imply being in her presence seemed to justify my very existence. Was that what she wanted to hear? Fine, I'd tell her over supper. I'd be capable of doing almost anything, even leaving the woman I was living with, but I drew the line, of course, at giving away my books.

In the taxi, we returned to the subject of the theatre group, although I was, at that moment, prepared to discuss something I never normally spoke about love, a subject I found far more complicated than Marx, Jung, the British Labour Party or the day-to-day problems at a newspaper office.

'You don't need to worry,' I said, feeling a desire to hold her hand. 'It'll be all right. Talk about calligraphy. Talk about dancing. Talk about the things you know.'

'If I did that, I'd never discover what it is I don't know. When I'm there, I'll have to allow my mind to go still and let my heart begin to speak. But it's the first time I've done that, and I'm frightened.'

'Would you like me to come with you?'

She accepted at once. We arrived at the restaurant, ordered some wine and started to drink. I was drinking in order to get up the courage to say what I thought I was feeling, although it seemed absurd to me to be declaring my love to someone I hardly knew. And she was drinking because she was afraid of talking about what she didn't know.

After the second glass of wine, I realised how on edge she was. I tried to hold her hand, but she gently pulled away.

'I can't be afraid.'

'Of course you can, Athena. I often feel afraid, and yet, when I need to, I go ahead and face up to whatever it is I'm afraid of.'

I was on edge too. I refilled our glasses. The waiter kept coming over to ask what we'd like to eat, and I kept telling him that we'd order later.

I was talking about whatever came into my head. Athena was listening politely, but she seemed far away, in some dark universe full of ghosts. At one point, she told me again about the woman in Scotland and what she'd said. I asked if it made sense to teach what you didn't know.

'Did anyone ever teach you how to love?' she replied.

Could she be reading my thoughts?

'And yet,' she went on, 'you're as capable of love as any other human being. How did you learn? You didn't, you simply believe. You believe, therefore you love.'

'Athena '

I hesitated, then managed to finish my sentence, although not at all as I had intended.

' perhaps we should order some food.'

I realised that I wasn't yet prepared to mention the things that were troubling my world. I called the waiter over and ordered some starters, then some more starters, a main dish, a pudding and another bottle of wine. The more time I had, the better.

'You're acting strangely. Was it my comment about your books? You do what you like. It's not my job to change your world. I was obviously sticking my nose in where it wasn't wanted.'

I had been thinking about that business of 'changing the world' only a few seconds before.

'Athena, you're always telling me about no, I need to talk about something that happened in that bar in Sibiu, with the gipsy music.'

'In the restaurant, you mean?'

'Yes, in the restaurant. Today we were discussing books, the things that we accumulate and that take up space. Perhaps you're right. There's something I've been wanting to do ever since I saw you dancing that night. It weighs more and more heavily on my heart.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Of course you do. I'm talking about the love I'm discovering now and doing my best to destroy before it reveals itself. I'd like you to accept it. It's the little I have of myself, but it's not my own. It's not exclusively yours, because there's someone else in my life, but I would be happy if you could accept it anyway. An Arab poet from your country, Khalil Gibran, says: It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked. If I don't say everything I need to say tonight, I'll merely be a spectator watching events unfold rather than the person actually experiencing them.'

I took a deep breath. The wine had helped me to free myself.

She drained her glass, and I did the same. The waiter appeared with the food, making a few comments about the various dishes, explaining the ingredients and the way in which they had been cooked. Athena and I kept our eyes fixed on each other. Andrea had told me that this is what Athena had done when they met for the first time, and she was convinced it was simply a way of intimidating others.

The silence was terrifying. I imagined her getting up from the table and citing her famous, invisible boyfriend from Scotland Yard, or saying that she was very flattered, but she had to think about the class she was to give the next day.

' And is there anything you would withhold? Some day, all that you have shall be given. The trees give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. '

She was speaking quietly and carefully because of the wine she'd drunk, but her voice nevertheless silenced everything around us.

' And what greater merit shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. '

She said all this without smiling. I felt as if I were conversing with a sphinx.

'Words written by the same poet you were quoting. I learned them at school, but I don't need the book where he wrote those words. I've kept his words in my heart.'

She drank a little more wine. I did the same. I couldn't bring myself to ask if she accepted my love or not, but I felt lighter.

'You may be right. I'll donate my books to a public library and only keep those I really will re-read one day.'

'Is that what you want to talk about now?'

'No. I just don't know how to continue the conversation.'

'Shall we eat then and enjoy the food. Does that seem a good idea?'

No, it didn't seem like a good idea. I wanted to hear something different, but I was afraid to ask, and so I babbled on about libraries, books and poets, regretting having ordered so many dishes. I was the one who wanted to escape now, because I didn't know how to continue.

