Entertailment Page

Entertainment



👁 :
The Case of the Missing Will author name : Agatha Christie
Catagory:Reading
Author:
Posted Date:12/02/2024
Posted By:utopia online

The problem presented to us by Miss Violet Marsh made rather a pleasant change from our usual routine work. Poirot had received a brisk and business-like note from the lady asking for an appointment, and he had replied asking her to call upon him at eleven o’clock the following day. She arrived punctually—a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but neatly dressed, with an assured and business-like manner. Clearly a young woman who meant to get on in the world. I am not a great admirer of the so-called New Woman myself, and, in spite of her good looks, I was not particularly prepossessed in her favour. “My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, Monsieur Poirot,” she began, after she had accepted a chair. “I had better begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story.” “If you please, mademoiselle.” “I am an orphan. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small yeoman farmer in Devonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the elder brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia, where he did very well indeed, and by means of successful speculation in land became a very rich man. The younger brother, Roger (my father), had no leanings towards the agricultural life. He managed to educate himself a little, and obtained a post as a clerk with a small firm. He married slightly above him; my mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was six years old. When I was fourteen, my mother followed him to the grave. My only living relation then was my Uncle Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place, Crabtree Manor, in his native county. He was exceedingly kind to his brother’s orphan child, took me to live with him, and treated me in every way as though I was his own daughter. “Crabtree Manor, in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse. Farming was in my uncle’s blood, and he was intensely interested in various modern farming experiments. Although kindness itself to me, he had certain peculiar and deeply-rooted ideas as to the up-bringing of women. Himself a man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable shrewdness, he placed little value on what he called ‘book knowledge.’ He was especially opposed to the education of women. In his opinion, girls should learn practical housework and dairy-work, be useful about the home, and have as little to do with book learning as possible. He proposed to bring me up on these lines, to my bitter disappointment and annoyance. I rebelled frankly. I knew that I possessed a good brain, and had absolutely no talent for domestic duties. My uncle and I had many bitter arguments on the subject, for, though much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in getting my own way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Girton. I had a little money of my own, left me by my mother, and I was quite determined to make the best use of the gifts God had given me. I had one long, final argument with my uncle. He put the facts plainly before me. He had no other relations, and he had intended me to be his sole heiress. As I have told you, he was a very rich man. If I persisted in these ‘new-fangled notions’ of mine, however, I need look for nothing from him. I remained polite, but firm. I should always be deeply attached to him, I told him, but I must lead my own life. We parted on that note. ‘You fancy your brains, my girl,’ were his last words. ‘I’ve no book learning, but, for all that, I’ll pit mine against yours any day. We’ll see what we shall see.’ “That was nine years ago. I have stayed with him for a week-end occasionally, and our relations were perfectly amicable, though his views remained unaltered. He never referred to my having matriculated, nor to my B.Sc. For the last three years his health had been failing, and a month ago he died. “I am now coming to the point of my visit. My uncle left a most extraordinary will. By its terms, Crabtree Manor and its contents are to be at my disposal for a year from his death—‘during which time my clever niece may prove her wits,’ the actual words run. At the end of that period, ‘my wits having proved better than hers,’ the house and all my uncle’s large fortune pass to various charitable institutions.” “That is a little hard on you, mademoiselle, seeing that you were Mr. Marsh’s only blood relation.” “I do not look on it in that way. Uncle Andrew warned me fairly, and I chose my own path. Since I would not fall in with his wishes, he was at perfect liberty to leave his money to whom he pleased.” “Was the will drawn up by a lawyer?” “No; it was written on a printed will-form and witnessed by the man and his wife who live in the house and do for my uncle.” “There might be a possibility of upsetting such a will?” “I would not even attempt to do such a thing.” “You regard it, then, as a sporting challenge on the part of your uncle?” “That is exactly how I look upon it.” “It bears that interpretation, certainly,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Somewhere in this rambling old manor-house your uncle has concealed either a sum of money in notes or possibly a second will, and has given you a year in which to exercise your ingenuity to find it.” “Exactly, Monsieur Poirot; and I am paying you the compliment of assuming that your ingenuity will be greater than mine.” “Eh, eh! but that is very charming of you. My grey cells are at your disposal. You have made no search yourself?” “Only a cursory one; but I have too much respect for my uncle’s undoubted abilities to fancy that the task will be an easy one.” “Have you the will or a copy of it with you?” Miss Marsh handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself. “Made three years ago. Dated March 25; and the time is given also—11 a.m.—that is very suggestive. It narrows the field of search. Assuredly it is another will we have to seek for. A will made even half-an-hour later would upset this. Eh bien, mademoiselle, it is a problem charming and ingenious that you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world in solving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his grey cells cannot have been of the quality of Hercule Poirot’s!” (Really, Poirot’s vanity is blatant!) “Fortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings and I will go down to Crabtree Manor to-night. The man and wife who attended on your uncle are still there, I presume?” “Yes, their name is Baker.” • • • • • • • The following morning saw us started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Baker, having received a telegram from Miss Marsh, were expecting us. They were a pleasant couple, the man gnarled and pink-cheeked, like a shrivelled pippin, and his wife a woman of vast proportions and true Devonshire calm. Tired with our journey and the eight-mile drive from the station, we had retired at once to bed after a supper of roast chicken, apple pie, and Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of an excellent breakfast, and were sitting in a small panelled room which had been the late Mr. Marsh’s study and living-room. A roll-top desk stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood against the wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner’s constant resting-place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wall, and the deep low window seats were covered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern. “Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, “we must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of opinion that any clue will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care. Naturally, I do not expect to find the will amongst them; but it is likely that some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding-place. But first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you.” I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up and down, looking about him approvingly. “A man of method this Mr. Marsh. See how neatly the packets of papers are docketed; then the key to each drawer has its ivory label—so has the key of the china cabinet on the wall; and see with what precision the china within is arranged. It rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye——” He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which a dirty envelope was affixed. Poirot frowned at it and withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawled the words: “Key of Roll Top Desk,” in a crabbed handwriting, quite unlike the neat superscriptions on the other keys. “An alien note,” said Poirot, frowning. “I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh, and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.” Baker came in answer to the bell. “Will you fetch madame your wife, and answer a few questions?” Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs. Baker, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face. In a few clear words Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The Bakers were immediately sympathetic. “Us don’t want to see Miss Violet done out of what’s hers,” declared the woman. “Cruel hard ’twould be for hospitals to get it all.” Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker remembered perfectly witnessing the will. Baker had previously been sent into the neighbouring town to get two printed will-forms. “Two?” said Poirot sharply. “Yes, sir, for safety like, I suppose, in case he should spoil one—and sure enough, so he did do. Us had signed one——” “What time of day was that?” Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker. “Why, to be sure, I’d just put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven. Don’t ee remember? It had all boiled over on the stove when us got back to kitchen.” “And afterwards?” “’Twould be about an hour later. Us had to go in again. ‘I’ve made a mistake,’ says old master, ‘had to tear the whole thing up. I’ll trouble you to sign again,’ and us did. And afterwards master give us a tidy sum of money each. ‘I’ve left you nothing in my will,’ says he, ‘but each year I live you’ll have this to be a nest-egg when I’m gone’; and sure enough, so he did.” Poirot reflected. “After you had signed the second time, what did Mr. Marsh do? Do you know?” “Went out to the village to pay tradesmen’s books.” That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk. “Is that your master’s writing?” I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied: “Yes, sir, it is.” “He’s lying,” I thought. “But why?” “Has your master let the house?—have there been any strangers in it during the last three years?” “No, sir.” “No visitors?” “Only Miss Violet.” “No strangers of any kind been inside this room?” “No, sir.” “You forget the workmen, Jim,” his wife reminded him. “Workmen?” Poirot wheeled round on her. “What workmen?” The woman explained that about two years and a half ago workmen had been in the house to do certain repairs. She was quite vague as to what the repairs were. Her view seemed to be that the whole thing was a fad of her master’s and quite unnecessary. Part of the time the workmen had been in the study; but what they had done there she could not say, as her master had not let either of them into the room whilst the work was in progress. Unfortunately, they could not remember the name of the firm employed, beyond the fact that it was a Plymouth one. “We progress, Hastings,” said Poirot, rubbing his hands as the Bakers left the room. “Clearly he made a second will and then had workmen from Plymouth in to make a suitable hiding-place. Instead of wasting time taking up the floor and tapping the walls, we will go to Plymouth.” With a little trouble, we were able to get the information we wanted. After one or two essays, we found the firm employed by Mr. Marsh. Their employees had all been with them many years, and it was easy to find the two men who had worked under Mr. Marsh’s orders. They remembered the job perfectly. Amongst various other minor jobs, they had taken up one of the bricks of the old-fashioned fireplace, made a cavity beneath, and so cut the brick that it was impossible to see the join. By pressing on the second brick from the end, the whole thing was raised. It had been quite a complicated piece of work, and the old gentleman had been very fussy about it. Our informant was a man called Coghan, a big, gaunt man with a grizzled moustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow. We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits, and, locking the study door, proceeded to put our newly acquired knowledge into effect. It was impossible to see any sign on the bricks, but when we pressed in the manner indicated, a deep cavity was at once disclosed. Eagerly Poirot plunged in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from complacent elation to consternation. All he held was a charred fragment of stiff paper. But for it, the cavity was empty. “Sacré!” cried Poirot angrily. “Some one has been before us.” We examined the scrap of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment of what we sought. A portion of Baker’s signature remained, but no indication of what the terms of the will had been. Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been comical if we had not been so overcome. “I understand it not,” he growled. “Who destroyed this? And what was their object?” “The Bakers?” I suggested. “Pourquoi? Neither will makes any provision for them, and they are more likely to be kept on with Miss Marsh than if the place became the property of a hospital. How could it be to anyone’s advantage to destroy the will? The hospitals benefit—yes; but one cannot suspect institutions.” “Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself,” I suggested. Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care. “That may be,” he admitted. “One of your more sensible observations, Hastings. Well, we can do no more here. We have done all that mortal man can do. We have successfully pitted our wits against the late Andrew Marsh’s; but, unfortunately, his niece is no better off for our success.” By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a train to London, though not the principal express. Poirot was sad and dissatisfied. For my part, I was tired and dozed in a corner. Suddenly, as we were just moving out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a piercing squeal. “Vite, Hastings! Awake and jump! But jump I say!” Before I knew where I was we were standing on the platform, bareheaded and minus our valises, whilst the train disappeared into the night. I was furious. But Poirot paid no attention. “Imbecile that I have been!” he cried. “Triple imbecile! Not again will I vaunt my little grey cells!” “That’s a good job at any rate,” I said grumpily. “But what is this all about?” As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely no attention to me. “The tradesmen’s books—I have left them entirely out of account! Yes, but where? Where? Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must return at once.” Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter, and there Poirot hired a car. We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in the small hours of the morning. I pass over the bewilderment of the Bakers when we had at last aroused them. Paying no attention to anybody, Poirot strode at once to the study. “I have been, not a triple imbecile, but thirty-six times one, my friend,” he deigned to remark. “Now, behold!” Going straight to the desk, he drew out the key, and detached the envelope from it. I stared at him stupidly. How could he possibly hope to find a big will-form in that tiny envelope? With great care he cut open the envelope, laying it out flat. Then he lighted the fire and held the plain inside surface of the envelope to the flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear. “Look, mon ami!” cried Poirot in triumph. I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating briefly that he left everything to his niece, Violet Marsh. It was dated March 25, 12.30 p.m., and witnessed by Albert Pike, confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman. “But is it legal?” I gasped. “As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the testator is clear, and the beneficiary is his only living relation. But the cleverness of him! He foresaw every step that a searcher would take—that I, miserable imbecile, took. He gets two will-forms, makes the servants sign twice, then sallies out with his will written on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain-pen containing his little ink mixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his own signature, then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles to himself. If his niece sees through his little ruse, she will have justified her choice of life and elaborate education, and be thoroughly welcome to his money.” “She didn’t see through it, did she?” I said slowly. “It seems rather unfair. The old man really won.” “But no, Hastings. It is your wits that go astray. Miss Marsh proved the astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher education for women by at once putting the matter in my hands. Always employ the expert. She has amply proved her right to the money.” I wonder—I very much wonder—what old Andrew Marsh would have thought!


Type:Social
👁 :
Going online will make me rich, right?
Catagory:Reading
Author:
Posted Date:12/02/2024
Posted By:utopia online

The number of services is enormous. It takes time to find the truly interesting stuff. - Knowledge is power. - A large personal network gives you a punch. - The value of information, and of having a good time. Knowledge is Power My wife has a rare and dangerous kidney disease. One day her doctor joined us on an online research session to look for experiences and advice in other countries. We sat down in my office in Norway. I turned on my personal computer and started a communications program. After some keypresses, we could hear the attached modem dial the number of CompuServe, a North American information utility. (A modem is a piece of equipment that converts computer signals to and from sound codes, so that data can be sent by phone.) It took just a few seconds to make the connection. Soon, a greeting scrolled over our screen, followed by a menu of available choices. For an introduction to practical telecommunications, check out appendix 2 and 3. Appendix 1 lists major services mentioned in this book. We selected "Health" and the "Data Base for Rare diseases." This gave the address of an American foundation for "cysts in kidneys," which is the name of her disease. My wife made contact, and has since received regular reports of research results and experiences gained in the field. We sent an open request for help to an electronic forum for doctors. The result was several useful responses. We searched a magazine data base for medical articles containing the key word "kidney." Paper copies of the most interesting finds arrived by mail after a few days. My wife gave them to her hospital doctor as background reading. Kenya Saikawa is paralyzed. He communicates with his PC and modem using light key strokes and Morse code. Online communications allows Kenya to be in regular contact with people outside the walls of his Tokyo hospital. We met online in a "Handicap Club" on a computer center called TWICS in Tokyo. He was there to exchange experiences with others with disabilities. The club is a personal support group for those in need of help. CompuServe's Cancer Forum has a similar function. "It's a blessing that I can visit here 24 hours a day," one visitor said. "When I'm unable to sleep at night, I often sit down by the PC to read and write messages to others." The forum is like a family. The file library is full of information about cancer. Members can just go in there and pick up whatever they want to read. Dave Hughes from Old Colorado Springs, Colorado in the United States has had a long career as a professional soldier. He has fought in places like the Yalue river in Korea and Vietnam's jungle. When he retired, he became a political online force. "I'm using the new tools of the individual mind to change the world," he says. Native American Indians are among those, who have benefited from Dave's energy and knowledge. He has helped them show their culture to the outside world in a graphical form. Vladimir Makarenkov from the Crimea in the Ukraine is manager in a company called VINKO. In early 1993, he distributed an offer of partnership with foreign companies through the mailing list E- EUROPE. VINKO is into aluminium processing. He wrote: "From our own production we can offer some one metals and aniline dye for cotton, viscose, wool, silk, leather. We are interested in deliveries of chemical production (gamma acid, H- acid) and not quickly deteriorating foods (food concentrates, canned food etc)." George Pavlov is Planning and Reporting manager at an American computer manufacturer. Daily, he logs on to online services to monitor industry product announcements and daily news from several electronic sources. It helps him stay ahead of rapid technological developments. Semafor A/S in Arendal, Norway, produces modems and other types of telecommunications equipment. They operate an electronic bulletin board for customers, users and prospects. Anybody can call in to get information about products and offerings. If they need help, they can leave a message to Semafor A/S day and night. A response will be waiting for them, when they call back. Eduardo Salom heads Software Plus SA in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He discovered the online world in 1988, and uses it to find information that can help his company develop industrial applications. The Norwegian civil engineer Kai Oestreng regularly calls specialized online computer clubs to discuss his computational needs, fetch programs and monitor developments. Mary Lou Rebelo was born in southern Brazil. Today, she is married to a Japanese and lives in Tokyo. She teaches Portuguese and works as a translator. The modem enables her to keep in touch with others around the world interested in Portuguese and Spanish language and culture. Mike Wright teaches at St. Andrew's College in Grahamstown, South Africa. He integrates the online world in his teaching to motivate his students. His classes are involved in international projects with schools all over the globe. In August 1991, the "Old Stalinists" made a coup d'etat in the Soviet Union. The news media were silenced, but they forgot the country's many bulletin boards. Early one morning, a foreign caller picked up the following messages from a Moscow BBS Some news from the square news RSFSR white building, 23:00. Local inhabitants are very welcome for the people guarding 'white building', they carry food and some garments to the square. Approx. 8 tanks stand by the house under the RSFSR flags! There is an information that 'white house' is surrounded by the soldiers from Vysshee Desantnoye uchilische from Ryazan. The people are not so desperate than some hours ago. There are more and more people. I am a journalist on the London Daily newspaper *The Independent*, and I am trying to discover whether this technology, like fax machines, is being used for independent communication now that the censors have clamped down on everything else. Can people describe what is happening, and what they see? Something similar was done on Compuserve during the Gulf War, by subscribers who where in Israel and were able to describe Scud missile attacks without censorship. There is shooting near the American embassy and RSFSR state building. Informer said (by phone) that he saw several victims (shot and killed under the tanks. there is fire near the RSFSR building. Moscow, August 21, 1:15 am Telecommunications played a role in this historic event. While CNN televised the coup, it was not the images, but the words of men like Yeltsin that held sway for Russian citizens. Within hours of Yeltsin's statement in defiance of the coup leaders, handbills reproducing his statement papered the walls of the Moscow metro and Leningrad houses. Telecommunications played a role in this historic event. While CNN televised the coup, it was not the images, but the words of men like Yeltsin that held sway for Russian citizens. Within hours of Yeltsin's statement in defiance of the coup leaders, handbills reproducing his statement papered the walls of the Moscow metro and Leningrad houses. You can! Online communication is not just for the privileged or those with a special interest in computers. It is for you, me, and everybody. There is much to learn in the "online land," and the medium is fascinating. It makes learning fun. You can learn about how to use your computer, about your profession, other people's views about whatever, and more. Often, you will find reports about experiences and know-how that it is hard or impractical to get in other ways. Some users go online to learn how to do things better. Teachers want to give their students a better and more motivating learning environment. Architects, engineers and companies want increased competitiveness and sales. They seek timely information about competitors, technologies and tools, partners and trends. You can take a Masters Degree in Business Administration while sitting in front of your computer at home. You can join online seminars arranged by local or foreign educational institutes. You can even study at night, when the rest of your family has calmed down. Some build their own educational programs supported by data bases, online forums and associations of various kinds. You may feel helpless when in hospital, or when visiting your doctor. Knowledge about your disease will make you better equipped to handle the situation. The online resource is just keypresses away, and knowledge is power. To get this power, you'll need to know what you can get from the online world. This book is filled with examples of what is available, and practical tips about how to use the offerings A large personal network gives strength Most of us belong to one or several networks. They consist of persons that you can call on whenever you need help. Your network may be private, like in your family. You may be member of various associations, or be part of a group of people with common interests within a company or organization. The modem allows you to be part of more personal networks than you can possibly cope with in the "real world." Besides, it's much easier to develop personal networks in the online world. We have used words like "clubs" and "associations." By this we mean groups of people interested in helping You and in participating in what You happen to be interested in. Today's communications technology lets us participate in networks in other countries at a very low cost. Many describe it as participation "beyond time and space." Write a message and send it to a person in your network. It arrives in his/her "mailbox" within minutes (sometimes seconds) and stays there until the recipient wants to read it. This built-in ability to send messages to other people's electronic mailboxes reduces the power that time and geographical distances have over our lives. A friend in a remote country gets out of bed nine hours after you, but keeps going well into what, for you, is the next morning. No problem. You can send letters when you're awake and receive replies when you're asleep. You can pick up and read your friend's messages the next day or whenever you feel like doing it. That is how two people as far apart as Arendal, Norway and Beijing, China could be involved in the development of this book. Sometimes "real time" discussions are important. Consider the following example. CompuServe has a Diabetes Forum. You can call there any time, day or night, seven days a week. Whenever you feel like it. You will always find someone to chat with who understands and shares your problems. Real-time chatting may become expensive, but you are free to decide your level of involvement. If you think that $10 spent is enough, then just stop there. What is the point? Thousands of commercial and noncommercial online services offer over 5,000 online databases. These infobases are repositories of electronic information. They contain full-text and reference books, magazines, newspapers, radio and TV shows, reports, and more. In 1992, BiblioData (USA) found that around 4,000 titles magazines, newspapers, etc.) were available online in full-text. You will find facts and figures about almost anything in the online world. The world has over 100,000 public bulletin board systems (1993). Most are small information centers, running on personal computers using a simple computer program and modems. People call in to read messages and information, retrieve free software, or just to have a good time. Most BBSes are free. Some charge a small annual fee. The largest board has 213 telephone lines, seven gigabytes of storage for letters, conferences, computer programs, and more (1993). Mind you, 7 gigabytes is a lot. It is equivalent to more than 7,000,000,000 characters, or a whopping 12,000 copies of this book! The entrepreneur sees the online world as a new, profitable playground. Many of them have made it their profession to search for information for others, and they earn a good living doing so. Others advertise and sell products and services by modem. Some set up their own online services to sell knowledge and know- how, be it of aqua culture, wine production, marketing, or about the petroleum offshore market. In business, it pays to be one step ahead of the competition. Early warnings of customers' needs, competitors' moves, and emerging opportunities can be turned into fortunes. It can reduce potential losses and help develop businesses in more profitable directions. Turn this to your advantage. Build your own early warning system that monitors online information sources and networks. Have fun The online world has an abundance of joke clubs, dramatic adventure games with multiple players, and large archives filled with computer game software. You can transfer these programs to your personal computer and be ready to play in minutes. Others may feel more entertained when things get "interesting." Surely, those calling Moscow in August 1991 for news about the coup must have had a strange sensation in the stomach. Some online users react quickly when dramatic events occur. They go online to read the news directly from the wires, from Associated Press, TASS, Reuters, Xinhua Press, Kyodo News and others. Usually, the online news is coming directly to you from the journalists' keyboards. Often, you heard it here first. Other people prefer to socialize. They meet in online "meeting places" to debate everything from Africa and the administration of kindergartens to poetry, LISP programming and compressed video for multimedia applications. It has been claimed that increased use of online networking in a country can effect social changes within politics, economics, communication and science. It can support democratic tendencies, the transition to a market economy, the formation and support of businesses, the spreading of interpersonal and mass communication, the forging of invisible colleges among scientists, and breaking-up of traditional and closed information systems developed in some societies. No matter whether your application is useful or just a pastime, online services queue up to help give your life a better content. Some people fear that language might be a problem, and in particular if English is not their first language. Don't worry. You are in the driver's seat. If something is hard to understand, just log off to study the difficult text. Take your time. Nobody is watching. Will you being member of the online


Type:Technology
👁 :
Earth's mini 'second moon' is disappearing into space
Catagory:Reading
Author:
Posted Date:12/02/2024
Posted By:utopia online

A 'mini moon' that has been flying close to Earth for several months, is heading off into space. The small 10-metre wide asteroid, also known as 2024 PT5, was first spotted in August and is thought to have broken off the Moon we see in the sky every night. Josh Handal, program analyst for Nasa, wrote in a briefing: “Given the similarity between asteroid 2024 PT5’s motion and that of our planet’s, scientists at Nasa’s Center for Near Earth Object Studies suspect that the object could be a large chunk of rock ejected from the Moon’s surface after an asteroid impact long ago.” Scientists have said the asteroid never fully entered Earth's orbit, but flew around the planet in a horse shoe shape. It is now being pulled back around and away from the Earth due to the Sun's gravitational pull.2024 PT5 was first spotted by the Asteroid Terrestrial-Impact Last Alert System (ATLAS) - Nasa's asteroid detection system which is made up of four telescopes. It has never posed a threat to Earth as it is so small and travelling through space around two million miles away. It can't be seen with the naked eye, but scientists have been tracking it using powerful telescopes over the last few weeks. The team monitoring the mini moon say the tracking data shows the asteroid is likely to reappear in January 2025 for a final high-speed pass at a closer distance, (around one million miles away from Earth), before disappearing completely until the year 2055. Source : https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/articles/cx2lw570j75o


Type:Science
👁 :92
Nikola Tesla
Catagory:Biography
Author:
Posted Date:11/30/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Nikola Tesla symbolizes a unifying force and inspiration for all nations in the name of peace and science. He was a true visionary far ahead of his contemporaries in the field of scientific development. New York State and many other states in the USA proclaimed July 10, Tesla’s birthday- Nikola Tesla Day. Many United States Congressmen gave speeches in the House of Representatives on July 10, 1990 celebrating the 134th anniversary of scientist-inventor Nikola Tesla. Senator Levine from Michigan spoke in the US Senate on the same occasion. The street sign “Nikola Tesla Corner” was recently placed on the corner of the 40th Street and 6th Avenue in Manhattan. There is a large photo of Tesla in the Statue of Liberty Museum. The Liberty Science Center in Jersey City, New Jersey has a daily science demonstration of the Tesla Coil creating a million volts of electricity before the spectators eyes. Many books were written about Tesla : Prodigal Genius: The Life of Nikola Tesla by John J. O’Neill and Margaret Cheney’s book Tesla: Man out of Time has contributed significantly to his fame. A documentary film Nikola Tesla, The Genius Who Lit the World, produced by the Tesla Memorial Society and the Nikola Tesla Museum in Belgrade, The Secret of Nikola Tesla (Orson Welles), BBC Film Masters of the Ionosphere are other tributes to the great genius. Nikola Tesla was born on July 10, 1856 in Smiljan, Lika, which was then part of the Austo-Hungarian Empire, region of Croatia. His father, Milutin Tesla was a Serbian Orthodox Priest and his mother Djuka Mandic was an inventor in her own right of household appliances. Tesla studied at the Realschule, Karlstadt in 1873, the Polytechnic Institute in Graz, Austria and the University of Prague. At first, he intended to specialize in physics and mathematics, but soon he became fascinated with electricity. He began his career as an electrical engineer with a telephone company in Budapest in 1881. It was there, as Tesla was walking with a friend through the city park that the elusive solution to the rotating magnetic field flashed through his mind. With a stick, he drew a diagram in the sand explaining to his friend the principle of the induction motor. Before going to America, Tesla joined Continental Edison Company in Paris where he designed dynamos. While in Strassbourg in 1883, he privately built a prototype of the induction motor and ran it successfully. Unable to interest anyone in Europe in promoting this radical device, Tesla accepted an offer to work for Thomas Edison in New York. His childhood dream was to come to America to harness the power of Niagara Falls. Young Nikola Tesla came to the United States in 1884 with an introduction letter from Charles Batchelor to Thomas Edison: “I know two great men,” wrote Batchelor, “one is you and the other is this young man.” Tesla spent the next 59 years of his productive life living in New York. Tesla set about improving Edison’s line of dynamos while working in Edison’s lab in New Jersey. It was here that his divergence of opinion with Edison over direct current versus alternating current began. This disagreement climaxed in the war of the currents as Edison fought a losing battle to protect his investment in direct current equipment and facilities. Tesla pointed out the inefficiency of Edison’s direct current electrical powerhouses that have been build up and down the Atlantic seaboard. The secret, he felt, lay in the use of alternating current ,because to him all energies were cyclic. Why not build generators that would send electrical energy along distribution lines first one way, than another, in multiple waves using the polyphase principle? Edison’s lamps were weak and inefficient when supplied by direct current. This system had a severe disadvantage in that it could not be transported more than two miles due to its inability to step up to high voltage levels necessary for long distance transmission. Consequently, a direct current power station was required at two mile intervals. Direct current flows continuously in one direction; alternating current changes direction 50 or 60 times per second and can be stepped up to vary high voltage levels, minimizing power loss across great distances. The future belongs to alternating current. Nikola Tesla developed polyphase alternating current system of generators, motors and transformers and held 40 basic U.S. patents on the system, which George Westinghouse bought, determined to supply America with the Tesla system. Edison did not want to lose his DC empire, and a bitter war ensued. This was the war of the currents between AC and DC. Tesla - Westinghouse ultimately emerged the victor because AC was a superior technology. It was a war won for the progress of both America and the world. Tesla introduced his motors and electrical systems in a classic paper, “A New System of Alternating Current Motors and Transformers” which he delivered before the American Institute of Electrical Engineers in 1888. One of the most impressed was the industrialist and inventor George Westinghouse. One day he visited Tesla’s laboratory and was amazed at what he saw. Tesla had constructed a model polyphase system consisting of an alternating current dynamo, step-up and step-down transformers and A.C. motor at the other end. The perfect partnership between Tesla and Westinghouse for the nationwide use of electricity in America had begun. In February 1882, Tesla discovered the rotating magnetic field, a fundamental principle in physics and the basis of nearly all devices that use alternating current. Tesla brilliantly adapted the principle of rotating magnetic field for the construction of alternating current induction motor and the polyphase system for the generation, transmission, distribution and use of electrical power. Tesla’s A.C. induction motor is widely used throughout the world in industry and household appliances. It started the industrial revolution at the turn of the century. Electricity today is generated transmitted and converted to mechanical power by means of his inventions. Tesla’s greatest achievement is his polyphase alternating current system, which is today lighting the entire globe. Tesla astonished the world by demonstrating. the wonders of alternating current electricity at the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. Alternating current became standard power in the 20th Century. This accomplishment changed the world. He designed the first hydroelectric powerplant in Niagara Falls in 1895, which was the final victory of alternating current. The achievement was covered widely in the world press, and Tesla was praised as a hero world wide. King Nikola of Montenegro conferred upon him the Order of Danilo. Tesla was a pioneer in many fields. The Tesla coil, which he invented in 1891, is widely used today in radio and television sets and other electronic equipment. That year also marked the date of Tesla's United States citizenship. His alternating current induction motor is considered one of the ten greatest discoveries of all time. Among his discoveries are the fluorescent light , laser beam, wireless communications, wireless transmission of electrical energy, remote control, robotics, Tesla’s turbines and vertical take off aircraft. Tesla is the father of the radio and the modern electrical transmissions systems. He registered over 700 patents worldwide. His vision included exploration of solar energy and the power of the sea. He foresaw interplanetary communications and satellites. The Century Magazine published Tesla's principles of telegraphy without wires, popularizing scientific lectures given before Franklin Institute in February 1893. The Electrical Review in 1896 published X-rays of a man, made by Tesla, with X-ray tubes of his own design. They appeared at the same time as when Roentgen announced his discovery of X-rays. Tesla never attempted to proclaim priority. Roentgen congratulated Tesla on his sophisticated X-ray pictures, and Tesla even wrote Roentgen's name on one of his films. He experimented with shadowgraphs similar to those that later were to be used by Wilhelm Rontgen when he discovered X-rays in 1895. Tesla's countless experiments included work on a carbon button lamp, on the power of electrical resonance, and on various types of lightning. Tesla invented the special vacuum tube which emitted light to be used in photography. The breadth of his inventions is demonstrated by his patents for a bladeless steam turbine based on a spiral flow principle. Tesla also patented a pump design to operate at extremely high temperature. Nikola Tesla patented the basic system of radio in 1896. His published schematic diagrams describing all the basic elements of the radio transmitter which was later used by Marconi. In 1896 Tesla constructed an instrument to receive radio waves. He experimented with this device and transmitted radio waves from his laboratory on South 5th Avenue. to the Gerlach Hotel at 27th Street in Manhattan. The device had a magnet which gave off intense magnetic fields up to 20,000 lines per centimeter. The radio device clearly establishes his piority in the discovery of radio. The shipboard quench-spark transmitter produced by the Lowenstein Radio Company and licensed under Nikola Tesla Company patents, was installed on the U.S. Naval vessels prior to World War I. In December 1901, Marconi established wireless communication between Britain and the Newfoundland, Canada, earning him the Nobel prize in 1909. But much of Marconi's work was not original. In 1864, James Maxwell theorized electromagnetic waves. In 1887, Heinrich Hertz proved Maxwell's theories. Later, Sir Oliver Logde extended the Hertz prototype system. The Brandley coherer increased the distance messages could be transmitted. The coherer was perfected by Marconi. However, the heart of radio transmission is based upon four tuned circuits for transmitting and receiving. It is Tesla's original concept demonstrated in his famous lecture at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia in 1893. The four circuits, used in two pairs, are still a fundamental part of all radio and television equipment. The United States Supreme Court, in 1943 held Marconi's most important patent invalid, recognizing Tesla's more significant contribution as the inventor of radio technology. Tesla built an experimental station in Colorado Springs, Colorado in 1899, to experiment with high voltage, high frequency electricity and other phenomena. When the Colorado Springs Tesla Coil magnifying transmitter was energized, it created sparks 30 feet long. From the outside antenna, these sparks could be seen from a distance of ten miles. From this laboratory, Tesla generated and sent out wireless waves which mediated energy, without wires for miles. In Colorado Springs, where he stayed from May 1899 until 1900, Tesla made what he regarded as his most important discovery-- terrestrial stationary waves. By this discovery he proved that the Earth could be used as a conductor and would be as responsive as a tuning fork to electrical vibrations of a certain frequency. He also lighted 200 lamps without wires from a distance of 25 miles( 40 kilometers) and created man-made lightning. At one time he was certain he had received signals from another planet in his Colorado laboratory, a claim that was met with disbelief in some scientific journals. The old Waldorf Astoria was the residence of Nikola Tesla for many years. He lived there when he was at the height of financial and intellectual power. Tesla organized elaborate dinners, inviting famous people who later witnessed spectacular electrical experiments in his laboratory. Financially supported by J. Pierpont Morgan, Tesla built the Wardenclyffe laboratory and its famous transmitting tower in Shoreham, Long Island between 1901 and 1905. This huge landmark was 187 feet high, capped by a 68-foot copper dome which housed the magnifying transmitter. It was planned to be the first broadcast system, transmitting both signals and power without wires to any point on the globe. The huge magnifying transmitter, discharging high frequency electricity, would turn the earth into a gigantic dynamo which would project its electricity in unlimited amounts anywhere in the world. Tesla's concept of wireless electricity was used to power ocean liners, destroy warships, run industry and transportation and send communications instantaneously all over the globe. To stimulate the public's imagination, Tesla suggested that this wireless power could even be used for interplanetary communication. If Tesla were confident to reach Mars, how much less difficult to reach Paris. Many newspapers and periodicals interviewed Tesla and described his new system for supplying wireless power to run all of the earth's industry. Because of a dispute between Morgan and Tesla as to the final use of the tower. Morgan withdrew his funds. The financier's classic comment was, "If anyone can draw on the power, where do we put the meter?" The erected, but incomplete tower was demolished in 1917 for wartime security reasons. The site where the Wardenclyffe tower stood still exists with its 100 feet deep foundation still intact. Tesla's laboratory designed by Stanford White in 1901 is today still in good condition and is graced with a bicentennial plaque. Tesla lectured to the scientific community on his inventions in New York, Philadelphia and St. Louis and before scientific organizations in both England and France in 1892. Tesla’s lectures and writings of the 1890s aroused wide admiration among contemporaries popularized his inventions and inspired untold numbers of younger men to enter the new field of radio and electrical science. Nikola Tesla was one of the most celebrated personalities in the American press, in this century. According to Life Magazine's special issue of September, 1997, Tesla is among the 100 most famous people of the last 1,000 years. He is one of the great men who divert the stream of human history. Tesla's celebrity was in its height at the turn of the century. His discoveries, inventions and vision had widespread acceptance by the public, the scientific community and American press. Tesla's discoveries had extensive coverage in the scientific journals, the daily and weekly press as well as in the foremost literary and intellectual publications of the day. He was the Super Star. Tesla wrote many autobiographical articles for the prominent journal Electrical Experimenter, collected in the book, My Inventions. Tesla was gifted with intense powers of visualization and exceptional memory from early youth on. He was able to fully construct, develop and perfect his inventions completely in his mind before committing them to paper. According to Hugo Gernsback, Tesla was possessed of a striking physical appearance over six feet tall with deep set eyes and a stately manner. His impressions of Tesla, were of a man endowed with remarkable physical and mental freshness, ready to surprise the world with more and more inventions as he grew older. A lifelong bachelor he led a somewhat isolated existence, devoting his full energies to science. In 1894, he was given honorary doctoral degrees by Columbia and Yale University and the Elliot Cresson medal by the Franklin Institute. In 1934, the city of Philadelphia awarded him the John Scott medal for his polyphase power system. He was an honorary member of the National Electric Light Association and a fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. On one occasion, he turned down an invitation from Kaiser Wilhelm II to come to Germany to demonstrate his experiments and to receive a high decoration. In 1915, a New York Times article announced that Tesla and Edison were to share the Nobel Prize for physics. Oddly, neither man received the prize, the reason being unclear. It was rumored that Tesla refused the prize because he would not share with Edison, and because Marconi had already received his. On his 75th birthday in 1931, the inventor appeared on the cover of Time Magazine. On this occasion, Tesla received congratulatory letters from more than 70 pioneers in science and engineering including Albert Einstein. These letters were mounted and presented to Tesla in the form of a testimonial volume. Tesla died on January 7th, 1943 in the Hotel New Yorker, where he had lived for the last ten years of his life. Room 3327 on the 33rd floor is the two-room suites he occupied. A state funeral was held at St. John the Divine Cathedral in New York City. Telegrams of condolence were received from many notables, including the first lady Eleanor Roosevelt and Vice President Wallace. Over 2000 people attended, including several Nobel Laureates. He was cremated in Ardsley on the Hudson, New York. His ashes were interned in a golden sphere, Tesla’s favorite shape, on permanent display at the Tesla Museum in Belgrade along with his death mask. In his speech presenting Tesla with the Edison medal, Vice President Behrend of the Institute of Electrical Engineers eloquently expressed the following: "Were we to seize and eliminate from our industrial world the result of Mr. Tesla's work, the wheels of industry would cease to turn, our electric cars and trains would stop, our towns would be dark and our mills would be idle and dead. His name marks an epoch in the advance of electrical science." Mr. Behrend ended his speech with a paraphrase of Pope's lines on Newton: "Nature and nature's laws lay hid by night. God said 'Let Tesla be' and all was light." “The world will wait a long time for Nikola Tesla’s equal in achievement and imagination.” E. ARMSTRONG source: https://www.teslasociety.com/biography.htm ; https://www.biography.com/inventors/nikola-tesla : https://www.britannica.com/biography/Nikola-Tesla


Type:Social
👁 :
Nikola Tesla
Catagory:Fiction
Author:
