The Zahir Part 19

He thanked me, took up his backpack, and headed off in the direction of China. I went back to the hotel thinking that I had never, in my whole life, blessed anyone before. But I had responded to an impulse, and the impulse was right; my prayer would be answered.

The following day, Mikhail turned up with his friend, Dos, who would accompany us.

Dos had a car, knew my wife, and knew the steppes, and he, too, wanted to be there when I reached the village where Esther was living.

I considered remonstrating with them-first, it was Mikhail, now it was his friend, and by the time we finally reached the village, there would be a huge crowd following me, applauding and weeping, waiting to see what would happen. But I was too tired to say anything. The next day, I would remind Mikhail of the promise he had made, not to allow any witnesses to that moment.

We got into the car and, for some time, followed the Silk Road. They asked me if I knew what it was and I told them that I had met a Silk Road pilgrim the previous night, and they said that such journeys were becoming more and more commonplace and could soon bring benefits to the country's tourist industry.

Two hours later, we left the main road and continued along a minor road as far as the bunker where we are now, eating fish and listening to the soft wind that blows across the steppes.

"Esther was very important for me," Dos explains, showing me a photo of one of his paintings, which includes one of those pieces of bloodstained cloth. "I used to dream of leaving here, like Oleg..."

"You'd better call me Mikhail, otherwise he'll get confused."

"I used to dream of leaving here, like lots of people my age. Then one day, Oleg-or, rather, Mikhail-phoned me. He said that his benefactress had decided to come and live in the steppes for a while and he wanted me to help her. I agreed, thinking that here was my chance and that perhaps I could extract the same favors from her: a visa, a plane ticket, and a job in France. She asked me to go with her to some remote village that she knew from an earlier visit.

"I didn't ask her why, I simply did as she requested. On the way, she insisted on going to the house of a nomad she had visited years before. To my surprise, it was my grandfather she wanted to see! She was received with the hospitality that is typical of the people who live in this infinite s.p.a.ce. My grandfather told her that, although she thought she was sad, her soul was, in fact, happy and free, and love's energy had begun to flow again. He a.s.sured her that this would have an effect upon the whole world, including her husband.

My grandfather taught her many things about the culture of the steppes, and asked me to teach her the rest. In the end, he decided that she could keep her name, even though this was contrary to tradition.

"And while she learned from my grandfather, I learned from her, and realized that I didn't need to go far away, as Mikhail had done: my mission was to be in this empty s.p.a.ce-the steppes-and to understand its colors and transform them into paintings."

"I don't quite understand what you mean about teaching my wife. I thought your grandfather said that we should forget everything."

"I'll show you tomorrow," said Dos.

And the following day, he did show me and there was no need for words. I saw the endless steppes, which, although they appeared to be nothing but desert, were, in fact, full of life, full of creatures hidden in the low scrub. I saw the flat horizon, the vast emptys.p.a.ce, heard the sound of horses' hooves, the quiet wind, and then, all around us, nothing, absolutely nothing. It was as if the world had chosen this place to display, at once, its vastness, its simplicity, and its complexity. It was as if we could-and should-become like the steppes-empty, infinite, and, at the same time, full of life.

I looked up at the blue sky, took off my dark gla.s.ses, and allowed myself to be filled by that light, by the feeling of being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere. We rode on in silence, stopping now and then to let the horses drink from streams that only someone who knew the place would have been able to find. Occasionally, we would see other hors.e.m.e.n in the distance or shepherds with their flocks, framed by the plain and by the sky.

Where was I going? I hadn't the slightest idea and I didn't care. The woman I was looking for was somewhere in that infinite s.p.a.ce. I could touch her soul, hear the song she was singing as she wove her carpets. Now I understood why she had chosen this place: there was nothing, absolutely nothing to distract her attention; it was the emptiness she had so yearned for. The wind would gradually blow her pain away. Could she ever have imagined that one day I would be here, on horseback, riding to meet her?

A sense of paradise descends from the skies. And I am aware that I am living through an unforgettable moment in my life; it is the kind of awareness we often have precisely when the magic moment has pa.s.sed. I am entirely here, without past, without future, entirely focused on the morning, on the music of the horses' hooves, on the gentleness of the wind caressing my body, on the unexpected grace of contemplating sky, earth, men. I feel a sense of adoration and ecstasy. I am thankful for being alive. I pray quietly, listening to the voice of nature, and understanding that the invisible world always manifests itself in the visible world.

I ask the sky some questions, the same questions I used to ask my mother when I was a child:

Why do we love certain people and hate others?

Where do we go after we die?

Why are we born if, in the end, we die?

What does G.o.d mean?

The steppes respond with the constant sound of the wind. And that is enough: knowing that the fundamental questions of life will never be answered, and that we can, nevertheless, still go forward.

Mountains loomed on the horizon, and Dos asked us to stop. I saw that there was a stream nearby.

"We'll camp here."

We removed the saddlebags from the horses and put up the tent. Mikhail started digging a hole in the ground.

