Aleph Read online

  So he had witnessed the moment when Hilal and I entered the Aleph.

  I look around the room again, thank him for having brought me there, and ask if we can continue our walk.

  “Don’t make that young woman suffer,” he says. “Whenever I see her looking at you, it seems to me that you must have known each other for a long time.”

  I think to myself that this really isn’t something I should concern myself with.

  “You asked me on the train if I would like to go somewhere with you tonight. Is that offer still open? We can talk more about all this later. If you had ever seen me watching my wife sleeping, you would be able to read my eyes and understand why we’ve been married for nearly thirty years.”

  WALKING IS DOING WONDERS for my body and soul. I’m completely focused on the present moment, for that is where all signs, parallel worlds, and miracles are to be found. Time really doesn’t exist. Yao can speak of the tsar’s death as if it had happened yesterday and show me the wounds of his love as if they had appeared only minutes before, while I remember the platform at Moscow station as if it belongs to the distant past.

  We sit down in a park and watch the people passing: women with children; men in a hurry; boys standing around a radio blasting out music; girls gathered opposite them, talking animatedly about something utterly unimportant; and older people wearing long winter coats, even though it’s spring. Yao buys us a couple of hot dogs and rejoins me.

  “Is it difficult to write?” he asks.

  “No. Is it difficult to learn so many foreign languages?”

  “No, not really. You just have to pay attention.”

  “Well, I pay attention all the time, but I’ve never got beyond what I learned as a boy.”

  “And I’ve never tried to write, because as a child I was told that I’d have to study really hard, read lots of boring books, and mix with intellectuals. And I hate intellectuals.”

  I don’t know if this remark is intended for me or not. I have my mouth full of hot dog, and so don’t reply. I think again about Hilal and the Aleph. Perhaps she found the experience so alarming that she’s gone home and decided not to continue the journey. A few months ago, I would have been driven frantic if a process like this had failed to run its full course, believing that my entire apprenticeship depended on it. But it’s a sunny day, and if the world seems to be at peace, that’s because it is.

  “What do you need in order to be able to write?” Yao asks.

  “To love. As you loved your wife, or, rather, as you love your wife.”

  “Is that all?”

  “You see this park? There are all kinds of stories here, and even though they’ve been told many times, they still deserve to be told again. The writer, the singer, the gardener, the translator, we are all a mirror of our time. We all pour our love into our work. In my case, obviously, reading is very important, but anyone who puts all his faith in academic tomes and creative-writing courses is missing the point: words are life set down on paper. So seek out the company of others.”

  “Whenever I saw those literature courses at the university where I taught, it all seemed to me so…”

  “Artificial?” I ask, completing his sentence. “No one can learn to love by following a manual, and no one can learn to write by following a course. I’m not telling you to seek out other writers but to find people with different skills from yourself, because writing is no different from any other activity done with joy and enthusiasm.”

  “What about writing a book about the last days of Nicholas the Second?”

  “It’s not a subject that really interests me. It’s an extraordinary story, but for me, writing is, above all, about discovering myself. If I had to give you one piece of advice, it would be this: don’t be intimidated by other people’s opinions. Only mediocrity is sure of itself, so take risks and do what you really want to do. Seek out people who aren’t afraid of making mistakes and who, therefore, do make mistakes. Because of that, their work often isn’t recognized, but they are precisely the kind of people who change the world and, after many mistakes, do something that will transform their own community completely.”

  “Like Hilal.”

  “Yes, like Hilal. But let me say one thing: what you felt for your wife, I feel for mine. I’m no saint, and I have no intention of becoming one, but, to use your image, we were two clouds, and now we are one. We were two ice cubes that the sunlight melted, and now we are the same free-flowing water.”

  “And yet, when I walked past and saw the way you and Hilal were looking at each other…”

  I don’t respond, and he lets the matter drop.

  In the park, the boys never look at the girls standing just a few meters from them, even though the two groups are clearly fascinated by each other. The older people walk past, thinking about their childhood. Mothers smile at their children as if they were all future artists, millionaires, and presidents of the republic. The scene before us is a synthesis of human behavior.

  “I’ve lived in many countries,” says Yao. “And obviously, I’ve been through some difficult times, known injustice, and fallen flat on my face when everyone expected the best from me. But those memories have no relevance to my life. The important things that stay are the moments spent listening to people singing, telling stories, enjoying life. I lost my wife twenty years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday. She’s still here, sitting on this bench with us, remembering the happy times we had together.”

  Yes, she’s still here, and I would explain that to him if I could find the words.

  My emotions have been very close to the surface ever since I saw the Aleph and understood what J. meant. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to solve this problem, but at least I’m aware that it exists.

  “It’s always worth telling a story, even if only to your family. How many children do you have?”

  “Two sons and two daughters. But they’re not interested in my stories. They say they’ve heard them all before. Are you going to write a book about your trip on the Trans-Siberian Railway?”

  “No.”

  Even if I wanted to, how could I describe the Aleph?