In the end, she made me promise that I would be at the theatre for her first class, and, for me, that was a signal. She needed me; she had accepted what I had unconsciously dreamed of offering her ever since I saw her dancing in a restaurant in Transylvania, but which I had only been capable of understanding that night.

Or, as Athena would have said, of believing.

Andrea McCain, actress

Of course I'm to blame. If it hadn't been for me, Athena would never have come to the theatre that morning, gathered us all together, asked us to lie down on the stage and begin a relaxation exercise involving breathing and bringing our awareness to each part of the body.

'Relax your thighs '

We all obeyed, as if we were before a goddess, someone who knew more than all of us, even though we'd done this kind of exercise hundreds of times before. We were all curious to know what would come after ' now relax your face and breathe deeply'.

Did she really think she was teaching us anything new? We were expecting a lecture, a talk! But I must control myself. Let's get back to what happened then. We relaxed and then came a silence which left us completely disoriented. When I discussed it with my colleagues afterwards, we all agreed that we felt the exercise was over, that it was time to sit up and look around, except that no one did. We remained lying down, in a kind of enforced meditation, for fifteen interminable minutes.

Then she spoke again.

'You've had plenty of time to doubt me now. One or two of you looked impatient. But now I'm going to ask you just one thing: when I count to three, be different. I don't mean be another person, an animal or a house. Try to forget everything you've learned on drama courses. I'm not asking you to be actors and to demonstrate your abilities. I'm asking you to cease being human and to transform yourselves into something you don't know.'

We were all still lying on the floor with our eyes closed and so couldn't see how anyone else was reacting. Athena was playing on that uncertainty.

'I'm going to say a few words and you'll immediately associate certain images with those words. Remember that you're all full of the poison of preconceived ideas and that if I were to say fate, you would probably start imagining your lives in the future. If I were to say red, you would probably make some psychoanalytic interpretation. That isn't what I want. As I said, I want you to be different.'

She couldn't explain what she really wanted. When no one complained, I felt sure they were simply being polite, but that when the 'lecture' was over, they would never invite Athena back. They would even tell me that I'd been na•ve to have sought her out in the first place.

'The first word is sacred.'

So as not to die of boredom, I decided to join in the game. I imagined my mother, my boyfriend, my future children, a brilliant career.

'Make a gesture that means sacred.'

I folded my arms over my chest, as if I were embracing all my loved ones. I found out later that most people opened their arms to form a cross, and that one of the women opened her legs, as if she were making love.

'Relax again, and again forget about everything and keep your eyes closed. I'm not criticising, but from what I saw, you seem to be giving form to what you consider to be sacred. That isn't what I want. When I give you the next word, don't try to define it as it manifests itself in the world. Open all the channels and allow the poison of reality to drain away. Be abstract and then you will enter the world I'm guiding you towards.'

That last phrase had real authority, and I felt the energy in the theatre change. Now the voice knew where it wanted to take us. She was a teacher now, not a lecturer.

'Earth,' she said.

Suddenly I understood what she meant. It was no longer my imagination that mattered, but my body in contact with the soil. I was the Earth.

'Make a gesture that represents Earth.'

I didn't move. I was the soil of that stage.

'Perfect,' she said. 'None of you moved. For the first time you all experienced the same feeling. Instead of describing something, you transformed yourself into an idea.'

She fell silent again for what I imagined were five long minutes. The silence made us feel lost, unable to tell whether she simply had no idea how to continue, or if she was merely unfamiliar with our usual intense rhythm of working.

'I'm going to say a third word.'

She paused.

'Centre.'

I felt and this was entirely unconscious that all my vital energy went to my navel, where it glowed yellow. This frightened me. If someone touched it, I could die.

'Make a gesture for centre!'

Her words sounded like a command. I immediately placed my hands on my belly to protect myself.

'Perfect,' said Athena. 'You can sit up now.'

I opened my eyes and saw the extinguished stage lights up above me, distant and dull. I rubbed my face and got to my feet. I noticed that my colleagues looked surprised.

'Was that the lecture?' asked the director.

'You can call it a lecture if you like.'

'Well, thank you for coming. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to start rehearsals for the next play.'

'But I haven't finished yet.'

'Perhaps another time.'

Everyone seemed confused by the director's reaction. After some initial doubts, I think we were enjoying the session it was different, no pretending to be things or people, no visualising apples or candles. No sitting in a circle holding hands as if we were practising some sacred ritual. It was simply something slightly absurd and we wanted to know where it would take us.

Without a flicker of emotion, Athena bent down to pick up her bag. At that moment, we heard a voice from the stalls.

'Marvellous!'

Heron had come to join her. The director was afraid of him because Heron knew the theatre critics on his newspaper and had close ties with the media generally.