Posted Date:11/30/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Nikola Tesla symbolizes a unifying force and inspiration for all nations in the name of peace and science. He was a true visionary far ahead of his contemporaries in the field of scientific development. New York State and many other states in the USA proclaimed July 10, Tesla’s birthday- Nikola Tesla Day. Many United States Congressmen gave speeches in the House of Representatives on July 10, 1990 celebrating the 134th anniversary of scientist-inventor Nikola Tesla. Senator Levine from Michigan spoke in the US Senate on the same occasion. The street sign “Nikola Tesla Corner” was recently placed on the corner of the 40th Street and 6th Avenue in Manhattan. There is a large photo of Tesla in the Statue of Liberty Museum. The Liberty Science Center in Jersey City, New Jersey has a daily science demonstration of the Tesla Coil creating a million volts of electricity before the spectators eyes. Many books were written about Tesla : Prodigal Genius: The Life of Nikola Tesla by John J. O’Neill and Margaret Cheney’s book Tesla: Man out of Time has contributed significantly to his fame. A documentary film Nikola Tesla, The Genius Who Lit the World, produced by the Tesla Memorial Society and the Nikola Tesla Museum in Belgrade, The Secret of Nikola Tesla (Orson Welles), BBC Film Masters of the Ionosphere are other tributes to the great genius. Nikola Tesla was born on July 10, 1856 in Smiljan, Lika, which was then part of the Austo-Hungarian Empire, region of Croatia. His father, Milutin Tesla was a Serbian Orthodox Priest and his mother Djuka Mandic was an inventor in her own right of household appliances. Tesla studied at the Realschule, Karlstadt in 1873, the Polytechnic Institute in Graz, Austria and the University of Prague. At first, he intended to specialize in physics and mathematics, but soon he became fascinated with electricity. He began his career as an electrical engineer with a telephone company in Budapest in 1881. It was there, as Tesla was walking with a friend through the city park that the elusive solution to the rotating magnetic field flashed through his mind. With a stick, he drew a diagram in the sand explaining to his friend the principle of the induction motor. Before going to America, Tesla joined Continental Edison Company in Paris where he designed dynamos. While in Strassbourg in 1883, he privately built a prototype of the induction motor and ran it successfully. Unable to interest anyone in Europe in promoting this radical device, Tesla accepted an offer to work for Thomas Edison in New York. His childhood dream was to come to America to harness the power of Niagara Falls. Young Nikola Tesla came to the United States in 1884 with an introduction letter from Charles Batchelor to Thomas Edison: “I know two great men,” wrote Batchelor, “one is you and the other is this young man.” Tesla spent the next 59 years of his productive life living in New York. Tesla set about improving Edison’s line of dynamos while working in Edison’s lab in New Jersey. It was here that his divergence of opinion with Edison over direct current versus alternating current began. This disagreement climaxed in the war of the currents as Edison fought a losing battle to protect his investment in direct current equipment and facilities. Tesla pointed out the inefficiency of Edison’s direct current electrical powerhouses that have been build up and down the Atlantic seaboard. The secret, he felt, lay in the use of alternating current ,because to him all energies were cyclic. Why not build generators that would send electrical energy along distribution lines first one way, than another, in multiple waves using the polyphase principle? Edison’s lamps were weak and inefficient when supplied by direct current. This system had a severe disadvantage in that it could not be transported more than two miles due to its inability to step up to high voltage levels necessary for long distance transmission. Consequently, a direct current power station was required at two mile intervals. Direct current flows continuously in one direction; alternating current changes direction 50 or 60 times per second and can be stepped up to vary high voltage levels, minimizing power loss across great distances. The future belongs to alternating current. Nikola Tesla developed polyphase alternating current system of generators, motors and transformers and held 40 basic U.S. patents on the system, which George Westinghouse bought, determined to supply America with the Tesla system. Edison did not want to lose his DC empire, and a bitter war ensued. This was the war of the currents between AC and DC. Tesla - Westinghouse ultimately emerged the victor because AC was a superior technology. It was a war won for the progress of both America and the world. Tesla introduced his motors and electrical systems in a classic paper, “A New System of Alternating Current Motors and Transformers” which he delivered before the American Institute of Electrical Engineers in 1888. One of the most impressed was the industrialist and inventor George Westinghouse. One day he visited Tesla’s laboratory and was amazed at what he saw. Tesla had constructed a model polyphase system consisting of an alternating current dynamo, step-up and step-down transformers and A.C. motor at the other end. The perfect partnership between Tesla and Westinghouse for the nationwide use of electricity in America had begun. In February 1882, Tesla discovered the rotating magnetic field, a fundamental principle in physics and the basis of nearly all devices that use alternating current. Tesla brilliantly adapted the principle of rotating magnetic field for the construction of alternating current induction motor and the polyphase system for the generation, transmission, distribution and use of electrical power. Tesla’s A.C. induction motor is widely used throughout the world in industry and household appliances. It started the industrial revolution at the turn of the century. Electricity today is generated transmitted and converted to mechanical power by means of his inventions. Tesla’s greatest achievement is his polyphase alternating current system, which is today lighting the entire globe. Tesla astonished the world by demonstrating. the wonders of alternating current electricity at the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. Alternating current became standard power in the 20th Century. This accomplishment changed the world. He designed the first hydroelectric powerplant in Niagara Falls in 1895, which was the final victory of alternating current. The achievement was covered widely in the world press, and Tesla was praised as a hero world wide. King Nikola of Montenegro conferred upon him the Order of Danilo. Tesla was a pioneer in many fields. The Tesla coil, which he invented in 1891, is widely used today in radio and television sets and other electronic equipment. That year also marked the date of Tesla's United States citizenship. His alternating current induction motor is considered one of the ten greatest discoveries of all time. Among his discoveries are the fluorescent light , laser beam, wireless communications, wireless transmission of electrical energy, remote control, robotics, Tesla’s turbines and vertical take off aircraft. Tesla is the father of the radio and the modern electrical transmissions systems. He registered over 700 patents worldwide. His vision included exploration of solar energy and the power of the sea. He foresaw interplanetary communications and satellites. The Century Magazine published Tesla's principles of telegraphy without wires, popularizing scientific lectures given before Franklin Institute in February 1893. The Electrical Review in 1896 published X-rays of a man, made by Tesla, with X-ray tubes of his own design. They appeared at the same time as when Roentgen announced his discovery of X-rays. Tesla never attempted to proclaim priority. Roentgen congratulated Tesla on his sophisticated X-ray pictures, and Tesla even wrote Roentgen's name on one of his films. He experimented with shadowgraphs similar to those that later were to be used by Wilhelm Rontgen when he discovered X-rays in 1895. Tesla's countless experiments included work on a carbon button lamp, on the power of electrical resonance, and on various types of lightning. Tesla invented the special vacuum tube which emitted light to be used in photography. The breadth of his inventions is demonstrated by his patents for a bladeless steam turbine based on a spiral flow principle. Tesla also patented a pump design to operate at extremely high temperature. Nikola Tesla patented the basic system of radio in 1896. His published schematic diagrams describing all the basic elements of the radio transmitter which was later used by Marconi. In 1896 Tesla constructed an instrument to receive radio waves. He experimented with this device and transmitted radio waves from his laboratory on South 5th Avenue. to the Gerlach Hotel at 27th Street in Manhattan. The device had a magnet which gave off intense magnetic fields up to 20,000 lines per centimeter. The radio device clearly establishes his piority in the discovery of radio. The shipboard quench-spark transmitter produced by the Lowenstein Radio Company and licensed under Nikola Tesla Company patents, was installed on the U.S. Naval vessels prior to World War I. In December 1901, Marconi established wireless communication between Britain and the Newfoundland, Canada, earning him the Nobel prize in 1909. But much of Marconi's work was not original. In 1864, James Maxwell theorized electromagnetic waves. In 1887, Heinrich Hertz proved Maxwell's theories. Later, Sir Oliver Logde extended the Hertz prototype system. The Brandley coherer increased the distance messages could be transmitted. The coherer was perfected by Marconi. However, the heart of radio transmission is based upon four tuned circuits for transmitting and receiving. It is Tesla's original concept demonstrated in his famous lecture at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia in 1893. The four circuits, used in two pairs, are still a fundamental part of all radio and television equipment. The United States Supreme Court, in 1943 held Marconi's most important patent invalid, recognizing Tesla's more significant contribution as the inventor of radio technology. Tesla built an experimental station in Colorado Springs, Colorado in 1899, to experiment with high voltage, high frequency electricity and other phenomena. When the Colorado Springs Tesla Coil magnifying transmitter was energized, it created sparks 30 feet long. From the outside antenna, these sparks could be seen from a distance of ten miles. From this laboratory, Tesla generated and sent out wireless waves which mediated energy, without wires for miles. In Colorado Springs, where he stayed from May 1899 until 1900, Tesla made what he regarded as his most important discovery-- terrestrial stationary waves. By this discovery he proved that the Earth could be used as a conductor and would be as responsive as a tuning fork to electrical vibrations of a certain frequency. He also lighted 200 lamps without wires from a distance of 25 miles( 40 kilometers) and created man-made lightning. At one time he was certain he had received signals from another planet in his Colorado laboratory, a claim that was met with disbelief in some scientific journals. The old Waldorf Astoria was the residence of Nikola Tesla for many years. He lived there when he was at the height of financial and intellectual power. Tesla organized elaborate dinners, inviting famous people who later witnessed spectacular electrical experiments in his laboratory. Financially supported by J. Pierpont Morgan, Tesla built the Wardenclyffe laboratory and its famous transmitting tower in Shoreham, Long Island between 1901 and 1905. This huge landmark was 187 feet high, capped by a 68-foot copper dome which housed the magnifying transmitter. It was planned to be the first broadcast system, transmitting both signals and power without wires to any point on the globe. The huge magnifying transmitter, discharging high frequency electricity, would turn the earth into a gigantic dynamo which would project its electricity in unlimited amounts anywhere in the world. Tesla's concept of wireless electricity was used to power ocean liners, destroy warships, run industry and transportation and send communications instantaneously all over the globe. To stimulate the public's imagination, Tesla suggested that this wireless power could even be used for interplanetary communication. If Tesla were confident to reach Mars, how much less difficult to reach Paris. Many newspapers and periodicals interviewed Tesla and described his new system for supplying wireless power to run all of the earth's industry. Because of a dispute between Morgan and Tesla as to the final use of the tower. Morgan withdrew his funds. The financier's classic comment was, "If anyone can draw on the power, where do we put the meter?" The erected, but incomplete tower was demolished in 1917 for wartime security reasons. The site where the Wardenclyffe tower stood still exists with its 100 feet deep foundation still intact. Tesla's laboratory designed by Stanford White in 1901 is today still in good condition and is graced with a bicentennial plaque. Tesla lectured to the scientific community on his inventions in New York, Philadelphia and St. Louis and before scientific organizations in both England and France in 1892. Tesla’s lectures and writings of the 1890s aroused wide admiration among contemporaries popularized his inventions and inspired untold numbers of younger men to enter the new field of radio and electrical science. Nikola Tesla was one of the most celebrated personalities in the American press, in this century. According to Life Magazine's special issue of September, 1997, Tesla is among the 100 most famous people of the last 1,000 years. He is one of the great men who divert the stream of human history. Tesla's celebrity was in its height at the turn of the century. His discoveries, inventions and vision had widespread acceptance by the public, the scientific community and American press. Tesla's discoveries had extensive coverage in the scientific journals, the daily and weekly press as well as in the foremost literary and intellectual publications of the day. He was the Super Star. Tesla wrote many autobiographical articles for the prominent journal Electrical Experimenter, collected in the book, My Inventions. Tesla was gifted with intense powers of visualization and exceptional memory from early youth on. He was able to fully construct, develop and perfect his inventions completely in his mind before committing them to paper. According to Hugo Gernsback, Tesla was possessed of a striking physical appearance over six feet tall with deep set eyes and a stately manner. His impressions of Tesla, were of a man endowed with remarkable physical and mental freshness, ready to surprise the world with more and more inventions as he grew older. A lifelong bachelor he led a somewhat isolated existence, devoting his full energies to science. In 1894, he was given honorary doctoral degrees by Columbia and Yale University and the Elliot Cresson medal by the Franklin Institute. In 1934, the city of Philadelphia awarded him the John Scott medal for his polyphase power system. He was an honorary member of the National Electric Light Association and a fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. On one occasion, he turned down an invitation from Kaiser Wilhelm II to come to Germany to demonstrate his experiments and to receive a high decoration. In 1915, a New York Times article announced that Tesla and Edison were to share the Nobel Prize for physics. Oddly, neither man received the prize, the reason being unclear. It was rumored that Tesla refused the prize because he would not share with Edison, and because Marconi had already received his. On his 75th birthday in 1931, the inventor appeared on the cover of Time Magazine. On this occasion, Tesla received congratulatory letters from more than 70 pioneers in science and engineering including Albert Einstein. These letters were mounted and presented to Tesla in the form of a testimonial volume. Tesla died on January 7th, 1943 in the Hotel New Yorker, where he had lived for the last ten years of his life. Room 3327 on the 33rd floor is the two-room suites he occupied. A state funeral was held at St. John the Divine Cathedral in New York City. Telegrams of condolence were received from many notables, including the first lady Eleanor Roosevelt and Vice President Wallace. Over 2000 people attended, including several Nobel Laureates. He was cremated in Ardsley on the Hudson, New York. His ashes were interned in a golden sphere, Tesla’s favorite shape, on permanent display at the Tesla Museum in Belgrade along with his death mask. In his speech presenting Tesla with the Edison medal, Vice President Behrend of the Institute of Electrical Engineers eloquently expressed the following: "Were we to seize and eliminate from our industrial world the result of Mr. Tesla's work, the wheels of industry would cease to turn, our electric cars and trains would stop, our towns would be dark and our mills would be idle and dead. His name marks an epoch in the advance of electrical science." Mr. Behrend ended his speech with a paraphrase of Pope's lines on Newton: "Nature and nature's laws lay hid by night. God said 'Let Tesla be' and all was light." “The world will wait a long time for Nikola Tesla’s equal in achievement and imagination.” E. ARMSTRONG source: https://www.teslasociety.com/biography.htm ; https://www.biography.com/inventors/nikola-tesla : https://www.britannica.com/biography/Nikola-Tesla


Type:Social
👁 :24
The Zahir BY : PAULO COELHO
Catagory:Fiction
Author:
Posted Date:11/29/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Her name is Esther; she is a war correspondent who has just returned from Iraq because of the imminent invasion of that country; she is thirty years old, married, without children. He is an unidentified male, between twenty-three and twenty-five years old, with dark, Mongolian features. The two were last seen in a café on the Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. The police were told that they had met before, although no one knew how often: Esther had always said that the man—who concealed his true identity behind the name Mikhail—was someone very important, although she had never explained whether he was important for her career as a journalist or for her as a woman. The police began a formal investigation. Various theories were put forward—kidnapping, blackmail, a kidnapping that had ended in murder—none of which were beyond the bounds of possibility given that, in her search for information, her work brought her into frequent contact with people who had links with terrorist cells. They discovered that, in the weeks prior to her disappearance, regular sums of money had been withdrawn from her bank account: those in charge of the investigation felt that these could have been payments made for information. She had taken no change of clothes with her, but, oddly enough, her passport was nowhere to be found. He is a stranger, very young, with no police record, with no clue as to his identity. She is Esther, thirty years old, the winner of two international prizes for journalism, and married. My wife. I immediately come under suspicion and am detained because I refuse to say where I was on the day she disappeared. However, a prison officer has just opened the door of my cell, saying that I’m a free man. And why am I a free man? Because nowadays, everyone knows everything about everyone; you just have to ask and the information is there: where you’ve used your credit card, where you spend your time, whom you’ve slept with. In my case, it was even easier: a woman, another journalist, a friend of my wife, and divorced—which is why she doesn’t mind revealing that she slept with me—came forward as a witness in my favor when she heard that I had been detained. She provided concrete proof that I was with her on the day and the night of Esther’s disappearance. I talk to the chief inspector, who returns my belongings and offers his apologies, adding that my rapid detention was entirely within the law, and that I have no grounds on which to accuse or sue the state. I say that I haven’t the slightest intention of doing either of those things, that I am perfectly aware that we are all under constant suspicion and under twenty-four-hour surveillance, even when we have committed no crime. “You’re free to go,” he says, echoing the words of the prison officer. I ask: Isn’t it possible that something really has happened to my wife? She had said to me once that—understandably given her vast network of contacts in the terrorist underworld—she occasionally got the feeling she was being followed. The inspector changes the subject. I insist, but he says nothing. I ask if she would be able to travel on her passport, and he says, of course, since she has committed no crime. Why shouldn’t she leave and enter the country freely? “So she may no longer be in France?” “Do you think she left you because of that woman you’ve been sleeping with?” That’s none of your business, I reply. The inspector pauses for a second and grows serious; he says that I was arrested as part of routine procedure, but that he is nevertheless very sorry about my wife’s disappearance. He is married himself and although he doesn’t like my books (So he isn’t as ignorant as he looks! He knows who I am!), he can put himself in my shoes and imagine what I must be going through. I ask him what I should do next. He gives me his card and asks me to get in touch if I hear anything. I’ve watched this scene in dozens of films, and I’m not convinced; inspectors always know more than they say they do. He asks me if I have ever met the person who was with Esther the last time she was seen alive. I say that I knew his code name, but didn’t know him personally. He asks if we have any domestic problems. I say that we’ve been together for ten years and have the same problems most married couples have—nothing more. He asks, delicately, if we have discussed divorce recently, or if my wife was considering leaving me. I tell him we have never even considered the possibility, and say again that “like all couples” we have our occasional disagreements. Frequent or only occasional? Occasional, I say. He asks still more delicately if she suspected that I was having an affair with her friend. I tell him that it was the first—and last—time that her friend and I had slept together. It wasn’t an affair; it came about simply because we had nothing else to do. It had been a bit of a dull day, neither of us had any pressing engagements after lunch, and the game of seduction always adds a little zest to life, which is why we ended up in bed together. “You go to bed with someone just because it’s a bit of a dull day?” I consider telling him that such matters hardly form part of his investigations, but I need his help, or might need it later on. There is, after all, that invisible institution called the Favor Bank, which I have always found so very useful. “Sometimes, yes. There’s nothing else very interesting to do, the woman is looking for excitement, I’m looking for adventure, and that’s that. The next day, you both pretend that nothing happened, and life goes on.” He thanks me, holds out his hand and says that in his world, things aren’t quite like that. Naturally, boredom and tedium exist, as does the desire to go to bed with someone, but everything is much more controlled, and no one ever acts on their thoughts or desires. “Perhaps artists have more freedom,” he remarks. I say that I’m familiar with his world, but have no wish to enter into a comparison between our different views of society and people. I remain silent, awaiting his next move. “Speaking of freedom,” he says, slightly disappointed at this writer’s refusal to enter into a debate with a police officer, “you’re free to go. Now that I’ve met you, I’ll read your books. I know I said I didn’t like them, but the fact is I’ve never actually read one.” This is not the first or the last time that I will hear these words. At least this whole episode has gained me another reader. I shake his hand and leave. I’m free. I’m out of prison, my wife has disappeared under mysterious circumstances, I have no fixed timetable for work, I have no problem meeting new people, I’m rich, famous, and if Esther really has left me, I’ll soon find someone to replace her. I’m free, independent. But what is freedom? I’ve spent a large part of my life enslaved to one thing or another, so I should know the meaning of the word. Ever since I was a child, I have fought to make freedom my most precious commodity. I fought with my parents, who wanted me to be an engineer, not a writer. I fought with the other boys at school, who immediately homed in on me as the butt of their cruel jokes, and only after much blood had flowed from my nose and from theirs, only after many afternoons when I had to hide my scars from my mother—because it was up to me, not her, to solve my problems—did I manage to show them that I could take a thrashing without bursting into tears. I fought to get a job to support myself, and went to work as a delivery man for a hardware store, so as to be free from that old line in family blackmail: “We’ll give you money, but you’ll have to do this, this, and this.” I fought—although without success—for the girl I was in love with when I was an adolescent, and who loved me too; she left me in the end because her parents convinced her that I had no future. I fought against the hostile world of journalism—my next job—where my first boss kept me hanging around for three whole hours and only deigned to take any notice of me when I started tearing up the book he was reading: he looked at me in surprise and saw that here was someone capable of persevering and confronting the enemy, essential qualities for a good reporter. I fought for the socialist ideal, went to prison, came out and went on fighting, feeling like a working-class hero—until, that is, I heard the Beatles and decided that rock music was much more fun than Marx. I fought for the love of my first, second, and third wives. I fought to find the courage to leave my first, second, and third wives, because the love I felt for them hadn’t lasted, and I needed to move on, until I found the person who had been put in this world to find me—and she was none of those three. I fought for the courage to leave my job on the newspaper and launch myself into the adventure of writing a book, knowing full well that no one in my country could make a living as a writer. I gave up after a year, after writing more than a thousand pages—pages of such genius that even I couldn’t understand them. While I was fighting, I heard other people speaking in the name of freedom, and the more they defended this unique right, the more enslaved they seemed to be to their parents’ wishes, to a marriage in which they had promised to stay with the other person “for the rest of their lives,” to the bathroom scales, to their diet, to half-finished projects, to lovers to whom they were incapable of saying “No” or “It’s over,” to weekends when they were obliged to have lunch with people they didn’t even like. Slaves to luxury, to the appearance of luxury, to the appearance of the appearance of luxury. Slaves to a life they had not chosen, but which they had decided to live because someone had managed to convince them that it was all for the best. And so their identical days and nights passed, days and nights in which adventure was just a word in a book or an image on the television that was always on, and whenever a door opened, they would say: “I’m not interested. I’m not in the mood.” How could they possibly know if they were in the mood or not if they had never tried? But there was no point in asking; the truth was they were afraid of any change that would upset the world they had grown used to. The inspector says I’m free. I’m free now and I was free in prison too, because freedom continues to be the thing I prize most in the world. Of course, this has led me to drink wines I did not like, to do things I should not have done and which I will not do again; it has left scars on my body and on my soul, it has meant hurting certain people, although I have since asked their forgiveness, when I realized that I could do absolutely anything except force another person to follow me in my madness, in my lust for life. I don’t regret the painful times; I bear my scars as if they were medals. I know that freedom has a high price, as high as that of slavery; the only difference is that you pay with pleasure and a smile, even when that smile is dimmed by tears. I leave the police station, and it’s a beautiful day outside, a sunny Sunday that does not reflect my state of mind at all. My lawyer is waiting for me with a few consoling words and a bunch of flowers. He says that he’s phoned around to all the hospitals and morgues (the kind of thing you do when someone fails to return home), but has not as yet found Esther. He says that he managed to prevent journalists from finding out where I was being held. He says he needs to talk to me in order to draw up a legal strategy that will help me defend myself against any future accusation. I thank him for all his trouble; I know he’s not really interested in drawing up a legal strategy, he just doesn’t want to leave me alone, because he’s not sure how I’ll react. (Will I get drunk and be arrested again? Will I cause a scandal? Will I try to kill myself?) I tell him I have some important business to sort out and that we both know perfectly well that I have no problem with the law. He insists, but I give him no choice—after all, I’m a free man. Freedom. The freedom to be wretchedly alone. I take a taxi to the center of Paris and ask to be dropped near the Arc de Triomphe. I set off down the Champs-Elysées toward the Hôtel Bristol, where Esther and I always used to meet for hot chocolate whenever one of us came back from some trip abroad. It was our coming-home ritual, a plunge back into the love that bound us together, even though life kept sending us off along ever more diverging paths. I keep walking. People smile, children are pleased to have been given these few hours of spring in the middle of winter, the traffic flows freely, everything seems to be in order— except that none of them know that I have just lost my wife; they don’t even pretend not to know, they don’t even care. Don’t they realize the pain I’m in? They should all be feeling sad, sympathetic, supportive of a man whose soul is losing love as if it were losing blood; but they continue laughing, immersed in their miserable little lives that only happen on weekends. What a ridiculous thought! Many of the people I pass must also have their souls in tatters, and I have no idea how or why they are suffering. I go into a bar and buy some cigarettes; the person answers me in English. I go into a chemist’s to buy a mint I particularly like, and the assistant speaks to me in English (both times I asked for the products in French). Before I reach the hotel, I am stopped by two boys just arrived from Toulouse who are looking for a particular shop; they have asked several other people, but no one understands what they say. What’s going on? Have they changed languages on the Champs-Elysées in the twenty-four hours since I was arrested? Tourism and money can perform miracles, but how come I haven’t noticed this before? It has obviously been a long time since Esther and I met here to drink hot chocolate, even though we have each been away and come back several times during that period. There is always something more important. There is always some unpostponable appointment. Yes, my love, we’ll have that hot chocolate next time, come back soon; I’ve got a really important interview today and won’t be able to pick you up at the airport, take a taxi; my cell phone’s on, call me if there’s anything urgent; otherwise, I’ll see you tonight. My cell phone! I take it out of my pocket and immediately turn it on; it rings several times, and each time my heart turns over. On the tiny screen I see the names of the people who have been trying to get in touch with me, but reply to none of them. I hope for someone “unidentified” to appear, because that would be she, since only about twenty people know my number and have sworn not to pass it on. It doesn’t appear, only the numbers of friends or trusted colleagues. They must be eager to know what happened, they want to help (but how?), to ask if I need anything. The telephone keeps ringing. Should I answer it? Should I arrange to meet up with some of these people? I decide to remain alone until I’ve managed to work out what is going on. I reach the Hôtel Bristol, which Esther always described as one of the few hotels in Paris where customers are treated like guests rather than homeless people in search of shelter. I am greeted as if I were a friend of the family; I choose a table next to an exquisite clock; I listen to the piano and look out at the garden. I need to be practical, to study the options; after all, life goes on. I am not the first nor will I be the last man whose wife has left him, but did it have to happen on a sunny day, with everyone in the street smiling and children singing, with the first signs of spring just beginning to show, the sun shining, and drivers stopping at pedestrian crossings? I pick up a napkin. I’m going to get these ideas out of my head and put them down on paper. Let’s leave sentiment to one side and see what I should do: (a) Consider the possibility that she really has been kidnapped and that her life is in danger at this very moment, and that I, as her husband and constant companion, must therefore move heaven and earth to find her. Response to this possibility: she took her passport with her. The police don’t know this, but she also took several other personal items with her, among them a wallet containing images of various patron saints which she always carries with her whenever she goes abroad. She also withdrew money from her bank. Conclusion: she was clearly preparing to leave. (b) Consider the possibility that she believed a promise someone gave her and it turned out to be a trap. Response: she had often put herself in dangerous situations before; it was part of her job, but she always warned me when she did so, because I was the only person she could trust completely. She would tell me where she was going to be, who she was going to see (although, so as not to put me at risk, she usually used the person’s nom de guerre), and what I should do if she did not return by a certain time. Conclusion: she was not planning a meeting with one of her informants. (c) Consider the possibility that she has met another man. Response: there is no response. Of all the hypotheses, this is the only one that makes any sense. And yet I can’t accept it, I can’t accept that she would leave like that, without giving me a reason. Both Esther and I have always prided ourselves on confronting all life’s difficulties together. We suffered, but we never lied to each other, although it was part of the rules of the game not to mention any extramarital affairs. I was aware that she had changed a lot since meeting this fellow Mikhail, but did that justify ending a marriage that has lasted ten years? Even if she had slept with him and fallen in love, wouldn’t she weigh in the balance all the time that we had spent together and everything we had conquered before setting off on an adventure from which there was no turning back? She was free to travel whenever she wanted to, she lived surrounded by men, soldiers who hadn’t seen a woman in ages, but I never asked any questions, and she never told me anything. We were both free, and we were proud of that. But Esther had disappeared and left clues that were visible only to me, as if it were a secret message: I’m leaving. Why? Is that question worth answering? No. Because hidden in the answer is my own inability to keep the woman I love by my side. Is it worth finding her and persuading her to come back? Begging and imploring her to give our marriage another chance? That seems ridiculous: it would be better merely to suffer as I had in the past, when other people I loved had left me. It would be better just to lick my wounds, as I had also done in the past. For a while, I’ll think obsessively about her, I’ll become embittered, I’ll bore my friends because all I ever talk about is my wife leaving me. I’ll try to justify what happened, spend days and nights reviewing every moment spent by her side, I’ll conclude that she was too hard on me, even though I always tried to do my best. I’ll find other women. When I walk down the street, I’ll keep seeing women who could be her. I’ll suffer day and night, night and day. This could take weeks, months, possibly a year or more. Until one morning, I’ll wake up and find I’m thinking about something else, and then I’ll know the worst is over. My heart might be bruised, but it will recover and become capable of seeing the beauty of life once more. It’s happened before, it will happen again, I’m sure. When someone leaves, it’s because someone else is about to arrive—I’ll find love again. For a moment, I savor the idea of my new state: single and a millionaire. I can go out in broad daylight with whomever I want. I can behave at parties in a way I haven’t behaved in years. The news will travel fast, and soon all kinds of women, the young and the not so young, the rich and the not as rich as they would like to be, the intelligent and those trained to say only what they think I would like to hear, will all come knocking at my door. I want to believe that it is wonderful to be free. Free again. Ready to find my one true love, who is waiting for me and who will never allow me to experience such humiliation again. I finish my hot chocolate and look at the clock; I know it is still too soon for me to be able to enjoy the agreeable feeling that I am once more part of humanity. For a few moments, I imagine that Esther is about to come in through that door, walk across the beautiful Persian carpets, sit down beside me and say nothing, just smoke a cigarette, look out at the courtyard garden and hold my hand. Half an hour passes, and for half an hour I believe in the story I have just created, until I realize that it is pure fantasy. I decide not to go home. I go over to reception, ask for a room, a toothbrush, and some deodorant. The hotel is full, but the manager fixes things for me: I end up with a lovely suite looking out at the Eiffel Tower, a terrace, the rooftops of Paris, the lights coming on one by one, the families getting together to have Sunday supper. And the feeling I had in the Champs-Elysées returns: the more beautiful everything is around me, the more wretched I feel. No television. No supper. I sit on the terrace and look back over my life, a young man who dreamed of becoming a famous writer, and who suddenly saw that the reality was completely different—he writes in a language almost no one reads, in a country which is said to have almost no reading public. His family forces him to go to university (any university will do, my boy, just as long as you get a degree; otherwise you’ll never be anyone). He rebels, travels the world during the hippie era, meets a singer, writes a few song lyrics, and is suddenly earning more money than his sister, who listened to what her parents said and decided to become a chemical engineer…. I write more songs, the singer goes from strength to strength; I buy a few apartments and fall out with the singer, but still have enough capital not to have to work for the next few years. I get married for the first time, to an older woman, I learn a lot—how to make love, how to drive, how to speak English, how to lie in bed until late—but we split up because she considers me to be “emotionally immature, and too ready to chase after any girl with big enough breasts.” I get married for a second and a third time to women I think will give me emotional stability: I get what I want, but discover that the stability I wanted is inseparable from a deep sense of tedium. Two more divorces. Free again, but it’s just a feeling; freedom is not the absence of commitments, but the ability to choose—and commit myself to—what is best for me. I continue my search for love, I continue writing songs. When people ask me what I do, I say I’m a writer. When they say they only know my song lyrics, I say that’s just part of my work. When they apologize and say they’ve never read any of my books, I explain that I’m working on a project—which is a lie. The truth is that I have money, I have contacts, but what I don’t have is the courage to write a book. My dream is now realizable, but if I try and fail, I don’t know what the rest of my life will be like; that’s why it’s better to live cherishing a dream than face the possibility that it might all come to nothing. One day, a journalist comes to interview me. She wants to know what it’s like to have my work known all over the country but to be entirely unknown myself, since normally it’s only the singer who appears in the media. She’s pretty, intelligent, quiet. We meet again at a party, where there’s no pressure of work, and I manage to get her into bed that same night. I fall in love, but she’s not remotely interested. When I phone, she always says she’s busy. The more she rejects me, the more interested I become, until, at last, I manage to persuade her to spend a weekend at my house in the country. (I may have been the black sheep of the family, but sometimes rebellion pays off: I was the only one of my friends at that stage in our lives to have bought a house in the country.) We spend three days alone, contemplating the sea. I cook for her, and she tells me stories about her work and ends up falling in love with me. We come back to the city, she starts sleeping at my apartment on a regular basis. One morning, she leaves earlier than usual and returns with her typewriter; from then on, without anything being said, my home becomes her home too. The same conflicts I had with my previous wives begin to surface: women are always looking for stability and fidelity, while I’m looking for adventure and the unknown. This time, though, the relationship lasts longer. Nevertheless, two years on, I decide it’s time for Esther to take her typewriter back to her own apartment, along with everything else she brought with her. “It’s not going to work.” “But you love me and I love you, isn’t that right?” “I don’t know. If you’re asking me if I like your company, the answer is yes. If, on the other hand, you’re asking me if I could live without you, the answer is also yes.” “I’m glad I wasn’t born a man. I’m very content with my female condition. All you expect of us women is that we can cook well. Men, on the other hand, are expected to be able to do everything—they’ve got to be able to keep a home afloat, make love, take care of the children, bring in the money, and be successful.” “That’s not it either: I’m very happy with myself. I enjoy your company, but I just don’t think it’s going to work.” “You enjoy my company, but hate being by yourself. You’re always looking for adventure in order to forget more important things. You always want to feel the adrenaline flowing in your veins and you forget that the only thing that should be flowing through them is blood.” “I’m not running away from important things. Give me an example of something important.” “Writing a book.” “I can do that any time.” “Go on then, do it. Then, if you like, we can go our separate ways.” I find her comment absurd; I can write a book whenever I want to; I know publishers, journalists, all of whom owe me favors. Esther is just a woman who’s afraid of losing me, she’s inventing things. I tell her it’s over, our relationship is at an end, it isn’t a matter of what she thinks would make me happy, it’s about love. What is love? she asks. I spend half an hour explaining and realize that I can’t come up with a good definition. She says that, since I don’t know how to define love, I should try and write a book. I say that the two things are completely unrelated. I’m going to leave the apartment that very day; she can stay there for as long as she likes. I’ll go and stay in a hotel until she has found somewhere else to live. She says that’s fine by her, I can leave now, the apartment will be free within the month—she’ll start looking for a new place tomorrow. I pack my bags, and she goes and reads a book. I say it’s getting late, I’ll leave tomorrow. She says I should leave at once because, tomorrow, I won’t feel as strong or as determined. I ask her if she’s trying to get rid of me. She laughs and says I was the one who wanted to end the relationship. We go to bed, and the following day, the desire to leave is not as urgent, and I decide I need to think things through. Esther, however, says the matter isn’t over yet: this scenario will simply keep recurring as long as I refuse to risk everything for what I believe to be my real reason for living; in the end, she’ll become unhappy and will leave me. Except that, if she left, she would do so immediately and burn any bridges that would allow her to come back. I ask her what she means. She’d get another boyfriend, she says, fall in love. She goes off to her work at the newspaper, and I decide to take a day’s leave (apart from writing lyrics, I’m also working for a recording company). I sit down at the typewriter. I get up again, read the papers, reply to some urgent letters, and, when I’ve done that, start replying to nonurgent letters. I make a list of things I need to do, I listen to music, I take a walk around the block, chat to the baker, come home, and suddenly the whole day has gone and I still haven’t managed to type a single sentence. I decide that I hate Esther, that she’s forcing me to do things I don’t want to do. When she gets home, she doesn’t ask me anything, but I admit that I haven’t managed to do any writing. She says that I have the same look in my eye as I did yesterday. The following day I go to work, but that evening I again go over to the desk on which the typewriter is sitting. I read, watch television, listen to music, go back to the machine, and so two months pass, with me accumulating pages and more pages of “first sentences,” but never managing to finish a paragraph. I come up with every possible excuse—no one reads in this country; I haven’t worked out a plot; I’ve got a fantastic plot, but I’m still looking for the right way to develop it. Besides, I’m really busy writing an article or a song lyric. Another two months pass, and one day, she comes home bearing a plane ticket. “Enough,” she says. “Stop pretending that you’re busy, that you’re weighed down by responsibilities, that the world needs you to do what you’re doing, and just go traveling for a while.” I can always become the editor of the newspaper where I publish a few articles, I can always become the president of the recording company for which I write lyrics, and where I work simply because they don’t want me to write lyrics for their competitors. I can always come back to do what I’m doing now, but my dream can’t wait. Either I accept it or I forget it. Where is the ticket for? Spain. I’m shocked. Air tickets are expensive; besides, I can’t go away now, I’ve got a career ahead of me, and I need to look after it. I’ll lose out on a lot of potential music partnerships; the problem isn’t me, it’s our marriage. If I really wanted to write a book, no one would be able to stop me. “You can, you want to, but you don’t,” she says. “Your problem isn’t me, but you, so it would be best if you spent some time alone.” She shows me a map. I must go to Madrid, where I’ll catch a bus up to the Pyrenees, on the border with France. That’s where a medieval pilgrimage route begins: the road to Santiago. I have to walk the whole way. She’ll be waiting for me at the other end and then she’ll accept anything I say: that I don’t love her anymore, that I still haven’t lived enough to create a literary work, that I don’t even want to think about being a writer, that it was nothing but an adolescent dream. This is madness! The woman I’ve been living with for two long years—a real eternity in relationship terms—is making decisions about my life, forcing me to give up my work and expecting me to walk across an entire country! It’s so crazy that I decide to take it seriously. I get drunk several nights running, with her beside me getting equally drunk— even though she hates drinking. I get aggressive; I say she’s jealous of my independence, that the only reason this whole mad idea was born is because I said I wanted to leave her. She says that it all started when I was still at school and dreaming of becoming a writer— no more putting things off; if I don’t confront myself now, I’ll spend the rest of my life getting married and divorced, telling cute anecdotes about my past and going steadily downhill. Obviously, I can’t admit she’s right, but I know she’s telling the truth. And the more aware I am of this, the more aggressive I become. She accepts my aggression without complaint; she merely reminds me that the departure date is getting closer. One night, shortly before that date, she refuses to make love. I smoke a whole joint of marijuana, drink two bottles of wine, and pass out in the middle of the living room. When I come to, I realize that I have reached the bottom of the pit, and now all that remains is for me to clamber back up to the top. And I, who so pride myself on my courage, see how cowardly, mean, and unadventurous I am being with my own life. That morning, I wake her with a kiss and tell her that I’ll do as she suggests. I set off, and for thirty-eight days I follow the road to Santiago. When I arrive, I understand that my real journey only starts there. I decide to settle in Madrid and live off my royalties, to allow an ocean to separate me from Esther’s body, even though we are still officially together and often talk on the phone. It’s very comfortable being married and knowing that I can always return to her arms, meanwhile enjoying all the independence in the world. I fall in love with a Catalan scientist, with an Argentine woman who makes jewelry, and with a young woman who sings in the metro. The royalties from my lyrics keep rolling in and are enough for me to live comfortably without having to work and with plenty of time to do everything—even write a book. The book can always wait until tomorrow, though, because the mayor of Madrid has decreed that the city should be one long party and has come up with an interesting slogan—“Madrid is killing me”—and urges us all to visit several bars each night, coining the phrase la movida madrileña (“the Madrid scene”), which is something I cannot possibly put off until tomorrow; everything is such fun; the days are short and the nights are long. One day, Esther phones to say that she’s coming to see me: according to her, we need to sort out our situation once and for all. She has booked her ticket for the following week, which gives me just enough time to organize a series of excuses. (“I’m going to Portugal, but I’ll be back in a month,” I tell the blonde girl who used to sing in the metro and who now sleeps in the rented apartment where I live and with whom I go out every night to enjoy la movida madrileña.) I tidy the apartment, expunge any trace of a female presence, and ask my friends not to breathe a word, because my wife is coming to stay for a month. Esther gets off the plane sporting a hideous, unrecognizable haircut. We travel to the interior of Spain, discover little towns that mean a great deal for one night, but which, if I went back there today, I wouldn’t even be able to find. We go to bullfights, flamenco shows, and I am the best husband in the world, because I want her to go home feeling that I still love her. I don’t know why I want to give this impression—perhaps because, deep down, I know that the Madrid dream will eventually end. I complain about her haircut and she changes it and is pretty again. There are only ten days left of her holiday and I want her to go home feeling happy and to leave me alone to enjoy this Madrid that is killing me, the discotheques that open at ten in the morning, the bullfights, the endless conversations about the same old topics, the alcohol, the women, more bullfights, more alcohol, more women, and absolutely no timetable. One Sunday, while we are walking to a bar that serves food all night, she brings up the forbidden topic: the book I said I was writing. I drink a whole bottle of sherry, kick any metal doors we pass on the way back, verbally abuse other people in the street, ask why she bothered traveling all this way if her one aim was to make my life a hell and destroy my happiness. She says nothing, but we both know that our relationship has reached its limits. I have a dreamless night’s sleep, and the following morning, having complained to the building manager about the phone that doesn’t work, having told off the cleaning woman because she hasn’t changed the sheets for a week, having taken a long, long bath to get rid of the hangover from the night before, I sit down at my typewriter, just to show Esther that I am trying, honestly trying, to work. And suddenly, the miracle happens. I look across at the woman who has just made some coffee and is now reading the newspaper, whose eyes look tired and desperate, who is her usual silent self, who does not always show her affection in gestures, the woman who made me say yes when I wanted to say no, who forced me to fight for what she, quite rightly, believed was my reason for living, who let me set off alone because her love for me was greater even than her love for herself, who made me go in search of my dream; and, suddenly, seeing that small, quiet woman, whose eyes said more than any words, who was often terrified inside, but always courageous in her actions, who could love someone without humbling herself and who never ever apologized for fighting for her man—suddenly, my fingers press down on the keys. The first sentence emerges. Then the second. I spend two days without eating, I sleep the bare minimum, the words seem to spring from some unknown place, as they did when I used to write lyrics, in the days when, after much arguing and much meaningless conversation, my musical partner and I would know that “it” was there, ready, and it was time to set “it” down in words and notes. This time, I know that “it” comes from Esther’s heart; my love is reborn, I write the book because she exists, because she has survived all the difficult times without complaint, without ever once seeing herself as a victim. I start by describing the experience that has affected me most profoundly in those last few years—the road to Santiago. As I write, I realize that the way I see the world is going through a series of major changes. For many years, I studied and practiced magic, alchemy, and the occult; I was fascinated by the idea of a small group of people being in possession of an immense power that could in no way be shared with the rest of humanity, because it would be far too dangerous to allow such vast potential to fall into inexperienced hands. I was a member of secret societies, I became involved in exotic sects, I bought obscure, extremely expensive books, spent an enormous amount of time performing rituals and invocations. I was always joining and leaving different groups and fraternities, always thinking that I had finally met the person who could reveal to me the mysteries of the invisible world, but in the end I was always disappointed to discover that most of these people, however well-intentioned, were merely following this or that dogma and tended to be fanatics, because fanaticism is the only way to put an end to the doubts that constantly trouble the human soul. I discovered that many of the rituals did actually work, but I discovered, too, that those who declared themselves to be the masters and holders of the secrets of life, who claimed to know techniques that gave them the ability to achieve their every desire, had completely lost touch with the teachings of the ancients. Following the road to Santiago, coming into contact with ordinary people, discovering that the universe spoke its own language of “signs” and that, in order to understand this language, we had only to look with an open mind at what was going on around us—all this made me wonder if the occult really was the one doorway into those mysteries. In my book about the road to Santiago, I discuss other possible ways of growing and end with this thought: All you have to do is to pay attention; lessons always arrive when you are ready, and if you can read the signs, you will learn everything you need to know in order to take the next step. We humans have two great problems: the first is knowing when to begin; the second is knowing when to stop. A week later, I have finished the first, second, and third draft. Madrid is no longer killing me, it is time to go back home. I feel that one cycle has ended and that I urgently need to begin another. I say goodbye to the city as I have always said goodbye in life: thinking that I might change my mind and come back one day. I return to my own country with Esther, convinced that it might be time to get another job, but until I do (and I don’t because I don’t need to) I continue revising the book. I can’t believe that anyone will have much interest in the experiences of one man following a romantic but difficult route across Spain. Four months later, when I am busy on my tenth draft, I discover that both the typescript and Esther have gone. Just as I’m about to go mad with anxiety, she returns with a receipt from the post office—she has sent it off to an old boyfriend of hers, who now runs a small publishing house. The ex-boyfriend publishes the book. There is not a word about it in the press, but a few people buy it. They recommend it to other people, who also buy it and recommend it to others. Six months later, the first edition has sold out. A year later, there have been three more print runs and I am beginning to earn money from the one thing I never dreamed I would—from literature. I don’t know how long this dream will continue, but I decide to live each moment as if it were the last. And I see that this success opens the door I have so long wanted to open: other publishers are keen to publish my next book. Obviously, I can’t follow the road to Santiago every year, so what am I going to write about next? Will I have to endure the same rigmarole of sitting down in front of the typewriter and then finding myself doing everything but writing sentences and paragraphs? It’s important that I continue to share my vision of the world and to describe my experiences of life. I try for a few days and for many nights, and decide that it’s impossible. Then, one evening, I happen upon (happen upon?) an interesting story in The Thousand and One Nights; in it I find the symbol of my own path, something that helps me to understand who I am and why I took so long to make the decision that was always there waiting for me. I use that story as the basis for another story about a shepherd who goes in search of his dream, a treasure hidden in the pyramids of Egypt. I speak of the love that lies waiting for him there, as Esther had waited for me while I walked around and around in circles. I am no longer someone dreaming of becoming something: I am. I am the shepherd crossing the desert, but where is the alchemist who helps him to carry on? When I finish this novel, I don’t entirely understand what I have written: it is like a fairy tale for grown- ups, and grown-ups are more interested in war, sex, or stories about power. Nevertheless, the publisher accepts it, the book is published, and my readers once again take it into the bestseller lists. Three years later, my marriage is in excellent shape; I am doing what I always wanted to do; the first translation appears, then the second, and success—slowly but surely—takes my work to the four corners of the earth. I decide to move to Paris because of its cafés, its writers, and its cultural life. I discover that none of this exists anymore: the cafés are full of tourists and photographs of the people who made those places famous. Most of the writers there are more concerned with style than content; they strive to be original, but succeed only in being dull. They are locked in their own little world, and I learn an interesting French expression: renvoyer l’ascenseur, meaning literally “to send the elevator back,” but used metaphorically to mean “to return a favor.” In practice, this means that I say nice things about your book, you say nice things about mine, and thus we create a whole new cultural life, a revolution, an apparently new philosophy; we suffer because no one understands us, but then that’s what happened with all the geniuses of the past: being misunderstood by one’s contemporaries is surely just part and parcel of being a great artist. They “send the elevator back,” and, at first, such writers have some success: people don’t want to run the risk of openly criticizing something they don’t understand, but they soon realize they are being conned and stop believing what the critics say. The Internet and its simple language are all that it takes to change the world. A parallel world emerges in Paris: new writers struggle to make their words and their souls understood. I join these new writers in cafés that no one has heard of, because neither the writers nor the cafés are as yet famous. I develop my style alone and I learn from a publisher all I need to know about mutual support. What is this Favor Bank?” “You know. Everyone knows.” “Possibly, but I still haven’t quite grasped what you’re saying.” “It was an American writer who first mentioned it. It’s the most powerful bank in the world, and you’ll find it in every sphere of life.” “Yes, but I come from a country without a literary tradition. What favors could I do for anyone?” “That doesn’t matter in the least. Let me give you an example: I know that you’re an up- and-coming writer and that, one day, you’ll be very influential. I know this because, like you, I too was once ambitious, independent, honest. I no longer have the energy I once had, but I want to help you because I can’t or don’t want to grind to a halt just yet. I’m not dreaming about retirement, I’m still dreaming about the fascinating struggle that is life, power, and glory. “I start making deposits in your account—not cash deposits, you understand, but contacts. I introduce you to such-and-such a person, I arrange certain deals, as long as they’re legal. You know that you owe me something, but I never ask you for anything.” “And then one day…” “Exactly. One day, I’ll ask you for a favor and you could, of course, say no, but you’re conscious of being in my debt. You do what I ask, I continue to help you, and other people see that you’re a decent, loyal sort of person and so they too make deposits in your account—always in the form of contacts, because this world is made up of contacts and nothing else. They too will one day ask you for a favor, and you will respect and help the people who have helped you, and, in time, you’ll have spread your net worldwide, you’ll know everyone you need to know and your influence will keep on growing.” “I could refuse to do what you ask me to do.” “You could. The Favor Bank is a risky investment, just like any other bank. You refuse to grant the favor I asked you, in the belief that I helped you because you deserved to be helped, because you’re the best and everyone should automatically recognize your talent. Fine, I say thank you very much and ask someone else into whose account I’ve also made various deposits; but from then on, everyone knows, without me having to say a word, that you are not to be trusted. “You’ll grow only half as much as you could have grown, and certainly not as much as you would have liked to. At a certain point, your life will begin to decline, you got halfway, but not all the way, you are half-happy and half-sad, neither frustrated nor fulfilled. You’re neither cold nor hot, you’re lukewarm, and as an evangelist in some holy book says: ‘Lukewarm things are not pleasing to the palate.’” The publisher places a lot of deposits—or contacts—into my account at the Favor Bank. I learn, I suffer, my books are translated into French, and, in the tradition of that country, the stranger is welcomed. Not only that, the stranger is an enormous success! Ten years on, I have a large apartment with a view over the Seine, I am loved by my readers and loathed by the critics (who adored me until I sold my first 100,000 copies, but, from that moment on, I ceased to be “a misunderstood genius”). I always repay promptly any deposits made and soon I too am a lender—of contacts. My influence grows. I learn to ask for favors and to do the favors others ask of me. Esther gets permission to work as a journalist in France. Apart from the normal conflicts in any marriage, I am contented. I understand for the first time that all the frustrations I felt about previous love affairs and marriages had nothing to do with the women involved, but with my own bitterness. Esther, however, was the only woman who understood one very simple thing: in order to be able to find her, I first had to find myself. We have been together for eight years; I believe she is the love of my life, and although I do occasionally (or, to be honest, frequently) fall in love with other women who cross my path, I never consider the possibility of divorce. I never ask her if she knows about my extramarital affairs. She never makes any comment on the subject. That is why I am astonished when, as we are leaving a cinema, she tells me that she has asked her magazine if she can file a report on a civil war in Africa. What are you saying?” “That I want to be a war correspondent.” “You’re mad. You don’t need to do that. You’re already doing the work you want to do now. You earn good money—not that you need that money to live on. You have all the contacts you need in the Favor Bank. You have talent and you’ve earned your colleagues’ respect.” “All right then, let’s just say I need to be alone.” “Because of me?” “We’ve built our lives together. I love my man and he loves me, even though he’s not always the most faithful of husbands.” “You’ve never said anything about that before.” “Because it doesn’t matter to me. I mean, what is fidelity? The feeling that I possess a body and a soul that aren’t mine? Do you imagine I haven’t been to bed with other men during all these years we’ve been together?” “I don’t care and I don’t want to know.” “Well, neither do I.” “So, what’s all this about wanting to write about a war in some godforsaken part of the world?” “As I said, I need to.” “Haven’t you got everything you need?” “I have everything a woman could want.” “What’s wrong with your life then?” “Precisely that. I have everything, but I’m not happy. And I’m not the only one either; over the years, I’ve met and interviewed all kinds of people: the rich, the poor, the powerful, and those who just make do. I’ve seen the same infinite bitterness in everyone’s eyes, a sadness which people weren’t always prepared to acknowledge, but which, regardless of what they were telling me, was nevertheless there. Are you listening?” “Yes, I’m listening. I was just thinking. So, according to you, no one is happy?” “Some people appear to be happy, but they simply don’t give the matter much thought. Others make plans: I’m going to have a husband, a home, two children, a house in the country. As long as they’re busy doing that, they’re like bulls looking for the bullfighter: they react instinctively, they blunder on, with no idea where the target is. They get their car, sometimes they even get a Ferrari, and they think that’s the meaning of life, and they never question it. Yet their eyes betray the sadness that even they don’t know they carry in their soul. Are you happy?” “I don’t know.” “I don’t know if everyone is unhappy. I know they’re all busy: working overtime, worrying about their children, their husband, their career, their degree, what they’re going to do tomorrow, what they need to buy, what they need to have in order not to feel inferior, etc. Very few people actually say to me: ‘I’m unhappy.’ Most say: ‘I’m fine, I’ve got everything I ever wanted.’ Then I ask: ‘What makes you happy?’ Answer: ‘I’ve got everything a person could possibly want—a family, a home, work, good health.’ I ask again: ‘Have you ever stopped to wonder if that’s all there is to life?’ Answer: ‘Yes, that’s all there is.’ I insist: ‘So the meaning of life is work, family, children who will grow up and leave you, a wife or husband who will become more like a friend than a real lover. And, of course, one day your work will end too. What will you do when that happens?’ Answer: There is no answer. They change the subject.” “No, what they say is: ‘When the children have grown up, when my husband—or my wife—has become more my friend than my passionate lover, when I retire, then I’ll have time to do what I always wanted to do: travel.’ Question: ‘But didn’t you say you were happy now? Aren’t you already doing what you always wanted to do?’ Then they say they’re very busy and change the subject.” “If I insist, they always do come up with something they’re lacking. The businessman hasn’t yet closed the deal he wanted, the housewife would like to have more independence and more money, the boy who’s in love is afraid of losing his girlfriend, the new graduate wonders if he chose his career or if it was chosen for him, the dentist wanted to be a singer, the singer wanted to be a politician, the politician wanted to be a writer, the writer wanted to be a farmer. And even when I did meet someone who was doing what he had chosen to do, that person’s soul was still in torment. He hadn’t found peace yet either. So I’ll ask you again: ‘Are you happy?’” “No. I have the woman I love, the career I always dreamed of having, the kind of freedom that is the envy of all my friends, the travel, the honors, the praise. But there’s something…” “What?” “I have the idea that, if I stopped, life would become meaningless.” “You can’t just relax, look at Paris, take my hand and say: I’ve got what I wanted, now let’s enjoy what life remains to us.” “I can look at Paris, take your hand, but I can’t say those words.” “I bet you everyone walking along this street now is feeling the same thing. The elegant woman who just passed us spends her days trying to hold back time, always checking the scales, because she thinks that is what love depends on. Look across the street: a couple with two children. They feel intensely happy when they’re out with their children, but, at the same time, their subconscious keeps them in a constant state of terror: they think of the job they might lose, the disease they might catch, the health insurance that might not come up with the goods, one of the children getting run over. And in trying to distract themselves, they try as well to find a way of getting free of those tragedies, of protecting themselves from the world.” “And the beggar on the corner?” “I don’t know about him. I’ve never spoken to a beggar. He’s certainly the picture of misery, but his eyes, like the eyes of any beggar, seem to be hiding something. His sadness is so obvious that I can’t quite believe in it.” “What’s missing?” “I haven’t a clue. I look at the celebrity magazines with everyone smiling and contented, but since I am myself married to a celebrity, I know that it isn’t quite like that: everyone is laughing and having fun at that moment, in that photo, but later that night, or in the morning, the story is always quite different. ‘What do I have to do in order to continue appearing in this magazine?’ ‘How can I disguise the fact that I no longer have enough money to support my luxurious lifestyle?’ ‘How can I best manipulate my luxurious lifestyle to make it seem even more luxurious than anyone else’s?’ ‘The actress in the photo with me and with whom I’m smiling and celebrating could steal a part from me tomorrow!’ ‘Am I better dressed than she is? Why are we smiling when we loathe each other?’ ‘Why do we sell happiness to the readers of this magazine when we are profoundly unhappy ourselves, the slaves of fame.’” “We’re not the slaves of fame.” “Don’t get paranoid. I’m not talking about us.” “What do you think is going on, then?” “Years ago, I read a book that told an interesting story. Just suppose that Hitler had won the war, wiped out all the Jews and convinced his people that there really was such a thing as a master race. The history books start to be changed, and, a hundred years later, his successors manage to wipe out all the Indians. Three hundred years later and the Blacks have been eliminated too. It takes five hundred years, but, finally, the all-powerful war machine succeeds in erasing all Asians from the face of the earth as well. The history books speak of remote battles waged against barbarians, but no one reads too closely, because it’s of no importance. “Two thousand years after the birth of Nazism, in a bar in Tokyo, a city that has been inhabited for five centuries now by tall, blue-eyed people, Hans and Fritz are enjoying a beer. At one point, Hans looks at Fritz and asks: ‘Fritz, do you think it was always like this?’ “‘What?’ asks Fritz. “‘The world.’ “‘Of course the world was always like this, isn’t that what we were taught?’ “‘Of course, I don’t know what made me ask such a stupid question,’ says Hans. They finish their beer, talk about other things and forget the question entirely.” “You don’t even need to go that far into the future, you just have to go back two thousand years. Can you see yourself worshipping a guillotine, a scaffold, or an electric chair?” “I know where you’re heading—to that worst of all human tortures, the cross. I remember that Cicero referred to it as ‘an abominable punishment’ that inflicted terrible suffering on the crucified person before he or she died. And yet, nowadays people wear it around their neck, hang it on their bedroom wall, and have come to identify it as a religious symbol, forgetting that they are looking at an instrument of torture.” “Two hundred and fifty years passed before someone decided that it was time to abolish the pagan festivals surrounding the winter solstice, the time when the sun is farthest from the earth. The apostles, and those who came after them, were too busy spreading Jesus’ message to worry about the natalis invict Solis, the Mithraic festival of the birth of the sun, which occurred on December 25. Then a bishop decided that these solstice festivals were a threat to the faith and that was that! Now we have masses, Nativity scenes, presents, sermons, plastic babies in wooden mangers, and the cast-iron conviction that Christ was born on that very day!” “And then there’s the Christmas tree. Do you know where that comes from?” “No idea.” “Saint Boniface decided to ‘christianize’ a ritual intended to honor the god Odin when he was a child. Once a year, the Germanic tribes would place presents around an oak tree for the children to find. They thought this would bring joy to the pagan deity.” “Going back to the story of Hans and Fritz: do you think that civilization, human relations, our hopes, our conquests, are all just the product of some other garbled story?” “When you wrote about the road to Santiago, you came to the same conclusion, didn’t you? You used to believe that only a select few knew the meaning of magic symbols, but now you realize that we all know the meaning, it’s just that we’ve forgotten it.” “Knowing that doesn’t make any difference. People do their best not to remember and not to accept the immense magical potential they possess, because that would upset their neat little universes.” “But we all have the ability, don’t we?” “Absolutely, we just don’t all have the courage to follow our dreams and to follow the signs. Perhaps that’s where the sadness comes from.” “I don’t know. And I’m not saying that I’m unhappy all the time. I have fun, I love you, I adore my work. Yet now and then, I feel this profound sadness, occasionally mingled with feelings of guilt or fear; the feeling passes, but always comes back later on, and then passes off again. Like Hans, I ask that same question; when I can’t answer it, I simply forget. I could go and help starving children, set up a foundation for street children, start trying to save people in the name of Jesus, do something that would give me the feeling I was being useful, but I don’t want to.” “So why do you want to go and cover this war?” “Because I think that in time of war, men live life at the limit; after all, they could die the next day. Anyone living like that must act differently.” “So you want to find an answer to Hans’s question?” “Yes, I do.” Today, in this beautiful suite in the Hôtel Bristol, with the Eiffel Tower glittering for five minutes every time the clock strikes the hour, with an empty bottle of wine beside me and my cigarettes fast running out, with people greeting me as if nothing very serious had happened, I ask myself: Was it then, coming out of the cinema, that it all began? Should I have let her go off in search of that garbled story or should I have put my foot down and told her to forget the whole idea because she was my wife and I needed her with me, needed her support? Nonsense. At the time, I knew, as I know now, that I had no option but to accept what she wanted. If I had said: “Choose between me and becoming a war correspondent,” I would have been betraying everything that Esther had done for me. I wasn’t convinced by her declared aim—to go in search of “a garbled story”—but I concluded that she needed a bit of freedom, to get out and about, to experience strong emotions. And what was wrong with that? I accepted, not without first making it clear that this constituted a very large withdrawal from the Favor Bank (which, when I think about it now, seems a ludicrous thing to say). For two years, Esther followed various conflicts at close quarters, changing continents more often than she changed her shoes. Whenever she came back, I thought that this time she would give it up—it’s just not possible to live for very long in a place where there’s no decent food, no daily bath, and no cinemas or theaters. I asked her if she had found the answer to Hans’s question, and she always told me that she was on the right track, and I had to be satisfied with that. Sometimes, she was away from home for months at a time; contrary to what it says in the “official history of marriage” (I was starting to use her terminology), that distance only made our love grow stronger, and showed us how important we were to each other. Our relationship, which I thought had reached its ideal point when we moved to Paris, was getting better and better. As I understand it, she first met Mikhail when she needed a translator to accompany her to some country in Central Asia. At first, she talked about him with great enthusiasm—he was a very sensitive person, someone who saw the world as it really was and not as we had been told it should be. He was five years younger than she, but had a quality that Esther described as “magical.” I listened patiently and politely, as if I were really interested in that boy and his ideas, but the truth is, I was far away, going over in my mind all the things I had to do, ideas for articles, answers to questions from journalists and publishers, strategies for how to seduce a particular woman who appeared to be interested in me, plans for future book promotions. I don’t know if Esther noticed this. I certainly failed to notice that Mikhail gradually disappeared from our conversations, then vanished completely. Esther’s behavior became increasingly eccentric: even when she was in Paris, she started going out several nights a week, telling me that she was researching an article on beggars. I thought she must be having an affair. I agonized for a whole week and asked myself: should I tell her my doubts or just pretend that nothing is happening? I decided to ignore it, on the principle that “what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.” I was utterly convinced that there wasn’t the slightest possibility of her leaving me; she had worked so hard to help me become the person I am, and it would be illogical to let all that go for some ephemeral affair. If I had really been interested in Esther’s world, I should at least have asked what had happened to her translator and his “magical” sensibility. I should have been suspicious of that silence, that lack of information. I should have asked to go with her on one of those “research trips” to visit beggars. When she occasionally asked if I was interested in her work, my answer was always the same: “Yes, I’m interested, but I don’t want to interfere, I want you to be free to follow your dream in your chosen way, just as you helped me to do the same.” This, of course, was tantamount to saying that I wasn’t the slightest bit interested. But because people always believe what they want to believe, Esther seemed satisfied with my response. The words spoken by the inspector when I was released from the police cell come back to me again: You’re a free man. But what is freedom? Is it seeing that your husband isn’t interested in what you are doing? Is it feeling alone and having no one with whom to share your innermost feelings, because the person you married is entirely focused on his own work, on his important, magnificent, difficult career? I look at the Eiffel Tower: another hour has passed, and it is glittering again as if it were made of diamonds. I have no idea how often this has happened since I have been at the window. I know that, in the name of the freedom of our marriage, I did not notice that Mikhail had disappeared from my wife’s conversations, only to reappear in a bar and disappear again, this time taking her with him and leaving behind the famous, successful writer as prime suspect. Or, worse still, as a man abandoned. HANS’S QUESTION In Buenos Aires, the Zahir is a common 20-centavo coin; the letters N and T and the number 2 bear the marks of a knife or a letter opener; 1929 is the date engraved on the reverse. (In Gujarat, at the end of the eighteenth century, the Zahir was a tiger; in Java, it was a blind man from the Surakarta Mosque who was stoned by the faithful; in Persia, an astrolabe that Nadir Shah ordered to be thrown into the sea; in the Mahdi’s prisons, in around 1892, a small compass that had been touched by Rudolf Karl von Slatin….) A year later, I wake thinking about the story by Jorge Luis Borges, about something which, once touched or seen, can never be forgotten, and which gradually so fills our thoughts that we are driven to madness. My Zahir is not a romantic metaphor—a blind man, a compass, a tiger, or a coin. It has a name, and her name is Esther. Immediately after leaving prison, I appeared on the covers of various scandal sheets: they began by alleging a possible crime, but, in order to avoid ending up in court, they always concluded with the statement that I had been cleared. (Cleared? I hadn’t even been accused!) They allowed a week to pass; they checked to see if the sales had been good (they had, because I was the kind of writer who was normally above suspicion, and everyone wanted to find out how it was possible for a man who writes about spirituality to have such a dark side). Then they returned to the attack, alleging that my wife had run away because of my many extramarital affairs: a German magazine even hinted at a possible relationship with a singer, twenty years my junior, who said she had met me in Oslo, in Norway (this was true, but the meeting had only taken place because of the Favor Bank—a friend of mine had asked me to go and had been with us throughout the only supper we had together). The singer said that there was nothing between us (so why put a photo of us on the cover?) and took the opportunity to announce that she was releasing a new album: she had used both the magazine and me, and I still don’t know whether the failure of the album was a consequence of this kind of cheap publicity. (The album wasn’t bad, by the way—what ruined everything were the press releases.) The scandal over the famous writer did not last long; in Europe, and especially in France, infidelity is not only accepted, it is even secretly admired. And no one likes to read about the sort of thing that could so easily happen to them. The topic disappeared from the front covers, but the hypotheses continued: she had been kidnapped, she had left home because of physical abuse (photo of a waiter saying that we often argued: I remember that I did, in fact, have an argument with Esther in a restaurant about her views on a South American writer, which were completely opposed to mine). A British tabloid alleged—and luckily this had no serious repercussions—that my wife had gone into hiding with an Islamist terrorist organization. This world is so full of betrayals, divorces, murders, and assassination attempts that a month later the subject had been forgotten by the ordinary public. Years of experience had taught me that this kind of thing would never affect my faithful readership (it had happened before, when a journalist on an Argentinian television program claimed that he had “proof” that I had had a secret meeting in Chile with the future first lady of the country—but my books remained on the bestseller lists). As an American artist almost said: Sensationalism was only made to last fifteen minutes. My main concern was quite different: to reorganize my life, to find a new love, to go back to writing books, and to put away any memories of my wife in the little drawer that exists on the frontier between love and hate. Or should I say memories of my ex-wife (I needed to get used to the term). Part of what I had foreseen in that hotel room did come to pass. For a while, I barely left the apartment: I didn’t know how to face my friends, how to look them in the eye and say simply: “My wife has left me for a younger man.” When I did go out, no one asked me anything, but after a few glasses of wine I felt obliged to bring the subject up—as if I could read everyone’s mind, as if I really believed that they had nothing more to occupy them than what was happening in my life, but that they were too polite or smug to say anything. Depending on my mood, Esther was either a saint who deserved better or a treacherous, perfidious woman who had embroiled me in such a complicated situation that I had even been thought a criminal. Friends, acquaintances, publishers, people I sat next to at the many gala dinners I was obliged to attend, listened with some curiosity at first. Gradually, though, I noticed that they tended to change the subject; they had been interested in the subject at some point, but it was no longer part of their current curiosities: they were more interested in talking about the actress who had been murdered by a singer or about the adolescent girl who had written a book about her affairs with well-known politicians. One day, in Madrid, I noticed that the number of guests at events and suppers was beginning to fall off. Although it may have been good for my soul to unburden myself of my feelings, to blame or to bless Esther, I began to realize that I was becoming something even worse than a betrayed husband: I was becoming the kind of boring person no one wants to be around. I decided, from then on, to suffer in silence, and the invitations once more flooded in through my mailbox. But the Zahir, about which I initially used to think with either irritation or affection, continued to grow in my soul. I started looking for Esther in every woman I met. I would see her in every bar, every cinema, at bus stops. More than once I ordered a taxi driver to stop in the middle of the street or to follow someone, until I could persuade myself that the person was not the person I was looking for. With the Zahir beginning to occupy my every thought, I needed an antidote, something that would not take me to the brink of despair. There was only one possible solution: a girlfriend. I encountered three or four women I felt drawn to, but then I met Marie, a thirty-five- year-old French actress. She was the only one who did not spout such nonsense as: “I like you as a man, not as the celebrity everyone wants to meet” or “I wish you weren’t quite so famous,” or worse still: “I’m not interested in money.” She was the only one who was genuinely pleased at my success, because she too was famous and knew that celebrity counts. Celebrity is an aphrodisiac. It was good for a woman’s ego to be with a man and know that he had chosen her even though he had had the pick of many others. We were often seen together at parties and receptions; there was speculation about our relationship, but neither she nor I confirmed or denied anything, and the matter was left hanging, and all that remained for the magazines was to wait for the photo of the famous kiss—which never came, because both she and I considered such public exhibitionism vulgar. She got on with her filming and I with my work; when I could, I would travel to Milan, and when she could, she would meet me in Paris; we were close, but not dependent on each other. Marie pretended not to know what was going on in my soul, and I pretended not to know what was going on in hers (an impossible love for a married neighbor, even though she could have had any man she wanted). We were friends, companions, we enjoyed the same things; I would even go so far as to say that there was between us a kind of love, but different from the love I felt for Esther or that Marie felt for her neighbor. I started taking part in book signings again, I accepted invitations to give lectures, write articles, attend charity dinners, appear on television programs, help out with projects for up-and-coming young artists. I did everything except what I should have been doing, namely, writing a book. This didn’t matter to me, however, for in my heart of hearts I believed that my career as a writer was over, because the woman who had made me begin was no longer there. I had lived my dream intensely while it lasted, I had got further than most people are lucky enough to get, I could spend the rest of my life having fun. I thought this every morning. In the afternoon, I realized that the only thing I really liked doing was writing. By nightfall, there I was once more trying to persuade myself that I had fulfilled my dream and should try something new. The following year was a Holy Year in Spain, the Año Santo Compostelano, which occurs whenever the day of Saint James of Compostela, July 25, falls on a Sunday. A special door to the cathedral in Santiago stands open for 365 days, and, according to tradition, anyone who goes through that door receives a series of special blessings. There were various commemorative events throughout Spain, and since I was extremely grateful for the pilgrimage I had made, I decided to take part in at least one event: a talk, in January, in the Basque country. In order to get out of my routine—trying to write a book/going to a party/to the airport/visiting Marie in Milan/going out to supper/to a hotel/to the airport/surfing the Internet/going to the airport/to an interview/to another airport—I chose to drive the 1,400 kilometers there alone. Everywhere—even those places I have never visited before—reminds me of my private Zahir. I think how Esther would love to see this, how much she would enjoy eating in this restaurant or walking by this river. I spend the night in Bayonne and, before I go to sleep, I turn on the television and learn that there are about five thousand trucks stuck on the frontier between France and Spain, due to a violent and entirely unexpected snowstorm. I wake up thinking that I should simply drive back to Paris: I have an excellent excuse for canceling the engagement, and the organizers will understand perfectly—the traffic is in chaos, there is ice on the roads, both the French and Spanish governments are advising people not to leave home this weekend because the risk of accidents is so high. The situation is worse than it was last night: the morning paper reports that on one stretch of road alone seventeen thousand people are trapped; civil defense teams have been mobilized to provide them with food and temporary shelters, since many people have already run out of fuel and cannot use their car heaters. The hotel staff tell me that if I really have to travel, if it’s a matter of life or death, there is a minor road I can take, which, while it will avoid the blockages, will add about two hours to my journey time, and no one can guarantee what state the road will be in. Instinctively, I decide to go ahead; something is forcing me on, out onto the icy asphalt and to the hours spent patiently waiting in bottlenecks. Perhaps it is the name of the city: Vitória—Victory. Perhaps it is the feeling that I have grown too used to comfort and have lost my ability to improvise in crisis situations. Perhaps it is the enthusiasm of the people who are, at this moment, trying to restore a cathedral built many centuries ago and who, in order to draw attention to their efforts, have invited a few writers to give talks. Or perhaps it is the old saying of the conquistadors of the Americas: “It is not life that matters, but the journey.” And so I keep on journeying. After many long, tense hours, I reach Vitória, where some even tenser people are waiting for me. They say that there hasn’t been a snowstorm like it for more than thirty years, they thank me for making the effort, and continue with the official program, which includes a visit to the Cathedral of Santa María. A young woman with shining eyes starts telling me the story. To begin with there was the city wall. The wall remained, but one part of it was used to build a chapel. Many years passed, and the chapel became a church. Another century passed, and the church became a Gothic cathedral. The cathedral had had its moments of glory, there had been structural problems, for a time it had been abandoned, then restoration work had distorted the whole shape of the building, but each generation thought it had solved the problem and would rework the original plans. Thus, in the centuries that followed, they raised a wall here, took down a beam there, added a buttress over there, created or bricked up stained-glass windows. And the cathedral withstood it all. I walk through the skeleton of the cathedral, studying the restoration work currently being carried out: this time the architects guarantee that they have found the perfect solution. Everywhere there are metal supports, scaffolding, grand theories about what to do next, and some criticism about what was done in the past. And suddenly, in the middle of the central nave, I realize something very important: the cathedral is me, it is all of us. We are all growing and changing shape, we notice certain weaknesses that need to be corrected, we don’t always choose the best solution, but we carry on regardless, trying to remain upright and decent, in order to do honor not to the walls or the doors or the windows, but to the empty space inside, the space where we worship and venerate what is dearest and most important to us. Yes, we are all cathedrals, there is no doubt about it; but what lies in the empty space of my inner cathedral? Esther, the Zahir. She fills everything. She is the only reason I am alive. I look around, I prepare myself for the talk I am to give, and I understand why I braved the snow, the traffic jams, and the ice on the roads: in order to be reminded that every day I need to rebuild myself and to accept—for the first time in my entire existence—that I love another human being more than I love myself. On the way back to Paris—in far more favorable weather conditions—I am in a kind of trance: I do not think, I merely concentrate on the traffic. When I get home, I ask the maid not to let anyone in, and ask her if she can sleep over for the next few nights and make me breakfast, lunch, and supper. I stamp on the small apparatus that connects me to the Internet, destroying it completely. I unplug the telephone. I put my cell phone in a box and send it to my publisher, saying that he should only give it back to me when I come around personally to pick it up. For a week, I walk by the Seine each morning, and when I get back, I lock myself in my study. As if I were listening to the voice of an angel, I write a book, or, rather, a letter, a long letter to the woman of my dreams, to the woman I love and will always love. This book might one day reach her hands and even if it doesn’t, I am now a man at peace with his spirit. I no longer wrestle with my wounded pride, I no longer look for Esther on every corner, in every bar and cinema, at every supper. I no longer look for her in Marie or in the newspapers. On the contrary, I am pleased that she exists; she has shown me that I am capable of a love of which I myself knew nothing, and this leaves me in a state of grace. I accept the Zahir, and will let it lead me into a state of either holiness or madness. A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew—the title is from a line in Ecclesiastes—was published at the end of April. By the second week of May, it was already number one on the bestseller lists. The literary supplements, which have never been kind to me, redoubled their attacks. I cut out some of the key phrases and stuck them in a notebook along with reviews from previous years; they said basically the same thing, merely changing the title of the book: “…once again, despite the troubled times we live in, the author offers us an escape from reality with a story about love…” (as if people could live without love). “…short sentences, superficial style…” (as if long sentences equaled profundity). “…the author has discovered the secret of success—marketing…” (as if I had been born in a country with a long literary tradition and had had millions to invest in my first book). “…it will sell as well as all his other books, which just proves how unprepared human beings are to face up to the encircling tragedy…” (as if they knew what it meant to be prepared). Some reviews, however, were different, adding that I was profiting from last year’s scandal in order to make even more money. As always, these negative reviews only served to sell more of my books: my faithful readers bought the book anyway, and those who had forgotten about the whole sorry business were reminded of it again and so also bought copies, because they wanted to hear my version of Esther’s disappearance (since the book was not about that, but was, rather, a hymn to love, they must have been sorely disappointed and would doubtless have decided that the critics were spot-on). The rights were immediately sold to all the countries where my books were usually published. Marie, who read the typescript before I sent it to the publisher, showed herself to be the woman I had hoped she was: instead of being jealous, or saying that I shouldn’t bare my soul like that, she encouraged me to go ahead with it and was thrilled when it was a success. At the time, she was reading the teachings of a little-known mystic, whom she quoted in all our conversations. When people praise us, we should always keep a close eye on how we behave.” “The critics never praise me.” “I mean your readers: you’ve received more letters than ever. You’ll end up believing that you’re better than you are, and allow yourself to slip into a false sense of security, which could be very dangerous.” “Ever since my visit to the cathedral in Vitória, I do think I’m better than I thought I was, but that has nothing to do with readers’ letters. Absurd though it may seem, I discovered love.” “Great. What I like about the book is the fact that, at no point, do you blame your ex- wife. And you don’t blame yourself either.” “I’ve learned not to waste my time doing that.” “Good. The universe takes care of correcting our mistakes.” “Do you think Esther’s disappearance was some kind of ‘correction,’ then?” “I don’t believe in the curative powers of suffering and tragedy; they happen because they’re part of life and shouldn’t be seen as a punishment. Generally speaking, the universe tells us when we’re wrong by taking away what is most important to us: our friends. And that, I think I’m right in saying, is what was happening with you.” “I learned something recently: our true friends are those who are with us when the good things happen. They cheer us on and are pleased by our triumphs. False friends only appear at difficult times, with their sad, supportive faces, when, in fact, our suffering is serving to console them for their miserable lives. When things were bad last year, various people I had never even seen before turned up to ‘console’ me. I hate that.” “I’ve had the same thing happen to me.” “But I’m very grateful that you came into my life, Marie.” “Don’t be too grateful too soon, our relationship isn’t strong enough. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of moving to Paris or asking you to come and live in Milan: it wouldn’t make any difference to either of us in terms of work. You always work at home and I always work away. Would you like to change the subject now or shall we continue discussing it as a possibility?” “I’d like to change the subject.” “Let’s talk about something else then. It took a lot of courage to write that book. What surprises me, though, is that you don’t once mention the young man.” “I’m not interested in him.” “You must be. Every now and again you must ask yourself: Why did she choose him?” “I never ask myself that.” “You’re lying. I’d certainly like to know why my neighbor didn’t divorce his boring, smiling wife, always busy with the housework, the cooking, the children, and the bills. If I ask myself that, you must too.” “Are you saying that I hate him because he stole my wife?” “No, I want to hear you say that you forgive him.” “I can’t do that.” “It’s hard, I know, but you’ve no option. If you don’t do it, you’ll always be thinking of the pain he caused you and that pain will never pass. I’m not saying you’ve got to like him. I’m not saying you should seek him out. I’m not suggesting you should start thinking of him as an angel. What was his name now? Something Russian wasn’t it?” “It doesn’t matter what his name was.” “You see? You don’t even want to say his name. Are you superstitious?” “Mikhail. There you are, that’s his name.” “The energy of hatred won’t get you anywhere; but the energy of forgiveness, which reveals itself through love, will transform your life in a positive way.” “Now you’re sounding like some Tibetan sage, spouting stuff that is all very nice in theory, but impossible in practice. Don’t forget, I’ve been hurt before.” “Exactly, and you’re still carrying inside you the little boy, the school weakling, who had to hide his tears from his parents. You still bear the marks of the skinny little boy who couldn’t get a girlfriend and who was never any good at sports. You still haven’t managed to heal the scars left by some of the injustices committed against you in your life. But what good does that do?” “Who told you about that?” “I just know. I can see it in your eyes, and it doesn’t do you any good. All it does is feed a constant desire to feel sorry for yourself, because you were the victim of people stronger than you. Or else it makes you go to the other extreme and disguise yourself as an avenger ready to strike out at the people who hurt you. Isn’t that a waste of time?” “It’s just human.” “Oh, it is, but it’s not intelligent or reasonable. Show some respect for your time on this earth, and know that God has always forgiven you and always will.” Looking around at the crowd gathered for my book signing at a megastore on the Champs-Elysées, I thought: How many of these people will have had the same experience I had with my wife? Very few. Perhaps one or two. Even so, most of them would identify with what was in my new book. Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit down in front of the computer, gaze out on the unknown sea of my soul, and see a few islands—ideas that have developed and which are ripe to be explored. Then I climb into my boat—called The Word—and set out for the nearest island. On the way, I meet strong currents, winds, and storms, but I keep rowing, exhausted, knowing that I have drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach is no longer on my horizon. I can’t turn back, though, I have to continue somehow or else I’ll be lost in the middle of the ocean; at that point, a series of terrifying scenarios flash through my mind, such as spending the rest of my life talking about past successes, or bitterly criticizing new writers, simply because I no longer have the courage to publish new books. Wasn’t my dream to be a writer? Then I must continue creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and go on writing until I die, and not allow myself to get caught in such traps as success or failure. Otherwise, what meaning does my life have? Being able to buy an old mill in the south of France and tending my garden? Giving lectures instead, because it’s easier to talk than to write? Withdrawing from the world in a calculated, mysterious way, in order to create a legend that will deprive me of many pleasures? Shaken by these alarming thoughts, I find a strength and a courage I didn’t know I had: they help me to venture into an unknown part of my soul. I let myself be swept along by the current and finally anchor my boat at the island I was being carried toward. I spend days and nights describing what I see, wondering why I’m doing this, telling myself that it’s really not worth the pain and the effort, that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, that I’ve got what I wanted and far more than I ever dreamed of having. I notice that I go through the same process as I did when writing my first book: I wake up at nine o’clock in the morning, ready to sit down at my computer immediately after breakfast; then I read the newspapers, go for a walk, visit the nearest bar for a chat, come home, look at the computer, discover that I need to make several phone calls, look at the computer again, by which time lunch is ready, and I sit eating and thinking that I really ought to have started writing at eleven o’clock, but now I need a nap, I wake at five in the afternoon, finally turn on the computer, go to check my e-mails, then remember that I’ve destroyed my Internet connection; I could go to a place ten minutes away where I can get online, but couldn’t I, just to free my conscience from these feelings of guilt, couldn’t I at least write for half an hour? I begin out of a feeling of duty, but suddenly “the thing” takes hold of me and I can’t stop. The maid calls me for supper and I ask her not to interrupt me; an hour later, she calls me again; I’m hungry, but I must write just one more line, one more sentence, one more page. By the time I sit down at the table, the food is cold, I gobble it down and go back to the computer—I am no longer in control of where I place my feet, the island is being revealed to me, I am being propelled along its paths, finding things I have never even thought or dreamed of. I drink a cup of coffee, and another, and at two o’clock in the morning I finally stop writing, because my eyes are tired. I go to bed, spend another hour making notes of things to use in the next paragraph— notes which always prove completely useless, they serve only to empty my mind so that sleep can come. I promise myself that the next morning, I’ll start at eleven o’clock prompt. And the following day, the same thing happens—the walk, the conversations, lunch, a nap, the feelings of guilt, then irritation at myself for destroying the Internet connection, until I, at last, make myself sit down and write the first page…. Suddenly, two, three, four, eleven weeks have passed, and I know that I’m near the end; I’m gripped by a feeling of emptiness, the feeling of someone who has set down in words things he should have kept to himself. Now, though, I have to reach the final sentence— and I do. When I used to read biographies of writers, I always thought they were simply trying to make their profession seem more interesting when they said that “the book writes itself, the writer is just the typist.” Now I know that this is absolutely true, no one knows why the current took them to that particular island and not to the one they wanted to reach. The obsessive redrafting and editing begins, and when I can no longer bear to reread the same words one more time, I send it to my publisher, where it is edited again, and then published. And it is a constant source of surprise to me to discover that other people were also in search of that very island and that they find it in my book. One person tells another person about it, the mysterious chain grows, and what the writer thought of as a solitary exercise becomes a bridge, a boat, a means by which souls can travel and communicate. From then on, I am no longer the man lost in the storm: I find myself through my readers, I understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone. At the appointed time, I start signing books. There is brief eye-to-eye contact and a feeling of solidarity, joy, and mutual respect. There are handshakes, a few letters, gifts, comments. Ninety minutes later, I ask for a ten-minute rest, no one complains, and my publisher (as has become traditional at my book signings in France) orders champagne to be served to everyone still in line. (I have tried to get this tradition adopted in other countries, but they always say that French champagne is too expensive and end up serving mineral water instead. But that, too, shows respect for those still waiting.) I return to the table. Two hours later, contrary to what anyone observing the event might think, I am not tired, but full of energy; I could carry on all night. The shop, however, has closed its doors and the queue is dwindling. There are forty people left inside, they become thirty, twenty, eleven, five, four, three, two…and suddenly our eyes meet. “I waited until the end. I wanted to be the last because I have a message for you.” I don’t know what to say. I glance to one side, at the publishers, salespeople, and booksellers, who are all talking enthusiastically; soon we will go out to eat and drink and share the excitement of the day and describe some of the strange things that happened while I was signing books. I have never seen him before, but I know who he is. I take the book from him and write: “For Mikhail, with best wishes.” I say nothing. I must not lose him—a word, a sentence, a sudden movement might cause him to leave and never come back. In a fraction of a second, I understand that he and only he can save me from the blessing—or the curse—of the Zahir, because he is the only one who knows where to find it, and I will finally be able to ask the questions I have been repeating to myself for so long. “I wanted you to know that she’s all right, that she may even have read your book.” The publishers, salespeople, and booksellers come over. They all embrace me and say it’s been a great afternoon. Let’s go and relax and drink and talk about it all. “I’d like to invite this young man to supper,” I say. “He was the last in the queue and he can be the representative of all the other readers who were here with us today.” “I can’t, I’m afraid. I have another engagement.” And turning to me, rather startled, he adds: “I only came to give you that message.” “What message?” asks one of the salespeople. “He never usually invites anyone!” says my publisher. “Come on, let’s all go and have supper!” “It’s very kind of you, but I have a meeting I go to every Thursday.” “When does it start?” “In two hours’ time.” “And where is it?” “In an Armenian restaurant.” My driver, who is himself Armenian, asks which one and says that it’s only fifteen minutes from the place where we are going to eat. Everyone is doing their best to please me: they think that the person I’m inviting to supper should be happy and pleased to be so honored, that anything else can surely wait. “What’s your name?” asks Marie. “Mikhail.” “Well, Mikhail,” and I see that Marie has understood everything, “why don’t you come with us for an hour or so; the restaurant we’re going to is just around the corner. Then the driver will take you wherever you want to go. If you prefer, though, we can cancel our reservation and all go and have supper at the Armenian restaurant instead. That way, you’d feel less anxious.” I can’t stop looking at him. He isn’t particularly handsome or particularly ugly. He’s neither tall nor short. He’s dressed in black, simple and elegant—and by elegance I mean a complete absence of brand names or designer labels. Marie links arms with Mikhail and heads for the exit. The bookseller still has a pile of books waiting to be signed for readers who could not come to the signing, but I promise that I will drop by the following day. My legs are trembling, my heart pounding, and yet I have to pretend that everything is fine, that I’m glad the book signing was a success, that I’m interested in what other people are saying. We cross the Champs-Elysées, the sun is setting behind the Arc de Triomphe, and, for some reason, I know that this is a sign, a good sign. As long as I can keep control of the situation. Why do I want to speak to him? The people from the publishing house keep talking to me and I respond automatically; no one notices that I am far away, struggling to understand why I have invited to supper someone whom I should, by rights, hate. Do I want to find out where Esther is? Do I want to have my revenge on this young man, so lost, so insecure, and yet who was capable of luring away the person I love? Do I want to prove to myself that I am better, much better than he? Do I want to bribe him, seduce him, make him persuade my wife to come back? I can’t answer any of these questions, and that doesn’t matter. The only thing I have said up until now is: “I’d like to invite this young man to supper.” I had imagined the scene so often before: we meet, I grab him by the throat, punch him, humiliate him in front of Esther; or I get a thrashing and make her see how hard I’m fighting for her, suffering for her. I had imagined scenes of aggression or feigned indifference or public scandal, but the words “I’d like to invite this young man to supper” had never once entered my head. No need to ask what I will do next, all I have to do now is to keep an eye on Marie, who is walking along a few paces ahead of me, holding on to Mikhail’s arm, as if she were his girlfriend. She won’t let him go and yet I wonder, at the same time, why she’s helping me, when she knows that a meeting with this young man could also mean that I’ll find out where my wife is living. We arrive. Mikhail makes a point of sitting far away from me; perhaps he wants to avoid getting caught up in a conversation with me. Laughter, champagne, vodka, and caviar—I glance at the menu and am horrified to see that the bookseller is spending about a thousand dollars on the entrées alone. There is general chatter; Mikhail is asked what he thought of the afternoon’s event; he says he enjoyed it; he is asked about the book; he says he enjoyed it very much. Then he is forgotten, and attention turns to me—was I happy with how things had gone, was the queue organized to my liking, had the security team been up to scratch? My heart is still pounding, but I present a calm front. I thank them for everything, for the efficient way in which the event was run. Half an hour of conversation and a lot of vodka later, I can see that Mikhail is beginning to relax. He isn’t the center of attention anymore, he doesn’t need to say very much, he just has to endure it for a little while longer and then he can go. I know he wasn’t lying about the Armenian restaurant, so at least now I have a clue. My wife must still be in Paris! I must pretend to be friendly, try to win his confidence, the initial tensions have all disappeared. An hour passes. Mikhail looks at his watch and I can see that he is about to leave. I must do something—now. Every time I look at him, I feel more and more insignificant and understand less and less how Esther could have exchanged me for someone who seems so unworldly (she mentioned that he had “magical” powers). However difficult it might be to pretend that I feel perfectly at ease talking to someone who is my enemy, I must do something. “Let’s find out a bit more about our reader,” I say, and there is an immediate silence. “Here he is, about to leave at any moment, and he’s hardly said a word about his life. What do you do?” Despite the number of vodkas he has drunk, Mikhail seems suddenly to recover his sobriety. “I organize meetings at the Armenian restaurant.” “What does that involve?” “I stand on stage and tell stories. And I let the people in the audience tell their stories too.” “I do the same thing in my books.” “I know, that’s how I first met…” He’s going to say who he is! “Were you born here?” asks Marie, thus preventing him from finishing his sentence. “I was born in the Kazakhstan steppes.” Kazakhstan. Who’s going to be brave enough to ask where Kazakhstan is? “Where’s Kazakhstan?” asks the sales representative. Blessed are those who are not afraid to admit that they don’t know something. “I was waiting for someone to ask that,” and there is an almost gleeful look in Mikhail’s eyes now. “Whenever I say where I was born, about ten minutes later people are saying that I’m from Pakistan or Afghanistan…. My country is in Central Asia. It has barely fourteen million inhabitants in an area far larger than France with its population of sixty million.” “So it’s a place where no one can complain about the lack of space, then,” says my publisher, laughing. “It’s a place where, during the last century, no one had the right to complain about anything, even if they wanted to. When the Communist regime abolished private ownership, the livestock were simply abandoned and 48.6 percent of the population died. Do you understand what that means? Nearly half the population of my country died of hunger between 1932 and 1933.” Silence falls. After all, tragedies get in the way of celebrations, and one of the people present tries to change the subject. However, I insist that my “reader” tells us more about his country. “What are the steppes like?” I ask. “They’re vast plains with barely any vegetation, as I’m sure you know.” I do know, but it had been my turn to ask a question, to keep the conversation going. “I’ve just remembered something about Kazakhstan,” says my publisher. “Some time ago, I was sent a typescript by a writer who lives there, describing the atomic tests that were carried out on the steppes.” “Our country has blood in its soil and in its soul. Those tests changed what cannot be changed, and we will be paying the price for many generations to come. We even made an entire sea disappear.” It is Marie’s turn to speak. “No one can make a sea disappear.” “I’m twenty-five years old, and that is all the time it took, just one generation, for the water that had been there for millennia to be transformed into dust. Those in charge of the Communist regime decided to divert two rivers, Amu Darya and Syr Darya, so that they could irrigate some cotton plantations. They failed, but by then it was too late—the sea had ceased to exist, and the cultivated land became a desert. “The lack of water affected the whole climate. Nowadays, vast sandstorms scatter 150,000 tons of salt and dust every year. Fifty million people in five countries were affected by the Soviet bureaucrats’ irresponsible—and irreversible—decision. The little water that was left is polluted and is the source of all kinds of diseases.” I made a mental note of what he was saying. It could be useful in one of my lectures. Mikhail went on, and his tone of voice was no longer technical, but tragic. “My grandfather says that the Aral Sea was once known as the Blue Sea, because of the color of its waters. It no longer exists, and yet the people there refuse to leave their houses and move somewhere else: they still dream of waves and fishes, they still have their fishing rods and talk about boats and bait.” “Is it true about the atomic tests, though?” asks my publisher. “I think that everyone born in my country feels what the land felt, because every Kazakh carries his land in his blood. For forty years, the plains were shaken by nuclear or thermonuclear bombs, a total of 456 in 1989. Of those tests, 116 were carried out in the open, which amounts to a bomb twenty-five hundred times more powerful than the one that was dropped on Hiroshima during the Second World War. As a result, thousands of people were contaminated by radioactivity and subsequently contracted lung cancer, while thousands of children were born with motor deficiencies, missing limbs, or mental problems.” Mikhail looks at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go.” Half of those around the table are sorry, the conversation was just getting interesting. The other half are glad: it’s absurd to talk about such tragic events on such a happy occasion. Mikhail says goodbye to everyone with a nod of his head and gives me a hug, not because he feels a particular affection for me, but so that he can whisper: “As I said before, she’s fine. Don’t worry.” Don’t worry,’ he says. Why should I worry about a woman who left me? It was because of her that I was questioned by the police, splashed all over the front pages of the scandal sheets; it was because of her that I spent all those painful days and nights, nearly lost all my friends and…” “…and wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew. Come on, we’re both adults, with plenty of life experience. Let’s not deceive ourselves. Of course, you’d like to know how she is. In fact, I’d go further: you’d like to see her.” “If you’re so sure about that, why did you help persuade him to come to supper with us? Now I have a clue: he appears every Thursday at that Armenian restaurant.” “I know. You’d better follow up on that.” “Don’t you love me?” “More than yesterday and less than tomorrow, as it says on those postcards you can buy in stationery shops. Yes, of course, I love you. I’m hopelessly in love, if you must know. I’m even considering changing my address and coming to live in this huge, empty apartment of yours, but whenever I suggest it, you always change the subject. Nevertheless, I forget my pride and try to explain what a big step it would be for us to live together, and hear you say that it’s too soon for that; perhaps you’re afraid you’ll lose me the way you lost Esther, or perhaps you’re still waiting for her to come back, or perhaps you don’t want to lose your freedom, or are simultaneously afraid of being alone and afraid of living with someone—in short, our relationship’s a complete disaster. But, now that you ask, there’s my answer: I love you very much.” “So why did you help?” “Because I can’t live forever with the ghost of a woman who left without a word of explanation. I’ve read your book. I believe that only by finding her and resolving the matter will your heart ever truly be mine. That’s what happened with the neighbor I was in love with. I was close enough to him to be able to see what a coward he was when it came to our relationship, how he could never commit himself to the thing he wanted with all his heart, but which he always felt was too dangerous to actually have. You’ve often said that absolute freedom doesn’t exist; what does exist is the freedom to choose anything you like and then commit yourself to that decision. The closer I was to my neighbor, the more I admired you: a man who decided to go on loving the wife who had abandoned him and who wanted nothing more to do with him. You not only decided to do that, you made your decision public. This is what you say in your book; it’s a passage I know by heart: “‘When I had nothing more to lose, I was given everything. When I ceased to be who I am, I found myself. When I experienced humiliation and yet kept on walking, I understood that I was free to choose my destiny. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me, I don’t know, perhaps my marriage was a dream I couldn’t understand while it lasted. All I know is that even though I can live without her, I would still like to see her again, to say what I never said when we were together: I love you more than I love myself. If I could say that, then I could go on living, at peace with myself, because that love has redeemed me.’” “Mikhail told me that Esther had probably read my book. That’s enough.” “Maybe, but for you to be able to love her fully, you need to find her and tell her that to her face. It might not be possible, she might not want to see you, but you would, at least, have tried. I would be free from the ‘ideal woman’ and you would be free from the absolute presence of what you call the Zahir.” “You’re very brave.” “No, I’m not, I’m afraid. But I have no choice.” The following morning, I swore to myself that I would not try to find out where Esther was living. For two years, I had unconsciously preferred to believe that she had been forced to leave, that she had been kidnapped or was being blackmailed by some terrorist group. Now that I knew she was alive and well (that was what the young man had told me), why try to see her again? My ex-wife had the right to look for happiness, and I should respect her decision. This idea lasted a little more than four hours; later in the afternoon, I went to a church, lit a candle, and made another promise, this time a sacred, ritual promise: to try to find her. Marie was right. I was too old to continue deceiving myself by pretending I didn’t care. I respected her decision to leave, but the very person who had helped me build my life had very nearly destroyed me. She had always been so brave. Why, this time, had she fled like a thief in the night, without looking her husband in the eye and explaining why? We were both old enough to act and face the consequences of our actions: my wife’s (or, rather, my ex-wife’s) behavior was completely out of character, and I needed to know why. It was another week—an eternity—before the “performance” at the restaurant. In the next few days, I agreed to do interviews that I would never normally accept; I wrote various newspaper articles, practiced yoga and meditation, read a book about a Russian painter, another about a crime committed in Nepal, wrote prefaces for two books and recommendations for another four, something which publishers were always asking me to do, and which I usually refused. There was still an awful lot of time to kill, so I decided to pay off a few debts at the Favor Bank—accepting supper invitations, giving brief talks at schools where the children of friends were studying, visiting a golf club, doing an improvised book signing at a bookshop on the Avenue de Suffren owned by a friend (he put an advertisement in the window three days before and all of twenty people turned up). My secretary remarked that I was obviously very happy, because she hadn’t seen me so active in ages; I said that having a book on the bestseller list encouraged me to work even harder than I usually did. There were two things I didn’t do that week. First, I didn’t read any unsolicited typescripts: according to my lawyers, these should always be returned immediately to the sender; otherwise, sooner or later I would run the risk of someone claiming that I had plagiarized one of their stories. (I’ve never understood why people send me their typescripts anyway—after all, I’m not a publisher.) Second, I didn’t look in an atlas to find out where Kazakhstan was, even though I knew that, in order to gain Mikhail’s trust, I should try to find out a bit more about where he came from. People are waiting patiently for someone to open the door that leads to the room at the back of the restaurant. The place has none of the charm of bars in St-Germain-des-Prés, no cups of coffee served with a small glass of water, no well-dressed, well-spoken people. It has none of the elegance of theater foyers, none of the magic of other shows being put on all over the city in small bistros, with the actors always trying their hardest, in the hope that some famous impresario will be in the audience and will introduce himself at the end of the show, tell them they’re wonderful, and invite them to appear at some important arts center. To be honest, I can’t understand why the place is so full: I’ve never seen it mentioned in the magazines that specialize in listing entertainment and the arts in Paris. While I’m waiting, I talk to the owner and learn that he is planning to turn the whole restaurant area into a theater. “More and more people come every week,” he says. “I agreed initially because a journalist asked me as a favor and said that, in return, he’d publish a review of my restaurant in his magazine. Besides, the room is rarely used on Thursdays, and while people are waiting, they have a meal; in fact, I probably make more money on a Thursday than I do on any other night of the week. The only thing that concerned me was that the actors might belong to a sect. As you probably know, the laws here are very strict.” Yes, I did know; certain people had even suggested that my books were linked to some dangerous philosophical trend, to a strand of religious teaching that was out of step with commonly accepted values. France, normally so liberal, was slightly paranoid about the subject. There had been a recent long report about the “brainwashing” practiced on certain unwary people. As if those same people were able to make all kinds of other choices about school, university, toothpaste, cars, films, husbands, wives, lovers, but, when it came to matters of faith, were easily manipulated. “How do they advertise these events?” I ask. “I’ve no idea. If I did, I’d use the same person to promote my restaurant.” And just to clear up any doubts, since he doesn’t know who I am, he adds: “By the way, it isn’t a sect. They really are just actors.” The door to the room is opened, the people flock in, depositing five euros in a small basket. Inside, standing impassive on the improvised stage, are two young men and two young women, all wearing full, white skirts, stiffly starched to make them stand out. As well as these four, there is an older man carrying a conga drum and a woman with a huge bronze cymbal covered in small, tinkling attachments; every time she inadvertently brushes against this instrument, it emits a sound like metallic rain. Mikhail is one of the young men, although he looks completely different from the person I met at the book signing: his eyes, fixed on some point in space, shine with a special light. The audience sits down on the chairs scattered around the room. Young men and women dressed in such a way that if you met them on the street, you would think they were into hard drugs. Middle-aged executives or civil servants with their wives. A few nine- or ten- year-old children, possibly brought by their parents. A few older people, who must have made a great effort to get here, since the nearest metro station is five blocks away. They drink, smoke, talk loudly, as if the people on the stage did not exist. The volume of conversation gradually increases; there is much laughter, it’s a real party atmosphere. A sect? Only if it’s a confraternity of smokers. I glance anxiously about, thinking I can see Esther in all the women there, sometimes even when they bear no physical resemblance at all to my wife. (Why can’t I get used to saying “my ex-wife”?) I ask a well-dressed woman what this is all about. She doesn’t seem to have the patience to respond; she looks at me as if I were a novice, a person who needs to be educated in the mysteries of life. “Love stories,” she says. “Stories and energy.” Stories and energy. Perhaps I had better not pursue the subject, although the woman appears to be perfectly normal. I consider asking someone else, but decide that it’s best to say nothing. I’ll find out soon enough for myself. A gentleman sitting by my side looks at me and smiles: “I’ve read your books and so, of course, I know why you’re here.” I’m shocked. Does he know about the relationship between Mikhail and my wife—I must again correct myself—the relationship between one of the people on stage and my ex- wife? “An author like you would be bound to know about the Tengri. They’re intimately connected with what you call ‘warriors of light.’” “Of course,” I say, relieved. And I think: I’ve never even heard of the Tengri. Twenty minutes later, by which time the air in the room is thick with cigarette smoke, we hear the sound of that cymbal. Miraculously, the conversations stop, the anarchic atmosphere seems to take on a religious aura; audience and stage are equally silent; the only sounds one can hear come from the restaurant next door. Mikhail, who appears to be in a trance and is still gazing at some point in the distance, begins: “In the words of the Mongolian creation myth: ‘There came a wild dog who was blue and gray and whose destiny was imposed on him by the heavens. His mate was a roe deer.’” His voice sounds different, more feminine, more confident. “Thus begins another love story. The wild dog with his courage and strength, the doe with her gentleness, intuition, and elegance. Hunter and hunted meet and love each other. According to the laws of nature, one should destroy the other, but in love there is neither good nor evil, there is neither construction nor destruction, there is merely movement. And love changes the laws of nature.” He gestures with his hand and the four people on stage turn on the spot. “In the steppes where I come from, the wild dog is seen as a feminine creature. Sensitive, capable of hunting because he has honed his instincts, but timid too. He does not use brute force, but strategy. Courageous, cautious, quick. He can change in a second from a state of complete relaxation to the tension he needs to pounce on his prey.” Accustomed as I am to writing stories, I think: “And what about the doe?” Mikhail is equally used to telling stories and answers the question hanging in the air: “The roe deer has the male attributes of speed and an understanding of the earth. The two travel along together in their symbolic worlds, two impossibilities who have found each other, and because they overcome their own natures and their barriers, they make the world possible too. That is the Mongolian creation myth: out of two different natures love is born. In contradiction, love grows in strength. In confrontation and transformation, love is preserved. “We have our life. It took the world a long time and much effort to get where it is, and we organize ourselves as best we can; it isn’t ideal, but we get along. And yet there is something missing, there is always something missing, and that is why we are gathered here tonight, so that we can help each other to think a little about the reason for our existence. Telling stories that make no sense, looking for facts that do not fit our usual way of perceiving reality, so that, perhaps in one or two generations, we can discover another way of living. “As Dante wrote in The Divine Comedy, ‘The day that man allows true love to appear, those things which are well made will fall into confusion and will overturn everything we believe to be right and true.’ The world will become real when man learns how to love; until then we will live in the belief that we know what love is, but we will always lack the courage to confront it as it truly is. “Love is an untamed force. When we try to control it, it destroys us. When we try to imprison it, it enslaves us. When we try to understand it, it leaves us feeling lost and confused. “This force is on earth to make us happy, to bring us closer to God and to our neighbor, and yet, given the way that we love now, we enjoy one hour of anxiety for every minute of peace.” Mikhail paused. The strange cymbal sounded again. “As on every Thursday, we are not going to tell stories about love. We are going to tell stories about the lack of love. We will see what lies on the surface—the layer where we find all our customs and values—in order to understand what lies beneath. When we penetrate beneath that layer we will find ourselves. Who would like to begin?” Several people raised their hand. Mikhail pointed to a young woman of Arab appearance. She turned to a man on his own, on the other side of the room. “Have you ever failed to get an erection when you’ve been to bed with a woman?” Everyone laughed. The man, however, avoided giving a direct answer. “Are you asking that because your boyfriend is impotent?” Again everyone laughed. While Mikhail had been speaking, I had once more begun to suspect that this was indeed some new sect, but when sects hold meetings, I can’t imagine that they smoke and drink and ask embarrassing questions about each other’s sex lives. “No, he’s not,” said the girl firmly. “But it has occasionally happened to him. And I know that if you had taken my question seriously, your answer would have been ‘Yes, I have.’ All men, in all cultures and countries, independent of any feelings of love or sexual attraction, have all experienced impotence at one time or another, often when they’re with the person they most desire. It’s normal.” Yes, it was normal, and the person who had told me this was a psychiatrist, to whom I went when I thought I had a problem. The girl went on: “But the story we’re told is that all men can always get an erection. When he can’t, the man feels useless, and the woman is convinced she isn’t attractive enough to arouse him. Since it’s a taboo subject, he can’t talk to his friends about it. He tells the woman the old lie: ‘It’s never happened to me before.’ He feels ashamed of himself and often runs away from someone with whom he could have had a really good relationship, if only he had allowed himself a second, third, or fourth chance. If he had trusted more in the love of his friends, if he had told the truth, he would have found out that he wasn’t the only one. If he had trusted more in the love of the woman, he would not have felt humiliated.” Applause. Cigarettes are lit, as if a lot of the people there—men and women—feel a great sense of relief. Mikhail points to a man who looks like an executive in some big multinational. “I’m a lawyer and I specialize in contested divorces.” “What does that mean?” asks someone in the audience. “It’s when one of the parties won’t agree to the separation,” replies the lawyer, irritated at being interrupted and as if he found it absurd that anyone should not know the meaning of such a straightforward legal term. “Go on,” says Mikhail, with an authority that I would never have imagined in the young man I had met at the book signing. The lawyer continues: “Today I received a report from the London-based firm Human and Legal Resources. This is what it says: (a) ‘Two-thirds of all employees in a company have some kind of love relationship. Imagine! That means that in any office of three people, two will end up having some form of intimate contact. (b) ‘Ten percent leave their job because of this, 40 percent have relationships that last more than three months, and in the case of certain professions that require people to spend long periods away from home, at least eight out of ten end up having an affair.’ “Isn’t that unbelievable?” “Well, of course, we have to bow down to statistics!” remarks one of a group of young men who are all dressed as if they were members of some dangerous band of robbers. “We all believe in statistics! That means that my mother must be being unfaithful to my father, but it’s not her fault, it’s the fault of the statistics!” More laughter, more cigarettes, more relief, as if the people in the audience were hearing things they had always been afraid to hear and that hearing them freed them from some kind of anxiety. I think about Esther and about Mikhail in “professions that require people to spend long periods away from home…” I think about myself and the many times this has happened to me. They are, after all, statistics. We are not alone. Other stories are told of jealousy, abandonment, depression, but I am no longer listening. My Zahir has returned in its full intensity—even though, for a few moments, I had believed I was merely engaging in a little group therapy, I am, in fact, in the same room as the man who stole my wife. My neighbor, the one who recognized me, asks if I’m enjoying myself. He distracts me for a moment from my Zahir, and I am happy to respond. “I still can’t quite see the point. It’s like a self-help group, like Alcoholics Anonymous or marriage counseling.” “But doesn’t what you hear strike you as genuine?” “Possibly, but again, I can’t see the point.” “This isn’t the most important part of the evening; it’s just a way of not feeling so alone. By talking about our lives, we come to realize that most people have experienced the same thing.” “And what’s the practical result?” “If we’re not alone, then we have more strength to find out where we went wrong and to change direction. But, as I said, this is just an interval between what the young man says at the beginning and the moment when we invoke the energy.” “Who is the young man?” Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the cymbal. This time, it is the older man with the conga drum who speaks. “The time for reasoning is over. Let us move on now to the ritual, to the emotion that crowns and transforms everything. For those of you who are here for the first time tonight, this dance develops our capacity to accept love. Love is the only thing that activates our intelligence and our creativity, that purifies and liberates us.” The cigarettes are extinguished, the clink of glasses stops. That same strange silence descends upon the room; one of the young women says a prayer: “We will dance, Lady, in homage to you. May our dancing make us fly up to heaven.” Did I hear right? Did she say “Lady”? She did. The other young woman lights the candles in four candelabra; the other lights are switched off. The four figures in white, with their starched white skirts, come down from the stage and mingle with the audience. For nearly half an hour, the second young man, with a voice that seems to emerge from his belly, intones a monotonous, repetitive song, which, curiously, makes me forget the Zahir a little and slip into a kind of somnolence. Even one of the children, who had kept running up and down during the “talking about love” session, is now quiet and still, her eyes fixed on the stage. Some of those present have their eyes closed, others are staring at the floor or at some invisible point in space, as I had seen Mikhail do. When he stops singing, the percussion—the cymbal and the drum—strike up a rhythm familiar to me from religious ceremonies originating in Africa. The white-clothed figures start to spin, and in that packed space, the audience makes room so that the wide skirts can trace movements in the air. The instruments play faster, the four spin ever faster too, emitting sounds that belong to no known language, as if they were speaking directly with angels or with the Lady. My neighbor gets to his feet and begins to dance too and to utter incomprehensible words. Ten or twelve other people in the audience do the same, while the rest watch with a mixture of reverence and amazement. I don’t know how long the dance went on for, but the sound of the instruments seemed to keep time with the beating of my heart, and I felt an enormous desire to surrender myself, to say strange things, to move my body; it took a mixture of self-control and a sense of the absurd to stop myself from spinning like a mad thing on the spot. Meanwhile, as never before, the figure of Esther, my Zahir, seemed to hover before me, smiling, calling on me to praise the Lady. I struggled not to enter into that unknown ritual, wanting it all to end as quickly as possible. I tried to concentrate on my main reason for being there that night—to talk to Mikhail, to have him take me to my Zahir—but I found it impossible to remain still. I got up from my chair and just as I was cautiously, shyly, taking my first steps, the music abruptly stopped. In the room lit only by the candles, all I could hear was the labored breathing of those who had danced. Gradually, the sound faded, the lights were switched back on, and everything seemed to have returned to normal. Glasses were again filled with beer, wine, water, soft drinks; the children started running about and talking loudly, and soon everyone was chatting as if nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened. “It’s nearly time to close the meeting,” said the young woman who had lit the candles. “Alma has one final story.” Alma was the woman playing the cymbal. She spoke with the accent of someone who has lived in the East. “The master had a buffalo. The animal’s widespread horns made him think that if he could manage to sit between them, it would be like sitting on a throne. One day, when the animal was distracted, he climbed up between the horns and did just that. The buffalo, however, immediately lumbered to its feet and threw him off. When his wife saw this, she began to cry. “‘Don’t cry,’ said the master, once he had recovered. ‘I may have suffered, but I also realized my dream.’” People started leaving. I asked my neighbor what he had felt. “You should know. You write about it in your books.” I didn’t know, but I had to pretend that I did. “Maybe I do know, but I want to be sure.” He looked at me, unconvinced, and clearly began to doubt that I really was the author he thought he knew. “I was in touch with the energy of the universe,” he replied. “God passed through my soul.” And he left, so as not to have to explain what he had said. In the empty room there were now only the four actors, the two musicians, and myself. The women went off to the ladies’ bathroom, presumably to change their clothes. The men took off their white costumes right there in the room and donned their ordinary clothes. They immediately began putting away the candelabra and the musical instruments in two large cases. The older man, who had played the drum during the ceremony, started counting the money and putting it into six equal piles. I think it was only then that Mikhail noticed my presence. “I thought I’d see you here.” “And I imagine you know the reason.” “After I’ve let the divine energy pass through my body, I know the reason for everything. I know the reason for love and for war. I know why a man searches for the woman he loves.” I again felt as if I were walking along a knife edge. If he knew that I was here because of my Zahir, then he also knew that this was a threat to his relationship with Esther. “May we talk, like two men of honor fighting for something worthwhile?” Mikhail seemed to hesitate slightly. I went on: “I know that I’ll emerge bruised and battered, like the master who wanted to sit between the buffalo’s horns, but I deserve it. I deserve it because of the pain I inflicted, however unconsciously. I don’t believe Esther would have left me if I had respected her love.” “You understand nothing,” said Mikhail. These words irritated me. How could a twenty-five-year-old tell an experienced man who had suffered and been tested by life that he understood nothing? I had to control myself, to humble myself, to do whatever was necessary. I could not go on living with ghosts, I could not allow my whole universe to continue being dominated by the Zahir. “Maybe I really don’t understand, but that’s precisely why I’m here—in order to understand. To free myself by understanding what happened.” “You understood everything quite clearly, and then suddenly stopped understanding; at least that’s what Esther told me. As happens with all husbands, there came a point when you started to treat your wife as if she were just part of the goods and chattel.” I was tempted to say: “Why didn’t she tell me that herself? Why didn’t she give me a chance to correct my mistakes and not leave me for a twenty-five-year-old who will only end up treating her just as I did.” Some more cautious words emerged from my mouth however. “I don’t think that’s true. You’ve read my book, you came to my book signing because you knew what I felt and wanted to reassure me. My heart is still in pieces: have you ever heard of the Zahir?” “I was brought up in the Islamic religion, so, yes, I’m familiar with the idea.” “Well, Esther fills up every space in my life. I thought that by writing about my feelings, I would free myself from her presence. Now I love her in a more silent way, but I can’t think about anything else. I beg you, please, I’ll do anything you want, but I need you to explain to me why she disappeared like that. As you yourself said, I understand nothing.” It was very hard to stand there pleading with my wife’s lover to help me understand what had happened. If Mikhail had not come to the book signing, perhaps that moment in the cathedral in Vitória, where I acknowledged my love for her and out of which I wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, would have been enough. Fate, however, had other plans, and the mere possibility of being able to see my wife again had upset everything. “Let’s have lunch together,” said Mikhail, after a long pause. “You really don’t understand anything. But the divine energy that today passed through my body is generous with you.” We arranged to meet the next day. On the way home, I remembered a conversation I had had with Esther three months before she disappeared. A conversation about divine energy passing through the body. Their eyes really are different. There’s the fear of death in them, of course, but beyond that, there’s the idea of sacrifice. Their lives are meaningful because they are ready to offer them up for a cause.” “You’re talking about soldiers, are you?” “Yes, and I’m talking as well about something I find terribly hard to accept, but which I can’t pretend I don’t see. War is a ritual. A blood ritual, but also a love ritual.” “You’re mad.” “Maybe I am. But I’ve met other war correspondents, too, who go from one country to the next, as if the routine of death were part of their lives. They’re not afraid of anything, they face danger the way a soldier does. And all for a news report? I don’t think so. They can no longer live without the danger, the adventure, the adrenaline in their blood. One of them, a married man with three children, told me that the place where he feels most at ease is in a war zone, even though he adores his family and talks all the time about his wife and kids.” “I just can’t understand it at all. Look, Esther, I don’t want to interfere in your life, but I think this experience will end up doing you real harm.” “It would harm me more to be living a life without meaning. In a war, everyone knows they’re experiencing something important.” “A historic moment, you mean?” “No, that isn’t enough of a reason for risking your life. No, I mean that they’re experiencing the true essence of man.” “War?” “No, love.” “You’re becoming like them.” “I think I am.” “Tell your news agency you’ve had enough.” “I can’t. It’s like a drug. As long as I’m in a war zone, my life has meaning. I go for days without having a bath, I eat whatever the soldiers eat, I sleep three hours a night and wake up to the sound of gunfire. I know that at any moment someone could lob a grenade into the place where we’re sitting, and that makes me live, do you see? Really live, I mean, loving every minute, every second. There’s no room for sadness, doubts, nothing; there’s just a great love for life. Are you listening?” “Absolutely.” “It’s as if there was a divine light shining in the midst of every battle, in the midst of that worst of all possible situations. Fear exists before and after, but not while the shots are being fired, because, at that moment, you see men at their very limit, capable of the most heroic of actions and the most inhumane. They run out under a hail of bullets to rescue a comrade, and at the same time shoot anything that moves—children, women—anyone who comes within their line of fire will die. People from small, provincial towns where nothing ever happened and where they were always decent citizens find themselves invading museums, destroying centuries-old works of art, and stealing things they don’t need. They take photos of atrocities that they themselves committed and, rather than trying to conceal these, they feel proud. And people who, before, were always disloyal and treacherous feel a kind of camaraderie and solidarity and become incapable of doing wrong. It’s a mad world, completely topsy-turvy.” “Has it helped you answer the question that Hans asked Fritz in that bar in Tokyo in the story you told me?” “Yes, the answer lies in some words written by the Jesuit Teilhard de Chardin, the same man who said that our world is surrounded by a layer of love. He said: ‘We can harness the energy of the winds, the seas, the sun. But the day man learns to harness the energy of love, that will be as important as the discovery of fire.’” “And you could only learn that by going to a war zone?” “I’m not sure, but it did allow me to see that, paradoxical though it may seem, people are happy when they’re at war. For them, the world has meaning. As I said before, total power or sacrificing themselves for a cause gives meaning to their lives. They are capable of limitless love, because they no longer have anything to lose. A fatally wounded soldier never asks the medical team: ‘Please save me!’ His last words are usually: ‘Tell my wife and my son that I love them.’ At the last moment, they speak of love!” “So, in your opinion, human beings only find life meaningful when they’re at war.” “But we’re always at war. We’re at war with death, and we know that death will win in the end. In armed conflicts, this is simply more obvious, but the same thing happens in daily life. We can’t allow ourselves the luxury of being unhappy all the time.” “What do you want me to do?” “I need help. And that doesn’t mean saying to me, ‘Go and hand in your notice,’ because that would only leave me feeling even more confused than before. We need to find a way of channeling all this, of allowing the energy of this pure, absolute love to flow through our bodies and spread around us. The only person so far who has helped me understand this is a rather otherworldly interpreter who says he’s had revelations about this energy.” “Are you talking about the love of God?” “If someone is capable of loving his partner without restrictions, unconditionally, then he is manifesting the love of God. If the love of God becomes manifest, he will love his neighbor. If he loves his neighbor, he will love himself. If he loves himself, then everything returns to its proper place. History changes.” “History will never change because of politics or conquests or theories or wars; that’s mere repetition, it’s been going on since the beginning of time. History will only change when we are able to use the energy of love, just as we use the energy of the wind, the seas, the atom.” “Do you think we two could save the world?” “I think there are more people out there who think the same way. Will you help me?” “Yes, as long as you tell what I have to do.” “But that’s precisely what I don’t know!” I had been a regular customer at this charming pizzeria ever since my very first visit to Paris, so much so that it has become part of my history. Most recently, I had held a supper here to celebrate receiving the medal of Officer of Arts and Literature presented to me by the Ministry of Culture, even though many people felt that the commemoration of such an important event should have taken place somewhere more elegant and more expensive. But Roberto, the owner, had become a kind of good-luck charm to me; whenever I went to his restaurant, something good happened in my life. “I could start with some small talk about the success of A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew or the contradictory emotions I felt last night as I watched your performance.” “It’s not a performance, it’s a meeting,” he said. “We tell stories and we dance in order to feel the energy of love.” “I could talk about anything just to put you at your ease, but we both know why we’re here.” “We’re here because of your wife,” said Mikhail, who was now full of a young man’s defiance and in no way resembled the shy boy at the book signing or the spiritual leader of that “meeting.” “You mean my ex-wife. And I would like to ask you a favor: take me to her. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me why she left. Only then will I be free of the Zahir. Otherwise, I’ll go on thinking about her day and night, night and day, going over and over our story, our history, again and again, trying to pinpoint the moment when I went wrong and our paths began to diverge.” He laughed. “Reviewing history’s a great idea, that’s the only way you can make things change.” “Very clever, but I’d prefer to leave philosophical discussions to one side for the moment. I’m sure that, like all young men, you hold in your hands the precise formula for putting the world to rights. However, like all young men, you will one day be as old as me and then you’ll see that it’s not so easy to change things. But there’s no point talking about that now. Can you grant me that favor?” “I must first ask you something: Did she say goodbye?” “No.” “Did she say she was going away?” “No, she didn’t. You know that.” “Do you think that, given the kind of person Esther is, she would be capable of leaving a man she had lived with for more than ten years without first confronting him and explaining her reasons?” “That’s precisely what I find most troubling. But what are you getting at?” The conversation was interrupted by Roberto, who wanted to know if we were ready to order. Mikhail asked for a Napolitana and I told Roberto to choose for me—this was hardly the moment to be worrying about what I should eat. The only thing we needed urgently was a bottle of red wine, as quickly as possible. When Roberto asked me what sort of wine and I muttered an inaudible reply, he understood that he should simply leave us alone and not ask me anything else during lunch, but take all the necessary decisions himself, thus leaving me free to concentrate on my conversation with the young man before me. The wine arrived within thirty seconds. I filled our glasses. “What’s she doing?” “Do you really want to know?” It irritated me to receive a question in response to mine. “Yes, I do.” “She’s making carpets and giving French lessons.” Carpets! My wife (ex-wife, please, do try and get used to it), who had all the money she could possibly need, had a degree in journalism, spoke four languages, was now obliged to making a living weaving carpets and giving French lessons to foreigners? I must get a grip on myself. I couldn’t risk wounding the young man’s male pride, even though I thought it shameful that he couldn’t give Esther everything she deserved. “Please, you must understand what I’ve been going through for the last year or more. I’m no threat to your relationship with Esther. I just need a couple of hours with her, or one hour, it doesn’t matter.” Mikhail appeared to be savoring my words. “You haven’t answered my question,” he said, with a smile. “Do you think that, given the kind of person Esther is, she would leave the man of her life without at least saying goodbye and without explaining why?” “No, I don’t.” “Then why all this stuff about ‘she left me’? Why do you say, ‘I’m no threat to your relationship with Esther’?” I was confused. I felt something like hope stirring inside me—not that I knew what I was hoping for or where that hope had come from. “Are you telling me that…” “Exactly. I’m telling you that she hasn’t left you or me. She has just disappeared for a while, possibly forever, but we must both respect that.” It was as if a bright light were suddenly shining in that pizzeria, a place that had always brought me good memories and good stories. I desperately wanted to believe what the young man was saying; the Zahir was now pulsating all around me. “Do you know where she is?” “Yes, I do. But even though I miss her as much as you do, I must respect her silence. I find this whole situation as confusing as you do. Esther may have found satisfaction in the Love That Devours, she might be waiting for one of us to go and find her, she may have met a new man, or she may have withdrawn from the world altogether. Whatever the truth, if you do decide to go and find her, I can’t stop you. But, if you do, you must know one thing: you must find not only her body, but also her soul.” I felt like laughing. I felt like hugging him, or possibly killing him—my emotions changed with startling speed. “Did you and she…” “Did we sleep together? That’s none of your business. I found in Esther the partner I was looking for, the person who helped me set out on the mission I was entrusted with, the angel who opened the doors, the roads, the paths that will allow us—if our Lady is willing—to restore the energy of love to the earth. We share the same mission. And just to put your mind at rest: I have a girlfriend, the blonde girl who was on stage with me last night. Her name’s Lucrecia; she’s Italian.” “Are you telling me the truth?” “Yes, in the name of the Divine Energy, I am.” He took a scrap of dark fabric out of his pocket. “Do you see this? The cloth is actually green; it looks black because it’s caked with dried blood. A soldier somewhere in the world asked her before he died to remove his shirt, then cut it into tiny pieces and distribute those pieces to anyone capable of understanding the message of his death. Do you have a piece?” “No, Esther has never even mentioned it to me.” “Whenever she meets someone whom she feels should receive the message, she also gives them a little of the soldier’s blood.” “And what is the message?” “If she didn’t give you a piece of the shirt, I don’t think I can tell you; not, of course, that she swore me to secrecy.” “Do you know anyone else who has a piece of that cloth?” “All the people who appear with me at the restaurant do. We’re only there because Esther brought us together.” I needed to tread carefully, to build up a relationship, to make a deposit in the Favor Bank. I mustn’t frighten him or seem overeager; I should ask him about himself and his work, about his country, of which he had spoken with such pride; I needed to find out if what he was telling me was true or if he had some ulterior motive; I needed to be absolutely sure that he was still in touch with Esther or if he had lost track of her as well. He may have come from a remote country, where the values are different, but I knew that the Favor Bank operated everywhere: it was an institution that knew no frontiers. On the one hand, I wanted to believe everything he was saying. On the other, my heart had suffered and bled enough during the thousand and one nights I had lain awake, waiting for the sound of the key in the door, for Esther to come in and lie down beside me, without saying a word. I had promised myself that if this ever happened, I would ask her no questions. I would just kiss her and say, “Sleep well, my love,” and we would wake the next day, hand in hand, as if this whole nightmare had never happened. Roberto arrived with the pizzas. He seemed to be endowed with some kind of sixth sense that told him when I needed time to think. I looked at Mikhail again. Keep calm; if you don’t get your pulse rate under control, you’ll have a heart attack. I drank a whole glass of wine and noticed that he had done the same. Why was he so nervous? “Oh, I believe what you say. But we’ve got plenty of time to talk.” “You’re going to ask me to take you to her.” He had spoiled my game. I would have to start again. “Yes, I am. I’m going to try to persuade you. I’m going to do everything in my power to do just that. I’m in no hurry though; we’ve got a whole pizza to eat first. Besides, I want to know more about you.” I noticed that he was trying to keep his hands from trembling. “I’m a person with a mission. I haven’t yet managed to fulfill it, but I think I still have time to do so.” “Perhaps I can help you.” “Oh, you can. Anyone can; you just have to help spread the energy of love throughout the world.” “I can do more than that.” I didn’t want to go any further; I didn’t want it to look as if I were trying to buy his loyalty. Careful. I had to be very careful. He could be telling the truth, but he could also be lying, trying to take advantage of my suffering. “I only know of one kind of loving energy,” I went on. “The one I feel for the woman who left, or, rather, went away and who is waiting for me. If I could see her again, I would be a happy man. And the world would be a better place because one soul would be content.” He glanced up at the ceiling and back down at the table, and I allowed the silence to last as long as possible. “I can hear a voice,” he said at last, unable to look at me. The great advantage of writing about spirituality is that I know I’m bound to keep encountering people with some kind of gift. Some of those gifts are real, others are fraudulent, some of those people are trying to use me, others are merely testing me out. I have seen so many amazing things that I no longer have the slightest doubt that miracles can happen, that everything is possible, and that people are beginning to relearn the inner powers they long ago forgot. However, this was not the ideal moment to speak of such matters. I was only interested in the Zahir. I needed the Zahir to become Esther again. “Mikhail…” “Mikhail isn’t my real name. My real name is Oleg.” “Oleg, then…” “Mikhail is the name I chose when I decided to be reborn to life. Like the warrior archangel, with his fiery sword, opening up a path so that—what is it you call them?—so that the ‘warriors of light’ can find each other. That is my mission.” “It’s my mission too.” “Wouldn’t you rather talk about Esther?” What? Was he changing the subject again back to the very thing that interested me? “I’m not feeling very well.” His gaze was starting to wander; he kept glancing around the restaurant as if I were not there. “I don’t want to talk about that. The voice…” Something strange, something very strange, was happening. How far was he prepared to go in order to impress me? Would he end up asking me to write a book about his life and powers, like so many others had before him? Whenever I have a clear objective, I will do anything to achieve it; that, after all, was what I said in my books and I could hardly betray my own words. I had an objective now: to gaze once more into the eyes of the Zahir. Mikhail had given me a lot of new information: He wasn’t her lover, Esther hadn’t left me, it was just a matter of time before I could bring her back. There was also the possibility that this meeting in the pizzeria was all a farce, that he was just someone with no other means of earning a living than by exploiting someone else’s pain in order to achieve his own ends. I drank another glass of wine; Mikhail did the same. Take care, my instinct was telling me. “Yes, I do want to talk about Esther, but I want to know more about you too.” “That’s not true. You’re just trying to seduce me, to persuade me to do things I was perfectly prepared to do anyway. Your pain is preventing you from seeing things clearly; you think I could be lying, that I’m trying to take advantage of the situation.” Mikhail might know exactly what I was thinking, but he was speaking more loudly than good manners permit. People were starting to turn around to see what was going on. “You’re just trying to impress me; you don’t realize what an impact your books had on my life or how much I learned from them. Your pain has made you blind, mean-spirited, and obsessed with the Zahir. It isn’t your love for her that made me accept your invitation to have lunch; in fact, I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced of your love; it might just be wounded pride. The reason I’m here…” His voice was growing louder; he was still glancing wildly around, as if he were losing control. “The lights…” “What’s wrong?” “The reason I’m here is her love for you!” “Are you all right?” Roberto had noticed that something was wrong. He came over to the table, smiling, and put his hand casually on Mikhail’s shoulder. “Well, the pizza was obviously pretty terrible. No need to pay, you can leave when you like.” That was the way out we needed. We could simply get up and go, thus avoiding the depressing spectacle of someone in a pizzeria pretending to be communing with the spirit world just to impress or embarrass me, although I did feel that this was more than just a theatrical performance. “Can you feel the wind blowing?” At that moment, I was sure he wasn’t acting; on the contrary, he was making an enormous effort to control himself and was more frightened by what was happening than I was. “The lights, the lights are starting to appear! Please, get me out of here!” His body began to be shaken by tremors. There was now no hiding what was going on; the people at the other tables had got up. “In Kazakh…” He did not manage to finish the sentence. He pushed the table away from him; pizzas, glasses, and cutlery went flying, hitting the diners on the next table. His expression had changed completely. His whole body was shaking and only the whites of his eyes were now visible. His head was violently thrown back and I heard the sound of bones cracking. A gentleman from one of the other tables leapt to his feet. Roberto caught Mikhail before he fell, while the other man picked up a spoon from the floor and placed it in Mikhail’s mouth. The whole thing can only have lasted a matter of seconds, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I could imagine the tabloids describing how a famous writer—and, despite all the adverse reviews, a possible candidate for a major literary prize—had concocted some sort of séance in a pizzeria just to get publicity for his new book. My paranoia was racing out of control. They would find out that the medium in question was the same man who had run off with my wife. It would all start again, and this time I wouldn’t have the necessary courage or energy to face the same test. I knew a few of the other diners, but which of them were really my friends? Who would be capable of remaining silent about what they were seeing? Mikhail’s body stopped shaking and relaxed; Roberto was holding him upright in his chair. The other man took Mikhail’s pulse, examined his eyes, and then turned to me: “It’s obviously not the first time this has happened. How long have you known him?” “Oh, they’re regular customers,” replied Roberto, seeing that I had become incapable of speech. “But this is the first time it’s happened in public, although, of course, I’ve had other such cases in my restaurant before.” “Yes,” said the man. “I noticed that you didn’t panic.” The remark was clearly aimed at me, for I must have looked deathly pale. The man went back to his table and Roberto tried to reassure me: “He’s the personal physician of a very famous actress,” he said. “Although it looks to me as if you’re more in need of medical attention than your guest here.” Mikhail—or Oleg or whatever the name was of the young man sitting opposite me—was beginning to come to. He looked around him and, far from seeming embarrassed, he merely smiled rather shyly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did try to control it.” I was doing my best to remain calm. Roberto again came to my rescue. “Don’t worry. Our writer here has enough money to pay for the broken plates.” Then he turned to me: “Epilepsy. It was just an epileptic fit, that’s all.” I left the restaurant with Mikhail, who immediately hailed a taxi. “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 relationship. 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-Elysées. 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 space, 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, analyzing 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 8½ 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 8½ 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 assume 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 pass 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 hell 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, that as 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 God. 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 relationships with men? I always feel like I have to be in a relationship 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 8½ 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 of people 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 shirts 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 passing 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 glass 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 God’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, God’s produce.’ “Brother Cook was amazed at the beauty of the grapes and drew his assistant’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 God’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 God, 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 shifted 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 little hell. It will pass, 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 circumstances allow, they’re bound to end up in bed together.” Applause. Cigarettes were lit. The clink of glasses 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?” “Easier? Talking to a load of strangers who might go and repeat this story to her husband tomorrow?” Someone else had started talking, and so I wasn’t able to tell Marie that it didn’t matter: everyone was there to talk about the lack of love disguised as love. “I’m the husband of the woman who just told that story,” said a man, who must have been at least twenty years older than the pretty, young blonde woman. “Everything she said is true, but there’s something she doesn’t know and which I haven’t had the courage to tell her. I’ll do so now. “When she went off to the mountains, I couldn’t sleep all night, and I started imagining, in detail, what was going on. When she arrives, the fire is already lit; she takes off her coat, takes off her sweater; she’s not wearing a bra under her thin T-shirt. He can clearly see the shape of her breasts. “She pretends not to notice him looking at her. She says she’s going to the kitchen to get another bottle of champagne. She’s wearing very tight jeans, she walks slowly, and she doesn’t need to turn around to know that he’s watching her every move. She comes back, they talk about very personal things, which makes them feel even closer. “They finish talking about the problem that took her there. Her cell phone rings; it’s me, wanting to know if she’s all right. She goes over to him, puts the phone to his ear, and they both listen to what I have to say; it’s an awkward conversation, because I know it’s too late to put any kind of pressure on her, it’s best just to pretend that everything’s fine and tell her to enjoy her time in the mountains, because the following day she’ll be back in Paris, taking care of the kids and doing the shopping. “I hang up, knowing that he has heard the whole conversation. The two of them— because, before, they were sitting on separate sofas—are now very close indeed. “At that point, I stopped thinking about what was happening in the mountains. I got up, went into my children’s bedroom, walked over to the window, and looked out over Paris, and do you know what I felt? I felt excited, very, very excited; the thought of the two of them together, knowing that my wife could, at that very moment, be kissing another man, making love with him, had aroused me sexually. “I felt awful. How could I possibly get excited over something like that? The next day, I talked to two friends; obviously, I didn’t use myself as an example, but I asked them if they had ever felt aroused when they caught another man staring at their wife’s cleavage. They didn’t really answer the question because it’s such a taboo. But they both agreed that it’s always nice to know that your wife is desired by another man, although they wouldn’t go any further than that. Is this a secret fantasy hidden in the hearts of all men? I don’t know. This last week has been a little hell for both of us simply because I didn’t understand my own feelings. And because I can’t understand them, I blame her for provoking in me feelings that make my world seem suddenly unsafe.” This time a lot of cigarettes were lit, but there was no applause. It was as if, even there, the subject continued to be a taboo. I put up my hand again, and meanwhile asked myself if I agreed with what the man had just said. Yes, I did. I had imagined similar scenarios involving Esther and the soldiers she met in war zones, but I had never dared say as much, not even to myself. Mikhail looked in my direction and nodded. I don’t know how I managed to get to my feet and look at that audience, who were still visibly shocked by the story of the man who had felt aroused by the thought of his wife having sex with another man. No one seemed to be listening, and that helped me make a start. “I apologize for not being as direct as the two previous speakers, but I nevertheless have something to say. I went to a train station today and learned that the distance between railway tracks is always 143.5 centimeters, or 4 feet 8½ inches. Why this absurd measurement? I asked my girlfriend to find out and this is what she discovered. When they built the first train carriages, they used the same tools as they had for building horse- drawn carriages. And why that distance between the wheels on carriages? Because that was the width of the old roads along which the carriages had to travel. And who decided that roads should be that width? Well, suddenly, we are plunged back into the distant past. It was the Romans, the first great road builders, who decided to make their roads that width. And why? Because their war chariots were pulled by two horses, and when placed side by side, the horses they used at the time took up 143.5 centimeters. “So the distance between the tracks I saw today, used by our state-of-the-art high-speed trains, was determined by the Romans. When people went to the United States and started building railways there, it didn’t occur to them to change the width and so it stayed as it was. This even affected the building of space shuttles. American engineers thought the fuel tanks should be wider, but the tanks were built in Utah and had to be transported by train to the Space Center in Florida, and the tunnels couldn’t take anything wider. And so they had to accept the measurement that the Romans had decided was the ideal. But what has all this to do with marriage?” I paused. Some people were not in the slightest bit interested in railway tracks and had started talking among themselves. Others were listening attentively, among them Marie and Mikhail. “It has everything to do with marriage and with the two stories we have just heard. At some point in history, someone turned up and said: When two people get married, they must stay frozen like that for the rest of their lives. You will move along side by side like two tracks, keeping always that same distance apart. Even if sometimes one of you needs to be a little farther away or a little closer, that is against the rules. The rules say: Be sensible, think of the future, think of your children. You can’t change, you must be like two railway tracks that remain the same distance apart all the way from their point of departure to their destination. The rules don’t allow for love to change, or to grow at the start and diminish halfway through—it’s too dangerous. And so, after the enthusiasm of the first few years, they maintain the same distance, the same solidity, the same functional nature. Your purpose is to allow the train bearing the survival of the species to head off into the future: your children will only be happy if you stay just as you were— 143.5 centimeters apart. If you’re not happy with something that never changes, think of them, think of the children you brought into the world. “Think of your neighbors. Show them that you’re happy, eat roast beef on Sundays, watch television, help the community. Think of society. Dress in such a way that everyone knows you’re in perfect harmony. Never glance to the side, someone might be watching you, and that could bring temptation; it could mean divorce, crisis, depression. “Smile in all the photos. Put the photos in the living room, so that everyone can see them. Cut the grass, practice a sport—oh, yes, you must practice a sport in order to stay frozen in time. When sport isn’t enough, have plastic surgery. But never forget, these rules were established long ago and must be respected. Who established these rules? That doesn’t matter. Don’t question them, because they will always apply, even if you don’t agree with them.” I sat down. There was a mixture of enthusiastic applause and indifference, and I wondered if I had gone too far. Marie was looking at me with a mixture of admiration and surprise. The woman on stage sounded the cymbal. I told Marie to stay where she was, while I went outside to smoke a cigarette: “They’ll perform a dance now in the name of love, in the name of the Lady.” “You can smoke in here, can’t you?” “Yes, but I need to be alone.” It may have been early spring, but it was still very cold; nevertheless, I was in need of some fresh air. Why had I told that story? My marriage to Esther had never been the way I described: two railway tracks, always beside each other, always forming two correct, straight lines, We had had our ups and downs; one or other of us had occasionally threatened to leave for good; and yet we continued on together. Until two years ago. Or until the moment when she began to want to know why she was unhappy. No one should ever ask themselves that: Why am I unhappy? The question carries within it the virus that will destroy everything. If we ask that question, it means we want to find out what makes us happy. If what makes us happy is different from what we have now, then we must either change once and for all or stay as we are, feeling even more unhappy. I now found myself in precisely that situation: I had a lively, interesting girlfriend, my work was going well, and there was every chance that, in the fullness of time, things would sort themselves out. I should resign myself to the situation. I should accept what life was offering me, not follow Esther’s example, not look at anyone else, but remember Marie’s words, and build a new life with her. No, I can’t think like that. If I behave in the way people expect me to behave, I will become their slave. It requires enormous self-control not to succumb, because our natural tendency is to want to please, even if the person to be pleased is us. If I do that, I will lose not only Esther, but Marie, my work, my future, as well as any respect I have for myself and for what I have said and written. When I went back in, I found that people were starting to leave. Mikhail appeared, having already changed out of his stage clothes. “Listen, what happened at the pizzeria…” “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “Let’s go for a walk by the Seine.” Marie got the message and said that she needed an early night. I asked her to give us a lift in her taxi as far as the bridge just opposite the Eiffel Tower; that way, I could walk home afterward. I thought of asking where Mikhail lived, but felt that the question might be construed as an attempt to verify, with my own eyes, that Esther really wasn’t living with him. On the way, Marie kept asking him what the meeting was about, and he always gave the same answer: it’s a way of recovering love. He said that he had liked my story about the railway tracks. “That’s how love got lost,” he said. “When we started laying down rules for when love should or shouldn’t appear.” “When was that?” Marie asked. “I don’t know, but I know it’s possible to retrieve that Energy. I know, because when I dance, or when I hear the voice, love speaks to me.” Marie didn’t know what he meant by “hearing the voice,” but, by then, we had reached the bridge. Mikhail and I got out and started walking in the cold Paris night. “I know you were frightened by what you saw. The biggest danger when someone has a fit is that their tongue will roll back and they’ll suffocate. The owner of the restaurant knew what to do, so it’s obviously happened there before. It’s not that unusual. But your diagnosis is wrong. I’m not an epileptic. It happens whenever I get in touch with the Energy.” Of course he was an epileptic, but there was no point in contradicting him. I was trying to act normally. I needed to keep the situation under control. I was surprised how easily he had agreed to this second meeting. “I need you. I need you to write something about the importance of love,” said Mikhail. “Everyone knows that love is important. That’s what most books are about.” “All right, let me put my request another way. I need you to write something about the new Renaissance.” “What’s the new Renaissance?” “It’s similar to the Italian Renaissance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when geniuses like Erasmus, Leonardo, and Michelangelo rejected the limitations of the present and the oppressive conventions of their own time and turned instead to the past. We’re beginning to see a return to a magical language, to alchemy and the idea of the Mother Goddess, to people reclaiming the freedom to do what they believe in and not what the church or the government demand of them. As in fifteenth- and sixteenth- century Florence, we are discovering that the past contains the answers to the future. “Your story about the railway tracks, for example: In how many other areas of our lives are we obeying rules we don’t understand? People read what you write—couldn’t you introduce the subject somewhere?” “I never make deals over what I write,” I replied, remembering once more that I needed to keep my self-respect. “If it’s an interesting subject, if it’s in my soul, if the boat called The Word carries me to that particular island, I might write about it. But none of this has anything to do with my search for Esther.” “I know, and I’m not trying to impose any conditions, I’m just suggesting something that seems important to me.” “Did she tell you about the Favor Bank?” “She did. But this isn’t a matter for the Favor Bank. It’s to do with a mission that I can’t fulfill on my own.” “What you do in the Armenian restaurant, is that your mission?” “That’s just a tiny part of it. We do the same thing on Fridays with a group of beggars. And on Wednesdays we work with a group of new nomads.” New nomads? It was best not to interrupt; the Mikhail who was talking to me now had none of the arrogance he had shown in the pizzeria, none of the charisma he had revealed on stage or the vulnerability he had revealed on that evening at the book signing. He was a normal person, a colleague with whom we always end up, late at night, talking over the world’s problems. “I can only write about things that really touch my soul,” I insist. “Would you like to come with us to talk to the beggars?” I remembered Esther’s remark about the phony sadness in the eyes of those who should be the most wretched people in the world. “Let me think about it first.” We were approaching the Louvre, but he paused to lean on the parapet, and we both stood there contemplating the passing boats, which dazzled us with their spotlights. “Look at them,” I said, because I needed to talk about something, afraid that he might get bored and go home. “They only see what the spotlights show them. When they go home, they’ll say they know Paris. Tomorrow, they’ll go and see the Mona Lisa and claim they’ve visited the Louvre. But they don’t know Paris and have never really been to the Louvre. All they did was go on a boat and look at a painting, one painting, instead of looking at a whole city and trying to find out what’s happening in it, visiting the bars, going down streets that don’t appear in any of the tourist guides, and getting lost in order to find themselves again. It’s the difference between watching a porn movie and making love.” “I admire your self-control. There you are talking about the boats on the Seine, all the while waiting for the right moment to ask the question that brought you to me. Feel free to talk openly about anything you like.” There was no hint of aggression in his voice, and so I decided to come straight to the point. “Where is Esther?” “Physically, she’s a long way away, in Central Asia. Spiritually, she’s very close, accompanying me day and night with her smile and the memory of her enthusiastic words. She was the one who brought me here, a poor twenty-one-year-old with no future, an aberration in the eyes of the people in my village, or else a madman or some sort of shaman who had made a pact with the devil, and, in the eyes of the people in the city, a mere peasant looking for work. “I’ll tell you my story another day, but the long and the short of it is that I knew English and started working as her interpreter. We were near the border of a country where the Americans were building a lot of military bases, preparing for the war in Afghanistan, and it was impossible to get a visa. I helped her cross the mountains illegally. During the week we spent together, she made me realize that I was not alone, that she understood me. “I asked her what she was doing so far from home. After a few evasive answers, she finally told me what she must have told you: that she was looking for the place where love had hidden itself away. I told her about my mission to make the energy of love circulate freely in the world again. Basically, we were both looking for the same thing. “Esther went to the French embassy and arranged a visa for me, as an interpreter of the Kazakh language, even though no one in my country speaks anything but Russian. I came to live here. We always met up when she returned from her missions abroad; we made two more trips together to Kazakhstan. She was fascinated by the Tengri culture, and by a nomad she had met and whom she believed held the key to everything.” I would have liked to know what Tengri was, but the question could wait. Mikhail continued talking, and in his eyes I saw the same longing to be with Esther that I myself was feeling. “We started working here in Paris. It was her idea to get people together once a week. She said, ‘The most important thing in all human relationships is conversation, but people don’t talk anymore, they don’t sit down to talk and listen. They go to the theater, the cinema, watch television, listen to the radio, read books, but they almost never talk. If we want to change the world, we have to go back to a time when warriors would gather around a fire and tell stories.’” I remember Esther saying that all the really important things in our lives had arisen out of long conversations we’d had sitting at a table in some bar or walking along a street or in a park. “It was my idea that these meetings should be on a Thursday because that’s how it is in the tradition in which I was brought up. But it was her idea to make occasional forays into the Paris streets at night. She said that beggars were the only ones who never pretend to be happy; on the contrary, they pretend to be sad. “She gave me your books to read. I sensed that you too—possibly unconsciously— imagined the same world as we did. I realized that I wasn’t alone, even if I was the only one to hear the voice. Gradually, as more and more people started coming to the meetings, I began to believe that I really could fulfill my mission and help the energy of love to return, even if that meant going back into the past, back to the moment when that Energy left or went into hiding.” “Why did Esther leave me?” Was that all I was interested in? The question irritated Mikhail slightly. “Out of love. Today, you used the example of the railway tracks. Well, she isn’t just another track running along beside you. She doesn’t follow rules, nor, I imagine, do you. I miss her too, you know.” “So…” “So if you want to find her, I can tell you where she is. I’ve already felt the same impulse, but the voice tells me that now is not the moment, that no one should interrupt her encounter with the energy of love. I respect the voice, the voice protects us, protects me, you, Esther.” “When will the moment be right?” “Perhaps tomorrow, in a year’s time, or never, and, if that were the case, then we would have to respect that decision. The voice is the Energy, and that is why she only brings people together when they are both truly prepared for that moment. And yet we all try and force the situation even if it means hearing the very words we don’t want to hear: ‘Go away.’ Anyone who fails to obey the voice and arrives earlier or later than he should, will never get the thing he wants.” “I’d rather hear her tell me to go away than be stuck with the Zahir day and night. If she said that, she would at least cease to be an idée fixe and become a woman who now has a different life and different thoughts.” “She would no longer be the Zahir, but it would be a great loss. If a man and a woman can make the Energy manifest, then they are helping all the men and women of the world.” “You’re frightening me. I love her, you know I do, and you say that she still loves me. I don’t know what you mean by being prepared; I can’t live according to other people’s expectations, not even Esther’s.” “As I understand it from conversations I had with her, at some point you got lost. The world started revolving exclusively around you.” “That’s not true. She was free to forge her own path. She decided to become a war correspondent, even though I didn’t want her to. She felt driven to find out why people were unhappy, even though I told her this was impossible. Does she want me to go back to being a railway track running alongside another railway track, always keeping the same stupid distance apart, just because the Romans decided that was the way it should be?” “On the contrary.” Mikhail started walking again, and I followed him. “Do you believe that I hear a voice?” “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But now that we’re here, let me show you something.” “Everyone thinks I’m just having an epileptic fit, and I let them believe that because it’s easier. But the voice has been speaking to me ever since I was a child, when I first saw the Lady.” “What lady?” “I’ll tell you later.” “Whenever I ask you something, you say: ‘I’ll tell you later.’” “The voice is telling me something now. I know that you’re anxious and frightened. In the pizzeria, when I felt that warm wind and saw the lights, I knew that these were symptoms of my connection with the Power. I knew it was there to help us both. If you think that all the things I’ve been telling you are just the ravings of a young epileptic who wants to manipulate the feelings of a famous writer, I’ll bring you a map tomorrow showing you where Esther is living, and you can go and find her. But the voice is telling us something.” “Are you going to say what exactly, or will you tell me later?” “I’ll tell you in a moment. I haven’t yet properly understood the message.” “But you promise to give me the address and the map.” “I promise. In the name of the divine energy of love, I promise. Now what was it you wanted to show me?” I pointed to a golden statue of a young woman riding a horse. “This. She used to hear voices. As long as people respected what she said, everything was fine. When they started to doubt her, the wind of victory changed direction.” Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans, the heroine of the Hundred Years War, who, at the age of seventeen, was made commander of the French troops because she heard voices and the voices told her the best strategy for defeating the English. Two years later, she was condemned to be burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft. I had used part of the interrogation, dated February 24, 1431, in one of my books. She was questioned by Maître Jean Beaupère. Asked how long it had been since she had heard the voice, she replied: “I heard it three times, yesterday and today. In the morning, at Vespers, and again when the Ave Maria rang in the evening…” Asked if the voice was in the room, she replied that she did not know, but that she had been woken by the voice. It wasn’t in the room, but it was in the castle. She asked the voice what she should do, and the voice asked her to get out of bed and place the palms of her hands together. Then she said to the bishop who was questioning her: “You say you are my judge. Take care what you are doing; for in truth I am sent by God, and you place yourself in great danger. My voices have entrusted to me certain things to tell to the King, not to you. The voice comes to me from God. I have far greater fear of doing wrong in saying to you things that would displease it than I have of answering you.” Mikhail looked at me: “Are you suggesting…” “That you’re the reincarnation of Joan of Arc? No, I don’t think so. She died when she was barely nineteen, and you’re twenty-five. She took command of the French troops and, according to what you’ve told me, you can’t even take command of your own life.” We sat down on the wall by the Seine. “I believe in signs,” I said. “I believe in fate. I believe that every single day people are offered the chance to make the best possible decision about everything they do. I believe that I failed and that, at some point, I lost my connection with the woman I loved. And now, all I need is to put an end to that cycle. That’s why I want the map, so that I can go to her.” He looked at me and he was once more the person who appeared on stage and went into a trancelike state. I feared another epileptic fit—in the middle of the night, here, in an almost deserted place. “The vision gave me power. That power is almost visible, palpable. I can manage it, but I can’t control it.” “It’s getting a bit late for this kind of conversation. I’m tired, and so are you. Will you give me that map and the address?” “The voice…Yes, I’ll give you the map tomorrow afternoon. What’s your address?” I gave him my address and was surprised to realize that he didn’t know where Esther and I had lived. “Do you think I slept with your wife?” “I would never even ask. It’s none of my business.” “But you did ask when we were in the pizzeria.” I had forgotten. Of course it was my business, but I was no longer interested in his answer. Mikhail’s eyes changed. I felt in my pocket for something to place in his mouth should he have a fit, but he seemed calm and in control. “I can hear the voice now. Tomorrow I will bring you the map, detailed directions, and times of flights. I believe that she is waiting for you. I believe that the world would be happier if just two people, even two, were happier. Yet the voice is telling me that we will not see each other tomorrow.” “I’m having lunch with an actor over from the States, and I can’t possibly cancel, but I’ll be home during the rest of the afternoon.” “That’s not what the voice is telling me.” “Is the voice forbidding you to help me find Esther?” “No, I don’t think so. It was the voice that encouraged me to go to the book signing. From then on, I knew more or less how things would turn out because I had read A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew.” “Right, then,” and I was terrified he might change his mind, “let’s stick to our arrangement. I’ll be at home from two o’clock onward.” “But the voice says the moment is not right.” “You promised.” “All right.” He held out his hand and said that he would come to my apartment late tomorrow afternoon. His last words to me that night were: “The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right.” As I walked back home, the only voice I could hear was Esther’s, speaking of love. And as I remembered that conversation, I realized that she had been talking about our marriage. When I was fifteen, I was desperate to find out about sex. But it was a sin, it was forbidden. I couldn’t understand why it was a sin, could you? Can you tell me why all religions, all over the world, even the most primitive of religions and cultures, consider that sex is something that should be forbidden?” “How did we get onto this subject? All right, why is sex something to be forbidden?” “Because of food.” “Food?” “Thousands of years ago, tribes were constantly on the move; men could make love with as many women as they wanted and, of course, have children by them. However, the larger the tribe, the greater chance there was of it disappearing. Tribes fought among themselves for food, killing first the children and then the women, because they were the weakest. Only the strongest survived, but they were all men. And without women, men cannot continue to perpetuate the species. “Then someone, seeing what was happening in a neighboring tribe, decided to avoid the same thing happening in his. He invented a story according to which the gods forbade men to make love indiscriminately with any of the women in a tribe. They could only make love with one or, at most, two. Some men were impotent, some women were sterile, some members of the tribe, for perfectly natural reasons, thus had no children at all, but no one was allowed to change partners. “They all believed the story because the person who told it to them was speaking in the name of the gods. He must have been different in some way: he perhaps had a deformity, an illness that caused convulsions, or some special gift, something, at any rate, that marked him out from the others, because that is how the first leaders emerged. In a few years, the tribe grew stronger, with just the right number of men needed to feed everyone, with enough women capable of reproducing and enough children to replace the hunters and reproducers. Do you know what gives a woman most pleasure within marriage?” “Sex.” “No, making food. Watching her man eat. That is a woman’s moment of glory, because she spends all day thinking about supper. And the reason must lie in that story hidden in the past—in hunger, the threat of extinction, and the path to survival.” “Do you regret not having had any children?” “It didn’t happen, did it? How can I regret something that didn’t happen?” “Do you think that would have changed our marriage?” “How can I possibly know? I look at my friends, both male and female. Are they any happier because they have children? Some are, some aren’t. And if they are happy with their children that doesn’t make their relationship either better or worse. They still think they have the right to control each other. They still think that the promise to live happily ever after must be kept, even at the cost of daily unhappiness.” “War isn’t good for you, Esther. It brings you into contact with a very different reality from the one we experience here. I know I’ll die one day, but that just makes me live each day as if it were a miracle. It doesn’t make me think obsessively about love, happiness, sex, food, and marriage.” “War doesn’t leave me time to think. I simply am, full stop. Whenever it occurs to me that, at any moment, I could be hit by a stray bullet, I just think: ‘Good, at least I don’t have to worry about what will happen to my child.’ But I think too: ‘What a shame, I’m going to die and nothing will be left of me. I am only capable of losing a life, not bringing a life into the world.’” “Do you think there’s something wrong with our relationship? I only ask because I get the feeling sometimes that you want to tell me something, but that you keep stopping yourself.” “Yes, there is something wrong. We feel obliged to be happy together. You think you owe me everything that you are, and I feel privileged to have a man like you at my side.” “I have a wife whom I love, but I don’t always remember that and find myself asking: ‘What’s wrong with me?’” “It’s good that you’re able to recognize that, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, or with me, because I ask myself the same question. What’s wrong is the way in which we show our love now. If we were to accept that this creates problems, we could live with those problems and be happy. It would be a constant battle, but it would at least keep us active, alive and cheerful, with many universes to conquer; the trouble is we’re heading toward a point where things are becoming too comfortable, where love stops creating problems and confrontations and becomes instead merely a solution.” “What’s wrong with that?” “Everything. I can no longer feel the energy of love, what people call passion, flowing through my flesh and through my soul.” “But something is left.” “Left? Does every marriage have to end like this, with passion giving way to something people call ‘a mature relationship’? I need you. I miss you. Sometimes I’m jealous. I like thinking about what to give you for supper, even though sometimes you don’t even notice what you’re eating. But there’s a lack of joy.” “No, there isn’t. Whenever you’re far away, I wish you were near. I imagine the conversations we’ll have when you or I come back from a trip. I phone you to make sure everything’s all right. I need to hear your voice every day. I’m still passionate about you, I can guarantee you that.” “It’s the same with me, but what happens when we’re together? We argue, we quarrel over nothing, one of us wants to change the other, to impose his or her view of reality. You demand things of me that make no sense at all, and I do the same. Sometimes, in the silence of our hearts, we say to ourselves: ‘How good it would be to be free, to have no commitments.’” “You’re right. And at moments like that, I feel lost, because I know that I’m with the woman I want to be with.” “And I’m with the man I always wanted to have by my side.” “Do you think that could change?” “As I get older, and fewer men look at me, I find myself thinking: ‘Just leave things as they are.’ I’m sure I can happily deceive myself for the rest of my life. And yet, whenever I go off to cover a war, I see that a greater love exists, much greater than the hatred that makes men kill each other. And then, and only then, do I think I can change things.” “But you can’t be constantly covering wars.” “Nor can I live constantly in the sort of peace that I find with you. It’s destroying the one important thing I have: my relationship with you, even if the intensity of my love remains undiminished.” “Millions of people the world over are thinking the same thing right now, they resist fiercely and allow those moments of depression to pass. They withstand one, two, three crises and, finally, find peace.” “You know that isn’t how it is. Otherwise you wouldn’t have written the books you’ve written.” I had arranged to meet the American actor-director for lunch at Roberto’s pizzeria. I needed to go back there as soon as possible in order to dispel any bad impression I might have made. Before I left, I told the maid and the caretaker of the apartment building that if I was not back in time and a young man with Mongolian features should deliver a package for me, they must take him up to my apartment, ask him to wait in the living room, and give him anything he needed. If, for some reason, the young man could not wait, then they should ask him to leave the package with one of them. Above all, they must not let him leave without handing over the package! I caught a taxi and asked to be dropped off on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Pères. A fine rain was falling, but it was only a few yards to the restaurant, its discreet sign, and Roberto’s generous smile, for he sometimes stood outside, smoking a cigarette. A woman with a baby stroller was coming toward me along the narrow pavement, and because there wasn’t room for both of us, I stepped off the curb to let her pass. It was then, in slow motion, that the world gave a giant lurch: the ground became the sky, the sky became the ground; I had time to notice a few architectural details on the top of the building on the corner—I had often walked past before, but had never looked up. I remember the sensation of surprise, the feeling of a wind blowing hard in my ear, and the sound of a dog barking in the distance; then everything went dark. I was bundled abruptly down a black hole at the end of which was a light. Before I could reach it, however, invisible hands were dragging me roughly back up, and I woke to voices and shouts all around me: it could only have lasted a matter of seconds. I was aware of the taste of blood in my mouth, the smell of wet asphalt, and then I realized that I had had an accident. I was conscious and unconscious at the same time; I tried without success to move; I could make out another person lying on the ground beside me; I could smell that person’s smell, her perfume; I imagined it must be the woman who had been pushing her baby along the pavement. Oh, dear God! Someone came over and tried to help me up; I yelled at them not to touch me, any movement could be dangerous. I had learned during a trivial conversation one trivial night that if I ever injured my neck, any sudden movement could leave me permanently paralyzed. I struggled to remain conscious; I waited for a pain that never came; I tried to move, then thought better of it. I experienced a feeling like cramp, like torpor. I again asked not to be moved. I heard a distant siren and knew then that I could sleep, that I no longer needed to fight to save my life; whether it was won or lost, it was no longer up to me, it was up to the doctors, to the nurses, to fate, to “the thing,” to God. I heard the voice of a child—she told me her name, but I couldn’t quite grasp it—telling me to keep calm, promising me that I wouldn’t die. I wanted to believe what she said, I begged her to stay by my side, but she vanished; I was aware of someone placing something plastic around my neck, putting a mask over my face, and then I went to sleep again, and this time there were no dreams. When I regained consciousness, all I could hear was a horrible buzzing in my ears; the rest was silence and utter darkness. Suddenly, I felt everything moving, and I was sure I was being carried along in my coffin, that I was about to be buried alive! I tried banging on the walls, but I couldn’t move a muscle. For what seemed an eternity, I felt as if I were being propelled helplessly forward; then, mustering all my remaining strength, I uttered a scream that echoed around the enclosed space and came back to my own ears, almost deafening me; but I knew that once I had screamed, I was safe, for a light immediately began to appear at my feet: they had realized I wasn’t dead! Light, blessed light—which would save me from that worst of all tortures, suffocation— was gradually illuminating my whole body: they were finally removing the coffin lid. I broke out in a cold sweat, felt the most terrible pain, but was also happy and relieved that they had realized their mistake and that joy could return to the world! The light finally reached my eyes: a soft hand touched mine, someone with an angelic face was wiping the sweat from my brow. “Don’t worry,” said the angelic face, with its golden hair and white robes. “I’m not an angel, you didn’t die, and this isn’t a coffin, it’s just a body scanner, to find out if you suffered any other injuries. There doesn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong, but you’ll have to stay in for observation.” “No broken bones?” “Just general abrasions. If I brought you a mirror, you’d be horrified, but the swelling will go down in a few days.” I tried to get up, but she very gently stopped me. Then I felt a terrible pain in my head and groaned. “You’ve had an accident; it’s only natural that you should be in pain.” “I think you’re lying to me,” I managed to say. “I’m a grown man, I’ve had a good life, I can take bad news without panicking. Some blood vessel in my head is about to burst, isn’t it?” Two nurses appeared and put me on a stretcher. I realized that I had an orthopedic collar around my neck. “Someone told us that you asked not to be moved,” said the angel. “Just as well. You’ll have to wear this collar for a while, but barring any unforeseen events—because one can never tell what might happen—you’ll just have had a nasty shock. You’re very lucky.” “How long? I can’t stay here.” No one said anything. Marie was waiting for me outside the radiology unit, smiling. The doctors had obviously already told her that my injuries were not, in principle, very serious. She stroked my hair and carefully disguised any shock she might feel at my appearance. Our small cortège proceeded along the corridor—Marie, the two nurses pushing the stretcher, and the angel in white. The pain in my head was getting worse all the time. “Nurse, my head…” “I’m not a nurse. I’m your doctor for the moment. We’re waiting for your own doctor to arrive. As for your head, don’t worry. When you have an accident, your body closes down all the blood vessels as a defense mechanism, to avoid loss of blood. When it sees that the danger is over, the vessels open up again, the blood starts to flow, and that feels painful, but that’s all it is. Anyway, if you like, I can give you something to help you sleep.” I refused. And as if surfacing from some dark corner of my soul, I remembered the words I had heard the day before: “The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right.” He couldn’t have known. It wasn’t possible that everything that had happened on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Pères was the result of some universal conspiracy, of something predetermined by the gods, who, despite being fully occupied in taking care of this precariously balanced planet on the verge of extinction, had all downed tools merely to prevent me from going in search of the Zahir. Mikhail could not possibly have foreseen the future, unless he really had heard a voice and there was a plan and this was all far more important than I imagined. Everything was beginning to be too much for me: Marie’s smiles, the possibility that someone really had heard a voice, the increasingly agonizing pain in my head. “Doctor, I’ve changed my mind. I want to sleep. I can’t stand the pain.” She said something to one of the nurses pushing the trolley, who went off and returned even before we had reached my room. I felt a prick in my arm and immediately fell asleep. When I woke up, I wanted to know exactly what had happened; I wanted to know if the woman passing me on the pavement had escaped injury and what had happened to her baby. Marie said that I needed to rest, but, by then, Dr. Louit, my doctor and friend, had arrived and felt that there was no reason not to tell me. I had been knocked down by a motorbike. The body I had seen lying on the ground beside me had been the young male driver. He had been taken to the same hospital and, like me, had escaped with only minor abrasions. The police investigation carried out immediately after the accident made it clear that I had been standing in the middle of the road at the time of the accident, thus putting the motorcyclist’s life at risk. It was, apparently, all my fault, but the motorcyclist had decided not to press charges. Marie had been to see him and talk to him; she had learned that he was an immigrant working illegally and was afraid of having any dealings with the police. He had been discharged twenty-four hours later, because he had been wearing a helmet, which lessened the risk of any damage to the brain. “Did you say he left twenty-four hours later? Does that mean I’ve been in here more than a day?” “You’ve been in here for three days. When you came out of the body scanner, the doctor here phoned me to ask if she could keep you on sedatives. It seemed to me that you’d been rather tense, irritated, and depressed lately, and so I told her she could.” “So what happens next?” “Two more days in the hospital and then three weeks with that contraption around your neck; you’re through the critical forty-eight-hour period. Of course, part of your body could still rebel against the idea of continuing to behave itself and then we’d have a problem on our hands. But let’s face that emergency if and when it arises; there’s no point in worrying unnecessarily.” “So, I could still die?” “As you well know, all of us not only can, but will, die.” “Yes, but could I still die as a result of the accident?” Dr. Louit paused. “Yes. There’s always the chance that a blood clot could have formed which the machines have failed to pick up and that it could break free at any moment and cause an embolism. There’s also the possibility that a cell has gone berserk and is starting to form a cancer.” “You shouldn’t say things like that,” said Marie. “We’ve been friends for five years. He asked me a question and I gave him an answer. And now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my office. Medicine isn’t quite as you think. In the world we live in, if a boy goes out to buy five apples, but arrives home with only two, people would conclude that he had eaten the three missing apples. In my world, there are other possibilities: he could have eaten them, but he could also have been robbed; the money he’d been given might not have been enough to buy the five apples he’d been sent for; he could have lost them on the way home; he could have met someone who was hungry and decided to share the fruit with that person, and so on. In my world, everything is possible and everything is relative.” “What do you know about epilepsy?” Marie knew at once that I was talking about Mikhail and could not conceal a flicker of displeasure. She said she had to go, there was a film crew waiting. Dr. Louit, however, having picked up his things ready to leave, stopped to answer my question. “It’s an excess of electrical impulses in one specific area of the brain, which provokes convulsions of greater or lesser severity. There’s no definitive study on the subject, but they think attacks may be provoked when the person is under great strain. But don’t worry, while epileptic symptoms can appear at any age, epilepsy itself is unlikely to be brought on by colliding with a motorcycle.” “So what causes it?” “I’m not a specialist, but, if you like, I can find out.” “Yes, if you would. And I have another question too, but please don’t go thinking that my brain’s been affected by the accident. Is it possible that epileptics can hear voices and have premonitions?” “Did someone tell you this accident was going to happen?” “Not exactly, but that’s what I took it to mean.” “Look, I can’t stay any longer, I’m giving Marie a lift, but I’ll see what I can find out about epilepsy for you.” For the two days that Marie was away, and despite the shock of the accident, the Zahir took up its usual space in my life. I knew that if Mikhail had kept his word, there would be an envelope waiting for me at home containing Esther’s address; now, however, the thought frightened me. What if Mikhail was telling the truth about the voice? I started trying to remember the details of the accident: I had stepped down from the curb, automatically looking to see if anything was coming; I’d seen a car approaching, but it had appeared to be a safe distance away. And yet I had still been hit, possibly by a motorbike that was trying to overtake the car and was outside my field of vision. I believe in signs. After I had walked the road to Santiago, everything had changed completely: what we need to learn is always there before us, we just have to look around us with respect and attention in order to discover where God is leading us and which step we should take next. I also learned a respect for mystery. As Einstein said, God does not play dice with the universe; everything is interconnected and has a meaning. That meaning may remain hidden nearly all the time, but we always know we are close to our true mission on earth when what we are doing is touched with the energy of enthusiasm. If it is, then all is well. If not, then we had better change direction. When we are on the right path, we follow the signs, and if we occasionally stumble, the Divine comes to our aid, preventing us from making a mistake. Was the accident a sign? Had Mikhail intuited a sign that was intended for me? I decided that the answer to these questions was yes. And perhaps because of this, because I accepted my destiny and allowed myself to be guided by something greater than myself, I noticed that, during the day, the Zahir began to diminish in intensity. I knew that all I had to do was open the envelope, read her address, and go and knock on her door, but the signs all indicated that this was not the moment. If Esther really was as important in my life as I thought, if she still loved me (as Mikhail said she did), why force a situation that would simply lead me into making the same mistakes I had made in the past? How to avoid repeating them? By knowing myself better, by finding out what had changed and what had provoked this sudden break in a road that had always been marked by joy. Was that enough? No, I also needed to know who Esther was, what changes she had undergone during the time we were together. And was it enough to be able to answer these two questions? There was a third: Why had fate brought us together? I had a lot of free time in that hospital room, and so I made a general review of my life. I had always sought both adventure and security, knowing that the two things did not really mix. I was sure of my love for Esther and yet I easily fell in love with other women, merely because the game of seduction is the most interesting game in the world. Had I shown my wife that I loved her? Perhaps for a while, but not always. Why? Because I didn’t think it was necessary; she must know I loved her; she couldn’t possibly doubt my feelings. I remember that, many years ago, someone asked me if there was a common denominator among all the various girlfriends I had had in my life. The answer was easy: me. And when I realized this, I saw how much time I had wasted looking for the right person—the women changed, but I remained the same and so got nothing from those shared experiences. I had lots of girlfriends, but I was always waiting for the right person. I controlled and was controlled and the relationship never went any further than that, until Esther arrived and changed everything. I was thinking tenderly of my ex-wife; I was no longer obsessed with finding her, with finding out why she had left without a word of explanation. A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew had been a true account of my marriage, but it was, above all, my own testimony, declaring that I am capable of loving and needing someone else. Esther deserved more than just words, especially since I had never said those words while we were together. It is always important to know when something has reached its end. Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over. Slowly, I began to realize that I could not go back and force things to be as they once were: those two years, which up until then had seemed an endless inferno, were now beginning to show me their true meaning. And that meaning went far beyond my marriage: all men and all women are connected by an energy which many people call love, but which is, in fact, the raw material from which the universe was built. This energy cannot be manipulated, it leads us gently forward, it contains all we have to learn in this life. If we try to make it go in the direction we want, we end up desperate, frustrated, disillusioned, because that energy is free and wild. We could spend the rest of our life saying that we love such a person or thing, when the truth is that we are merely suffering because, instead of accepting love’s strength, we are trying to diminish it so that it fits the world in which we imagine we live. The more I thought about this, the weaker the Zahir became and the closer I moved to myself. I prepared myself mentally to do a great deal of work, work that would require much silence, meditation, and perseverance. The accident had helped me understand that I could not force something that had not yet reached its time to sew. I remembered what Dr. Louit had said: after such a trauma to the body, death could come at any moment. What if that were true? What if in ten minutes’ time, my heart stopped beating? A nurse came into the room to bring me my supper and I asked him: “Have you thought about your funeral?” “Don’t worry,” he replied. “You’ll survive; you already look much better.” “I’m not worried. I know I’m going to survive. A voice told me I would.” I mentioned the “voice” deliberately, just to provoke him. He eyed me suspiciously, thinking that perhaps it was time to call for another examination and check that my brain really hadn’t been affected. “I know I’m going to survive,” I went on. “Perhaps for a day, for a year, for thirty or forty years, but one day, despite all the scientific advances, I’ll leave this world and I’ll have a funeral. I was thinking about it just now and I wondered if you had ever thought about it.” “Never. And I don’t want to either; besides, that’s what really terrifies me, knowing that everything will end.” “Whether you like it or not, whether you agree or disagree, that is a reality none of us can escape. Do you fancy having a little chat about it?” “I’ve got other patients to see, I’m afraid,” he said, putting the food down on the table and leaving as quickly as possible, as if running away—not from me, but from my words. The nurse might not want to talk about it, but how about me thinking about it alone? I remembered some lines from a poem I had learned as a child: When the Unwanted Guest arrives… I might be afraid. I might smile or say: My day was good, let night fall. You will find the fields ploughed, the house clean, the table set, and everything in its place. It would be nice if that were true—everything in its place. And what would my epitaph be? Esther and I had both made wills, in which, among other things, we had chosen cremation: my ashes were to be scattered to the winds in a place called Cebreiro, on the road to Santiago, and her ashes were to be scattered over the sea. So there would be no inscribed headstone. But what if I could choose an epitaph? I would ask to have these words engraved: “He died while he was still alive.” That might sound like a contradiction in terms, but I knew many people who had ceased to live, even though they continued to work and eat and engage in their usual social activities. They did everything automatically, oblivious to the magic moment that each day brings with it, never stopping to think about the miracle of life, never understanding that the next minute could be their last on the face of this planet. It was pointless trying to explain this to the nurse, largely because it was a different nurse who came to collect the supper dish. This new nurse started bombarding me with questions, possibly on the orders of some doctor. He wanted to know if I could remember my name, if I knew what year it was, the name of the president of the United States, the sort of thing they ask when they’re assessing your mental state. And all because I asked the questions that every human being should ask: Have you thought about your funeral? Do you realize that sooner or later you’re going to die? That night, I went to sleep smiling. The Zahir was disappearing, and Esther was returning, and if I were to die then, despite all that had happened in my life, despite all my failures, despite the disappearance of the woman I loved, the injustices I had suffered or inflicted on others, I had remained alive until the last moment, and could, with all certainty, affirm: “My day was good, let night fall.” Two days later, I was back home. Marie went to prepare lunch, and I glanced through the accumulated correspondence. The entry phone rang. It was the caretaker to say that the envelope I had expected the previous week had been delivered and should be on my desk. I thanked him, but, contrary to all my expectations, I was not in a rush to open it. Marie and I had lunch; I asked her how filming had gone and she asked me about my immediate plans, given that I wouldn’t be able to go out much while I was wearing the orthopedic collar. She said that she could, if necessary, come and stay. “I’m supposed to do an appearance on some Korean TV channel, but I can always put it off or even cancel it altogether. That’s, of course, if you need my company.” “Oh, I do, and it would be lovely to have you around.” She smiled broadly and picked up the phone to call her manager and ask her to change her engagements. I heard her say: “Don’t tell them I’m ill though. I’m superstitious, and whenever I’ve used that excuse in the past, I’ve always come down with something really horrible. Just tell them I’ve got to look after the person I love.” I had a series of urgent things to do too: interviews to be postponed, invitations that required replies, letters to be written thanking various people for the phone calls and flowers I’d received, things to read, prefaces and recommendations to write. Marie spent the whole day on the phone to my agent, reorganizing my diary so that no one would be left without a response. We had supper at home every evening, talking about the interesting and the banal, just like any other couple. During one of these suppers, after a few glasses of wine, she remarked that I had changed. “It’s as if having a brush with death had somehow brought you back to life,” she said. “That happens to everyone.” “But I must say—and, don’t worry, I don’t want to start an argument and I’m not about to have an attack of jealousy—you haven’t mentioned Esther once since coming home. The same thing happened when you finished A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew: the book acted as a kind of therapy, the effects of which, alas, didn’t last very long.” “Are you saying that the accident has affected my brain?” My tone wasn’t aggressive, but she nevertheless decided to change the subject and started telling me about a terrifying helicopter trip she’d had from Monaco to Cannes. Later, in bed, we made love—with great difficulty given my orthopedic collar—but we made love nevertheless and felt very close. Four days later, the vast pile of paper on my desk had disappeared. There was only a large, white envelope bearing my name and the number of my apartment. Marie went to open it, but I told her it could wait. She didn’t ask me about it; perhaps it was information about my bank accounts or some confidential correspondence, possibly from another woman. I didn’t explain either. I simply removed it from the desk and placed it on a shelf among some books. If I kept looking at it, the Zahir would come back. At no point had the love I felt for Esther diminished, but every day spent in the hospital had brought back some intriguing memory: not of conversations we had had, but of moments we had spent together in silence. I remembered her eyes, which reflected her inner being. Whenever she set off on some new adventure, she was an enthusiastic young girl, or a wife proud of her husband’s success, or a journalist fascinated by every subject she wrote about. Later, she was the wife who no longer seemed to have a place in my life. That look of sadness in her eyes had started before she told me she wanted to be a war correspondent; it became a look of joy every time she came back from an assignment, but it was only a matter of days before the look of sadness returned. One afternoon, the phone rang. “It’s that young man,” Marie said, passing me the phone. At the other end I heard Mikhail’s voice, first saying how sorry he was about the accident and then asking me if I had received the envelope. “Yes, it’s here with me.” “Are you going to go and find her?” Marie was listening to our conversation and so I thought it best to change the subject. “We can talk about that when I see you.” “I’m not nagging or anything, but you did promise to help me.” “And I always keep my promises. As soon as I’m better, we’ll get together.” He left me his cell phone number, and when I hung up, I looked across at Marie, who seemed a different woman. “So nothing’s changed then,” she said. “On the contrary. Everything’s changed.” I should have expressed myself more clearly and explained that I still wanted to see Esther, that I knew where she was. When the time was right, I would take a train, taxi, plane, or whatever just to be by her side. This would, of course, mean losing the woman who was there by my side at that moment, steadfastly doing all she could to prove how important I was to her. I was, of course, being a coward. I was ashamed of myself, but that was what life was like, and—in a way I couldn’t really explain—I loved Marie too. The other reason I didn’t say more was because I had always believed in signs, and when I recalled the moments of silence I had shared with my wife, I knew that—with or without voices, with or without explanations—the time to find Esther had still not yet arrived. I needed to concentrate more on those shared silences than on any of our conversations, because that would give me the freedom I needed to understand the time when things had gone right between us and the moment when they had started to go wrong. Marie was there, looking at me. Could I go on being disloyal to someone who was doing so much for me? I started to feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t tell her everything, unless…unless I could find an indirect way of saying what I was feeling. “Marie, let’s suppose that two firemen go into a forest to put out a small fire. Afterward, when they emerge and go over to a stream, the face of one is all smeared with black, while the other man’s face is completely clean. My question is this: Which of the two will wash his face?” “That’s a silly question. The one with the dirty face, of course.” “No, the one with the dirty face will look at the other man and assume that he looks like him. And, vice versa, the man with the clean face will see his colleague covered in grime and say to himself: I must be dirty too. I’d better have a wash.” “What are you trying to say?” “I’m saying that, during the time I spent in the hospital, I came to realize that I was always looking for myself in the women I loved. I looked at their lovely, clean faces and saw myself reflected in them. They, on the other hand, looked at me and saw the dirt on my face and, however intelligent or self-confident they were, they ended up seeing themselves reflected in me and thinking that they were worse than they were. Please, don’t let that happen to you.” I would like to have added: that’s what happened to Esther, and I’ve only just realized it, remembering now how the look in her eyes changed. I’d always absorbed her life and her energy, and that made me feel happy and confident, able to go forward. She, on the other hand, had looked at me and felt ugly, diminished, because, as the years passed, my career—the career that she had done so much to make a reality—had relegated our relationship to second place. If I was to see her again, my face needed to be as clean as hers. Before I could find her, I must first find myself. ARIADNE’S THREAD I am born in a small village, some kilometers from a slightly larger village where they have a school and a museum dedicated to a poet who lived there many years before. My father is nearly fifty years old, my mother is twenty-five. They met only recently when he was selling carpets; he had traveled all the way from Russia, but when he met her he decided to give up everything for her sake. She could be his daughter, but she behaves more like his mother, even helping him to sleep, something he has been unable to do properly since he was seventeen and was sent to fight the Germans in Stalingrad, one of the longest and bloodiest battles of the Second World War. Out of a battalion of three thousand men, only three survived.” Oddly, Mikhail speaks almost entirely in the present tense. He doesn’t say “I was born” but “I am born.” It is as if everything were happening here and now. “In Stalingrad, my father and his best friend are caught in an exchange of fire on their way back from a reconnaissance patrol. They take cover in a bomb crater and spend two days in the mud and snow, with no food and no means of keeping warm. They can hear other Russians talking in a nearby building and know that they must try to reach them, but the firing never stops, the smell of blood fills the air, the wounded lie screaming for help day and night. Suddenly, everything falls silent. My father’s friend, thinking that the Germans have withdrawn, stands up. My father tugs at his legs, yelling, ‘Get down!’ But it’s too late; a bullet pierces his friend’s skull. “Another two days pass, my father is alone, with his friend’s corpse beside him. He can’t stop yelling, ‘Get down!’ At last, someone rescues him and takes him to the nearby building. There is no food, only ammunition and cigarettes. They eat the tobacco. A week later, they start to eat the flesh of their dead, frozen companions. A third battalion arrives and shoots a way through to them; the survivors are rescued, the wounded are treated and then immediately sent back to the front. Stalingrad must not fall; the future of Russia is at stake. After four months of intense fighting, of cannibalism, of limbs being amputated because of frostbite, the Germans finally surrender—it is the beginning of the end for Hitler and his Third Reich. My father returns on foot to his village, almost a thousand kilometers from Stalingrad. He now finds it almost impossible to sleep, and when he does manage to drop off, he dreams every night of the friend he could have saved. “Two years later, the war ends. He receives a medal, but cannot find employment. He takes part in services of commemoration, but has almost nothing to eat. He is considered one of the heroes of Stalingrad, but can only survive by doing odd jobs, for which he is paid a pittance. In the end, someone offers him work selling carpets. Suffering as he does from insomnia, he chooses to travel at night; he gets to know smugglers, wins their confidence, and begins to earn some money. “He is caught out by the Communist government, who accuse him of consorting with criminals and, despite being a war hero, he spends the next ten years in Siberia labeled ‘a traitor of the people.’ When he is finally released, he is an old man and the only thing he knows anything about is carpets. He manages to reestablish his old contacts, someone gives him a few carpets to sell, but no one is interested in buying—times are hard. He decides to go a long way away, begging as he goes, and ends up in Kazakhstan. “He is old and alone, but he needs to work in order to eat. He spends the days doing odd jobs and, at night, sleeps only fitfully and is woken by his own cries of ‘Get down!’ Strangely enough, despite all that he has been through, despite the insomnia, the poor food, the frustrations, the physical wear and tear, and the cigarettes that he smokes whenever he can scrounge them, he still has an iron constitution. “In a small village, he meets a young woman. She lives with her parents; she takes him to her house, for, in that region, hospitality is paramount. They let him sleep in the living room, but are woken by his screams. The girl goes to him, says a prayer, strokes his head, and for the first time in many decades, he sleeps peacefully. “The following day, she says that, when she was a girl, she had dreamed that a very old man would give her a child. She waited for years, had various suitors, but was always disappointed. Her parents were terribly worried, for they did not want to see their only daughter end up a spinster, rejected by the community. “She asks him if he will marry her. He is taken aback; after all, she is young enough to be his granddaughter, and so he says nothing. At sunset, in the small living room, she asks if she can stroke his head before he goes to sleep. He enjoys another peaceful night. “The following day, the subject of marriage comes up again, this time in the presence of her parents, who seem to think it a good idea; they just want their daughter to find a husband and to cease being a source of family shame. They invent a story about an old man who has come from far away and who is, in fact, a wealthy trader in carpets, but has grown weary of living a life of luxury and comfort, and has given it all up in order to go in search of adventure. People are impressed, they imagine a generous dowry, huge bank accounts, and think how lucky my mother is to have finally found someone who can take her away from that village in the back of beyond. My father listens to these stories with a mixture of fascination and surprise; he thinks of all the years he has spent alone, traveling, of all he has suffered, of how he never again found his own family, and he thinks that now, for the first time in his life, he could have a home of his own. He accepts the proposal, colludes with the lies about his past, and they get married according to the Muslim tradition. Two months later, she is pregnant with me. “I live with my father until I am seven years old; he sleeps well, works in the fields, goes hunting, and talks to the other villagers about his money and his lands; and he looks at my mother as if she were the only good thing that has ever happened to him. I grow up believing that I am the son of a rich man, but one night, by the fire, he tells me about his past and why he married, but begs me not to tell anyone else. Soon, he says, he will die, and four months later he does. He breathes his last in my mother’s arms, smiling, as if he had never known a moment’s sadness. He dies a happy man.” Mikhail is telling his story on a very cold spring night, although it is certainly not as cold as in Stalingrad, where temperatures can plummet to -35°C. We are sitting with some beggars who are warming themselves before an improvised bonfire. I had gone there after a second phone call from Mikhail, asking me to keep my part of the promise. During our conversation, he did not once mention the envelope he had left at my apartment, as if he knew—perhaps through the voice—that I had, in the end, decided to follow the signs and allow things to happen in their own time and thus free myself from the power of the Zahir. When he asked me to meet him in one of the most dangerous parts of Paris, my first reaction was one of alarm. Normally, I would have said that I was far too busy and tried to convince him that we would be better off going to some cozy bar where we could safely discuss important matters. I was still afraid that he might have another epileptic fit in public, even though I now knew what to do, but that was preferable to the risk of being mugged when I was wearing an orthopedic collar and had no way of defending myself. Mikhail insisted: I had to meet the beggars; they were part of his life and part of Esther’s life too. I had realized while I was in the hospital that there was something wrong with my own life and that change was urgently needed. How best to achieve that change? By doing something totally different; for example, going to dangerous places and meeting social outcasts. There is a story about a Greek hero, Theseus, who goes into a labyrinth in order to slay a monster. His beloved, Ariadne, gives him one end of a thread so that he can unroll it as he goes and thus be able to find his way out again. Sitting with those people, listening to Mikhail’s story, it occurs to me that I have not experienced anything like this for a long time—the taste of the unknown, of adventure. Who knows, perhaps Ariadne’s thread was waiting for me in precisely the kind of place that I would never normally visit, or only if I was convinced that I had to make an enormous effort to change my story and my life. Mikhail continued his story, and I saw that the whole group was listening to what he was saying: the most satisfying encounters do not always happen around elegant tables in nice, warm restaurants. “Every day, I have to walk nearly an hour to the village where I go to school. I see the women going to fetch water, the endless steppes, the Russian soldiers driving past in long convoys, the snow-capped mountains which, I am told, conceal a vast country: China. The village I walk to each day has a museum dedicated to its one poet, a mosque, a school, and three or four streets. We are taught about the existence of a dream, an ideal: we must fight for the victory of Communism and for equality among all human beings. I do not believe in this dream, because even in this wretchedly poor village, there are marked differences: the Party representatives are above everyone else; now and again, they visit the big city, Almaty, and return bearing packages of exotic food, presents for their children, expensive clothes. “One afternoon, on my way home, I feel a strong wind blowing, see lights all around me, and lose consciousness for a few moments. When I come to, I am sitting on the ground, and a very white little girl, wearing a white dress with a blue belt, is floating in the air above me. She smiles but says nothing, then disappears. “I run home, interrupt my mother’s work, and tell her what I have seen. She is terrified and asks me never to repeat what I have just told her. She explains to me—as well as one can explain such a complicated concept to an eight-year-old boy—that it was just a hallucination. I tell her that I really did see the girl, that I can describe her in every detail. I add that I wasn’t afraid and came home at once because I wanted her to know what had happened. “The following day, coming back from school, I look for the girl, but she isn’t there. Nothing happens for a whole week, and I begin to think that perhaps my mother was right: I must simply have dropped asleep and dreamed it all. “Then, this time very early one morning, on my way to school, I again see the girl floating in the air and surrounded by a white halo. I don’t fall to the ground or see any flashing lights. We stand for a while, looking at each other; she smiles and I smile back; I ask her name, but receive no answer. At school, I ask my classmates if they have ever seen a girl floating in the air. They all laugh. “During class, I am summoned to the headmaster’s office. He explains to me that I must have some mental problem—there is no such thing as ‘visions’; the only reality is what we see around us; religion was merely invented to fool the people. I ask about the mosque in the city; he says that only the old and superstitious go there, ignorant, idle people who lack the necessary energy to rebuild the socialist world. Then he issues a threat: if I repeat the story about the little girl, I will be expelled. Terrified, I beg him not to say anything to my mother, and he agrees, as long as I tell my classmates that I made the whole thing up. “He keeps his promise and I keep mine. My friends aren’t much interested anyway and don’t even ask me to show them the place where I saw the girl. However, she continues to appear to me for the whole of the following month. Sometimes I faint first, sometimes I don’t. We never talk, we simply stay together for as long as she chooses to stay. My mother is beginning to grow worried because I always arrive home at a different time. One night, she forces me to explain what I do between leaving school and getting home. I again tell her about the little girl. “To my surprise, this time, instead of scolding me, she says that she will go to the place with me. The following day, we wake early and, when we arrive, the girl appears, but my mother cannot see her. My mother tells me to ask the girl something about my father. I don’t understand the question, but I do as she requests, and then, for the first time, I hear the voice. The girl does not move her lips, but I know she is talking to me: She says that my father is fine and is watching over us, and that he is being rewarded now for all his sufferings on earth. She suggests that I remind my mother about the heater. I do so, and my mother starts to cry and explains that because of his many hardships during the war, the thing my father most enjoyed was sitting next to a heater. The girl says that the next time my mother passes that way she should tie a scrap of fabric and a prayer around the small tree growing there. “The visions continue for a whole year. My mother tells some of her closest friends, who tell other friends, and soon the tree is covered in scraps of fabric. Everything is done in the greatest secrecy; the women ask about loved ones who have died; I listen to the voice’s answers and pass on the messages. Usually, their loved ones are fine, and on only two occasions does the girl ask the group to go to a nearby hill at sunrise and say a wordless prayer for the souls of those people. Apparently, I sometimes go into a trance, fall to the ground, and babble incomprehensibly, but I can never remember anything about it. I only know that when I am about to go into a trance, I feel a warm wind blowing and see bubbles of light all around me. “One day, when I am taking a group to meet the little girl, we are prevented from doing so by the police. The women protest and shout, but we cannot get through. I am escorted to school, where the headmaster informs me that I have just been expelled for provoking rebellion and encouraging superstition. “On the way back, I see that the tree has been cut down and the ribbons scattered on the ground. I sit down alone and weep, because those had been the happiest days of my life. At that moment, the girl reappears. She tells me not to worry, that this was all part of the plan, even the destruction of the tree, and that she will accompany me now for the rest of my days and will always tell me what I must do.” “Did she never tell you her name?” asks one of the beggars. “Never. But it doesn’t matter because I always know when she’s talking to me.” “Could we find out something about our dead?” “No. That only happened during one particular period. Now my mission is different. May I go on with my story?” “Absolutely,” I say. “But can I just ask one thing? There’s a town in southwest France called Lourdes. A long time ago, a shepherdess saw a little girl, who seems to correspond to your vision.” “No, you’re wrong,” says one of the older beggars, who has an artificial leg. “The shepherdess, whose name was Bernadette, saw the Virgin Mary.” “I’ve written a book about her visions and I had to study the matter closely,” I say. “I read everything that was published about it at the end of the nineteenth century; I had access to Bernadette’s many statements to the police, to the church, and to scholars. At no point does she say that she saw a woman; she insists it was a girl. She repeated the same story all her life and was deeply angered by the statue that was placed in the grotto; she said it bore no resemblance to her vision, because she had seen a little girl, not a woman. Nevertheless, the church appropriated the story, the visions, and the place and transformed the apparition into the Mother of Jesus, and the truth was forgotten. If a lie is repeated often enough, it ends up convincing everyone. The only difference is that ‘the little girl’—as Bernadette always referred to her—had a name.” “What was it?” asks Mikhail. “‘I am the Immaculate Conception.’ Obviously that isn’t a name like Beatriz or Maria or Isabelle. She describes herself as a fact, an event, a happening, which is sometimes translated as ‘I am birth without sex.’ Now, please, go on with your story.” “Before he does, can I ask you something?” says another beggar, who must be about my age. “You just said that you’ve written a book; what’s the title?” “I’ve written many books.” And I tell him the title of the book in which I mention the story of Bernadette and her vision. “So you’re the husband of the journalist?” “Are you Esther’s husband?” asks a female beggar, wide-eyed; she is dressed garishly, in a green hat and a purple coat. I don’t know what to say. “Why hasn’t she been back here?” asks someone else. “I hope she isn’t dead. She was always going to such dangerous places. I often told her she shouldn’t. Look what she gave me!” And she shows me a scrap of bloodstained fabric, part of the dead soldier’s shirt. “No, she’s not dead,” I say. “But I’m surprised to hear that she used to come here.” “Why? Because we’re different?” “No, you misunderstand me. I’m not judging you. I’m surprised and pleased to know that she did.” However, the vodka we have been drinking to ward off the cold is having an effect on all of us. “Now you’re being ironic,” says a burly man with long hair, who looks as if he hasn’t shaved for several days. “If you think you’re in such bad company, why don’t you leave.” I have been drinking too and that gives me courage. “Who are you? What kind of life is this? You’re healthy, you could work, but instead you prefer to hang around doing nothing!” “We choose to stay outside, outside a world that is fast collapsing, outside people who live in constant fear of losing something, who walk along the street as if everything was fine, when, in fact, everything is bad, very bad indeed! Don’t you beg too? Don’t you ask for alms from your boss to pay the owner of your apartment?” “Aren’t you ashamed to be wasting your life?” asks the woman in the purple coat. “Who said I’m wasting my life? I do precisely what I want to do.” The burly man interrupts, saying: “And what is it you want? To live on top of the world? Who told you that the mountain is necessarily better than the plain? You think we don’t know how to live, don’t you? Well, your wife understood that we know exactly what we want from life. Do you know what we want? Peace! Freedom! And not to be obliged to follow the latest fashions—we make our own fashions here! We drink when we want to and sleep whenever we feel like it! Not one person here chose slavery and we’re proud of it, even though you and people like you may think we’re just a lot of pathetic freeloaders!” The voices are beginning to grow aggressive. Mikhail steps in: “Do you want to hear the rest of my story or shall we leave now?” “He’s criticizing us!” says the man with the artificial leg. “He came here to judge us, as if he were God!” There are a few more rumbles of complaint, someone slaps me on the back, I offer around my cigarettes, the bottle of vodka is placed in my hand again. People gradually calm down, and I am still surprised and shocked that these people knew Esther, apparently better than I did, since she gave them—and not me—a piece of that bloodstained shirt. Mikhail goes on with his story. “Since I have nowhere to go and study and I’m still too young to look after horses— which are the pride of our region and our country—I become a shepherd. During the first week, one of the sheep dies and a rumor goes around that I’m cursed, that I’m the son of a man who came from far away and promised my mother great wealth, then ended up leaving us nothing. The Communists may have told them that religion is just a way of giving false hopes to the desperate, they may all have been brought up to believe that only reality exists and that anything our eyes can’t see is just the fruit of the human imagination; but the ancient traditions of the steppes remain untouched and are passed by word of mouth across the generations. “Now that the tree has been felled, I no longer see the little girl, although I still hear her voice. I ask her to help me in tending the flocks, and she tells me to be patient; there are difficult times ahead, but before I am twenty-two a woman from far away will come and carry me off to see the world. She also tells me that I have a mission to fulfill, and that mission is to spread the true energy of love throughout the world. “The owner of the sheep is worried by the increasingly wild rumors. Oddly, the people spreading these rumors and trying to destroy my life are the very people whom the little girl had helped during the whole of the previous year. One day, he decides to go to the Communist Party office in the next village, where he learns that both I and my mother are considered to be enemies of the people. I am immediately dismissed. Not that this greatly affects our life, because my mother does embroidery for a company in the largest city in the region and there no one knows that we are enemies of the people and of the working classes; all the factory owners want is for her to continue working on her embroidery from dawn to dusk. “I now have all the time in the world and so I wander the steppes with the hunters, who know my story and believe that I have magical powers, because they always find foxes when I’m around. I spend whole days at the museum of the poet, studying his possessions, reading his books, listening to the people who come there to recite his verses. Now and then, I feel the warm wind blowing, see the lights, and fall to the ground, and then the voice tells me concrete facts—when the next drought will come, when the animals will fall sick, when the traders will arrive. I tell no one except my mother, who is becoming ever more anxious and concerned about me. “One day, she takes me to see a doctor who is visiting the area. After listening attentively to my story, taking notes, peering into my eyes with a strange instrument, listening to my heart, and tapping my knee, he diagnoses a form of epilepsy. He says it isn’t contagious and that the attacks will diminish with age. “I know it isn’t an illness, but I pretend to believe him so as to reassure my mother. The director of the museum, who notices me struggling to learn, takes pity on me and becomes my teacher. With him I learn geography and literature and the one thing that will prove vital to me in the future: English. One afternoon, the voice asks me to tell the director that he will shortly be offered an important post. When I tell him this, all I hear is a timid laugh and a firm response: there isn’t the remotest chance of this ever happening because not only has he never been a Party member, he is a devout Muslim. “I am fifteen years old. Two months after this conversation, I sense that something is changing in the region. The normally arrogant civil servants are suddenly much kinder and ask if I would like to go back to school. Great convoys of Russian soldiers head off to the frontier. One evening, while I am studying in the little office that once belonged to the poet, the director comes running in and looks at me with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment. He tells me that the one thing he could never imagine happening—the collapse of the Communist regime—is happening right now, and with incredible speed. The former Soviet republics are becoming independent countries; the news from Almaty is all about the formation of a new government, and he has been appointed to govern the province! “Instead of joyfully embracing me, he asks me how I knew this was going to happen. Had I overheard someone talking about it? Had I been engaged by the secret services to spy on him because he did not belong to the Party? Or—worst of all—had I, at some point in my life, made a pact with the devil? “I remind him that he knows my story: the little girl, the voice, the attacks that allow me to hear things that other people do not know. He says this is just part of my illness; there is only one prophet, Mohammed, and everything that needed to be said has already been revealed. This, he goes on, does not mean that the devil is not still abroad in the world, using all kinds of tricks—including a supposed ability to foresee the future—to deceive the weak and lure people away from the true faith. He had given me a job because Islam demands that we should be charitable, but now he deeply regretted it: I am clearly either a tool of the secret services or an envoy of the devil. “He dismisses me there and then. “Life had not been easy before and it now becomes harder still. The factory for which my mother works, and which once belonged to the government, falls into private hands, and the new owners have very different ideas; they restructure the whole business and she, too, is dismissed. Two months later, we have nothing to live on, and all that remains for us is to leave the village where I have spent my whole life and go in search of work. “My grandparents refuse to leave; they would rather die of hunger on the land where they were born and have spent their entire lives. My mother and I go to Almaty and I see my first big city: I am amazed at the cars, the huge buildings, the neon signs, the escalators and—above all—the elevators. My mother gets a job in a shop and I go to work at a garage as a trainee mechanic. Much of the money we earn is sent back to my grandparents, but there is enough left over for us to be able to eat and for me to see things I have never seen before: films, fairs, and football games. “When we move to the city, my attacks vanish, but so does the voice and the little girl’s presence. It’s better that way, I decide. I am too fascinated by Almaty and too busy earning a living to miss the invisible friend who has been my companion since I was eight years old; I realize that all it takes to become someone in the world is a little intelligence. Then, one Sunday night, I am sitting at our small apartment’s only window, which looks out onto a small dirt alleyway. I am very worried because, the day before, I dented a car as I was maneuvering it inside the garage and am so frightened I might get the sack that I haven’t eaten all day. “Suddenly, I feel the warm wind and see the lights. According to my mother, I fell to the floor and spoke in a strange language and the trance seemed to last longer than usual. I remember that it was then that the voice reminded me of my mission. When I come to, I can feel the presence of the little girl again, and although I cannot see her, I can talk to her. “A change of home has meant a change of worlds too, and I am no longer interested in all this. Nevertheless, I ask her what my mission is: the voice tells me that it is the mission shared by all human beings—to fill the world with the energy of total love. I ask about the one thing that is really worrying me at that precise moment: the dented car and the owner’s reaction. She tells me not to worry, just tell the truth and he will understand. “I work at the garage for five more years. I make friends, have my first girlfriends, discover sex, get involved in street fights; in short, I have an entirely normal adolescence. I have a few fits and, at first, my friends are surprised, but then I invent some story about being in possession of ‘higher powers’ and this earns me their respect. They ask for my help, consult me when they have problems with their girlfriends or with their families, but I never ask the voice for advice—the traumatic experience of seeing the tree cut down all those years ago has made me realize that when you help someone you get only ingratitude in return. “If my friends probe further, I tell them I belong to a ‘secret society.’ After decades of religious repression in Kazakhstan, mysticism and the esoteric are now very fashionable in Almaty. Books are published about people with so-called higher powers, about gurus and teachers from India and China; courses of self-improvement abound. I go to a few, but realize that I have nothing to learn. The only thing I really trust is the voice, but I am too busy to pay attention to what it is saying. “One day, a woman in a four-wheel drive stops at the garage where I work and asks me to fill up the tank. She addresses me in halting, heavily accented Russian, and I respond in English. She seems relieved and asks if I know of an interpreter who could go with her into the interior of Kazakhstan. “The moment she says this, the little girl’s presence fills the whole place, and I understand that this is the person I have been waiting for all my life. She is my way out, and I must not miss this opportunity. I tell her that, if she wants, I can be her interpreter. She says that I obviously have a job already and, besides, she needs someone older, more experienced, someone who is free to travel. I say that I know every path in the steppes and the mountains, and I lie, saying that the job I have is only temporary. I beg her to give me a chance; reluctantly, she arranges to meet me later in the city’s most luxurious hotel. “We meet in the lounge; she tests my knowledge of English, asks a series of questions about the geography of Central Asia, wants to know who I am and where I come from. She is suspicious and will not say exactly what she does or where she wants to go. I try to play my part as best I can, but I can see she’s not convinced. “And I am surprised to realize that, for no apparent reason, I am in love with her, with this woman I have only known for a matter of hours. I control my anxiety and once more place my trust in the voice. I plead for help from the invisible girl and ask her to enlighten me; I promise that, if I get this job, I will carry out the mission entrusted to me; she had told me that one day a woman would come and take me far away from there; she had been there with me when the woman stopped to fill her tank; I need a positive response. “After Esther’s intense questioning, I sense that I am beginning to win her confidence; she warns me that what she wants to do is completely illegal. She explains that she is a journalist and wants to write an article about the American bases being built in a neighboring country in preparation for a war that is about to begin. Her application for a visa has been turned down and so we will have to travel on foot, crossing the border at points where there are no guards. Her contacts have given her a map and shown her where it is safe to cross, but she says she will reveal none of this until we are far from Almaty. If I want to go with her, I must be at the hotel in two days’ time at eleven o’clock in the morning. She promises me only a week’s wages, unaware that I have a permanent job, earn enough to help out my mother and my grandparents, and that my boss trusts me despite having been witness to several of the convulsive attacks—what he calls my “epileptic fits”—that always accompany my contacts with the unknown world. “Before saying goodbye, the woman tells me her name—Esther—and warns me that if I go to the police to report her, she will be arrested and deported. She also says that there are moments in life when we need to trust blindly in intuition, which is what she is doing now. I tell her not to worry. I feel tempted to say something about the voice and the presence, but decide against it. I go home, talk to my mother, and tell her I’ve found a new job as an interpreter, which is better paid but will involve me going away for a while. She doesn’t seem in the least concerned; everything around me is developing as if it had long been planned and we were all just waiting for the right moment. “I sleep badly and the following day I arrive earlier than usual at the garage. I tell my boss that I’m sorry, but I’ve found a new job. He says that, sooner or later, they’ll find out about my illness, that it’s very risky giving up steady employment for something less certain, but, just as happened with my mother, he makes no real fuss about letting me go, as if the voice were manipulating the minds of all the people I have to talk to that day, facilitating things, helping me take the first step. “When Esther and I meet at the hotel, I tell her: ‘If we’re caught, you’ll just be deported but I’ll get put in prison, possibly for many years. Since I’m running the greater risk, you really ought to trust me.’ She seems to understand what I’m saying. We walk for two days; a group of men are waiting for her on the other side of the frontier; she goes off with them and returns shortly afterward, frustrated and angry. The war is about to start, all the roads are being guarded, and it’s impossible to go any farther without being arrested as a spy. “We start the journey back. The usually self-confident Esther seems suddenly sad and confused. To distract her, I recite some lines written by the poet who used to live close to my village, at the same time thinking that in forty-eight hours this whole experience will be over. However, I prefer to trust in the voice. I must do everything I can to prevent Esther leaving as suddenly as she came; perhaps I should show her that I have always been waiting for her, that she is important to me. “That night, after rolling out our sleeping bags near some rocks, I reach out and touch her hand. She gently pulls back, saying that she’s married. I realize that I have made a foolish blunder; then, since I now have nothing to lose, I tell her about the visions I had as a child, about my mission to spread love throughout the world, about the doctor’s diagnosis of epilepsy. “To my surprise, she understands exactly what I’m talking about. She tells me a little about her life. She says that she loves her husband and that he loves her, but that, with the passing of time, something important has been lost, and she prefers now to be far away from him, rather than watch her marriage slowly disintegrate. She had everything in life, and yet she was unhappy; although she could easily go through the rest of her life pretending that this unhappiness didn’t exist, she was terrified of falling into a depression from which she might never emerge. “That is why she decided to give up everything and go in search of adventure, in search of things that leave her no time to think about a love that is dying. However, the more she looked, the more confused she became, the more alone she felt. She feels she has completely lost her way, and the experience we have just had seems to be telling her that she is on the wrong track and should go back to her daily routine. “I suggest trying a less closely guarded trail, say that I know smugglers in Almaty who could help us, but she seems to have no energy, no will to go on. “At that moment, the voice tells me to bless Esther and to dedicate her to the earth. Without really knowing what I am doing, I get up, open my backpack, dip my fingers in the small bottle of oil we have taken with us for cooking, place my hand on her head and pray in silence, asking, at the end, that she continue her search, because it is important for all of us. The voice is telling me—and I repeat the words out loud to her—that if just one person changes, the whole human race is changed. She puts her arms around me, and I can feel the earth blessing her, and we stay like that together for several hours. “Afterward, I ask if she believes what I told her about the voice. She says that she both does and doesn’t. She believes that we all have a power that we never use and that I have clearly come into contact with that power through my epileptic fits, but this is something we can find out about together. She has been thinking of interviewing a nomad who lives to the north of Almaty and who is said by everyone to have magical powers. I am welcome to accompany her. When she tells me the man’s name, I realize that I know his grandson and that this could greatly facilitate matters. “We drive through Almaty, stopping only to fill the tank with gas and buy some food, then we drive on in the direction of a tiny village near an artificial lake constructed by the Soviet regime. I find out where the nomad is staying, but despite telling one of his assistants that I know the man’s grandson, we still have to wait many hours, for there is a large crowd wanting the advice of this man they consider to be a saint. “At last, we are ushered in. By acting as interpreter at that interview and by reading and rereading Esther’s article when it was published, I learn several things I needed to know. “Esther asks why people are sad. “‘That’s simple,’ says the old man. ‘They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people’s ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.’ “Esther remarks that many people say to her, ‘You’re lucky, you know what you want from life, whereas I don’t even know what I want to do.’ “‘Of course they know,’ replies the nomad. ‘How many people do you know who say: I’ve never done what I wanted, but then, that’s life. If they say they haven’t done what they wanted, then, at some point, they must have known what it was that they did want. As for life, it’s just a story that other people tell us about the world and about how we should behave in the world.’ “‘Even worse are those people who say: I’m happy because I’m sacrificing my life for those I love.’ “‘And do you think that the people who love us want to see us suffering for their sakes? Do you think that love is a source of suffering?’ “‘To be honest, yes.’ “‘Well, it shouldn’t be.’ “‘If I forget the story other people have told me, I’ll also forget a lot of very important things life has taught me. What was the point of struggling to learn so much? What was the point of struggling to gain experience, so as to be able to deal with my career, my husband, my various crises?’ “‘Accumulated knowledge is useful when it comes to cooking or living within your means or wrapping up warm in winter or respecting certain limits or knowing where particular bus and train lines go. Do you believe that your past loves have taught you to love better?’ “‘They’ve taught me to know what I want.’ “‘I didn’t ask that. Have your past loves taught you to love your husband better?’ “‘No, on the contrary. In order to surrender myself to him, I had to forget all the scars left by other men. Is that what you mean?’ “‘In order for the true energy of love to penetrate your soul, your soul must be as if you had just been born. Why are people unhappy? Because they want to imprison that energy, which is impossible. Forgetting your personal history means leaving that channel clear, allowing that energy to manifest itself each day in whatever way it chooses, allowing yourself to be guided by it.’ “‘That’s all very romantic, but very difficult too, because that energy gets blocked by all kinds of things: commitments, children, your social situation…’ “‘…and, after a while, by despair, fear, loneliness, and your attempts to control the uncontrollable. According to the tradition of the steppes—which is known as the Tengri—in order to live fully, it is necessary to be in constant movement; only then can each day be different from the last. When they passed through cities, the nomads would think: The poor people who live here, for them everything is always the same. The people in the cities probably looked at the nomads and thought: Poor things, they have nowhere to live. The nomads had no past, only the present, and that is why they were always happy, until the Communist governors made them stop traveling and forced them to live on collective farms. From then on, little by little, they came to believe that the story society told them was true. Consequently, they have lost all their strength.’ “‘No one nowadays can spend their whole life traveling.’ “‘Not physically, no, but they can on a spiritual plane. Going farther and farther, distancing yourself from your personal history, from what you were forced to become.’ “‘How does one go about abandoning the story one was told?’ “‘By repeating it out loud in meticulous detail. And as we tell our story, we say goodbye to what we were and, as you’ll see if you try, we create space for a new, unknown world. We repeat the old story over and over until it is no longer important to us.’ “‘Is that all?’ “‘There is just one other thing: as those spaces grow, it is important to fill them up quickly, even if only provisionally, so as not to be left with a feeling of emptiness.’ “‘How?’ “‘With different stories, with experiences we never dared to have or didn’t want to have. That is how we change. That is how love grows. And when love grows, we grow with it.’ “‘Does that mean we might lose things that are important?’ “‘Never. The important things always stay; what we lose are the things we thought were important but which are, in fact, useless, like the false power we use to control the energy of love.’ “The old man tells her that her time is up and that he has other people to see. Despite my pleas he proves inflexible, but tells Esther that if she ever comes back, he will teach her more.” “Esther is only staying in Almaty for another week, but promises to return. During that time, I tell her my story over and over and she tells me hers, and we see that the old man is right: something is leaving us, we are lighter, although we could not really say that we are any happier. “The old man had given us another piece of advice: fill that space up quickly. Before she leaves, she asks if I would like to go to France so that we can continue this process of forgetting. She has no one with whom she can share all this; she can’t talk to her husband; she doesn’t trust the people she works with; she needs someone from outside, from far away, who has, up until then, had nothing to do with her personal history. “I say that I would like to do that and only then mention what the voice had prophesied. I also tell her that I don’t know French and that my only work experience so far has been tending sheep and working in a garage. “At the airport, she asks me to take an intensive course in French. I ask her why she wants me to go to France. She repeats what she has said and admits she’s afraid of the space opening up around her as she erases her personal history; she’s afraid that everything will rush back in more intensely than before, and then there will be no way of freeing herself from her past. She tells me not to worry about buying a ticket or getting a visa; she will take care of everything. Before going through passport control, she looks at me, smiles, and says that, although she may not have known it, she had been waiting for me as well. The days we had spent together had been the happiest she had known in the last three years. “I start working at night, as a bouncer at a striptease joint, and during the day I devote myself to learning French. Oddly enough, the attacks diminish, but the presence also goes away. I tell my mother that I’ve been invited to go abroad, and she tells me not to be so naive, I’ll never hear from the woman again. “A year later, Esther returns to Almaty. The expected war has begun, and someone else has written an article about the secret American bases, but Esther’s interview with the old man had been a great success and now she has been asked to write a long article on the disappearance of the nomads. ‘Apart from that,’ she said, ‘it’s been ages since I told my story to anyone and I’m starting to get depressed.’ “I help put her in touch with the few tribes who still travel, with the Tengri tradition, and with local shamans. I am now fluent in French, and over supper she gives me various forms from the consulate to fill in, gets me a visa, buys me a ticket, and I come to Paris. We both notice that, as we empty our minds of old stories, a new space opens up, a mysterious feeling of joy slips in, our intuitions grow sharper, we become braver, take more risks, do things which might be right or which might be wrong, we can’t be sure, but we do them anyway. The days seem longer and more intense. “When I arrive in Paris, I ask where I’m going to work, but she has already made plans: she has persuaded the owner of a bar to allow me to appear there once a week, telling him that I specialize in an exotic kind of performance art from Kazakhstan which consists of encouraging people to talk about their lives and to empty their minds. “At first, it is very difficult to get the sparse audience to join in, but the drunks enjoy it and word spreads. ‘Come and tell your old story and discover a new one,’ says the small handwritten notice in the window, and people, thirsty for novelty, start to come. “One night, I experience something strange: it is not me on the small improvised stage in one corner of the bar, it is the presence. And instead of telling stories from my own country and then moving on to suggest that they tell their stories, I merely say what the voice tells me to. Afterward, one of the spectators is crying and speaks about his marriage in intimate detail to the other strangers there. “The same thing happens the following week—the voice speaks for me, asking people to tell stories not about love, but about the lack of love, and the energy in the air is so different that the normally discreet French begin discussing their personal lives in public. I am also managing to control my attacks better; if, when I’m on stage, I start to see the lights or feel that warm wind, I immediately go into a trance, lose consciousness, and no one notices. I only have ‘epileptic fits’ at moments when I am under great nervous strain. “Other people join the group. Three young men the same age as me, who had nothing to do but travel the world—the nomads of the Western world; and a couple of musicians from Kazakhstan, who have heard about their fellow countryman’s ‘success,’ ask if they can join the show, since they are unable to find work elsewhere. We include percussion instruments in the performance. The bar is becoming too small, and we find a room in the restaurant where we currently appear; but now we are starting to outgrow that space too, because when people tell their stories, they feel braver; when they dance, they are touched by the energy and begin to change radically; love—which, in theory, should be threatened by all these changes—becomes stronger, and they recommend our meetings to their friends. “Esther continues traveling in order to write her articles, but always comes to the meetings when she is in Paris. One night, she tells me that our work at the restaurant is no longer enough; it only reaches those people who have the money to go there. We need to work with the young. Where will we find them, I ask? They drift, travel, abandon everything, and dress as beggars or characters out of sci-fi movies. “She says that beggars have no personal history, so why don’t we go to them and see what we can learn. And that is how I came to meet all of you. “These are the things I have experienced. You have never asked me who I am or what I do, because you’re not interested. But today, because we have a famous writer in our midst, I decided to tell you.” “But you’re talking about your past,” said the woman in the clashing hat and coat. “Even though the old nomad…” “What’s a nomad?” someone asks. “People like us,” she responds, proud to know the meaning of the word. “People who are free and manage to live with only what they can carry.” I correct her: “That’s not quite true. They’re not poor.” “What do you know about poverty?” The tall, aggressive man, who now has even more vodka in his veins, looks straight at me. “Do you really think that poverty has to do with having no money? Do you think we’re miserable wretches just because we go around begging money from rich writers and guilt-ridden couples, from tourists who think how terribly squalid Paris has become or from idealistic young people who think they can save the world? You’re the one who’s poor—you have no control over your time, you can’t do what you want, you’re forced to follow rules you didn’t invent and which you don’t understand…” Mikhail again interrupted the conversation and asked the woman: “What did you actually want to know?” “I wanted to know why you’re telling us your story when the old nomad said you should forget it.” “It’s not my story anymore: whenever I speak about the past now, I feel as if I were talking about something that has nothing to do with me. All that remains in the present are the voice, the presence, and the importance of fulfilling my mission. I don’t regret the difficulties I experienced; I think they helped me to become the person I am today. I feel the way a warrior must feel after years of training: he doesn’t remember the details of everything he learned, but he knows how to strike when the time is right.” “And why did you and that journalist keep coming to visit us?” “To take nourishment. As the old nomad from the steppes said, the world we know today is merely a story someone has told to us, but it is not the true story. The other story includes special gifts and powers and the ability to go beyond what we know. I have lived with the presence ever since I was a child and, for a time, was even capable of seeing her, but Esther showed me that I was not alone. She introduced me to other people with special gifts, people who could bend forks by sheer force of will, or carry out surgery using rusty penknives and without anaesthesia, so that the patient could get up after the operation and leave. “I am still learning to develop my unknown potential, but I need allies, people like you who have no personal history.” I felt like telling my story to these strangers too, in order to begin the process of freeing myself from the past, but it was late and I had to get up early the next day to see the doctor and have him remove the orthopedic collar. I asked Mikhail if he wanted a lift, but he said no, he needed to walk a little, because he felt Esther’s absence particularly acutely that night. We left the group and headed for a street where I would be able to find a taxi. “I think that woman was right,” I said. “If you tell a story, then that means you’re still not really free of it.” “I am free, but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, therein lies the secret; there are always some stories that are ‘interrupted,’ and they are the stories that remain nearest to the surface and so still occupy the present; only when we close that story or chapter can we begin the next one.” I remembered reading something similar on the Internet; it was attributed to me, although I didn’t write it: That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Don’t expect to get anything back, don’t expect recognition for your efforts, don’t expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle. Not out of pride, inability, or arrogance, but simply because whatever it is no longer fits in your life. Close the door, change the record, clean the house, get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are. But I had better find out what Mikhail means. “What are ‘interrupted stories’?” “Esther isn’t here. She reached a point where she could go no further in the process of emptying herself of unhappiness and allowing joy to flow in. Why? Because her story, like that of millions of other people, is bound up with the energy of love. It can’t evolve on its own: she must either stop loving or wait until her beloved comes to her. “In failed marriages, when one person stops walking, the other is forced to do the same. And while he or she is waiting, other lovers appear, or there is charitable work to get involved in, there are the children to worry about, there are long hours at the office, etc. It would be much easier to talk openly about things, to insist, to yell: ‘Let’s move on, we’re dying of tedium, anxiety, fear.’” “Are you telling me that Esther can’t continue with the process of freeing herself from sadness because of me?” “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t believe that one person can blame another, under any circumstances. All I said was that she has a choice between stopping loving you or making you come to her.” “That’s what she’s doing.” “I know, but, if it were up to me, we would only go to her when the voice allows us to.” Right, this should be the last you see of the orthopedic collar. I certainly hope so anyway. But, please, avoid making any sudden movements. Your muscles need to get used to working on their own again. By the way, what happened to the girl who made those predictions?” “What girl? What predictions?” “Didn’t you tell me at the hospital that someone had claimed to hear a voice warning that something was going to happen to you?” “Oh, it wasn’t a girl. And you said you were going to find out about epilepsy for me.” “Yes, I got in touch with a specialist and asked him if he knew of any such cases. His answer surprised me a bit, but let me just remind you that medicine has its mysteries. Do you remember the story I told you about the boy who goes out to buy five apples and returns with two?” “Yes, and how he might have lost them or given them away, or else they might have turned out to be more expensive than expected, etc. Don’t worry, I know there are no absolute answers. But, first, did Joan of Arc suffer from epilepsy?” “Oddly enough, my friend mentioned her during our conversation. Joan of Arc started hearing voices when she was thirteen. Her statements reveal that she saw lights, which is one of the symptoms of an attack. According to the neurologist, Dr. Lydia Bayne, the warrior-saint’s ecstatic experiences were caused by what we now call musicogenic epilepsy, which is provoked by hearing a particular kind of sound or music: in Joan’s case, it was the sound of bells. Were you there when the boy had a fit?” “Yes.” “Was there any music playing?” “I can’t remember. But even if there was, the clatter of cutlery and the buzz of conversation would have drowned it out.” “Did he seem tense?” “Yes, very.” “That’s another thing that can provoke an attack. Epilepsy has been around for longer than you might think. In Mesopotamia, there are remarkably accurate descriptions of what they called ‘the falling sickness,’ which was followed by convulsions. Ancient people believed that it was caused by demons invading a person’s body; only much later on did the Greek Hippocrates relate these convulsions to some dysfunction of the brain. Even so, epileptics are still the victims of prejudice.” “I’m sure. I was absolutely terrified when it happened.” “You mentioned the word prophecy, and so I asked my friend to concentrate his researches in that area. According to him, most scientists agree that, although a lot of famous people have suffered from epilepsy, the disease itself does not confer greater or lesser powers on anyone. Nevertheless, the more famous epileptics did succeed in persuading other people to see their fits as having a mystical aura.” “Give me an example of some famous epileptics.” “Napoleon, Alexander the Great, Dante…I didn’t make a full list, since what you were interested in was the boy’s prophecy. What’s his name, by the way?” “You don’t know him, and since you’ve nearly always got another appointment to go to, perhaps you’d better just finish your explanation.” “All right. Medical scientists who study the Bible are sure that the apostle Paul was an epileptic. They base this on the fact that, on the road to Damascus, he saw a brilliant light near him which caused him to fall to the ground, leaving him temporarily blind and unable to eat or drink for some days. In medical terms, this is known as ‘temporal lobe epilepsy.’” “I don’t think the church would agree.” “I’m not even sure that I agree, but that’s what the medical literature says. Other epileptics develop their self-destructive side, as was the case with van Gogh. He described his convulsions as ‘the storm within.’ In Saint-Rémy, where he was a patient, one of the nurses saw him having a convulsive seizure.” “At least he managed in his paintings to transform his self-destruction into a reconstruction of the world.” “Some people suspect that Lewis Carroll wrote Alice in Wonderland in order to describe his own experiences of epilepsy. The story at the beginning of the book, when Alice falls down a black hole, is an experience familiar to most epileptics. During her journey through Wonderland, Alice often sees things flying and she herself feels very light— another very precise description of the effects of an epileptic attack.” “So it would seem epileptics have a propensity for art.” “Not at all, it’s just that because artists tend to become famous, art and epilepsy become linked in people’s minds. Literature is full of examples of writers with a suspected or confirmed diagnosis of epilepsy: Molière, Edgar Allan Poe, Flaubert…. Dostoevsky had his first attack when he was nine years old, and said that it brought him moments when he felt utterly at peace with the world as well as moments of terrible depression. Don’t take all of this too seriously, and don’t go thinking that you might develop epilepsy because of your accident. I haven’t come across a single case of epilepsy being caused by colliding with a motorbike.” “As I said, this is someone I actually know.” “Does the boy with the predictions really exist or did you invent all this simply because you think you might have passed out when you stepped off the pavement?” “On the contrary, I hate knowing about illnesses. Whenever I read a medical book, I immediately start to get all the symptoms.” “Let me tell you something, but please don’t take it the wrong way. I think this accident did you a lot of good. You seem calmer, less obsessed. A brush with death always helps us to live our lives better; that’s what your wife told me when she gave me a bit of bloodstained fabric, which I always carry with me, even though, as a doctor, I see death, close to, every day.” “Did she say why she gave you the cloth?” “She was very generous in her description of my work. She said that I was capable of combining technique with intuition, discipline with love. She told me that a soldier, before he died, had asked her to take his blood-soaked shirt, cut it into pieces, and share those pieces among people who were genuinely trying to reveal the world as it is. I imagine you, with all your books, must also have a bit of this shirt.” “No, I haven’t.” “Do you know why?” “I do, or, rather, I’m beginning to find out.” “And since I’m not only your doctor, but your friend, may I give you some advice? If this epileptic boy did tell you that he can foresee the future, then he knows nothing about medicine.” Zagreb, Croatia. 6:30 a.m. Marie and I are sitting by a frozen fountain. It appears that, this year, spring has decided not to happen; indeed, it looks as if we will jump straight from winter into summer. In the middle of the fountain stands a column with a statue on top. I have spent the entire afternoon giving interviews and cannot bear to say another word about my new book. The journalists all ask the usual questions: Has my wife read the book (I don’t know)? Do I feel I’ve been unfairly treated by the critics (what?)? Has A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew shocked my readers at all, given that I reveal a great deal about my personal life (a writer can only write about his own life)? Will the book be made into a film (I repeat for the nth time that the film happens in the reader’s mind and that I have forbidden the sale of film rights on any of my books)? What do I think about love? Why did I choose to write about love? How can one be happy in love, love, love, love?… Once the interviews are over, there’s the publisher’s supper—it’s part of the ritual. The table is packed with local worthies who keep interrupting me just as I’m about to put my fork in my mouth, and usually ask the same thing: “Where do you find your inspiration?” I try to eat, but I must also be pleasant, I must chat, fulfill my role as celebrity, tell a few interesting stories, make a good impression. I know that the publisher is a real hero, because he can never tell whether a book will sell or not; he could be selling bananas or soap instead; it would certainly be easier: they’re not vain, they don’t have inflated egos, they don’t complain if they don’t like the publicity campaign or if their book doesn’t appear in a particular bookshop. After supper, it’s the usual routine: they want to show me their city’s monuments, historic places, fashionable bars. There is always a guide who knows absolutely everything and fills my head with information, and I have to look as if I’m really listening and ask the occasional question just to show interest. I know nearly all the monuments, museums, and historic places of all the many cities I have visited to promote my work—and I can’t remember any of them. What I do remember are the unexpected things, the meetings with readers, the bars, perhaps a street I happened to walk down, where I turned a corner and came upon something wonderful. One day, I’m going to write a travel guide containing only maps and addresses of hotels, and with the rest of the pages blank. That way people will have to make their own itinerary, to discover for themselves restaurants, monuments, and all the magnificent things that every city has, but which are never mentioned because “the history we have been taught” does not include them under the heading Things You Must See. I’ve been to Zagreb before. And this fountain doesn’t appear in any of the local tourist guides, but it is far more important to me than anything else I saw here—because it is pretty, because I discovered it by chance, and because it is linked to a story in my life. Many years ago, when I was a young man traveling the world in search of adventure, I sat in this very spot with a Croatian painter who had traveled with me for much of the journey. I was heading off into Turkey and he was going home. We said goodbye here, drank two bottles of wine between us, and talked about everything that had happened while we had been together, about religion, women, music, the price of hotels, drugs. We talked about everything except love, because although there were people we loved, there was no need to talk about it. After the painter had returned to his house, I met a young woman and we spent three days together and loved each other with great intensity because we both knew that it would not last very long. She helped me to understand the soul of those people and I never forgot her, just as I never forgot the fountain or saying goodbye to my traveling companion. This was why—after the interviews, the autographs, the supper, the visits to monuments and historic places—I pestered my publishers into bringing me to this fountain. They asked me where it was, and I had no idea, just as I had no idea that Zagreb had so many fountains. After nearly an hour of searching, we finally managed to locate it. I asked for a bottle of wine, we said goodbye to everyone, and Marie and I sat down together in silence, our arms about each other, drinking wine and waiting for the sun to come up. “You seem to get happier and happier by the day,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “That’s because I’m trying to forget who I am. Or rather, I don’t need to carry the weight of my whole history on my shoulders.” I tell her about Mikhail’s conversation with the nomad. “It’s rather like that with actors,” she says. “With each new role, we have to stop being who we are in order to become the character. We tend to end up confused and neurotic. Is it such a good idea to abandon your personal history, do you think?” “Didn’t you say I seemed better?” “Less egotistical, yes. Although it amused me the way you wouldn’t let us rest until you found this fountain, but that goes against what you’ve just said, since the fountain is part of your past.” “For me, it’s a symbol. But I don’t carry this fountain around with me, I don’t think about it all the time, I don’t take photos of it to show my friends, I don’t long for the painter or for the young woman I fell in love with. It’s really good to come back here again, but if I hadn’t come back, it wouldn’t make any difference to that initial experience.” “I see what you’re saying.” “I’m glad.” “And I’m sad, because it makes me think that you’re about to leave. I’ve known you would ever since we first met, but it’s still difficult, because I’ve got used to being with you.” “That’s the problem, we do get used to things.” “It’s human too.” “That’s why the woman I married became the Zahir. Until I had that accident, I had convinced myself that I could only be happy with her, not because I loved her more than anything and anyone in the world, but because I thought only she could understand me; she knew my likes, my eccentricities, my way of seeing the world. I was grateful for what she had done for me, and I thought she should be grateful for what I had done for her. I was used to seeing the world through her eyes. Do you remember that story about the two firemen who emerge from the fire and one has his face all blackened by smoke?” She sat up straight. I noticed that her eyes were full of tears. “Well, that is what the world was like for me,” I went on. “A reflection of Esther’s beauty. Is that love? Or is that dependency?” “I don’t know. I think love and dependency go hand in hand.” “Possibly. But let’s suppose that instead of writing A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, which is really just a letter to a woman who is far away, I had chosen a different plot, for example, a husband and wife who have been together for ten years. They used to make love every day, now they only make love once a week, but that doesn’t really matter because there is also solidarity, mutual support, companionship. He feels sad when he has to have supper alone because she is working late. She hates it when he has to go away, but accepts that it is part of his job. They feel that something is missing, but they are both grown-ups, they are both mature people, and they know how important it is to keep their relationship stable, even if only for the children’s sake. They devote more and more time to work and to the children, they think less and less about their marriage. Everything appears to be going really well, and there’s certainly no other man or woman in their lives. “Yet they sense that something is wrong. They can’t quite put their finger on the problem. As time passes, they grow more and more dependent on each other; they are getting older; any opportunities to make a new life are vanishing fast. They try to keep busy doing reading or embroidery, watching television, seeing friends, but there is always the conversation over supper or after supper. He is easily irritated, she is more silent than usual. They can see that they are growing further and further apart, but cannot understand why. They reach the conclusion that this is what marriage is like, but won’t talk to their friends about it; they are the image of the happy couple who support each other and share the same interests. She takes a lover, so does he, but it’s never anything serious, of course. What is important, necessary, essential, is to act as if nothing is happening, because it’s too late to change.” “I know that story, although I’ve never experienced it myself. And I think we spend our lives being trained to put up with situations like that.” I take off my coat and climb onto the edge of the fountain. She asks me what I’m doing. “I’m going to walk over to that column in the middle of the fountain.” “You’re mad. It’s spring now, the ice will be getting really thin.” “I need to walk over to the column.” I place one foot on the surface, the whole sheet of ice moves, but does not crack. With one eye on the rising sun, I make a kind of wager with God: if I manage to reach the column and come back without the ice cracking, that will be a sign that I am on the right path, and that his hand is showing me where I should go. “You’ll fall in the water.” “So? The worst that can happen is that I’ll get a bit cold, but the hotel isn’t far away and I won’t have to suffer for long.” I put my other foot on the ice: I am now in the fountain. The ice breaks away from the edges and a little water laps onto the surface of the ice, but the ice does not break. I set off toward the column. It’s only about four meters there and back, and all I risk is getting a very cold bath. However, I mustn’t think about what might happen: I’ve taken the first step and I must continue to the end. I reach the column, touch it with my hand, hear everything around me creaking, but I’m still on the ice. My first instinct is to run back, but something tells me that if I do that, my steps will become heavier, firmer, and I’ll fall into the water. I must walk back slowly, at the same pace. The sun is rising ahead of me; it dazzles me slightly. I can see only Marie’s silhouette and the shapes of the buildings and the trees. The sheet of ice keeps shifting, water spills over onto the surface, but I know—with absolute certainty—that I will reach the edge. I am in communion with the day, with my choices. I know the limits of the frozen water; I know how to deal with it, how to ask for its help, to keep me from falling. I begin to enter a kind of trance, a euphoric state; I am a child again, doing something that is wrong, forbidden, but which gives me enormous pleasure. Wonderful! Crazy pacts with God, along the lines of “If I manage to do this, then so and so will happen,” signs provoked not by anything that comes from outside, but by instinct, by my capacity to forget the old rules and create new situations. I am grateful for having met Mikhail, the epileptic who thinks he can hear voices. I went to his meeting at the restaurant in search of my wife and discovered that I was turning into a pale reflection of myself. Is Esther still important? I think so, for it was her love that changed my life once and which is transforming me now. My history had grown old and was becoming ever heavier to carry, and far too serious for me ever to take risks like walking on ice, making a wager with God, forcing a sign to appear. I had forgotten that one has to continue walking the road to Santiago, to discard any unnecessary baggage, to keep only what you need in order to live each day, and to allow the energy of love to flow freely, from the outside in and from the inside out. Another cracking sound, and a fault line appears across the surface, but I know I will make it, because I am light, so light that I could even walk on a cloud and not fall to earth. I am not carrying with me the weight of fame, of stories I have told, of itineraries to follow. I am so transparent that the sun’s rays can penetrate my body and illumine my soul. I see that there are still many dark areas inside me, but with perseverance and courage they will gradually be washed away. Another step, and I remember the envelope on my desk at home. Soon I will open it and, instead of walking on ice, I will set off along the path that leads me to Esther. I will do so not because I want her by my side, for she is free to remain where she is. It is not because I dream day and night of the Zahir; that loving, destructive obsession seems to have vanished. It is not because I am used to my past as it was and passionately want to go back to it. Another step, more sounds of cracking, but safety and the edge of the fountain are close. I will open the envelope and go and find her because—as Mikhail, the epileptic, the seer, the guru of the Armenian restaurant, says—this story needs to reach its end. When everything has been told and retold countless times, when the places I have visited, the things I have experienced, the steps I have taken because of her are all transformed into distant memories, nothing will remain but pure love. I won’t feel as if I owe anything, I won’t feel that I need her because only she can understand me, because I’m used to her, because she knows my vices and my virtues, knows that I like to have a slice of toast before I go to bed and to watch the international news when I wake up, that I have to go for a walk every morning, or that she knows about my collection of books on archery, about the hours spent in front of the computer screen, writing, about how annoyed I get when the maid keeps calling me to tell me the food is on the table. All that will disappear. What remains will be the love that moves the heavens, the stars, people, flowers, insects, the love that obliges us all to walk across the ice despite the danger, that fills us with joy and with fear, and gives meaning to everything. I touch the edge of the fountain, a hand reaches out to me, I grab hold of it, and Marie helps to steady me as I step down. “I’m proud of you. I would never do anything like that.” “Not so long ago, I wouldn’t have either; it seems so childish, irresponsible, unnecessary, pointless. But I am being reborn and I need to take new risks.” “The morning light is obviously good for you; you’re talking like a wise man.” “No wise man would do what I’ve just done.” I have to write an important article for a magazine that is one of my major creditors in the Favor Bank. I have hundreds, thousands of ideas in my head, but I don’t know which of them merits my effort, my concentration, my blood. It is not the first time this has happened, but I feel as if I have said everything of importance that I need to say. I feel as if I’m losing my memory and forgetting who I am. I go over to the window and look out at the street. I try to convince myself that I am professionally fulfilled and have nothing more to prove, that I can justifiably withdraw to a house in the mountains and spend the rest of my life reading, walking, and talking about food and the weather. I tell myself over and over that I have achieved what almost no other writer has achieved—my books have been translated into nearly every written language in the world. Why worry about a mere magazine article, however important the magazine itself might be? Because of the Favor Bank. So I really do need to write something, but what have I got to say to people? Should I tell them that they need to forget all the stories that have been told to them and take more risks? They’ll all say, “I’m an independent being, thank you very much. I’ll do as I please.” Should I tell them that they must allow the energy of love to flow more freely? They’ll say, “I feel love already. In fact, I feel more and more love,” as if love could be measured the way we measure the distance between two railway tracks, the height of buildings, or the amount of yeast needed to make a loaf of bread. I return to my desk. The envelope Mikhail left for me is open. I now know where Esther is; I just need to know how to get there. I phone him and tell him about my walk across the ice. He is impressed. I ask him what he’s doing tonight, and he says he’s going out with his girlfriend, Lucrecia. I suggest taking them both to supper. No, not tonight, but, if I like, I could go out with him and his friends next week. I tell him that next week I’m giving a talk in the United States. There’s no hurry, he says, we can wait two weeks. “You must have heard a voice telling you to walk on the ice,” he says. “No, I heard no voice.” “So why did you do it?” “Because I felt it needed to be done.” “That’s just another way of hearing the voice.” “I made a bet. If I could cross the ice, that meant I was ready. And I think I am.” “Then the voice gave you the sign you needed.” “Did the voice say anything to you about it?” “No, it didn’t have to. When we were on the banks of the Seine and I said that the voice would tell us when the time had come, I knew that it would also tell you.” “As I said, I didn’t hear a voice.” “That’s what you think. That’s what everyone thinks. And yet, judging by what the presence tells me, everyone hears voices all the time. They are what help us to know when we are face to face with a sign, you see.” I decide not to argue. I just need some practical details: where to hire a car, how long the journey takes, how to find the house, because otherwise all I have, apart from the map, are a series of vague indications—follow the lakeshore, look for a company sign, turn right, etc. Perhaps he knows someone who can help me. We arrange our next meeting. Mikhail asks me to dress as discreetly as possible—the “tribe” is going for a walkabout in Paris. I ask him who this tribe is. “They’re the people who work with me at the restaurant,” he replies, without going into detail. I ask him if he wants me to bring him anything from the States, and he asks for a particular remedy for heartburn. There are, I think, more interesting things I could bring, but I make a note of his request. And the article? I go back to the desk, think about what I’m going to write, look again at the open envelope, and conclude that I was not surprised by what I found inside. After a few meetings with Mikhail, it was pretty much what I had expected. Esther is living in the steppes, in a small village in Central Asia; more precisely, in a village in Kazakhstan. I am no longer in a hurry. I continue reviewing my own story, which I tell to Marie in obsessive detail; she has decided to do the same, and I am surprised by some of the things she tells me, but the process seems to be working; she is more confident, less anxious. I don’t know why I so want to find Esther, now that my love for her has illumined my life, taught me new things, which is quite enough really. But I remember what Mikhail said: “The story needs to reach its end,” and I decide to go on. I know that I will discover the moment when the ice of our marriage cracked, and how we carried on walking through the chill water as if nothing had happened. I know that I will discover this before I reach that village, in order to close the circle or make it larger still. The article! Has Esther become the Zahir again, thus preventing me from concentrating on anything else? No, when I need to do something urgent, something that requires creative energy, this is my working method: I get into a state of near hysteria, decide to abandon the task altogether, and then the article appears. I’ve tried doing things differently, preparing everything carefully, but my imagination only works when it’s under enormous pressure. I must respect the Favor Bank, I must write three pages about—guess what!—the problems of male-female relationships. Me, of all people! But the editors believe that the man who wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew must know the human soul well. I try to log on to the Internet, but it’s not working. It’s never been the same since I destroyed the connection. I called various technicians, but when they finally turned up, they could find nothing wrong with the computer. They asked me what I was complaining about, spent half an hour doing tests, changed the configuration, and assured me that the problem lay not with me but with the server. I allowed myself to be convinced that everything was, in fact, fine, and I felt ridiculous for having asked for help. Two or three hours later, the computer and the connection would both crash. Now, after months of physical and psychological wear and tear, I simply accept that technology is stronger and more powerful than me: it works when it wants to, and when it doesn’t, it’s best to sit down and read the paper or go for a walk, and just wait until the cables and the telephone links are in a better mood and the computer decides to work again. I am not, I have discovered, my computer’s master: it has a life of its own. I try a few more times, but I know from experience that it’s best just to give up. The Internet, the biggest library in the world, has closed its doors to me for the moment. What about reading a few magazines in search of inspiration? I pick up one that has just arrived in the post and read a strange interview with a woman who has recently published a book about—guess what?—love. The subject seems to be pursuing me everywhere. The journalist asks if the only way a human being can find happiness is by finding his or her beloved. The woman says no. The idea that love leads to happiness is a modern invention, dating from the end of the seventeenth century. Ever since then, people have been taught to believe that love should last forever and that marriage is the best place in which to exercise that love. In the past, there was less optimism about the longevity of passion. Romeo and Juliet isn’t a happy story, it’s a tragedy. In the last few decades, expectations about marriage as the road to personal fulfilment have grown considerably, as have disappointment and dissatisfaction. It’s quite a brave thing to say, but no good for my article, mainly because I don’t agree with her at all. I search my shelves for a book that has nothing to do with male-female relationships: Magical Practices in North Mexico. Since obsession will not help me to write my article, I need to refresh my mind, to relax. I start leafing through it and suddenly I read something that surprises me: The acomodador or giving-up point: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress: a trauma, a particularly bitter defeat, a disappointment in love, even a victory that we did not quite understand, can make cowards of us and prevent us from moving on. As part of the process of increasing his hidden powers, the shaman must first free himself from that giving-up point and, to do so, he must review his whole life and find out where it occurred. The acomodador. This fit in with my experience of learning archery—the only sport I enjoyed—for the teacher of archery says that no shot can ever be repeated, and there is no point trying to learn from good or bad shots. What matters is repeating it hundreds and thousands of times, until we have freed ourselves from the idea of hitting the target and have ourselves become the arrow, the bow, the target. At that moment, the energy of the “thing” (my teacher of kyudo—the form of Japanese archery I practiced—never used the word “God”) guides our movements and then we begin to release the arrow not when we want to, but when the “thing” believes that the moment has come. The acomodador. Another part of my personal history resurfaces. If only Marie were here! I need to talk about myself, about my childhood, to tell her how, when I was little, I was always fighting and beating up the other children because I was the oldest in the class. One day, my cousin gave me a thrashing, and I was convinced from then on that I would never ever win another fight, and since then I have avoided any physical confrontation, even though this has often meant me behaving like a coward and being humiliated in front of girlfriends and friends alike. The acomodador. For two years, I tried to learn how to play the guitar. To begin with, I made rapid progress, but then reached a point where I could progress no further, because I discovered that other people were learning faster than I was, which made me feel mediocre; and so as not to have to feel ashamed, I decided that I was no longer interested in learning. The same thing happened with snooker, football, bicycle racing. I learned enough to do everything reasonably well, but there was always a point where I got stuck. Why? Because according to the story we are told, there always comes a moment in our lives when we reach “our limit.” I often recalled my struggle to deny my destiny as a writer and how Esther had always refused to allow the acomodador to lay down rules for my dream. The paragraph I had just read fit in with the idea of forgetting one’s personal history and being left only with the instinct that develops out of the various difficulties and tragedies one has experienced. This is what the shamans of Mexico did and what the nomads on the steppes of Central Asia preached. The acomodador: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress. It described exactly what happens in marriages in general and what had happened in my relationship with Esther in particular. I could now write my article for that magazine. I went over to the computer and within half an hour I had written a first draft and was happy with the result. I wrote a story in the form of a dialogue, as if it were fiction, but which was, in fact, a conversation I had had in a hotel room in Amsterdam, after a day spent promoting my books and after the usual publishers’ supper and the statutory tour of the sights, etc. In my article, the names of the characters and the situation in which they find themselves are omitted. In real life, Esther is in her nightdress and is looking out at the canal outside our window. She has not yet become a war correspondent, her eyes are still bright with joy, she loves her work, travels with me whenever she can, and life is still one big adventure. I am lying on the bed in silence; my mind is far away, worrying about the next day’s appointments. Last week, I interviewed a man who’s an expert in police interrogations. He told me that they get most of their information by using a technique they call ‘cold-hot.’ They always start with a very aggressive policeman who says he has no intention of sticking to the rules, who shouts and thumps the table. When he has scared the prisoner nearly witless, the ‘good cop’ comes in and tells his colleague to stop, offers the prisoner a cigarette, pretends to be his friend, and gets the information he wants.” “Yes, I’ve heard about that.” “Then he told me about something else that really frightened me. In 1971, a group of researchers at Stanford University, in California, decided to create a simulated prison in order to study the psychology of interrogations. They selected twenty-four student volunteers and divided them into ‘guards’ and ‘criminals.’ “After just one week, they had to stop the experiment. The ‘guards’—girls and boys with normal decent values, from nice families—had become real monsters. The use of torture had become routine and the sexual abuse of ‘prisoners’ was seen as normal. The students who took part in the project, both ‘guards’ and ‘criminals,’ suffered major trauma and needed long-term medical help, and the experiment was never repeated.” “Interesting.” “What do you mean ‘interesting’? I’m talking about something of real importance: man’s capacity to do evil whenever he’s given the chance. I’m talking about my work, about the things I’ve learned!” “That’s what I found interesting. Why are you getting so angry?” “Angry? How could I possibly get angry with someone who isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to what I’m saying? How can I possibly be angry with someone who isn’t even provoking me, who’s just lying there, staring into space?” “How much did you have to drink tonight?” “You don’t even know the answer to that, do you? I’ve been by your side all evening, and you’ve no idea whether I’ve had anything to drink or not! You only spoke to me when you wanted me to confirm something you had said or when you needed me to tell some flattering story about you!” “Look, I’ve been working all day and I’m exhausted. Why don’t you come to bed and sleep? We can talk in the morning.” “Because I’ve been doing this for weeks and months, for the last two years in fact! I try to have a conversation, but you’re always tired, so we say, all right, we’ll go to sleep and talk tomorrow. But tomorrow there are always other things to do, another day of work and publishers’ suppers, so we say, all right, we’ll go to sleep and talk tomorrow. That’s how I’m spending my life, waiting for the day when I can have you by my side again, until I’ve had my fill; that’s all I ask, to create a world where I can always find refuge if I need it: not so far away that I can’t be seen to be having an independent life, and not so close that it looks as if I’m invading your universe.” “What do you want me to do? Stop working? Give up everything we’ve struggled so hard to achieve and go off on a cruise to the Caribbean? Don’t you understand that I enjoy what I’m doing and haven’t the slightest intention of changing my life?” “In your books, you talk about the importance of love, the need for adventure, the joy of fighting for your dreams. And who do I have before me now? Someone who doesn’t read what he writes. Someone who confuses love with convenience, adventure with taking unnecessary risks, joy with obligation. Where is the man I married, who used to listen to what I was saying?” “Where is the woman I married?” “You mean the one who always gave you support, encouragement, and affection? Her body is here, looking out at the Singel Canal in Amsterdam, and she will, I believe, stay with you for the rest of her life. But that woman’s soul is standing at the door ready to leave.” “But why?” “Because of those three wretched words: We’ll talk tomorrow. Isn’t that enough? If not, just consider that the woman you married was excited about life, full of ideas and joy and desires, and is now rapidly turning into a housewife.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Of course it is! It’s nonsense! A trifle, especially considering that we have everything we could possibly want. We’re very fortunate, we have money, we never discuss any little flings we might have, we never have jealous rages. Besides, there are millions of children in the world starving to death, there are wars, diseases, hurricanes, tragedies happening every second. So what can I possibly have to complain about?” “Do you think we should have a baby?” “That’s how all the couples I know resolve their problems—by having a baby! You’re the one who has always prized your freedom and put off having children for later on. Have you really changed your mind?” “I think the time is right.” “Well, in my opinion, you couldn’t be more wrong! I don’t want your child. I want a child by the man I knew, who had dreams, who was always by my side! If I ever do become pregnant it will be by someone who understands me, keeps me company, listens to me, who truly desires me!” “You have been drinking. Look, I promise, we’ll talk tomorrow, but, please, come to bed now, I’m tired.” “All right, we’ll talk tomorrow. And if my soul, which is standing at the door, does decide to leave, I doubt it will affect our lives very much.” “Your soul won’t leave.” “You used to know my soul very well, but you haven’t spoken to it for years, you don’t know how much it has changed, how desperately it’s begging you to listen. Even to banal topics of conversation, like experiments at American universities.” “If your soul has changed so much, how come you’re the same?” “Out of cowardice. Because I genuinely think that tomorrow we will talk. Because of everything we’ve built together and which I don’t want to see destroyed. Or for that worst of all possible reasons, because I’ve simply given up.” “That’s just what you’ve been accusing me of doing.” “You’re right. I looked at you, thinking it was you I was looking at, but the truth is I was looking at myself. Tonight I’m going to pray with all my might and all my faith and ask God not to let me spend the rest of my days like this.” I hear the applause, the theater is packed. I’m about to do the one thing that always gives me sleepless nights, I’m about to give a lecture. The master of ceremonies begins by saying that there’s no need to introduce me, which is a bit much really, since that’s what he’s there for and he isn’t taking into account the possibility that there might be lots of people in the audience who have simply been invited along by friends. Despite what he says, however, he ends up giving a few biographical details and talking about my qualities as a writer, the prizes I’ve won, and the millions of books I’ve sold. He thanks the sponsors, turns to me, and the floor is mine. I thank him too. I tell the audience that the most important things I have to say are in my books, but that I feel I have an obligation to my public to reveal the man who lies behind those words and paragraphs. I explain that our human condition makes us tend to share only the best of ourselves, because we are always searching for love and approval. My books, however, will only ever be the mountaintop visible in the clouds or an island in the ocean: the light falls on it, everything seems to be in its place, but beneath the surface lies the unknown, the darkness, the incessant search for self. I describe how difficult it was to write A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, and that there are many parts of the book which I myself am only beginning to understand now, as I reread it, as if the created thing were always greater and more generous than its creator. I say that there is nothing more boring than reading interviews or going to lectures by authors who insist on explaining the characters in their books: if a book isn’t self- explanatory, then the book isn’t worth reading. When a writer appears in public, he should attempt to show the audience his universe, not try to explain his books; and in this spirit, I begin talking about something more personal. “Some time ago, I was in Geneva for a series of interviews. At the end of a day’s work, and because a woman friend I was supposed to have supper with canceled at the last minute, I set off for a stroll around the city. It was a particularly lovely night, the streets were deserted, the bars and restaurants still full of life, and everything seemed utterly calm, orderly, pretty, and yet suddenly…suddenly I realized that I was utterly alone. “Needless to say, I had been alone on other occasions during the year. Needless to say, my girlfriend was only two hours away by plane. Needless to say, after a busy day, what could be better than a stroll through the narrow streets and lanes of the old city, without having to talk to anyone, simply enjoying the beauty around me. And yet the feeling that surfaced was one of oppressive, distressing loneliness—not having someone with whom I could share the city, the walk, the things I’d like to say. “I got out my cell phone; after all, I had a reasonable number of friends in the city, but it was too late to phone anyone. I considered going into one of the bars and ordering a drink; someone was bound to recognize me and invite me to join them. But I resisted the temptation and tried to get through that moment, discovering, in the process, that there is nothing worse than the feeling that no one cares whether we exist or not, that no one is interested in what we have to say about life, and that the world can continue turning without our awkward presence. “I began to imagine how many millions of people were, at that moment, feeling utterly useless and wretched—however rich, charming, and delightful they might be—because they were alone that night, as they were yesterday, and as they might well be tomorrow. Students with no one to go out with, older people sitting in front of the TV as if it were their sole salvation, businessmen in their hotel rooms, wondering if what they were doing made any sense, women who spent the afternoon carefully applying their makeup and doing their hair in order to go to a bar only to pretend that they’re not looking for company; all they want is confirmation that they’re still attractive; the men ogle them and chat them up, but the women reject them all disdainfully, because they feel inferior and are afraid the men will find out that they’re single mothers or lowly clerks with nothing to say about what’s going on in the world because they work from dawn to dusk to scrape a living and have no time to read the newspapers. People who look at themselves in the mirror and think themselves ugly, believing that being beautiful is what really matters, and spend their time reading magazines in which everyone is pretty, rich, and famous. Husbands and wives who wish they could talk over supper as they used to, but there are always other things demanding their attention, more important things, and the conversation can always wait for a tomorrow that never comes. “That day, I had lunch with a friend who had just got divorced and she said to me: ‘Now I can enjoy the freedom I’ve always dreamed of having.’ But that’s a lie. No one wants that kind of freedom: we all want commitment, we all want someone to be beside us to enjoy the beauties of Geneva, to discuss books, interviews, films, or even to share a sandwich with because there isn’t enough money to buy one each. Better to eat half a sandwich than a whole one. Better to be interrupted by the man who wants to get straight back home because there’s a big game on TV tonight or by the woman who stops outside a shop window and interrupts what we were saying about the cathedral tower, far better that than to have the whole of Geneva to yourself with all the time and quiet in the world to visit it. “Better to go hungry than to be alone. Because when you’re alone—and I’m talking here about an enforced solitude not of our choosing—it’s as if you were no longer part of the human race. “A lovely hotel awaited me on the other side of the river, with its luxurious rooms, its attentive employees, its five-star service. And that only made me feel worse, because I should have felt contented, satisfied with all I had achieved. “On the way back, I passed other people in the same situation and noticed that they fell into two categories: those who looked arrogant, because they wanted to pretend they had chosen to be alone on that lovely night, and those who looked sad and ashamed of their solitary state. “I’m telling you all this because the other day I remembered being in a hotel room in Amsterdam with a woman who was talking to me about her life. I’m telling you all this because, although in Ecclesiastes it says there is a time to rend and a time to sew, sometimes the time to rend leaves deep scars. Being with someone else and making that person feel as if they were of no importance in our life is far worse than feeling alone and miserable in the streets of Geneva.” There was a long moment of silence before the applause. I arrived in a gloomy part of Paris, which was nevertheless said to have the most vibrant cultural life of the whole city. It took me a while to recognize the scruffy group of people before me as the same ones who appeared on Thursdays in the Armenian restaurant immaculately dressed in white. “Why are you all wearing fancy dress? Is this some kind of tribute to a movie?” “It’s not fancy dress,” replied Mikhail. “Don’t you change your clothes to go to a gala supper? Would you wear a jacket and tie to play golf?” “All right, let me put the question another way: Why have you decided to dress like young homeless people?” “Because, at this moment, we are young homeless people, or, rather, four young homeless people and two homeless adults.” “Let me put the question a third way, then: Why are you dressed like that?” “In the restaurant, we feed our body and talk about the Energy to people with something to lose. Among the beggars, we feed our soul and talk to those who have nothing to lose. Now, we come to the most important part of our work: meeting the members of the invisible movement that is renewing the world, people who live each day as if it were their last, while the old live each day as if it were their first.” He was talking about something I had already noticed and which seemed to be growing by the day: this was how young people dressed, in grubby, but highly imaginative outfits, based on military uniforms or sci-fi movies. They all went in for body piercing too and sported highly individual haircuts. Often, the groups were accompanied by threatening- looking Alsatian dogs. I once asked a friend why these people always had a dog with them and he told me—although I don’t know if it’s true—that the police couldn’t arrest the owners because they had nowhere to put the dogs. A bottle of vodka began doing the rounds; we had drunk vodka when we were with the beggars and I wondered if this had to do with Mikhail’s origins. I took a sip, imagining what people would say if they saw me there. I decided they would say, “He’s probably doing research for his next book,” and felt more relaxed. “I’m ready now to go and find Esther, but I need some more information, because I know nothing about your country.” “I’ll go with you.” “What?” That wasn’t in my plans at all. My journey was a return to everything I had lost in myself, and would end somewhere in the Central Asian steppes. It was something intimate and personal, something that did not require witnesses. “As long as you pay for my ticket, of course. I need to go back to Kazakhstan. I miss my country.” “I thought you had work to do here. Don’t you have to be at the restaurant on Thursdays for the performances.” “You keep calling it a performance. I’ve told you before, it’s a meeting, a way of reviving what we have lost, the tradition of conversation. But don’t worry. Anastásia here,” and he pointed to a girl wearing a nose stud, “is already developing her gift. She can take care of everything while I’m away.” “He’s jealous,” said Alma, the woman who played the instrument that looked like a cymbal and who told stories at the end of each meeting. “Understandable, really,” said another boy, who was dressed in a leather outfit adorned with metal studs, safety pins, and buckles made to look like razor blades. “Mikhail is younger, better-looking, and more in touch with the Energy.” “He’s also less famous, less rich, and less in touch with those in power,” said Anastásia. “From the female point of view, things are pretty evenly balanced, so I reckon they’re both going with what they’ve got.” Everyone laughed and the bottle went the rounds again. I was the only one who didn’t see the joke. I was surprising myself, though; it had been many years since I had sat on a pavement in Paris, and this pleased me. “The tribe is bigger than you think. They’re everywhere, from the Eiffel Tower down as far as the town of Tarbes where I was staying recently. But I can’t honestly say I understand what it’s all about.” “They can be found farther south than Tarbes, and they follow routes every bit as interesting as the road to Santiago. They set off from somewhere in France or somewhere else in Europe, swearing that they’re going to be part of a society that exists outside of society. They’re afraid of going back home and getting a job and getting married—they’ll fight against all that for as long as they can. There are rich and poor among them, but they’re not that interested in money. They look completely different, and yet when people walk past them, they usually pretend not to see them because they’re afraid.” “Do they have to look so aggressive?” “Yes, because the passion to destroy is a creative passion. If they weren’t aggressive, the boutiques would immediately fill up with clothes like these; publishers would soon be producing magazines about the new movement ‘sweeping the world with its revolutionary attitudes’; TV programs would have a strand devoted to the tribe; sociologists would write learned articles; psychiatrists would counsel the families of tribe members, and it would lose all its impact. So the less they know about us, the better: our attack is really a defense.” “Actually, I only came tonight so that I could ask you for some information, but, who knows, perhaps spending the night with you will turn out to be just the kind of rich and novel experience to move me on from a personal history that no longer allows for new experiences. As for the journey to Kazakhstan, I’ve no intention of taking anyone with me. If I can’t get help from you, the Favor Bank will provide me with all the necessary contacts. I’m going away in two days’ time and I’m a guest at an important supper tomorrow night, but after that, I’m free for two weeks.” Mikhail appeared to hesitate. “It’s up to you. You’ve got the map, the name of the village, and it shouldn’t be hard to find the house where she’s staying. I’m sure the Favor Bank can help get you as far as Almaty, but I doubt it will get you much farther than that, because the rules of the steppes are different. Besides, I reckon I’ve made a few deposits in your account at the Favor Bank too. It’s time to reclaim them. I miss my mother.” He was right. “We’ve got to start work,” said Alma’s husband. “Why do you want to go with me, Mikhail? Is it really just because you miss your mother?” He didn’t reply. The man started playing the drum and Alma was clanging the cymbal, while the others begged for money from passersby. Why did he want to go with me? And how would I be able to draw on the Favor Bank in the steppes, if I knew absolutely no one? I could get a visa from the Kazakhstan embassy, hire a car and a guide from the French consulate in Almaty—what else did I need? I stood there observing the group, not knowing quite what to do. It wasn’t the right moment to discuss the trip, and I had work to do and a girlfriend waiting for me at home. Why didn’t I just leave now? I didn’t leave because I was feeling free, doing things I hadn’t done for years, opening up a space in my soul for new experiences, driving the acomodador out of my life, experiencing things that might not interest me very much, but which were at least different. The vodka ran out and was replaced by rum. I hate rum, but since that was all there was, it was best to adapt to the circumstances. The two musicians continued to play and whenever anyone was brave enough to come near, one of the girls would hold out her hand and ask if they had any spare change. The person approached would normally quicken their pace, but would always receive a “Thanks, have a nice evening.” One person, seeing that he had been offered thanks rather than abuse, turned back and gave us some money. After watching this scene for more than ten minutes, without anyone in the group addressing a single word to me, I went into a bar, bought two bottles of vodka, came back, and poured the rum into the gutter. Anastásia seemed pleased by my gesture and so I tried to start a conversation. “Can you explain why you all use body piercing?” “Why do other people wear jewels or high heels or low-cut dresses even in winter?” “That’s not an answer.” “We use body piercing because we’re the new barbarians sacking Rome. We don’t wear uniforms and so we need something to identify us as one of the invading tribes.” She made it sound as if they were part of a important historical movement, but for the people going home, they were just a group of unemployed young people with nowhere to sleep, cluttering up the streets of Paris, bothering the tourists who were so good for the local economy, and driving to despair the mothers and fathers who had brought them into the world and now had no control over them. I had been like that once, when the hippie movement was at its height—the huge rock concerts, the big hair, the garish clothes, the Viking symbol, the peace sign. As Mikhail said, the whole hippie thing had turned into just another consumer product and had vanished, destroying its icons. A man came down the street. The boy in leather and safety pins went over to him with his hand outstretched. He asked for money. However, instead of hurrying on or muttering something like “I haven’t any change,” the man stopped and looked at us and said very loudly: “I wake up every morning with a debt of approximately 100,000 euros, because of my house, because of the economic situation in Europe, because of my wife’s expensive tastes. In other words, I’m worse off than you are and with far more on my mind! How about you giving me a bit of change to help me decrease my debt just a little?” Lucrecia—whom Mikhail claimed was his girlfriend—produced a fifty-euro note and gave it to the man. “Buy yourself some caviar. You need a bit of joy in your miserable life.” The man thanked her and walked off, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be given fifty euros by a beggar. The Italian girl had had a fifty-euro note in her bag and here we were begging in the street! “Let’s go somewhere else,” said the boy in leather. “Where?” asked Mikhail. “We could see if we can find the others. North or south?” Anastásia chose west. After all, she was, according to Mikhail, developing her gift. We passed by the Tour Saint-Jacques where, centuries before, pilgrims heading for Santiago de Compostela used to gather. We passed Notre-Dame, where there were a few more “new barbarians.” The vodka had run out and so I went to buy two more bottles, even though I wasn’t sure that everyone in the group was over eighteen. No one thanked me; they seemed to think it was perfectly normal. I started to feel a little drunk and began eyeing one of the girls who had just joined us. Everyone talked very loudly, kicked a few litter bins—strange metal objects with a plastic bag dangling from them—and said absolutely nothing of any interest. We crossed the Seine and were suddenly brought to a halt by one of those orange-and- white tapes that are used to mark off an area under construction. It prevented people from walking along the pavement, forcing them to step off the curb into the road and then rejoin the pavement five meters further on. “It’s still here,” said one of the new arrivals. “What’s still here?” I asked. “Who’s he?” “A friend of ours,” replied Lucrecia. “In fact, you’ve probably read one of his books.” The newcomer recognized me, but showed neither surprise nor reverence; on the contrary, he asked if I could give him some money, a request I instantly refused. “If you want to know why the tape is there, you’ll have to give me a euro. Everything in life has its price, as you know better than anyone. And information is one of the most expensive products in the world.” No one in the group came to my aid, so I had to pay him a euro for his answer. “The tape is here because we put it there. As you can see, there are no repairs going on at all, just a stupid orange-and-white tape blocking the stupid pavement. But no one asks what it’s doing there; they step off the pavement, walk along the road at the risk of being knocked down, and get back on farther up. By the way, I read somewhere that you’d had an accident. Is that true?” “Yes, I did, and all because I stepped off the pavement.” “Don’t worry, when people step off the pavement here, they’re always extra careful. It was one of the reasons we put the tape up, to make people more aware of what was going on around them.” “No, it wasn’t,” said the girl I was attracted to. “It’s just a joke, so that we can laugh at the people who obey without even thinking about what they’re obeying. There’s no reason, it’s not important, and no one will get knocked down.” More people joined the group. Now there were eleven of us and two Alsatian dogs. We were no longer begging, because no one dared go near this band of savages who seemed to enjoy the fear they aroused. The drink had run out again and they all looked at me and asked me to buy another bottle, as if I had a duty to keep them drunk. I realized that this was my passport to the pilgrimage, so I set off in search of a shop. The girl I was interested in—and who was young enough to be my daughter—seemed to notice me looking at her and started talking to me. I knew it was simply a way of provoking me, but I joined in. She didn’t tell me anything about her personal life, she just asked me how many cats and how many lampposts there were on the back of a ten-dollar bill. “Cats and lampposts?” “You don’t know, do you? You don’t give any real value to money at all. Well, for your information, there are four cats and eleven lampposts.” Four cats and eleven lampposts. I promised myself that I would check this out the next time I saw a ten-dollar bill. “Do any of you take drugs?” “Some, but mainly it’s just alcohol. Not much at all, in fact, it’s not our style. Drugs are more for people of your generation, aren’t they? My mother, for example, drugs herself on cooking for the family, compulsively tidying the house, and suffering over me. When something goes wrong with my dad’s business, she suffers. Can you believe that? She suffers over me, my father, my brothers and