  The Aleph

  THE OMNIPRESENT HILAL HAS STILL NOT REAPPEARED.

  After keeping my feelings to myself throughout most of the supper, saying how well the signing session went and thanking everyone for that and for the Russian music and dance put on for me at the party afterward (bands in Moscow and in other countries always tend to stick to an international repertoire), I finally ask if anyone had remembered to give her the address of the restaurant.

  They stare at me in amazement. Of course they hadn’t! They all thought I was finding the girl a real pest. It was just lucky she didn’t turn up during the signing session.

  “She might have given another of her violin recitals, hoping to steal the limelight again,” says my editor.

  Yao is watching me from the other side of the table. He knows that I mean the exact opposite, and that I would love her to be here. But why? So that I could visit the Aleph again and go through a door that only ever brings me bad memories? I know where that door leads. I’ve been through it four times before and have never been able to find the answer I need. That isn’t what I came looking for when I began the long journey back to my kingdom.

  We finish supper. The two readers’ representatives, chosen at random, take photographs and ask if I would like them to show me the city. I tell them yes, I would.

  “We already have a date,” says Yao.

  My publishers’ irritation, previously directed at Hilal and her insistence on being with me all the time, is now turned on my interpreter, whom they employed and who is now demanding my presence when it should be the other way around.

  “I think Paulo’s tired,” says my publisher. “It’s been a long day.”

  “He’s not tired. His energy levels are fine after all the loving vibes from this evening.”

  My publishers are right about Yao. He does seem to
want to show everyone that he occupies a privileged position in “my kingdom.” I understand his sadness at losing the woman he loved, and, when the moment comes, I’ll find the right words to say this. I’m afraid, though, that what he wants is to tell me “an amazing story that would make a fantastic book.” I’ve heard this many times before, especially from people who have lost someone they love.

  I decide to try to please everyone.

  “I’ll walk back to the hotel with Yao. After that, I need a bit of time alone.” This will be my first night alone since we set off.

  …

  THE TEMPERATURE HAS DROPPED more than we imagined, the wind is blowing, and it feels intensely cold. We walk along a crowded street, and I see that I’m not the only one wanting to head straight home. The doors of the shops are closing, the chairs are already piled up on the tables, and the neon lights are starting to go out. Even so, after a day and a half shut up in a train and knowing that we still have many, many kilometers ahead of us, I need to take every opportunity to do some physical exercise.

  Yao stops next to a van selling drinks and asks for two orange juices. I don’t particularly want to drink anything, but perhaps a little vitamin C would be a good idea in this cold weather.

  “Keep the cup.”

  I don’t quite know why he’s telling me to do so, but I do as he says. We continue walking down what must be the main street in Ekaterinburg. At one point, we stop outside a cinema.

  “Perfect. With your hood and scarf on, no one will recognize you. Let’s do a little begging.”

  “Begging? Look, I haven’t done that since my hippie days, and besides, it would be an insult to people who are in real need.”

  “But you are in real need. When we visited the Ipatiev House, there were moments when you simply weren’t there, when you seemed distant, trapped in the past, constrained by everything you’ve achieved and by everything you’re doing your best to cling onto. I’m worried about the girl, too, but if you really want to change, then begging will help you become more innocent, more open.”

  I am worried about Hilal, but I tell him that—while I understand what he’s saying—one of my many motives for making this trip is to travel back into the past, into what lies underground, to my roots.

  I’m about to tell him about the Chinese bamboo but decide against it.

  “You’re the one who’s trapped by time. You refuse to accept that your wife is dead, which is why she’s still here by your side, trying to console you, when, by now, she should be moving on toward an encounter with the Divine Light. No one ever loses anyone. We are all one soul that needs to continue growing and developing in order for the world to carry on and for us all to meet once again. Sadness really doesn’t help.”

  He thinks about what I’ve said, then adds, “But that can’t be the whole answer.”

  “No, it’s not,” I agree. “When the time is right, I’ll explain more fully. Now, let’s go back to the hotel.”

  Yao holds out his cup and starts asking for money from passersby. He suggests that I do the same.

  “Some Zen Buddhist monks in Japan told me about takuhatsu, the begging pilgrimage. As well as helping the monasteries, which depend for their existence on donations, it teaches the student monk humility. It has another purpose, too, that of purifying the town in which the monk lives. This is because, according to Zen philosophy, the giver, the beggar, and the alms money itself all form part of an important chain of equilibrium. The person doing the begging does so because he’s needy, but the person doing the giving also does so out of need. The alms money serves as a link between these two needs, and the atmosphere in the town improves because everyone is able to act in a way in which he or she needed to act. You are on a pilgrimage, and it’s time to do something for the cities you visit.”

  I’m so surprised, I don’t know what to say. Realizing that he might have gone too far, Yao starts putting his plastic cup back into his pocket.

  “No,” I say, “it’s a really good idea!”

  For the next ten minutes, we stand there, on opposite pavements, shifting from foot to foot to stave off the cold, our cups held out to the people who pass. At first, I say nothing, but I gradually lose my inhibitions and start asking for help as a poor lost stranger.