'You stopped being individuals and turned into ideas. What a shame you're so busy, but don't worry, Athena, we'll find another group to work with and then I can see how your lecture ends. I have contacts.'

I was still thinking about the light travelling through my whole body to my navel. Who was that woman? Had my colleagues experienced the same thing?

'Just a moment,' said the director, aware of the look of surprise on everyone's face. 'I suppose we could postpone rehearsals today '

'No, you mustn't do that, besides I have to get back to the newspaper and write something about this woman. You carry on doing what you always do. I've just found an excellent story.'

If Athena felt lost in that debate between the two men, she didn't show it. She climbed down from the stage and went off with Heron. We turned to the director and asked him why he'd reacted like that.

'With all due respect, Andrea, I thought the conversation in the bar about sex was far more interesting than the nonsense we've just been engaging in. Did you notice how she kept falling silent? She didn't know what to do next!'

'But I felt something strange,' said one of the older actors. 'When she said centre, it was as if all my vital energy were suddenly focused in my navel. I've never experienced that before.'

'Did you? Are you sure?' asked an actress, and judging by her words, she'd experienced the same thing.

'She's a bit of a witch, that woman,' said the director, interrupting the conversation. 'Let's get back to work.'

We started doing our usual stretching exercises, warm-ups and meditation, all strictly by the book. Then after a few improvisations, we went straight into a read-through of the new script. Gradually, Athena's presence seemed to be dissolving, and everything was returning to what it was a theatre, a ritual created by the Greeks thousands of years ago, where we were used to pretending to be different people.

But that was pure play-acting. Athena wasn't like that, and I was determined to see her again, especially after what the director had said about her.

Heron Ryan, journalist

Unbeknown to Athena, I'd followed exactly the same steps as the actors, obeying everything she told us to do, except that I kept my eyes open so that I could follow what was happening on stage. The moment she said 'Make a gesture for centre', I'd placed my hand on my navel, and, to my surprise, I saw that everyone, including the director, had done the same. What was going on?

That afternoon, I had to write a dreary article about a visiting head of state a real drag. In order to amuse myself between phone calls, I decided to ask colleagues in the office what gesture they would make if I said the word 'centre'. Most of them made jokey comments about political parties. One pointed to the centre of the Earth. Another put his hand on his heart. But no one, absolutely no one, thought of their navel as the centre of anything. In the end, though, I managed to speak to someone who had some interesting information on the subject.

When I got home, Andrea had had a bath, laid the table and was waiting for me to start supper. She opened a bottle of very expensive wine, filled two glasses and offered me one.

'So how was supper last night?'

How long can a man live with a lie? I didn't want to lose the woman standing there before me, who had stuck with me through thick and thin, who was always by my side when I felt my life had lost meaning and direction. I loved her, but in the crazy world into which I was blindly plunging, my heart was far away, trying to adapt to something it possibly knew, but couldn't accept: being large enough for two people.

Since I would never risk letting go of a certainty in favour of a mere possibility, I tried to minimise the significance of what had happened at the restaurant, mainly because nothing had happened, apart from an exchange of lines by a poet who had suffered greatly for love.

'Athena's a difficult person to get to know.'

Andrea laughed.

'That's precisely why men must find her so fascinating. She awakens that rapidly disappearing protective instinct of yours.'

Best to change the subject. I've always been convinced that women have a supernatural ability to know what's going on in a man's soul. They're all witches.

'I've been looking into what happened at the theatre today. You don't know this, but I had my eyes open throughout the exercises.'

'You've always got your eyes open. I assume it's part of being a journalist. And you're going to talk about the moment when we all did exactly the same thing. We talked a lot about that in the bar after rehearsals.'

'A historian told me about a Greek temple where they used to predict the future ( Editor's note: the temple of Apollo at Delphi ) and which housed a marble stone called the navel. Stories from the time describe Delphi as the centre of the planet. I went to the newspaper archives to make a few enquiries: in Petra, in Jordan, there's another conic navel, symbolising not just the centre of the planet, but of the entire universe. Both navels try to show the axis through which the energy of the world travels, marking in a visible way something that is only there on the invisible map. Jerusalem is also called the navel of the world, as is an island in the Pacific Ocean, and another place I've forgotten now, because I had never associated the two things.'

'Like dance!'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'No, I know what you mean belly dancing, the oldest form of dance recorded, in which everything revolves about the belly. I was trying to avoid the subject because I told you that in Transylvania I saw Athena dance. She was dressed, of course, but '

' all the movement began with her navel, and gradually spread to the rest of the body.'

She was right.

Best to change the subject again and talk about the theatre, about boring journalistic stuff, then drink a little wine and end up in bed making love while, outside, the rain was starting to fall. I noticed that, at the moment of orgasm, Andrea's body was all focused on her belly. I'd seen this many times before, but never thought anything of it.