"This is how the nomads used to do it; we dig a hole, fill the bottom with stones, put more stones all around the edge, and that way we have a place to light a fire without the wind bothering us."

To the south, between the mountains and us, a cloud of dust appeared, which I realized at once was caused by galloping horses. I pointed this out to my two friends, who jumped totheir feet. I could see that they were tense. Then they exchanged a few words in Russian and relaxed. Dos went back to putting up the tent and Mikhail set about lighting the fire.

"Would you mind telling me what's going on?" I said.

"It may look as if we're surrounded by empty s.p.a.ce, but it can't have escaped your notice that we've already seen all kinds of things: shepherds, rivers, tortoises, foxes, and hors.e.m.e.n. It feels as if we had a clear view all around us, so where do these people come from? Where are their houses? Where do they keep their flocks?

"That sense of emptiness is an illusion: we are constantly watching and being watched.

To a stranger who cannot read the signs of the steppes, everything is under control and the only thing he can see are the horses and the riders. To those of us who were brought up here, we can also see the yurts, the circular houses that blend in with the landscape.

We know how to read what's going on by observing how hors.e.m.e.n are moving and in which direction they're heading. In the olden days, the survival of the tribe depended on that ability, because there were enemies, invaders, smugglers.

"And now the bad news: they've found out that we're riding toward the village at the foot of those mountains and are sending people to kill the shaman who sees visions of children as well as the man who has come to disturb the peace of the foreign woman."

He gave a loud laugh.

"Just wait a moment and you'll understand."

The riders were approaching, and I was soon able to see what was going on.

"It looks very odd to me-a woman being pursued by a man."

"It is odd, but it's also part of our lives."

The woman rode past us, wielding a long whip, and, by way of a greeting, gave a shout and a smile directed at Dos, then started galloping around and around the place where we were setting up camp. The smiling, sweating man pursuing her gave us a brief greeting too, all the while trying to keep up with the woman.

"Nina shouldn't be so cruel," said Mikhail. "There's no need for all this."

"It's precisely because there's no need for it that she can afford to be cruel," replied Dos.

"She just has to be beautiful and have a good horse."

"But she does this to everyone."

"I unseated her once," said Dos proudly.

"The fact that you're speaking English means that you want me to understand."

The woman was laughing and riding ever faster; her laughter filled the steppes with joy.

"It's a form of flirtation. It's called Kyz Kuu, or 'Bring the girl down.' And we've all taken part in it at some time in our childhood or youth."

The man pursuing her was getting closer and closer, but we could see that his horse couldn't take much more.

"Later on, we'll talk a bit about Tengri, the culture of the steppes," Dos went on. "But now that you're seeing this, let me just explain something very important. Here, in this land, the woman is in charge. She comes first. In the event of a divorce, she receives half the dowry back even if she's the one who wants the divorce. Whenever a man sees a woman wearing a white turban, that means she's a mother and we, as men, must place our hand on our heart and bow our head as a sign of respect."

"But what's that got to do with 'Bring the girl down'?"

"In the village at the foot of the mountains, a group of men on horseback would have gathered around this girl; her name is Nina and she's the most desirable girl in the area.They would have begun playing the game of Kyz Kuu, which was thought up in ancient times, when the women of the steppes, known as amazons, were also warriors.

At the time, no one would have dreamt of consulting the family if they wanted to get married: the suitors and the girl would simply get together in a particular place, all on horseback. She would ride around the men, laughing, provoking them, whipping them.

Then the bravest of the men would start chasing her. If the girl was able to keep out of his grasp for a set period of time, then the man would have to call on the earth to cover him forever, because he would be considered a bad horseman-the warrior's greatest shame.

If he got close, despite her whip, and pulled her to the ground, then he was a real man and was allowed to kiss her and to marry her. Obviously, then just as now, the girls knew who they should escape from and who they should let themselves be caught by."

Nina was clearly just having a bit of fun. She had got ahead of the man again and was riding back to the village.

"She only came to show off. She knows we're on our way and will take the news back to the village."

"I have two questions. The first might seem stupid: Do you still choose your brides like that?"

Dos said that, nowadays, it was just a game. In the West, people got all dressed up and went to bars or fas.h.i.+onable clubs, whereas in the steppes, Kyz Kuu was the favored game of seduction. Nina had already humiliated quite a number of young men, and had allowed herself to be unseated by a few as well-exactly as happens in all the best discotheques.

"The second question will seem even more idiotic: Is the village at the foot of the mountains where my wife is living?"

Dos nodded.

"If we're only two hours away, why don't we sleep there? It'll be a while yet before it gets dark."

"You're right, we are only two hours away, and there are two reasons why we're stopping here for the night. First, even if Nina hadn't come out here, someone would already have seen us and would have gone to tell Esther that we were coming. This way, she can decide whether or not she wants to see us, or if she would prefer to go to another village for a few days. If she did that, we wouldn't follow her."

My heart contracted.

"Even after all I've been through to get here?"