  I’ve never felt awkward about asking. I’ve known lots of people who care about others and are extremely generous when it comes to giving and who feel real pleasure when someone asks them for advice or help. And that’s fine; it’s a good thing to help your neighbor. On the other hand, I know very few people capable of receiving, even when the gift is given with love and generosity. It’s as if the act of receiving made them feel inferior, as if depending on someone else was undignified. They think, If someone is giving us something, that’s because we’re incapable of getting it for ourselves. Or else, The person giving me this now will one day ask for it back with interest. Or, even worse, I don’t deserve to be treated well.

  But those ten minutes remind me of the person I was; they educate me, free me. In the end, when I cross the street to join Yao, I have the equivalent of eleven dollars in my plastic cup. Yao has about the same amount. And contrary to what he thought, it had been a really enjoyable return to the past, reliving something I hadn’t experienced in ages and thus renewing not only the city but myself.

  “What shall we do with the money?” I ask.

  My view of him is beginning to shift again. He knows some things, and I know others, and there’s no reason why we can’t continue this mutual learning experience.

  “In theory, it’s ours, because it was given to us, but it’s best to keep it somewhere separate and spend it on something you think is important.”

  I put the coins in my left pocket, intending to do exactly that. We walk quickly back to the hotel, because the time we’ve spent outside has burned up all the calories we consumed at supper.

  WHEN WE REACH THE LOBBY, the omnipresent Hilal is waiting for us. And a very pretty woman and a gentleman in a suit and tie stand next to her.

  “Hello,” I say to Hilal. “I understand that you’ve gone back home, but it’s been a pleasure to have traveled this first leg of the journey with you. Are these your parents?”

  The man does not react, but the pretty woman laughs.

  “If only we were! She’s a prodigy, this girl. It’s a shame she can’t spend more time on her vocation, though. The world is missing out on a great artist!”

  Hilal appears not to have heard this remark. She turns to me and says, “ ‘Hello’? Is that all you’ve got to say to me after what happened on the train?”

  The woman looks shocked. I can imagine what she’s thinking: What exactly happened on the train? And don’t I realize that I’m old enough to be Hilal’s father?

  Yao says that it’s time he went up to his room. The man in the suit and tie remains impassive, possibly because he doesn’t understand English.

  “Nothing happened on the train, at least not the kind of thing you’re imagining. And as for you, Hilal, what were you expecting me to say? That I missed you? I spent all day worrying about you.”

  The woman translates this for the man in the suit and tie, and everyone smiles, including Hilal. She has understood from my response that I really had missed her, since I had said so quite spontaneously.

  I ask Yao to stay a little longer because I don’t know where this conversation is going to lead. We sit down and order some tea. The woman introduces herself as a violin teacher and explains that the gentleman with them is the director of the local conservatory.

  “I think Hilal’s wasting her talents,” says the teacher. “She’s so unsure of herself. I’ve told her this over and over, and I’ll say it again now. She has no confidence in what she does; she thinks no one recognizes her worth, that people dislike the things she plays. But it isn’t true.”

  Hilal unsure of herself? I have rarely met anyone more determined.

  “And like all sensitive people,” continues the teacher, fix
ing me with her gentle, placatory eyes, “she is a little, shall we say, unstable.”

  “Unstable!” says Hilal loudly. “That’s a polite way of saying mad!”

  The teacher turns affectionately toward her and then back to me, expecting me to say something. I say nothing.

  “I know that you can help her. I understand that you heard her playing the violin in Moscow, and that she was applauded there. That gives you some idea of just how talented she is, because people in Moscow are very discerning when it comes to music. Hilal is very disciplined and works harder than most. She’s already played with large orchestras here in Russia and has traveled abroad with one of them. Suddenly, though, something seems to have happened, and she can’t make any more progress.”

  I believe in this woman’s tender concern for Hilal. I think she really does want to help Hilal and all of us. But those words—“Suddenly, though, something seems to have happened, and she can’t make any more progress”—echo in my heart. I am here for that same reason.

  The man in the suit and tie does not speak. He must be there to provide moral support for the talented young violinist and the lovely woman with the gentle eyes. Yao pretends to be concentrating on his tea.

  “But what can I do?”

  “You know what you can do. She’s not a child anymore, but her parents are worried about her. She can’t just abandon her professional career in the middle of rehearsals to follow an illusion.”

  She pauses, realizing that she has not said quite the right thing.

  “What I mean is, she can travel to the Pacific coast whenever she likes, but not now, when we’re rehearsing for a concert.”

  I agree. It doesn’t matter what I say. Hilal will do exactly as she wants. I wonder if she brought these two people here to put me to the test, to find out if she really is welcome or if she should stop the journey now.

  “Thank you very much for coming to see me. I respect your concern and your commitment to music,” I say, getting up. “But I wasn’t the one who invited Hilal along on the journey. I didn’t pay for her ticket. I don’t even really know her.”