Aleph Page 4

  “I spoke to three scholars,” he says at last. “Two of them said that after death, the just go to Paradise. The third one, though, told me to consult some verses from the Koran.”

  I can see that he’s excited.

  “Here’s the first one, 2:28: ‘Allah will cause you to die, and then he will bring you back to life again, and you will return to Him once more.’ My translation isn’t perfect, but that’s what it means.”

  He leafs feverishly through the sacred book. He translates the second verse, 2:154.

  “ ‘Do not say of those who died in the name of Allah: They are dead. For they are alive, even though you cannot see them.’”

  “Exactly!”

  “There are other verses, but, to be honest, I don’t feel very comfortable talking about this right now. I’d rather tell you about Tunis.”

  “You’ve told us quite enough. People never leave; we are always here in our past and future lives. It appears in the Bible, too, you know. I remember a passage in which Jesus refers to John the Baptist as the incarnation of Elias: ‘And if you will receive it, he [John] is the Elias who is to come.’ And there are other verses on the same subject,” I say.

  He starts telling us some of the legends that surround the founding of the city, and I understand that it’s time to get up and continue our walk.

  ABOVE ONE OF THE GATES in the ancient city wall is a lantern, and Samil explains its significance to us.

  “This is the origin of one of the most famous Arabic proverbs: ‘The light falls only on the stranger.’ ”

  The proverb, he says, is very apt for the situation we’re in now. Samil wants to be a writer and is fighting to gain recognition in his own country, whereas I, a Brazilian author, am already known here.

  I tell him that we have a similar saying: “No one is a prophet in his own land.” We always tend to value what comes from afar, never recognizing the beauty around us.

  “Although sometimes,” I go on, “we need to be strangers to ourselves. Then the hidden light in our souls will illuminate what we need to see.”

  My wife appears not to be following the conversation, but at one point, she turns to me and says, “There’s something about that lantern, I can’t quite explain what it is, but it’s something to do with your situation now. As soon as I work out what it is, I’ll tell you.”

  WE SLEEP FOR A WHILE, have supper with friends, and go for another walk around the city. Only then does my wife manage to explain what she had felt during the afternoon.

  “You’re traveling, but, at the same time, you haven’t left home. As long as we’re together, that will continue to be the case, because you have someone by your side who knows you, and this gives you a false sense of familiarity. It’s time you continued on alone. You may find solitude oppressive, too much to bear, but that feeling will gradually disappear as you come more into contact with other people.”

  After a pause, she adds, “I once read that in a forest of a hundred thousand trees, no two leaves are alike. And no two journeys along the same path are alike. If we continue to travel together, trying to make things fit our worldview, neither of us will benefit. So I give you my blessing and say I’ll see you in Germany for the first match in the World Cup!”

  If a Cold Wind Blows

  WHEN I ARRIVE at the Moscow hotel with my publisher and my editor, a young woman is waiting outside for me. She comes over and grasps my hands in hers.

  “I need to talk to you. I’ve come all the way from Ekaterinburg to do just that.”

  I’m tired. I woke up earlier than usual and had to change planes in Paris because there was no direct flight. I tried to sleep on the journey, but every time I managed to drop off, I would fall into the same unpleasant, repetitive dream.

  My publisher tells her that there will be a signing session tomorrow and that, in three days’ time, we’ll be in Ekaterinburg, the first stop on my train journey. I hold out my hand to say good-bye and notice that hers is very cold.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me inside?” I ask.

  What I would really like to ask is how she found out which hotel I’m staying at, but that probably wouldn’t be so very hard, and it isn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened.

  “I read your blog the other day and realized that you were talking directly to me.”

  I was beginning to post my thoughts about the journey on a blog. It was still in the experimental stage, and since I wrote the pieces ahead of time, I didn’t know which article she was referring to. Even so, there could certainly have been no reference in it to her, given that I had met her only a few seconds ago.

  She takes out a piece of paper containing the article. I know it by heart, although I can’t remember who told me the story. A man called Ali is in need of money and asks his boss to help him. His boss sets him a challenge: if he can spend all night on the top of a mountain, he will receive a great reward; if he fails, he will have to work for free. The story continues:

  When he left the shop, Ali noticed that an icy wind was blowing. He felt afraid and decided to ask his best friend, Aydi, if he thought he was mad to accept the wager. After considering the matter for a moment, Aydi answered, “Don’t worry, I’ll help you. Tomorrow night, when you’re sitting on top of the mountain, look straight ahead. I’ll be on the top of the mountain opposite, where I’ll keep a fire burning all night for you. Look at the fire and think of our friendship, and that will keep you warm. You’ll make it through the night, and afterward, I’ll ask you for something in return.”

  Ali won the wager, got the money, and went to his friend’s house.

  “You said you wanted some sort of payment in return.”

  Aydi said, “Yes, but it isn’t money. Promise that if ever a cold wind blows through my life, you will light the fire of friendship for me.”

  I thank the young woman for her kindness and tell her that I’m very busy, but that if she wants to go to the one signing session I’ll be giving in Moscow, I’ll be happy to sign one of her books.