"If that's how you feel, then you have understood nothing. What makes you think that your efforts should be rewarded with the submission, grat.i.tude, and recognition of the person you love? You came here because this was the road you must follow, not in order to buy your wife's love."

However unfair his words might seem, he was right. I asked him about the second reason.

"You still haven't chosen your name."

"That doesn't matter," Mikhail said again. "He doesn't understand our culture, and he's not part of it."

"It's important to me," said Dos. "My grandfather said that I must protect and help the foreign woman, just as she protected and helped me. I owe Esther the peace of my eyes, and I want her eyes to be at peace too.

"He will have to choose a name. He will have to forget forever his history of pain and suffering, and accept that he is a new person who has just been reborn and that, from nowon, he will be reborn every day. If he doesn't do that, and if they ever do live together again, he will expect her to pay him back for all the pain she once caused him."

"I chose a name last night," I said.

"Wait until this evening to tell me."

As soon as the sun began to sink low on the horizon, we went to an area on the steppes that was full of vast sand dunes. I became aware of a different sound, a kind of resonance, an intense vibration. Mikhail said that it was one of the few places in the world where the dunes sing.

"When I was in Paris and I talked to people about this, they only believed me because an American said that he had experienced the same thing in North Africa; there are only thirty places like it in the world. Nowadays, of course, scientists can explain everything.

It seems that because of the place's unique formation, the wind penetrates the actual grains of sand and creates this sound. For the ancients, though, this was one of the magical places in the steppes, and it is a great honor that Dos should have chosen it for your name-changing."

We started climbing one of the dunes, and as we proceeded the noise grew more intense and the wind stronger. When we reached the top, we could see the mountains standing out clearly to the south and the gigantic plain stretching out all around us.

"Turn toward the west and take off your clothes," Dos said.

I did as he ordered, without asking why. I started to feel cold, but they seemed unconcerned about my well-being. Mikhail knelt down and appeared to be praying. Dos looked up at the sky, at the earth, at me, then placed his hands on my shoulders, just as I had done to the Dutchman, though without knowing why.

"In the name of the Lady, I dedicate you. I dedicate you to the earth, which belongs to the Lady. In the name of the horse, I dedicate you. I dedicate you to the world, and pray that the world helps you on your journey. In the name of the steppes, which are infinite, I dedicate you. I dedicate you to the infinite Wisdom, and pray that your horizon may always be wider than you can see. You have chosen your name and will speak it now for the first time."

"In the name of the infinite steppes, I choose a name," I replied, without asking if I was doing as the ritual demanded, merely allowing myself to be guided by the noise of the wind in the dunes. "Many centuries ago, a poet described the wanderings of a man called Ulysses on his way back to an island called Ithaca, where his beloved awaits him. He confronts many perils, from storms to the temptations of comfort. At one point, in a cave, he encounters a monster with only one eye.

"The monster asks him his name. 'n.o.body,' says Ulysses. They fight and he manages to pierce the monster's one eye with his sword and then seals the mouth of the cave with a rock. The monster's companions hear his cries and rush to help him. Seeing that there is a rock covering the mouth of the cave, they ask who is with him. 'n.o.body! n.o.body!'

replies the monster. His companions leave, since there is clearly no threat to the community, and Ulysses can then continue on his journey back to the woman who waits for him."

"So your name is Ulysses?"

"My name is n.o.body."

I am trembling all over, as if my skin were being pierced by hundreds of needles."Focus on the cold, until you stop trembling. Let the cold fill your every thought, until there is no s.p.a.ce for anything else, until it becomes your companion and your friend. Do not try to control it. Do not think about the sun, that will only make it worse, because you will know then that something else-heat-exists and then the cold will feel that it is not loved or desired."

My muscles were furiously stretching and contracting in order to produce energy and keep my organism alive. However, I did as Dos ordered, because I trusted him, trusted in his calm, his tenderness, and his authority. I let the needles pierce my skin, allowed my muscles to struggle, my teeth to chatter, all the while repeating to myself: "Don't fight; the cold is your friend." My muscles refused to obey, and I remained like that for almost fifteen minutes, until my muscles eventually gave in and stopped shaking, and I entered a state of torpor. I tried to sit down, but Mikhail grabbed hold of me and held me up, while Dos spoke to me. His words seemed to come from a long way off, from a place where the steppes meet the sky.

"Welcome, nomad who crosses the steppes. Welcome to the place where we always say that the sky is blue even when it is gray, because we know that the color is still there above the clouds. Welcome to the land of the Tengri. Welcome to me, for I am here to receive you and to honor you for your search."

Mikhail sat down on the ground and asked me to drink something that immediately warmed my blood. Dos helped me to get dressed, and we made our way back down the dunes that continued to talk among themselves; we made our way back to our improvised campsite. Before Dos and Mikhail had even started cooking, I had fallen into a deep sleep.

What's happening? Isn't it light yet?"

"It's been light for ages. It's just a sandstorm, don't worry. Put your dark gla.s.ses on to protect your eyes."

"Where's Dos?"

"He's gone back to Almaty, but he was very moved by the ceremony yesterday evening.