Antoine Locadour, historian[/h1

Heron started spending a fortune on phone calls to France, asking me to get all the information I could by the weekend, and he kept going on about the navel, which seemed to me the least interesting and least romantic thing in the world. But, then, the English don't see things in the same way as the French, and so, instead of asking questions, I tried to find out what science had to say on the subject.

I soon realised that historical knowledge wasn't enough. I could locate a monument here, a dolmen there, but the odd thing was that the ancient cultures all seemed to agree on the subject and even use the same word to define the places they considered sacred. I'd never noticed this before and I started to get interested. When I saw the number of coincidences, I went in search of something that would complement them human behaviour and beliefs.

I immediately had to reject the first and most logical explanation, that we're nourished through the umbilical cord, which is why the navel is, for us, the centre of life. A psychologist immediately pointed out that the theory made no sense at all: man's central idea is always to 'cut' the umbilical cord and, from then on, the brain or the heart become the more important symbols.

When we're interested in something, everything around us appears to refer to it (the mystics call these phenomena 'signs', the sceptics 'coincidence', and psychologists 'concentrated focus', although I've yet to find out what term historians should use). One night, my adolescent daughter came home with a navel piercing.

'Why did you do that?'

'Because I felt like it.'

A perfectly natural and honest explanation, even for a historian who needs to find a reason for everything. When I went into her room, I saw a poster of her favourite female pop star. She had a bare midriff and, in that photo on the wall, her navel did look like the centre of the world.

I phoned Heron and asked why he was so interested. For the first time, he told me about what had happened at the theatre and how the people there had all responded to a command in the same spontaneous, unexpected manner. It was impossible to get any more information out of my daughter, and so I decided to consult some specialists.

No one seemed very interested, until I found Fran�ois Shepka, an Indian psychologist ( Editor's note: the scientist requested that his name and nationality be changed ), who was starting to revolutionise the therapies currently in use. According to him, the idea that traumas could be resolved by a return to childhood had never got anyone anywhere. Many problems that had been overcome in adult life resurfaced, and grown-ups started blaming their parents for failures and defeats. Shepka was at war with the various French psychoanalytic associations, and a conversation about absurd subjects, like the navel, seemed to relax him.

He warmed to the theme, but didn't, at first, tackle it directly. He said that according to one of the most respected psychoanalysts in history, the Swiss analyst Carl Gustav Jung, we all drank from the same spring. It's called the 'soul of the world'. However much we try to be independent individuals, a part of our memory is the same. We all seek the ideal of beauty, dance, divinity and music.

Society, meanwhile, tries to define how these ideals should be manifested in reality. Currently, for example, the ideal of beauty is to be thin, and yet thousands of years ago all the images of goddesses were fat. It's the same with happiness: there are a series of rules, and if you fail to follow them, your conscious mind will refuse to accept the idea that you're happy.

Jung used to divide individual progress into four stages: the first was the Persona the mask we use every day, pretending to be who we are. We believe that the world depends on us, that we're wonderful parents and that our children don't understand us, that our bosses are unfair, that the dream of every human being is never to work and to travel constantly. Many people realise that there's something wrong with this story, but because they don't want to change anything, they quickly drive the thought from their head. A few do try to understand what is wrong and end up finding the Shadow.

The Shadow is our dark side, which dictates how we should act and behave. When we try to free ourselves from the Persona, we turn on a light inside us and we see the cobwebs, the cowardice, the meanness. The Shadow is there to stop our progress, and it usually succeeds, and we run back to what we were before we doubted. However, some do survive this encounter with their own cobwebs, saying: 'Yes, I have a few faults, but I'm good enough, and I want to go forward.'

At this moment, the Shadow disappears and we come into contact with the Soul.

By Soul, Jung didn't mean 'soul' in the religious sense; he speaks of a return to the Soul of the World, the source of all knowledge. Instincts become sharper, emotions more radical, the interpretation of signs becomes more important than logic, perceptions of reality grow less rigid. We start to struggle with things to which we are unaccustomed and we start to react in ways that we ourselves find unexpected.

And we discover that if we can channel that continuous flow of energy, we can organise it around a very solid centre, what Jung calls the Wise Old Man for men and the Great Mother for women.

Allowing this to manifest itself is dangerous. Generally speaking, anyone who reaches this stage has a tendency to consider themselves a saint, a tamer of spirits, a prophet. A great deal of maturity is required if someone is to come into contact with the energy of the Wise Old Man or the Great Mother.

'Jung went mad,' said my friend, when he had explained the four stages described by the Swiss psychoanalyst. 'When he got in touch with his Wise Old Man, he started saying that he was guided by a spirit called Philemon.'