  “That isn’t why I came. I know about your journey across Russia by train, and I’m going with you. When I read your first book, I heard a voice saying that you once lit a sacred fire for me and that one day I would have to repay the favor. I dreamed about that fire night after night, and even thought I would have to go to Brazil to find you. I know you need help, which is why I’m here.”

  The people with me laugh. I try to be polite, saying that I’m sure we’ll see each other the next day. My publisher explains to her that someone is waiting for me, and I seize that as an excuse to say good-bye.

  “My name is Hilal,” she says, before she leaves.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in my hotel room and have already forgotten about the girl who approached me outside the hotel. I can’t even remember her name, and if I were to meet her again now, I wouldn’t recognize her. However, something has left me feeling vaguely uneasy: in her eyes, I saw both love and death.

  I TAKE OFF ALL MY CLOTHES, turn on the shower, and stand beneath the water—one of my favorite rituals.

  I position my head so that all I can hear is the sound of the water in my ears, which cuts me off from everything else, transporting me into a different world. Like a conductor aware of every instrument in the orchestra, I begin to distinguish every sound, each one of which becomes a word. I can’t understand those words, but I know they exist.

  The tiredness, anxiety, and feeling of disorientation that come from visiting so many different countries vanishes. With each day that passes, I can see that the long journey is having the desired effect. J. was right. I had been allowing myself to be slowly poisoned by routine; showers were merely a matter of washing my skin clean, meals were for feeding my body, and the sole purpose of walks was to avoid heart problems in the future.

  Now things are changing, imperceptibly, but they are changing. Meals are times when I can venerate the presence and the teachings of friends, walks are once again meditations on the present mome
nt, and the sound of water in my ears silences my thoughts, calms me, and makes me relearn that it is these small daily gestures that bring us closer to God, as long as I am able to give each gesture the value it deserves.

  When J. said, “Leave your comfortable life and go in search of your kingdom,” I felt betrayed, confused, abandoned. I was hoping for a solution or an answer to my doubts, something that would console me and help me feel at peace with my soul again. Those who set off in search of their kingdom know that they are going to find, instead, only challenges, long periods of waiting, unexpected changes, or, even worse, nothing.

  I’m exaggerating. If we seek something, that same thing is seeking us.

  Nevertheless, you have to be prepared for everything. At this point, I make the decision I’ve been needing to make: even if I find nothing on this train journey, I will carry on, because I’ve known since that moment of realization in the hotel in London that although my roots are ready, my soul has been slowly dying from something very hard to detect and even harder to cure.

  Routine.

  Routine has nothing to do with repetition. To become really good at anything, you have to practice and repeat, practice and repeat, until the technique becomes intuitive. I learned this when I was a child, in a small town in Brazil’s interior where my family used to spend the summer holidays. I was fascinated by the work of a blacksmith who lived nearby. I would sit for what seemed like an eternity, watching his hammer rise and fall on the red-hot steel, scattering sparks all around, like fireworks. Once he said, “You probably think I’m doing the same thing over and over, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, you’re wrong. Each time I bring the hammer down, the intensity of the blow is different; sometimes it’s harder, sometimes it’s softer. But I learned that only after I’d been repeating the same gesture for many years, until the moment came when I didn’t have to think—I simply let my hand guide my work.”

  I’ve never forgotten those words.

  Sharing Souls

  I LOOK AT EACH OF MY READERS. I hold out my hand and thank them for being there. My body might be traveling, but when my soul flies from city to city, I am never alone; I am all the many people I meet and who have understood my soul through my books. I’m not a stranger here in Moscow, or in London, Sofia, Tunis, Kiev, Santiago de Compostela, Guimarães, or any of the other cities I’ve visited in the last month and a half.

  I can hear an argument going on behind me, but I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. The argument, however, shows no sign of abating. Finally, I turn around and ask my publisher what the problem is.

  “It’s that girl from yesterday. She says she wants to be near you.”

  I can’t even recall the girl from yesterday, but I ask them at least to stop arguing. I carry on signing books.

  Someone sits down close to me only to be removed by one of the uniformed security guards, and the argument starts again. I stop what I’m doing.

  Beside me is the girl whose eyes speak of love and death. For the first time, I take a proper look at her: dark hair, between twenty-two and twenty-nine years old (I’m useless at judging people’s ages), a beat-up leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.

  “We’ve checked the backpack,” says the security man, “and there’s nothing to worry about. But she can’t stay here.”

  The girl simply smiles. A reader is waiting for this conversation to end so that I can sign his books. I realize that the girl is not going to leave.

  “My name’s Hilal, don’t you remember? I came to light the sacred fire.”

  I lie and say that yes, of course I remember. The people in the queue are beginning to grow impatient. The reader at the head of the queue says something in Russian to her, and judging from his tone of voice, I sense that it was nothing very pleasant.

