse in the past, I’ve always come down with something really horrible. Just tell them I’ve got to look after the person I love.”

I had a series of urgent things to do too: interviews to be postponed, invitations that required replies, letters to be written thanking various people for the phone calls and flowers I’d received, things to read, prefaces and recommendations to write. Marie spent the whole day on the phone to my agent, reorganizing my diary so that no one would be left without a response. We had supper at home every evening, talking about the interesting and the banal, just like any other couple. During one of these suppers, after a few glasses of wine, she remarked that I had changed.

“It’s as if having a brush with death had somehow brought you back to life,” she said.

“That happens to everyone.”

“But I must say—and, don’t worry, I don’t want to start an argument and I’m not about to have an attack of jealousy—you haven’t mentioned Esther once since coming home. The same thing happened when you finished A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew: the book acted as a kind of therapy, the effects of which, alas, didn’t last very long.”

“Are you saying that the accident has affected my brain?”

My tone wasn’t aggressive, but she nevertheless decided to change the subject and started telling me about a terrifying helicopter trip she’d had from Monaco to Cannes. Later, in bed, we made love—with great difficulty given my orthopedic collar—but we made love nevertheless and felt very close.

Four days later, the vast pile of paper on my desk had disappeared. There was only a large, white envelope bearing my name and the number of my apartment. Marie went to open it, but I told her it could wait.

She didn’t ask me about it; perhaps it was information about my bank accounts or some confidential correspondence, possibly from another woman. I didn’t explain either. I simply removed it from the desk and placed it on a shelf among some books. If I kept looking at it, the Zahir would come back.

At no point had the love I felt for Esther diminished, but every day spent in the hospital had brought back some intriguing memory: not of conversations we had had, but of moments we had spent together in silence. I remembered her eyes, which reflected her inner being. Whenever she set off on some new adventure, she was an enthusiastic young girl, or a wife proud of her husband’s success, or a journalist fascinated by every subject she wrote about. Later, she was the wife who no longer seemed to have a place in my life. That look of sadness in her eyes had started before she told me she wanted to be a war correspondent; it became a look of joy every time she came back from an assignment, but it was only a matter of days before the look of sadness returned.

One afternoon, the phone rang.

“It’s that young man,” Marie said, passing me the phone.

At the other end I heard Mikhail’s voice, first saying how sorry he was about the accident and then asking me if I had received the envelope.

“Yes, it’s here with me.”

“Are you going to go and find her?”

Marie was listening to our conversation and so I thought it best to change the subject.

“We can talk about that when I see you.”

“I’m not nagging or anything, but you did promise to help me.”

“And I always keep my promises. As soon as I’m better, we’ll get together.”

He left me his cell phone number, and when I hung up, I looked across at Marie, who seemed a different woman.

“So nothing’s changed then,” she said.

“On the contrary. Everything’s changed.”

I should have expressed myself more clearly and explained that I still wanted to see Esther, that I knew where she was. When the time was right, I would take a train, taxi, plane, or whatever just to be by her side. This would, of course, mean losing the woman who was there by my side at that moment, steadfastly doing all she could to prove how important I was to her.

I was, of course, being a coward. I was ashamed of myself, but that was what life was like, and—in a way I couldn’t really explain—I loved Marie too.

The other reason I didn’t say more was because I had always believed in signs, and when I recalled the moments of silence I had shared with my wife, I knew that—with or without voices, with or without explanations—the time to find Esther had still not yet arrived. I needed to concentrate more on those shared silences than on any of our conversations, because that would give me the freedom I needed to understand the time when things had gone right between us and the moment when they had started to go wrong.

Marie was there, looking at me. Could I go on being disloyal to someone who was doing so much for me? I started to feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t tell her everything, unless…unless I could find an indirect way of saying what I was feeling.

“Marie, let’s suppose that two firemen go into a forest to put out a small fire. Afterward, when they emerge and go over to a stream, the face of one is all smeared with black, while the other man’s face is completely clean. My question is this: Which of the two will wash his face?”

“That’s a silly question. The one with the dirty face, of course.”

“No, the one with the dirty face will look at the other man and assume that he looks like him. And, vice versa, the man with the clean face will see his colleague covered in grime and say to himself: I must be dirty too. I’d better have a wash.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that, during the time I spent in the hospital, I came to realize that I was always looking for myself in the women I loved. I looked at their lovely, clean faces and saw myself reflected in them. They, on the other hand, looked at me and saw the dirt on my face and, however intelligent or self-confident they were, they ended up seeing themselves reflected in me and thinking that they were worse than they were. Please, don’t let that happen to you.”

I would like to have added: that’s what happened to Esther, and I’ve only just realized it, remembering now how the look in her eyes changed. I’d always absorbed her life and her energy, and that made me feel happy and confident, able to go forward. She, on the other hand, had looked at me and felt ugly, diminished, because, as the years passed, my career—the career that she had done so much to make a reality—had relegated our relationship to second place.

If I was to see her again, my face needed to be as clean as hers. Before I could find her, I must first find myself.