The Zahir Part 7

"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 relations.h.i.+p. 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-Elysees.

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 s.p.a.ce, 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, a.n.a.lyzing 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 8 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 8 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 a.s.sume 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 pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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, thatas 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 G.o.d. 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 relations.h.i.+ps with men? I always feel like I have to be in a relations.h.i.+p 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 8 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 ofpeople 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 s.h.i.+rts 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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d'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, G.o.d's produce.'"Brother Cook was amazed at the beauty of the grapes and drew his a.s.sistant'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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 littleh.e.l.l. It will pa.s.s, 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 circ.u.mstances allow, they're bound to end up in bed together."

Applause. Cigarettes were lit. The clink of gla.s.ses 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?"