  There is a proverb in Portuguese, that says, “What can’t be cured must be endured.” Since I don’t have time for arguments now and need to make a quick decision, I simply ask her to move slightly farther off, so that I can have a little privacy with the people waiting. She does as asked, and goes to stand at a discreet distance from me.

  Seconds later, I have once again forgotten her existence and am concentrating on the task at hand. Everyone thanks me, and I thank them in return, and the four hours pass as if I were in paradise. I take a cigarette break every hour, but I’m not in the least tired. I leave each book-signing session with my batteries recharged and with more energy than ever.

  Afterward, I call for a round of applause for the organizers. It’s time to move on to my next engagement. The girl whose existence I had forgotten comes over to me.

  “I have something important to show you,” she says.

  “That’s not going to be possible,” I say. “I have a supper to go to.”

  “It’s perfectly possible,” she replies. “My name is Hilal. I was waiting for you yesterday outside your hotel. And I can show you what I want to show you here and now, while you’re waiting to leave.”

  Before I can respond, she takes a violin out of her backpack and starts to play.

  The readers, who had begun to drift away, return for this impromptu concert. Hilal plays with her eyes closed, as if she were in a trance. I watch the bow moving back and forth, lightly touching the strings and producing this music, which, even though I’ve never heard it before, is saying something that I and everyone else present need to hear. Sometimes she pauses; sometimes she seems to be in a state of ecstasy; sometimes her whole being dances with the instrument; but mostly only her upper body and her hands move.

  Every note leaves in each of us a memory, but it is the melody as a whole that tells a story, the story of someone wanting to get closer to another person and who keeps on trying, despite repeated rejections. While Hilal is playing, I remember the many occasions on which help has come from precisely those people whom I thought had nothing to add to my life.

  When she stops playing, there is no applause, nothing, only an almost palpable silence.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “I’ve shared a little of my soul, but there is still a lot to do before I can fulfill my mission. May I come with you?”

  Generally speaking, pushy people provoke one of two reactions in me: either I turn and walk away or I allow myself to be beguiled. I can’t tell someone that their dreams are impossible. Not everyone has the strength of mind that Mônica showed in that bar in Catalonia, and if I were to persuade just one person to stop fighting for something they were convinced was worthwhile, I would end up persuading myself, and my whole life would be diminished.

  It has been a very satisfying day. I phone the Brazilian ambassador and ask if he could include another guest at supper. Very kindly, he agrees, saying that my readers are my representatives.

  DESPITE THE FORMAL ATMOSPHERE, the ambassador manages to put everyone at ease. Hilal arrives wearing an outfit that I consider to be tasteless in the extreme, full of gaudy colors, in sharp contrast with the sober dress of the other guests. Not knowing quite where to put this last-minute arrival, the organizers end up seating her in the place of honor, next to our host.

  Before we sit down to supper, my best friend in Russia, an industrialist, explains that we’re going to have problems with the subagent, who spent the whole of the cocktail party prior to supper arguing with her husband over the phone.

  “About what, exactly?”

  “It seems that you agreed to go to the club where he’s the manager but canceled at the last minute.”

  There was something in my planner along the lines of “discuss the menu for the journey through Siberia,” which was the least and most irrelevant of my concerns on an afternoon during which I had received only positive energy. I canceled the meeting because it seemed so absurd; I’ve never discussed menus in my entire life. I preferred to go back to the hotel, take a shower, and let the sound of the water carry me off to places I can’t even explain to myself.

  Supper is served, parallel
conversations spring up around the table, and, at one point, the ambassador’s wife kindly asks Hilal about herself.

  “I was born in Turkey and came to study violin in Ekaterinburg when I was twelve. I assume you know how musicians are selected?”

  No, the ambassador’s wife doesn’t. Suddenly, there seem to be fewer parallel conversations going on. Perhaps everyone is interested in that awkward young woman in the garish clothes.

  “Any child who starts playing an instrument has to practice for a set number of hours per week. At that stage, they’re all deemed capable of performing in an orchestra one day. As they grow older, some start practicing more than others. In the end, there is just a small group of outstanding students who practice for nearly forty hours a week. Scouts from big orchestras visit the music schools in search of new talent, who are then invited to turn professional. That’s what happened to me.”

  “It would seem that you found your vocation,” says the ambassador. “We’re not all so lucky.”

  “It wasn’t exactly my vocation. I started practicing a lot because I was sexually abused when I was ten.”

  All conversation around the table stops. The ambassador tries to change the subject and makes some comment about Brazil negotiating with Russia on the export and import of heavy machinery, but no one, absolutely no one, is interested in my country’s trade balance. It falls to me to pick up the thread of the story.

  “Hilal, if you wouldn’t mind, I think everyone here would be interested to know what relation there is between being a young victim of sexual abuse and becoming a violin virtuoso.”

  “What does your name mean?” asks the ambassador’s wife in a last desperate attempt to take the conversation off in another direction.

  “In Turkish it means ‘new moon.’ It’s the symbol on our national flag. My father was an ardent nationalist. Actually, it’s a name more common among boys than girls. It has another meaning in Arabic, apparently, but I don’t quite know what.”