'And finally '

' we come to the symbol of the navel. Not only people, but societies, too, fit these four stages. Western civilisation has a Persona, the ideas that guide us. In its attempt to adapt to changes, it comes into contact with the Shadow, and we see mass demonstrations, in which the collective energy can be manipulated both for good and ill. Suddenly, for some reason, the Persona or the Shadow are no longer enough for human beings, and then comes the moment to make the leap, the unconscious connection with the Soul. New values begin to emerge.'

'I've noticed that. I've noticed a resurgence in the cult of the female face of God.'

'An excellent example. And at the end of this process, if those new values are to become established, the entire race comes into contact with the symbols, the coded language by which present-day generations communicate with their ancestral knowledge. One of those symbols of rebirth is the navel. In the navel of Vishnu, the Indian divinity responsible for creation and destruction, sits the god who will rule each cycle. Yogis consider the navel one of the chakras, one of the sacred points on the human body. Primitive tribes often used to build monuments in the place they believed to be the navel of the world. In South America, people who go into trances say that the true form of the human being is a luminous egg, which connects with other people through filaments that emerge from the navel. The mandala, a design said to stimulate meditation, is a symbolic representation of this.'

I passed all this information on to Heron in England before the agreed date. I told him that the woman who had succeeded in provoking the same absurd reaction in a group of people must have enormous power, and that I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't some kind of paranormal. I suggested that he study her more closely.

I had never thought about the subject before, and I tried to forget it at once. However, my daughter said that I was behaving oddly, thinking only of myself, that I was, in short, navel-gazing!

Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda

'It was a complete disaster. How could you have put the idea in my head that I could teach? Why humiliate me in front of other people? I should just forget you even exist. When I was taught to dance, I danced. When I was taught calligraphy, I practised calligraphy. But demanding that I go so far beyond my limits was pure wickedness. That's why I caught the train up to Scotland, that's why I came here, so that you could see how much I hate you!'

She couldn't stop crying. Fortunately, she'd left the child with her parents, because she was talking rather too loudly and there was a faint whiff of wine on her breath. I asked her to come in. Making all that noise at my front door would do nothing to help my already somewhat tarnished reputation, with people putting it around that I received visits from both men and women and organised sex orgies in the name of Satan.

But she still stood there, shouting:

'It's all your fault! You humiliated me!'

One window opened, and then another. Well, anyone working to change the axis of the world must be prepared for the fact that her neighbours won't always be happy. I went over to Athena and did exactly what she wanted me to do: I put my arms around her.

She continued weeping, her head resting on my shoulder. Very gently I helped her up the steps and into the house. I made some tea, the recipe for which I share with no one because it was taught to me by my protector. I placed it in front of her and she drank it down in one. By doing so, she demonstrated that her trust in me was still intact.

'Why am I like this?' she asked.

I knew then that the effects of the alcohol had been neutralised.

'There are men who love me. I have a son who adores me and sees me as his model in life. I have adoptive parents whom I consider to be my real family and who would lay down their lives for me. I filled in all the blank spaces in my past when I went in search of my birth mother. I have enough money to spend the next three years doing nothing but enjoy life, and still I'm not content!

'I feel miserable and guilty because God blessed me with tragedies that I've managed to overcome and with miracles to which I've done credit, but I'm never content. I always want more. The last thing I needed was to go to that theatre and add a failure to my list of victories!'

'Do you think you did the wrong thing?'

She looked at me in surprise:

'Why do you ask that?'

I said nothing, but awaited her answer.

'No, I did the right thing. I went there with a journalist friend, and I didn't have a clue what I was going to do, but suddenly things started to emerge as if out of the void. I felt the presence of the Great Mother by my side, guiding me, instructing me, filling my voice with a confidence I didn't really feel.'

'So why are you complaining?'

'Because no one understood!'

'Is that important? Important enough to make you travel up to Scotland and insult me in front of everyone?'

'Of course it's important! If I can do absolutely anything and know I'm doing the right thing, how come I'm not at least loved and admired?'

So that was the problem. I took her hand and led her into the same room where, weeks before, she had sat contemplating a candle. I asked her to sit down and try to calm herself a little, although I was sure the tea was already taking effect. I went to my room, picked up a round mirror and placed it before her.

'You have everything and you've fought for every inch of your territory. Now look at your tears. Look at your face and the bitterness etched on it. Look at the woman in the mirror, but don't laugh this time, try to understand her.'

I allowed her time to follow my instructions. When I saw that she was, as I intended, going into a trance, I went on:

'What is the secret of life? We call it grace or blessing. Everyone struggles to be satisfied with what they have. Apart from me. Apart from you. Apart from a few people who will, alas, have to make a small sacrifice in the name of something greater.

'Our imagination is larger than the world around us; we go beyond our limits. This used to be called witchcraft, but fortunately things have changed, otherwise we would both already have been burned at the stake. When they stopped burning women, science found an explanation for our behaviour, normally referred to as female hysteria. We don't get burned any more, but it does cause problems, especially in the workplace. But don't worry; eventually they'll call it wisdom. Keep looking into the mirror. Who can you see?'

'A woman.'

'And what is there beyond that woman?'

She hesitated. I asked again and she said:

'Another woman, more authentic and more intelligent than me. It's as if she were a soul that didn't belong to me, but which is nonetheless part of me.'

'Exactly. Now I'm going to ask you to imagine one of the most important symbols in alchemy: a snake forming a circle and swallowing its own tail. Can you imagine that?'

She nodded.

'That's what life is like for people like you and me. We're constantly destroying and rebuilding ourselves. Everything in your life has followed the same pattern: from lost to found; from divorce to new love; from working in a bank to selling real estate in the desert. Only one thing remains intact your son. He is the connecting thread, and you must respect that.'

She started to cry again, but her tears were different this time.

'You came here because you saw a female face in the flames. That face is the face you can see now in the mirror, so try to do honour to it. Don't let yourself be weighed down by what other people think, because in a few years, in a few decades, or in a few centuries, that way of thinking will be changed. Live now what others will only live in the future.

'What do you want? You can't want to be happy, because that's too easy and too boring. You can't want only to love, because that's impossible. What do you want? You want to justify your life, to live it as intensely as possible. That is at once a trap and a source of ecstasy. Try to be alert to that danger, and experience the joy and the adventure of being that woman who is beyond the image reflected in the mirror.'

Her eyes closed, but I knew that my words had penetrated her soul and would stay there.

'If you want to take a risk and continue teaching, do so. If you don't want to, know that you've already gone further than most other people.'

Her body began to relax. I held her in my arms until she fell asleep, her head on my breast.

I tried to whisper a few more things to her, because I'd been through the same stages, and I knew how difficult it was just as my protector had told me it would be and as I myself had found out through painful experience. However, the fact that it was difficult didn't make the experience any less interesting.

What experience? Living as a human being and as a divinity. Moving from tension into relaxation. From relaxation into trance. From trance into a more intense contact with other people. From that contact back into tension and so on, like the serpent swallowing its own tail.

It was no easy matter, mainly because it requires unconditional love, which does not fear suffering, rejection, loss.

Whoever drinks this water once can never quench her thirst at other springs.

Andrea McCain, actress

'The other day you mentioned Gaia, who created herself and had a child without the help of a man. You said, quite rightly, that the Great Mother was eventually superseded by the male gods. But you forgot about Hera, a descendant of your favourite goddess. Hera is more important because she's more practical. She rules the skies and the Earth, the seasons of the year and storms. According to the same Greeks you cited, the Milky Way that we see in the sky was created out of the milk that spurted forth from her breast. A beautiful breast, it must be said, because all-powerful Zeus changed himself into a bird purely in order to be able to have his way with her without being rejected.'

We were walking through a large department store in Knightsbridge. I'd phoned her, saying that I'd like to talk, and she'd invited me to the winter sales. It would have been far more pleasant to have a cup of tea together or lunch in some quiet restaurant.

'Your son could get lost in this crowd.'

'Don't worry about him. Go on with what you were telling me.'

'Hera discovered the trick and forced Zeus to marry her. Immediately after the ceremony, however, the great king of Olympus returned to his playboy lifestyle, seducing any woman, mortal or immortal, who happened by. Hera, however, remained faithful. Rather than blame her husband, she blamed the women for their loose behaviour.'

'Isn't that what we all do?'

I didn't know what she meant and so I carried on talking as if I hadn't heard what she'd said.

'Then she decided to give him a taste of his own medicine and find a god or a man to take to her bed. Look, couldn't we stop for a while and have a coffee?'

But Athena had just gone into a lingerie shop.

'Do you think this is pretty?' she asked, holding up a provocative flesh-coloured bra and pantie set.

'Yes, very. Will anyone see it if you wear it?'

'Of course, or do you think I'm a saint? But go on with what you were saying about Hera.'

'Zeus was horrified by her behaviour, but Hera was leading an independent life and didn't give two hoots about her marriage. Have you really got a boyfriend?'

'Yes.'

'I've never seen him.'

She went over to the cash desk, paid for the lingerie and put it in her bag.

'Viorel's hungry, and I'm sure he's not the slightest bit interested in Greek myths, so hurry up and finish Hera's story.'

'It has a rather silly ending. Zeus, afraid of losing his beloved, pretended that he was getting married again. When Hera found out, she saw that things had gone too far. Lovers were one thing, but divorce was unthinkable.'

'Nothing new there, then.'

'She decided to go to the ceremony and kick up a fuss, and it was only then that she realised Zeus was marrying a statue.'

'What did Hera do?'

'She roared with laughter. That broke the ice between them, and she became once more the queen of the skies.'

'Great. So if that ever happens to you '

'What?'

'If your man gets himself another woman, don't forget to laugh.'

'I'm not a goddess. I'd be much more vengeful. Anyway, why is it I've never seen your boyfriend?'

'Because he's always busy.'

'Where did you meet him?'

'At the bank where I used to work. He had an account there. And now, if you don't mind, my son's waiting for me. You're right, if I don't keep my eye on him, he could get lost amongst all these people. By the way, we're having a meeting at my place next week. You're invited, of course.'

'Yes, and I know who organised it.'

Athena kissed me lightly on both cheeks and left. At least, she'd got the message.

That afternoon, at the theatre, the director made a point of telling me that he was annoyed because, he said, I'd arranged for a group of actors to go and visit 'that woman'. I explained that it hadn't been my idea. Heron had become obsessed with the subject of navels and had asked me if some of the other actors would be prepared to continue the interrupted 'lecture'.

'That said,' I added, 'it was my choice to ask them.'

Of course it was, but the last thing I wanted was for him to go to Athena's house alone.

The actors had all arrived, but, instead of another read-through of the new play, the director decided to change the programme.

'Today we'll do another exercise in psychodrama.' ( Editor's note: a therapeutic technique, which involves people acting out their personal experiences. )

There was no need. We all knew how the characters would behave in the situations described by the playwright.

'Can I suggest a subject?'

Everyone turned to look at me. The director seemed surprised.

'What's this, a revolt?'

'No, listen. We create a situation where a man, after great difficulty, manages to get a group of people together to celebrate an important ritual in the community, something, let's say, like the autumn harvest. Meanwhile, a strange woman arrives, and because of her beauty and the various rumours circulating about her being a goddess in disguise, for example the group the man has formed in order to keep alive the traditions in his village breaks up, and its members all go off to see the woman instead.'

'But that's got nothing to do with the play we're rehearsing!' said one of the actresses.

The director, however, had understood what I was driving at.

'That's an excellent idea. Let's begin.'

And turning to me, he said:

'Andrea, you can be the new arrival. That way you can get a better understanding of the situation in the village. And I'll be the decent man trying to preserve the old ways. The group will be made up of couples who go to church, get together on Saturdays to do work in the community, and generally help each other.'

We lay down on the floor, did some relaxation, and then began the exercise proper, which was really very simple. The main character (in this case, me) created various situations and the others reacted to them.

When the relaxation was over, I transformed myself into Athena. In my fantasy, she roamed the world like Satan in search of subjects for her realm, but she disguised herself as Gaia, the goddess who knows everything and created everything. For fifteen minutes, the other actors paired up into 'couples', got to know each other and invented a common history involving children, farms, understanding and friendship. When I felt this little universe was ready, I sat at one corner of the stage and began to speak about love.

'Here we are in this little village, and you think I'm a stranger, which is why you're interested in what I have to tell you. You've never travelled and don't know what goes on beyond the mountains, but I can tell you: there's no need to praise the Earth. The Earth will always be generous with this community. The important thing is to praise human beings. You say you'd love to travel, but you misuse the word love. Love is a relationship between people.

'Your one desire is for the harvest to be a good one and that's why you've decided to love the Earth. More nonsense: love isn't desire or knowledge or admiration. It's a challenge; it's an invisible fire. That's why, if you think I'm a stranger on this Earth, you're wrong. Everything is familiar to me because I come in strength and in fire, and when I leave, no one will be the same. I bring true love, not the love they write about in books or in fairytales.'

The 'husband' of one of the 'couples' began looking at me. His 'wife' became distraught.

During the rest of the exercise, the director or, rather, the decent man did all he could to explain the importance of maintaining traditions, praising the Earth and asking the Earth to be as generous this year as it had been last year. I spoke only of love.

'He says the Earth needs rituals, well, I can guarantee that if there's love enough amongst you, you'll have an abundant harvest, because love is the feeling that transforms everything. But what do I see? Friendship. Passion died out a long time ago, because you've all got used to each other. That's why the Earth gives only what it gave last year, neither more nor less. And that's why, in the darkness of your souls, you silently complain that nothing in your lives changes. Why? Because you've always tried to control the force that transforms everything so that your lives can carry on without being faced by any major challenges.'

The decent man explained:

'Our community has survived because we've always respected the laws by which even love itself is guided. Anyone who falls in love without taking into account the common good, will be condemned to live in constant fear of hurting his partner, of irritating his new love, of losing everything he built. A stranger with no ties and no history can say what she likes, but she doesn't know how hard it was to get where we are now. She doesn't know the sacrifices we made for our children. She doesn't know that we work tirelessly so that the Earth will be generous with us, so that we will be at peace, and so that we can store away provisions for the future.'

For an hour, I defended the passion that devours everything, while the decent man spoke of the feeling that brings peace and tranquillity. In the end, I was left talking to myself, while the whole community gathered around him.

I'd played my role with great gusto and with a conviction I didn't even know I felt. Despite everything, though, the stranger left the village without having convinced anyone.

And that made me very, very happy.

Heron Ryan, journalist

An old friend of mine always says: 'People learn twenty-five per cent from their teacher, twenty-five per cent from listening to themselves, twenty-five per cent from their friends and twenty-five per cent from time.' At that first meeting at Athena's apartment, where she was trying to conclude the class she had started at the theatre, we all learned from well, I'm not quite sure from what.

She was waiting for us, with her son, in her small living room. I noticed that the room was entirely painted in white and was completely empty apart from one item of furniture with a sound system on it, and a pile of CDs. I thought it odd that her son should be there, because he was sure to be bored by the class. I was assuming she would simply pick up from where we had stopped, giving us commands through single words. But she had other plans. She explained that she was going to play some music from Siberia and that we should all just listen.

Nothing more.

'I don't get anywhere meditating,' she said. 'I see people sitting there with their eyes closed, a smile on their lips or else grave-faced and arrogant, concentrating on absolutely nothing, convinced that they're in touch with God or with the Goddess. So instead, let's listen to some music together.'

Again that feeling of unease, as if Athena didn't know exactly what she was doing. But nearly all the actors from the theatre were there, including the director, who, according to Andrea, had come to spy on the enemy camp.

The music stopped.

'This time I want you to dance to a rhythm that has nothing whatever to do with the melody.'

Athena put the music on again, with the volume right up, and started to dance, making no attempt to move gracefully. Only an older man, who took the role of the drunken king in the latest play, did as he was told. No one else moved. They all seemed slightly constrained. One woman looked at her watch only ten minutes had passed.

Athena stopped and looked round.

'Why are you just standing there?'

'Well,' said one of the actresses timidly, 'it seems a bit ridiculous to be doing that. We've been trained in harmony, not its opposite.'

'Just do as I say. Do you need an explanation? Right, I'll give you one. Changes only happen when we go totally against everything we're used to doing.'

Turning to the 'drunken king', she said:

'Why did you agree to dance against the rhythm of the music?'

'Oh, I've never had any sense of rhythm anyway.'

Everyone laughed, and the dark cloud hanging over us seemed to disperse.

'Right, I'm going to start again, and you can either follow me or leave. This time, I'm the one who decides when the class ends. One of the most aggressive things a human being can do is to go against what he or she believes is nice or pretty, and that's what we're going to do today. We're all going to dance badly.'

It was just another experiment and in order not to embarrass our hostess, everyone obediently danced badly. I struggled with myself, because one's natural tendency was to follow the rhythms of that marvellous, mysterious percussion. I felt as if I were insulting the musicians who were playing and the composer who created it. Every so often, my body tried to fight against that lack of harmony and I was forced to make myself behave as I'd been told to. The boy was dancing as well, laughing all the time, then, at a certain point, he stopped and sat down on the sofa, as if exhausted by his efforts. The CD was switched off in mid-stream.

'Wait.'

We all waited.

'I'm going to do something I've never done before.'

She closed her eyes and held her head between her hands.

'I've never danced unrhythmically before '

So the experiment had been worse for her than for any of us.

'I don't feel well '

Both the director and I got to our feet. Andrea shot me a furious glance, but I still went over to Athena. Before I could reach her, however, she asked us to return to our places.

'Does anyone want to say anything?' Her voice sounded fragile, tremulous, and she had still not uncovered her face.

'I do.'

It was Andrea.

'First, pick up my son and tell him that his mother's fine. But I need to stay like this for as long as necessary.'

Viorel looked frightened. Andrea sat him on her lap and stroked him.

'What do you want to say?'

'Nothing. I've changed my mind.'

'The boy made you change your mind, but carry on anyway.'

Slowly Athena removed her hands and looked up. Her face was that of a stranger.

'No, I won't speak.'

'All right. You,' Athena said, pointing to the older actor. 'Go to the doctor tomorrow. The fact that you can't sleep and have to keep getting up in the night to go to the toilet is serious. It's cancer of the prostate.'

The man turned pale.

'And you,' she pointed at the director, 'accept your sexual identity. Don't be afraid. Accept that you hate women and love men.'

'Are you sayingÐ'

'Don't interrupt me. I'm not saying this because of Athena. I'm merely referring to your sexuality. You love men, and there is, I believe, nothing wrong with that.'