sisters, everything. I was wasting so much energy pretending to be happy all the time, I thought it was best just to leave home.” Another personal history. “Like your wife,” said a young man with fair hair and an eyebrow ring. “She left home too, didn’t she? Was that because she had to pretend to be happy all the time?” So she had been here too. Had she given some of these young people a piece of that bloodstained shirt? “She suffered too,” laughed Lucrecia. “But as far as we know, she’s not suffering anymore. That’s what I call courage!” “What was my wife doing here?” “She came with the Mongolian guy, the one with all the strange ideas about love that we’re only just beginning to understand. And she used to ask questions and tell us her story. One day, she stopped doing both. She said she was tired of complaining. We suggested that she give up everything and come with us, because we were planning a trip to North Africa. She thanked us, but said she had other plans and would be heading off in the opposite direction.” “Didn’t you read his latest book?” asked Anastásia. “No, I didn’t fancy it. People told me it was too romantic. Now when are we going to get some more booze?” People made way for us as if we were samurai riding into a village, bandits arriving in a frontier town, barbarians entering Rome. The tribe didn’t make any aggressive gestures, the aggression was all in the clothes, the body piercing, the loud conversations, the sheer oddness. We finally found a minimart: to my great discomfort and alarm, they all went in and started rummaging around on the shelves. I didn’t know any of them, apart from Mikhail, and even then I didn’t know if what he had told me about himself was true. What if they stole something? What if one of them was armed? As the oldest member of the group, was I responsible for their actions? The man at the cash register kept glancing up at the security mirror suspended from the ceiling in the tiny shop. The group, knowing that he was worried, spread out, gesturing to each other, and the tension grew. To cut things short, I picked up three bottles of vodka and walked quickly over to the cash register. A woman buying cigarettes said that, in her day, Paris had been full of bohemians and artists, not threatening bands of homeless people. She suggested that the cashier call the police. “I’ve got a feeling something bad is going to happen any minute now,” she muttered. The cashier was terrified by this invasion of his little world, the fruit of years of work and many loans, where perhaps his son worked in the morning, his wife in the afternoon, and he at night. He nodded to the woman, and I realized that he had already called the police. I hate getting involved in things that are none of my business, but I also hate being a coward. Every time it happens, I lose all self-respect for a week. “Don’t worry…” I began. It was too late. Two policemen came in and the owner beckoned them over, but the young people disguised as extraterrestrials paid no attention—it was all part of standing up to representatives of the established order. It must have happened to them many times before. They knew they hadn’t committed any crime (apart from crimes against fashion, but that could all change with next season’s haute couture). They must have been afraid, but they didn’t show it and continued talking loudly. “I saw a comedian the other day. He said that stupid people should have the word ‘stupid’ written on their identity card,” said Anastásia to no one in particular. “That way, we’d know who we were talking to.” “Yeah, stupid people are a real danger to society,” said the girl with the angelic face and vampire clothing, who, shortly before, had been talking to me about the number of lampposts and cats to be found on the back of a ten-dollar bill. “They should be tested once a year and have a license for walking the streets, like drivers do to drive.” The policemen, who couldn’t have been very much older than the tribe, said nothing. “Do you know what I’d like to do,” it was Mikhail’s voice, but I couldn’t see him because he was concealed behind a shelf. “I’d like to change the labels on everything in this shop. People would be completely lost. They wouldn’t know whether things should be eaten hot or cold, boiled or fried. If they don’t read the instructions, they don’t know how to prepare a meal. They’ve lost all their culinary instincts.” Everyone who had spoken up until then had done so in perfect Parisian French. Only Mikhail had a foreign accent. “May I see your passport,” said one of the policemen. “He’s with me.” The words emerged naturally, even though I knew what it could mean—another scandal. The policeman looked at me. “I wasn’t talking to you, but since you’re obviously with this lot, I hope you’ve got some kind of document to prove who you are, and a good reason for being surrounded by people half your age and buying vodka.” I could refuse to show my papers. I wasn’t legally obliged to have them with me. But I was thinking about Mikhail. One of the policemen was standing next to him now. Did he really have permission to stay in France? What did I know about him apart from the stories he had told me about his visions and his epilepsy? What if the tension of the moment provoked an attack? I stuck my hand in my pocket and took out my driver’s license. “So you’re…” “I am.” “I thought it was you. I’ve read one of your books. But that doesn’t put you above the law.” The fact that he had read one of my books threw me completely. Here was this shaven- headed young man in a uniform, albeit a very different one from that worn by the tribes in order to tell each other apart. Perhaps he too had once dreamed of having the freedom to be different, of subtly challenging authority, although never disrespectfully enough to end up in jail. He probably had a father who had never offered him any alternative, a family who needed his financial support, or perhaps he was just afraid of going beyond his own familiar world. I said gently: “No, I’m not above the law. In fact, no one here has broken the law. Unless the gentleman at the cash register or the lady buying cigarettes would like to make some specific complaint.” When I turned around, the woman who had mentioned the artists and bohemians of her day, that prophet of imminent doom, the embodiment of truth and good manners, had disappeared. She would doubtless tell her neighbors the next day that, thanks to her, an attempted robbery had been averted. “I’ve no complaints,” said the man behind the register. “I got worried because they were talking so loudly, but it looks like they weren’t actually doing any harm.” “Is the vodka for you, sir?” I nodded. They knew that everyone there was drunk, but they didn’t want to make a big deal out of a harmless situation. “A world without stupid people would be complete chaos!” said the boy wearing leather and metal studs. “Instead of all the unemployed people we have today, there would be too many jobs and no one to do the work!” “Shut up!” My voice sounded authoritative, decisive. “Just stop talking, all of you!” To my surprise, silence fell. My heart was beating furiously, but I continued talking to the policemen as if I were the calmest person in the world. “If they were really dangerous, they wouldn’t be talking like that.” The policeman turned to the cashier: “If you need us, we’ll be around.” And before going out, he said to his colleague, so that his voice echoed around the whole shop, “I love stupid people. If it wasn’t for them, we might be having to tackle some real criminals.” “You’re right,” said the other policeman. “Stupid people are a nice safe distraction.” They gave their usual salute and left. The only thing that occurred to me to do when we left the shop was to smash the bottles of vodka. I saved one of them, though, and it was passed rapidly from mouth to mouth. By the way they were drinking, I could see they were frightened, as frightened as I was. The only difference was that they had gone on the offensive when threatened. “I don’t feel good,” said Mikhail to one of them. “Let’s go.” I didn’t know what he meant by “Let’s go”: each to his own home or town or bridge? No one asked me if I wanted to go with them, so I simply followed after. Mikhail’s remark “I don’t feel good” unsettled me; that meant we wouldn’t have another chance that night to talk about the trip to Central Asia. Should I just leave? Or should I stick it out and see what “Let’s go” meant? I discovered that I was enjoying myself and that I’d like to try seducing the girl in the vampire outfit. Onward, then. I could always leave at the first sign of danger. As we headed off—where, I didn’t know—I was thinking about this whole experience. A tribe. A symbolic return to a time when men traveled in protective groups and required very little to survive. A tribe in the midst of another hostile tribe called society, crossing society’s lands and using aggression as a defense against rejection. A group of people who had joined together to form an ideal society, about which I knew nothing beyond the body piercing and the clothes that they wore. What were their values? What did they think about life? How did they earn their money? Did they have dreams or was it enough just to wander the world? All this was much more interesting than the supper I had to go to the following evening, where I knew exactly what would happen. I was convinced that it must be the effect of the vodka, but I was feeling free, my personal history was growing ever more remote, there was only the present moment, instinct; the Zahir had disappeared…. The Zahir? Yes, it had disappeared, but now I realized that the Zahir was more than a man obsessed with an object, with a vein in the marble of one of the twelve hundred columns in the mosque in Córdoba, as Borges puts it, or, as in my own painful case for the last two years, with a woman in Central Asia. The Zahir was a fixation on everything that had been passed from generation to generation; it left no question unanswered; it took up all the space; it never allowed us even to consider the possibility that things could change. The all-powerful Zahir seemed to be born with every human being and to gain full strength in childhood, imposing rules that would thereafter always be respected: People who are different are dangerous; they belong to another tribe; they want our lands and our women. We must marry, have children, reproduce the species. Love is only a small thing, enough for one person, and any suggestion that the heart might be larger than this is considered perverse. When we marry, we are authorized to take possession of the other person, body and soul. We must do jobs we detest because we are part of an organized society, and if everyone did what they wanted to do, the world would come to a standstill. We must buy jewelry; it identifies us with our tribe, just as body piercing identifies those of a different tribe. We must be amusing at all times and sneer at those who express their real feelings; it’s dangerous for a tribe to allow its members to show their feelings. We must at all costs avoid saying no because people prefer those who always say yes, and this allows us to survive in hostile territory. What other people think is more important than what we feel. Never make a fuss—it might attract the attention of an enemy tribe. If you behave differently, you will be expelled from the tribe because you could infect others and destroy something that was extremely difficult to organize in the first place. We must always consider the look of our new cave, and if we don’t have a clear idea of our own, then we must call in a decorator who will do his best to show others what good taste we have. We must eat three meals a day, even if we’re not hungry, and when we fail to fit the current ideal of beauty we must fast, even if we’re starving. We must dress according to the dictates of fashion, make love whether we feel like it or not, kill in the name of our country, wish time away so that retirement comes more quickly, elect politicians, complain about the cost of living, change our hairstyle, criticize anyone who is different, go to a religious service on Sunday, Saturday, or Friday, depending on our religion, and there beg forgiveness for our sins and puff ourselves up with pride because we know the truth and despise the other tribe, who worships a false god. Our children must follow in our footsteps; after all, we are older and know about the world. We must have a university degree even if we never get a job in the area of knowledge we were forced to study. We must study things that we will never use, but which someone told us were important to know: algebra, trigonometry, the code of Hammurabi. We must never make our parents sad, even if this means giving up everything that makes us happy. We must play music quietly, talk quietly, weep in private, because I am the all-powerful Zahir, who lays down the rules and determines the distance between railway tracks, the meaning of success, the best way to love, the importance of rewards. We stop outside a relatively chic building in an expensive area. One of the group taps in the code at the front door and we all go up to the third floor. I thought we would find one of those understanding families who put up with their son’s friends in order to keep him close to home and keep an eye on him. But when Lucrecia opened the door, everything was in darkness. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light from the street filtering in through the windows, I saw a large empty living room. The only decoration was a fireplace that probably hadn’t been used for years. A fair-haired boy, who was nearly six feet tall and wore a long rain cape and a mohawk, went into the kitchen and returned with some lighted candles. We all sat around in a circle on the floor and, for the first time that night, I felt afraid: it was like being in a horror movie in which a satanic ritual is about to begin, and where the victim will be the stranger who was unwise enough to tag along. Mikhail was looking pale and his eyes kept darting about, unable to fix on any one place, and that only increased my feeling of unease. He was on the point of having an epileptic fit. Would the people there know what to do in that situation? Wouldn’t it be better just to leave now and not get involved in a potential tragedy? That would perhaps be the most prudent thing to do, in keeping with a life in which I was a famous author who writes about spirituality and should therefore be setting an example. Yes, if I was being sensible, I would say to Lucrecia that, in case of an attack, she should place something in her boyfriend’s mouth to stop his tongue rolling back and prevent him choking to death. She must know this already, but in the world of the followers of the social Zahir, we leave nothing to chance, we need to be at peace with our conscience. That is how I would have acted before my accident, but now my personal history had become unimportant. It had stopped being history and was once more becoming a legend, a search, an adventure, a journey into and away from myself. I was once more in a time in which the things around me were changing and that is how I wanted it to be for the rest of my days. (I remembered one of my ideas for an epitaph: “He died while he was still alive.”) I was carrying with me the experiences of my past, which allowed me to react with speed and precision, but I wasn’t bothered about the lessons I had learned. Imagine a warrior in the middle of a fight, pausing to decide which move to make next? He would be dead in an instant. And the warrior in me, using intuition and technique, decided that I needed to stay, to continue the night’s experiences, even if it was late and I was tired and drunk and afraid that a worried or angry Marie might be waiting up for me. I sat down next to Mikhail so that I could act quickly if he had a fit. I noticed that he seemed to be in control of his epileptic attack. He gradually grew calmer, and his eyes took on the same intensity as when he was the young man in white standing on the stage at the Armenian restaurant. “We will start with the usual prayer,” he said. And the young people, who, up until then, had been aggressive, drunken misfits, closed their eyes and held hands in a large circle. Even the two Alsatian dogs sitting in one corner of the room seemed calmer. “Dear Lady, when I look at the cars, the shop windows, the people oblivious to everyone else, when I look at all the buildings and the monuments, I see in them your absence. Make us capable of bringing you back.” The group continued as one: “Dear Lady, we recognize your presence in the difficulties we are experiencing. Help us not to give up. Help us to think of you with tranquility and determination, even when it is hard to accept that we love you.” I noticed that everyone there was wearing the same symbol somewhere on their clothing. Sometimes it was in the form of a brooch, or a metal badge, or a piece of embroidery, or was even drawn on the fabric with a pen. “I would like to dedicate tonight to the man sitting on my right. He sat down beside me because he wanted to protect me.” How did he know that? “He’s a good man. He knows that love transforms and he allows himself to be transformed by love. He still carries much of his personal history in his soul, but he is continually trying to free himself from it, which is why he stayed with us tonight. He is the husband of the woman we all know, the woman who left me a relic as proof of her friendship and as a talisman.” Mikhail took out the piece of bloodstained cloth and put it down in front of him. “This is part of the unknown soldier’s shirt. Before he died, he said to the woman: ‘Cut up my clothes and distribute the pieces among those who believe in death and who, for that reason, are capable of living as if today were their last day on earth. Tell those people that I have just seen the face of God; tell them not to be afraid, but not to grow complacent either. Seek the one truth, which is love. Live in accordance with its laws.’” They all gazed reverently at the piece of cloth. “We were born into a time of revolt. We pour all our enthusiasm into it, we risk our lives and our youth, and suddenly, we feel afraid, and that initial joy gives way to the real challenges: weariness, monotony, doubts about our own abilities. We notice that some of our friends have already given up. We are obliged to confront loneliness, to cope with sharp bends in the road, to suffer a few falls with no one near to help us, and we end up asking ourselves if it’s worth all that effort.” Mikhail paused. “It is. And we will carry on, knowing that our soul, even though it is eternal, is at this moment caught in the web of time, with all its opportunities and limitations. We will, as far as possible, free ourselves from this web. When this proves impossible and we return to the story we were told, we will nevertheless remember our battles and be ready to resume the struggle as soon as the conditions are right. Amen.” “Amen,” echoed the others. “I need to talk to the Lady,” said the fair young man with the Mohawk. “Not tonight. I’m tired.” There was a general murmur of disappointment. Unlike those people at the Armenian restaurant, they knew Mikhail’s story and knew about the presence he felt by his side. He got up and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I went with him. I asked how they had come by that apartment, and he explained that in French law anyone can legally move into a building that is not being used by its owner. It was, in short, a squat. I began to be troubled by the thought that Marie would be waiting up for me. Mikhail took my arm. “You said today that you were going to the steppes. I’ll say this one more time: Please, take me with you. I need to go back to my country, even if only for a short time, but I haven’t any money. I miss my people, my mother, my friends. I could say, ‘The voice tells me that you will need me,’ but that wouldn’t be true: you could find Esther easily enough and without any help at all. But I need an infusion of energy from my homeland.” “I can give you the money for a return ticket.” “I know you can, but I’d like to be there with you, to go with you to the village where she’s living, to feel the wind on my face, to help you along the road that will lead you back to the woman you love. She was—and still is—very important to me. I learned so much from the changes she went through, from her determination, and I want to go on learning. Do you remember me talking once about ‘interrupted stories’? I would like to be by your side right up until the moment we reach her house. That way, I will have lived through to the end this period of your—and my—life. When we reach her house, I will leave you alone.” I didn’t know what to say. I tried to talk about something else and asked about the people in the living room. “They’re people who are afraid of ending up like your generation, a generation that dreamed it could revolutionize the world, but ended up giving in to ‘reality.’ We pretend to be strong because we’re weak. There are still only a few of us, very few, but I think that’s only a passing phase; people can’t go on deceiving themselves forever. Now what’s your answer to my question?” “Mikhail, you know how much I want to free myself from my personal history. If you had asked me a while ago, I would have found it much more comfortable, more convenient even, to travel with you, since you know the country, the customs, and the possible dangers. Now, though, I feel that I should roll up Ariadne’s thread into a ball and escape from the labyrinth I got myself into, and that I should do this alone. My life has changed; I feel as if I were ten or even twenty years younger, and that in itself is enough for me to want to set off in search of adventure.” “When will you leave?” “As soon as I get my visa. In two or three days’ time.” “May the Lady go with you. The voice is saying that it is the right moment. If you change your mind, let me know.” I walked past the group of people lying on the floor, ready to go to sleep. On the way home, it occurred to me that life was a much more joyful thing than I had thought it would be at my age: it’s always possible to go back to being young and crazy again. I was so focused on the present moment that I was surprised when I saw that people didn’t recoil from me as I passed, didn’t fearfully lower their eyes. No one even noticed me, but I liked the idea. This city was once again the city about which Henry IV had said, when he was accused of betraying his Protestant religion by marrying a Catholic, “Paris is well worth a mass.” It was worth much more than that. I could see again the religious massacres, the bloodlettings, the kings, the queens, the museums, the castles, the tortured artists, the drunken writers, the philosophers who took their own lives, the soldiers who plotted to conquer the world, the traitors who, with a gesture, brought down a whole dynasty, the stories that had once been forgotten and were now remembered and retold. For the first time in ages, I arrived home and did not immediately go over to the computer to find out if anyone had e-mailed me, if there was some pressing matter requiring urgent action: nothing was that urgent. I didn’t go into the bedroom to see if Marie was asleep either, because I knew she would only be pretending to sleep. I didn’t turn on the TV to watch the late-night news, because the news was exactly the same news I used to listen to as a child: one country was threatening another country; someone had betrayed someone else; the economy was going badly; some grand passion had come to an end; Israel and Palestine had failed, after fifty long years, to reach an agreement; another bomb had exploded; a hurricane had left thousands of people homeless. I remembered that the major networks that morning, having no terrorist attacks to report, had all chosen as their main item a rebellion in Haiti. What did I care about Haiti? What difference would that make to my life or to that of my wife, to the price of bread in Paris, to Mikhail’s tribe? How could I have spent five minutes of my precious life listening to someone talking about the rebels and the president, watching the usual scenes of street protests being repeated over and over, and being reported as if it were a great event in the history of humanity—a rebellion in Haiti! And I had swallowed it whole! I had watched until the end! Stupid people really should be issued their own special identity cards because they are the ones who feed the collective stupidity. I opened the window and let in the icy night air. I took off my clothes and told myself that I could withstand the cold. I stood there, not thinking anything, just aware of my feet on the floor, my eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower, my ears hearing barking dogs, police sirens, and conversations I couldn’t quite understand. I was not I, I was nothing—and that seemed to me quite marvelous. You seem strange.” “What do you mean ‘strange’?” “You seem sad.” “I’m not sad. I’m happy.” “You see? Even your tone of voice is false: you’re sad about me, but you don’t dare say anything.” “Why should I be sad?” “Because I came home late last night and I was drunk. You haven’t even asked me where I went.” “I’m not interested.” “Why aren’t you interested? I told you I was going out with Mikhail, didn’t I?” “Didn’t you go out with him, then?” “Yes, I did.” “So what’s there to ask?” “Don’t you think that when your boyfriend, whom you claim you love, comes home late, you should at least try to find out what happened?” “All right, then, what happened?” “Nothing. I went out with Mikhail and some of his friends.” “Fine.” “Do you believe me?” “Of course I do.” “I don’t think you love me anymore. You’re not jealous. You don’t care. Do I normally get back home at two in the morning?” “Didn’t you say you were a free man?” “And I am.” “In that case, it’s normal that you should get back home at two in the morning and do whatever you want to do. If I were your mother, I’d be worried, but you’re a grown-up, aren’t you? You men should stop behaving as if you wanted the women in your life to treat you like children.” “I don’t mean that kind of worried. I’m talking about jealousy.” “Would you prefer it if I made a scene right now, over breakfast?” “No, don’t do that, the neighbors will hear.” “I don’t care about the neighbors. I won’t make a scene because I don’t feel like it. It’s been hard for me, but I’ve finally accepted what you told me in Zagreb, and I’m trying to get used to the idea. Meanwhile, if it makes you happy, I can always pretend to be jealous, angry, crazy, or whatever.” “As I said, you seem strange. I’m beginning to think I’m not important in your life anymore.” “And I’m beginning to think you’ve forgotten there’s a journalist waiting for you in the sitting room, who is quite possibly listening to our conversation.” Ah, the journalist. I go on automatic pilot, because I know what questions he will ask. I know how the interview will begin (“Let’s talk about your new novel. What’s the main message?”), and I know how I will respond (“If I wanted to put across a message, I’d write a single sentence, not a book.”). I know he’ll ask me what I feel about the critics, who are usually very hard on my work. I know that he will end by asking: “And have you already started writing a new book? What projects are you working on now?” To which I will respond: “That’s a secret.” The interview begins as expected: “Let’s talk about your new book. What’s the main message?” “If I wanted to put across a message, I’d write a single sentence, not a book.” “And why do you write?” “Because that’s my way of sharing my feelings with others.” This phrase is also part of my automatic pilot script, but I stop and correct myself: “Although that particular story could be told in a different way.” “In a different way? Do you mean you’re not happy with A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew?” “No, on the contrary, I’m very pleased with the book, but I’m not so pleased with the answer I’ve just given you. Why do I write? The real answer is this: I write because I want to be loved.” The journalist eyed me suspiciously: What kind of confession was this? “I write because when I was an adolescent, I was useless at football, I didn’t have a car or much of an allowance, and I was pretty much of a weed.” I was making a huge effort to keep talking. The conversation with Marie had reminded me of a past that no longer made any sense; I needed to talk about my real personal history, in order to become free of it. I went on: “I didn’t wear trendy clothes either. That’s all the girls in my class were interested in, and so they just ignored me. At night, when my friends were out with their girlfriends, I spent my free time creating a world in which I could be happy: my companions were writers and their books. One day, I wrote a poem for one of the girls in the street where I lived. A friend found the poem in my room and stole it, and when we were all together, he showed it to the entire class. Everyone laughed. They thought it was ridiculous—I was in love! “The only one who didn’t laugh was the girl I wrote the poem for. The following evening, when we went to the theater, she managed to fix things so that she sat next to me, and she held my hand. We left the theater hand in hand. There was ugly, puny, untrendy me strolling along with the girl all the boys in the class fancied.” I paused. It was as if I were going back into the past, to the moment when her hand touched mine and changed my life. “And all because of a poem,” I went on. “A poem showed me that by writing and revealing my invisible world, I could compete on equal terms with the visible world of my classmates: physical strength, fashionable clothes, cars, being good at sports.” The journalist was slightly surprised, and I was even more surprised. He managed to compose himself, though, and asked: “Why do you think the critics are so hard on your work?” My automatic pilot would normally reply: “You just have to read the biography of any writer from the past who is now considered a classic—not that I’m comparing myself with them, you understand—to see how implacable their critics were then. The reason is simple: Critics are extremely insecure, they don’t really know what’s going on, they’re democrats when it comes to politics, but fascists when it comes to culture. They believe that people are perfectly capable of choosing who governs them, but have no idea when it comes to choosing films, books, music.” I had abandoned my automatic pilot again, knowing full well that the journalist was unlikely to publish my response. “Have you ever heard of the law of Jante?” “No, I haven’t,” he said. “Well, it’s been in existence since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in 1933 by a Danish writer. In the small town of Jante, the powers that be came up with ten commandments telling people how they should behave, and it seems to exist not only in Jante, but everywhere else too. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I’d say: ‘Mediocrity and anonymity are the safest choice. If you opt for them, you’ll never face any major problems in life. But if you try to be different…’” “I’d like to know what these Jante commandments are,” said the journalist, who seemed genuinely interested. “I don’t have them here, but I can summarize if you like.” I went over to my computer and printed out a condensed and edited version. “You are nobody, never even dare to think that you know more than we do. You are of no importance, you can do nothing right, your work is of no significance, but as long as you never challenge us, you will live a happy life. Always take what we say seriously and never laugh at our opinions.” The journalist folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. “You’re right. If you’re a nobody, if your work has no impact, then it deserves to be praised. If, however, you climb out of that state of mediocrity and are a success, then you’re defying the law and deserve to be punished.” I was so pleased that he had reached this conclusion on his own. “And it isn’t only the critics who say that,” I added. “More people, far more people than you might think, say exactly the same thing.” Later that afternoon, I rang Mikhail’s cell phone number: “Let’s travel to Kazakhstan together.” He didn’t seem in the least surprised; he merely thanked me and asked what had made me change my mind. “For two years, my life has consisted of nothing but the Zahir. Since I met you, I’ve been following a long-forgotten path, an abandoned railway track with grass growing between the rails, but which can still be used by trains. I haven’t yet reached the final station, so I have no way of stopping along the way.” He asked me if I had managed to get a visa. I explained that the Favor Bank had once again come to my aid: a Russian friend had phoned his girlfriend, who was the director of a major newspaper company in Kazakhstan. She had phoned the ambassador in Paris, and the visa would be ready that afternoon. “When do we leave?” “Tomorrow. In order to buy the tickets, I just need to know your real name; the travel agent is on the other line now.” “Before you hang up, I’d just like to say one thing: I really liked what you said about the distance between the tracks and what you said just now about the abandoned railway line, but I don’t think that’s why you’re asking me to come with you. I think it’s because of something you wrote once, and which I know by heart. Your wife was always quoting these lines, and what they say is far more romantic than that business about the Favor Bank: A warrior of light knows that he has much to be grateful for. He was helped in his struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing him to give of his best. That is why, at sunset, he kneels and gives thanks for the Protective Cloak surrounding him. His companions say: “He’s so lucky!” But he knows that “luck” is knowing to look around him and to see where his friends are, because it was through their words that the angels were able to make themselves heard. “I don’t always remember what I wrote, but thank you for that. Now I just need your name to give to the travel agent.” It takes twenty minutes for the taxi company to answer the phone. An irritated voice tells me I’ll have to wait another half an hour. Marie seems happy in her exuberantly sexy black dress, and I think of the Armenian restaurant and the man who admitted to feeling aroused by the thought that his wife was desired by other men. I know that all the women at the gala supper will be wearing outfits designed to make their breasts and curves the center of attention, and that their husbands or boyfriends, knowing that their wives or girlfriends are desired by other men, will think: “All right, have a good look, but keep your distance, because she’s with me, she’s mine. I’m better than you are, because I have something you’d all like to have.” I’m not going to be doing any business, I’m not going to be signing contracts or giving interviews; I am merely attending a ceremony, to repay a deposit made into my account at the Favor Bank. I will sit next to someone boring at supper, someone who will ask me where I find the inspiration for my books. Next to me, on the other side, a pair of breasts will perhaps be on show, possibly belonging to the wife of a friend, and I will constantly have to stop myself glancing down because, if I do, even for a second, she will tell her husband that I was coming on to her. While we wait for the taxi, I draw up a list of possible topics of conversation: 1. (a) Comments about people’s appearance: “You’re looking very elegant.” “What a beautiful dress.” “Your skin’s looking fabulous.” When they go back home, they’ll say how badly dressed everyone was and how ill they looked. 2. (b) Recent holidays: “You must visit Aruba, it’s fantastic.” “There’s nothing like a summer night in Cancún, sipping a martini by the seashore.” In fact, no one enjoys themselves very much on these holidays, they just experience a sense of freedom for a few days and feel obliged to enjoy themselves because they spent all that money. 3. (c) More holidays, this time to places which they feel free to criticize: “I was in Rio de Janeiro recently—such a violent city.” “The poverty in the streets of Calcutta is really shocking.” They only went to these places in order to feel powerful while they were there and privileged when they came back to the mean reality of their little lives, where at least there is no poverty or violence. 4. (d) New therapies: “Just one week of drinking wheatgrass juice really improves the texture of your hair.” “I spent two days at a spa in Biarritz; the water there opens the pores and eliminates toxins.” The following week, they will discover that wheatgrass has absolutely no special properties and that any old hot water will open the pores and eliminate toxins. 5. (e) Other people: “I haven’t seen so-and-so in ages—what’s he up to?” “I understand that what’s-her-name is in financial difficulties and has had to sell her apartment.” They can talk about the people who weren’t invited to the party in question, they can criticize all they like, as long as they end by saying, with an innocent, pitying air: “Still, he/she’s a wonderful person.” 6. (f) A few little complaints about life, just to add savor to the evening: “I wish something new would happen in my life.” “I’m so worried about my children, they never listen to proper music or read proper literature.” They wait for comments from other people with the same problem and then feel less alone and leave the party happy. 7. (g) At intellectual gatherings, like the one this evening, we will discuss the Middle East conflict, the problem of Islamism, the latest exhibition, the latest philosophy guru, the fantastic book that no one has heard of, the fact that music isn’t what it used to be; we will offer our intelligent, sensible opinions, which run completely counter to our real feelings—because we all know how much we hate having to go to those exhibitions, read those unbearable books, or see those dreary films, just so that we will have something to talk about on nights like tonight. The taxi arrives, and while we are being driven to the venue I add another very personal item to my list: I complain to Marie about how much I loathe these suppers. She reminds me—and it’s true—that I always enjoy myself in the end and have a really good time. We enter one of Paris’s most elegant restaurants and head for a room reserved for the event—a presentation of a literary prize for which I was one of the judges. Everyone is standing around talking; some people say hello and others merely look at me and make some comment to each other; the organizer of the prize comes over to me and introduces me to the people who are there, always with the same irritating words: “You know who this gentleman is, of course.” Some people give a smile of recognition, others merely smile and don’t recognize me at all, but pretend to know who I am, because to admit otherwise would be to accept that the world they’re living in doesn’t exist, and that they are failing to keep up with the things that matter. I remember the tribe of the previous night and think: stupid people should all be marooned on a ship on the high seas and forced to attend parties night after night, being endlessly introduced to people for several months, until they finally manage to remember who is who. I draw up a catalog of the kind of people who attend events like this. Ten percent are Members, the decision makers, who came out tonight because of some debt they owe to the Favor Bank, but who always have an eye open for anything that might be of benefit to their work—how to make money, where to invest. They can soon tell whether or not an event is going to prove profitable or not, and they are always the first to leave the party; they never waste their time. Two percent are the Talents, who really do have a promising future; they have already managed to ford a few rivers, have just become aware of the existence of the Favor Bank and are all potential customers; they have important services to offer, but are not as yet in a position to make decisions. They are nice to everyone because they don’t know who exactly they are talking to, and they are more open-minded than the Members, because, for them, any road might lead somewhere. Three percent are what I call the Tupamaros—in homage to the former Uruguayan guerrilla group. They have managed to infiltrate this party and are mad for any kind of contact; they’re not sure whether to stay or to go on to another party that is taking place at the same time; they are anxious; they want to show how talented they are, but they weren’t invited, they haven’t scaled the first mountains, and as soon as the other guests figure this out, they immediately withdraw any attention they have been paying them. The last eighty-five percent are the Trays. I call them this because, just as no party can exist without that particular utensil, so no event can exist without these guests. The Trays don’t really know what is going on, but they know it’s important to be there; they are on the guest list drawn up by the promoters because the success of something like this also depends on the number of people who come. They are all ex-something-or-other- important—ex-bankers, ex-directors, the ex-husband of some famous woman, the ex-wife of some man now in a position of power. They are counts in a country where the monarchy no longer exists, princesses and marchionesses who live by renting out their castles. They go from one party to the next, from one supper to the next—don’t they ever get sick of it, I wonder? When I commented on this recently to Marie, she said that just as some people are addicted to work, so others are addicted to fun. Both groups are equally unhappy, convinced that they are missing something, but unable to give up their particular vice. A pretty young blonde comes over while I’m talking to one of the organizers of a conference on cinema and literature and tells me how much she enjoyed A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew. She’s from one of the Baltic countries, she says, and works in film. She is immediately identified by the group as a Tupamaro, because while appearing to be interested in one thing (me), she is, in fact, interested in something else (the organizers of the conference). Despite having made this almost unforgivable gaffe, there is still a chance that she might be an inexperienced Talent. The organizer of the conference asks what she means by “working in film.” The young woman explains that she writes film reviews for a newspaper and has published a book (About cinema? No, about her life— her short, dull life, I imagine). She then commits the cardinal sin of jumping the gun and asking if she could be invited to this year’s event. The organizer explains that the woman who publishes my books in that same Baltic country, an influential and hardworking woman (and very pretty too, I think to myself), has already been invited. They continue talking to me; the Tupamaro lingers for a few more minutes, not knowing what to say, then moves off. Given that it’s a literary prize, most of the guests tonight—Tupamaros, Talents, and Trays—belong to the world of the arts. The Members, on the other hand, are either sponsors or people connected with foundations that support museums, classical music concerts, and promising young artists. After various conversations about which of the candidates for the prize that night had applied most pressure in order to win, the master of ceremonies mounts the stage, asks everyone to take their places at the tables (we all sit down), makes a few jokes (it’s part of the ritual, and we all laugh), and says that the winners will be announced between the entrée and the first course. I am at the head table; this allows me to keep the Trays at a safe distance, and also means that I don’t have to bother with any enthusiastic and self-interested Talents. I am seated between the female director of a car-manufacturing firm, which is sponsoring the party, and an heiress who has decided to invest in art. To my surprise, neither of them is wearing a dress with a provocative décolletage. The other guests at our table are the director of a perfumery; an Arab prince (who was doubtless passing through Paris and was pounced on by one of the promoters to add luster to the event); an Israeli banker who collects fourteenth-century manuscripts; the main organizer of tonight’s event; the French consul to Monaco; and a blonde woman whose presence here I can’t quite fathom, although I suspect she might be the organizer’s next mistress. I have to keep putting on my glasses and surreptitiously reading the names of the people on either side of me (I ought to be marooned on that imaginary ship and invited to this same party dozens of times until I have memorized the names of all the guests). Marie, as protocol demands, has been placed at another table; someone, at some point in history, decided that at formal suppers couples should always be seated separately, thus leaving it open to doubt whether the person beside us is married, single, or married but available. Or perhaps someone thought that if a couple were seated together, they would simply talk to each other; but, in that case, why go out—why take a taxi and go to the supper in the first place? As foreseen in my list of possible conversational topics, we begin with cultural small talk—isn’t that a marvelous exhibition, wasn’t that an intelligent review…. I would like to concentrate on the entrée—caviar with salmon and egg—but I am constantly interrupted by the usual questions about how my new book is doing, where I find my inspiration, whether I’m working on a new project. Everyone seems very cultured, everyone manages to mention—as if by chance, of course—some famous person who also happens to be a close friend. Everyone can speak cogently about the current state of politics or about the problems facing culture. “Why don’t we talk about something else?” The question slips out inadvertently. Everyone at the table goes quiet. After all, it is extremely rude to interrupt other people and worse still to draw attention to oneself. It seems, however, that last night’s tour of the streets of Paris in the guise of a beggar has caused some irreparable damage, which means that I can no longer stand such conversations. “We could talk about the acomodador: the moment in our lives when we decide to abandon our desires and make do, instead, with what we have.” No one seems very interested. I decide to change the subject. “We could talk about the importance of forgetting the story we’ve been told and trying to live an entirely different story. Try doing something different every day—like talking to the person at the next table to you in a restaurant, visiting a hospital, putting your foot in a puddle, listening to what another person has to say, allowing the energy of love to flow freely, instead of putting it in a jug and standing it in a corner.” “Are you talking about adultery?” asks the director of the perfumery. “No, I mean allowing yourself to be the instrument of love, not its master, being with someone because you really want to be, not because convention obliges you to be.” With great delicacy, and just a touch of irony, the French consul to Monaco assures me that all the people around our table are, of course, exercising that right and freedom. Everyone agrees, although no one believes that it’s true. “Sex!” cries the blonde woman whose role that evening no one has quite identified. “Why don’t we talk about sex? It’s much more interesting and much less complicated!” At least her remark is spontaneous. One of the women sitting next to me gives a wry laugh, but I applaud. “Sex is certainly more interesting, but I’m not sure it’s a different topic of conversation. Besides, it’s no longer forbidden to talk about sex.” “It’s also in extremely bad taste,” says one of my neighbors. “May we know what is forbidden?” asks the organizer, who is starting to feel uncomfortable. “Well, money, for example. All of us around this table have money, or pretend that we do. We assume we’ve been invited here because we’re rich, famous, and influential. But have any of us ever thought of using this kind of event to find out what everyone actually earns? Since we’re all so sure of ourselves, so important, why don’t we look at our world as it is and not as we imagine it to be?” “What are you getting at?” asks the director of the car-manufacturing firm. “It’s a long story. I could start by talking about Hans and Fritz sitting in a bar in Tokyo and go on to mention a Mongolian nomad who says we need to forget who we think we are in order to become who we really are.” “You’ve lost me.” “That’s my fault. I didn’t really explain. But let’s get down to the nitty-gritty: I’d like to know how much everyone here earns, what it means, in money terms, to be sitting at the head table.” There is a momentary silence—my gamble is not paying off. The other people around the table are looking at me with startled eyes: asking about someone’s financial situation is a bigger taboo than sex, more frowned upon than asking about betrayals, corruption, or parliamentary intrigues. However, the Arab prince—perhaps because he’s bored by all these receptions and banquets with their empty chatter, perhaps because that very day he has been told by his doctor that he is going to die, or perhaps for some other reason—decides to answer my question: “I earn about twenty thousand euros a month, depending on the amount approved by the parliament in my country. That bears no relation to what I spend, though, because I have an unlimited so-called entertainment allowance. In other words, I am here courtesy of the embassy’s car and chauffeur; the clothes I’m wearing belong to the government; and tomorrow I will be traveling to another European country in a private jet, with the cost of pilot, fuel, and airport taxes deducted from that allowance.” And he concludes: “Apparent reality is not an exact science.” If the prince can speak so frankly, and given that he is, hierarchically, the most important person at the table, the others cannot possibly embarrass him by remaining silent. They are going to have to participate in the game, the question, and the embarrassment. “I don’t know exactly how much I earn,” says the organizer, one of the Favor Bank’s classic representatives, known to some as a lobbyist. “Somewhere in the region of ten thousand euros a month, but I, too, have an entertainment allowance from the various organizations I head. I can deduct everything—suppers, lunches, hotels, air tickets, sometimes even clothes—although I don’t have a private jet.” The wine has run out; he signals to a waiter and our glasses are refilled. Now it was the turn of the director of the car-manufacturing firm, who, initially, had hated the idea of talking about money, but who now seems to be rather enjoying herself. “I reckon I earn about the same, and have the same unlimited entertainment allowance.” One by one, everyone confessed how much they earned. The banker was the richest of them all, with ten million euros a year, as well as shares in his bank that were constantly increasing in value. When it came to the turn of the young blonde woman who had not been introduced to anyone, she refused to answer: “That’s part of my secret garden. It’s nobody’s business but mine.” “Of course it isn’t, but we’re just playing a game,” said the organizer. The woman refused to join in, and by doing so, placed herself on a higher level than everyone else: after all, she was the only one in the group who had secrets. However, by placing herself on a higher level, she only succeeded in earning everyone else’s scorn. Afraid of feeling humiliated by her miserable salary, she had, by acting all mysterious, managed to humiliate everyone else, not realizing that most of the people there lived permanently poised on the edge of the abyss, utterly dependent on those entertainment allowances that could vanish overnight. The question inevitably came around to me. “It depends. In a year when I publish a new book, I could earn five million euros. If I don’t publish a book, then I earn about two million from royalties on existing titles.” “You only asked the question so that you could say how much you earned,” said the young woman with the “secret garden.” “No one’s impressed.” She had realized that she had made a wrong move earlier on and was now trying to correct the situation by going on the attack. “On the contrary,” said the prince. “I would have expected a leading author like yourself to be far wealthier.” A point to me. The blonde woman would not open her mouth again all night. The conversation about money broke a series of taboos, given that how much people earn was the biggest of them all. The waiter began to appear more frequently, the bottles of wine began to be emptied with incredible speed, the emcee-cum-organizer rather tipsily mounted the stage, announced the winner, presented the prize, and immediately rejoined the conversation, which had carried on even though politeness demands that we keep quiet when someone else is talking. We discussed what we did with our money (this consisted mostly of buying “free time,” traveling, or practicing a sport). I thought of changing tack and asking them what kind of funeral they would like—death was as big a taboo as money—but the atmosphere was so buoyant and everyone was so full of talk that I decided to say nothing. “You’re all talking about money, but you don’t know what money is,” said the banker. “Why do people think that a bit of colored paper, a plastic card, or a coin made out of fifth-rate metal has any value? Worse still, did you know that your money, your millions of dollars, are nothing but electronic impulses?” Of course we did. “Once, wealth was what these ladies are wearing,” he went on. “Ornaments made from rare materials that were easy to transport, count, and share out. Pearls, nuggets of gold, precious stones. We all carried our wealth in a visible place. Such things were, in turn, exchanged for cattle or grain, because no one walks down the street carrying cattle or sacks of grain. The funny thing is that we still behave like some primitive tribe—we wear our ornaments to show how rich we are, even though we often have more ornaments than money.” “It’s the tribal code,” I said. “In my day, young people wore their hair long, whereas nowadays they all go in for body piercing. It helps them identify like-minded people, even though it can’t buy anything.” “Can our electronic impulses buy one extra hour of life? No. Can they buy back those loved ones who have departed? No. Can they buy love?” “They can certainly buy love,” said the director of the car-manufacturing firm in an amused tone of voice. Her eyes, however, betrayed a terrible sadness. I thought of Esther and of what I had said to the journalist in the interview I had given that morning. We rich, powerful, intelligent people knew that, deep down, we had acquired all these ornaments and credit cards only in order to find love and affection and to be with someone who loved us. “Not always,” said the director of the perfumery, turning to look at me. “No, you’re right, not always. After all, my wife left me, and I’m a wealthy man. But almost always. By the way, does anyone at this table know how many cats and how many lampposts there are on the back of a ten-dollar bill?” No one knew and no one was interested. The comment about love had completely spoiled the jolly atmosphere, and we went back to talking about literary prizes, exhibitions, the latest film, and the play that was proving to be such an unexpected success. How was it on your table?” “Oh, the usual.” “Well, I managed to spark an interesting discussion about money, but, alas, it ended in tragedy.” “When do you leave?” “I have to leave here at half past seven in the morning. Since you’re flying to Berlin, we could share a taxi.” “Where are you going?” “You know where I’m going. You haven’t asked me, but you know.” “Yes, I know.” “Just as you know that we’re saying goodbye at this very moment.” “We could go back to the time when we first met: a man in emotional tatters over someone who had left him, and a woman madly in love with her neighbor. I could repeat what I said to you once: ‘I’m going to fight to the bitter end.’ Well, I fought and I lost, and now I’ll just have to lick my wounds and leave.” “I fought and lost as well. I’m not trying to sew up what was rent. Like you, I want to fight to the bitter end.” “I suffer every day, did you know that? I’ve been suffering for months now, trying to show you how much I love you, how things are only important when you’re by my side. But now, whether I suffer or not, I’ve decided that enough is enough. It’s over. I’m tired. After that night in Zagreb, I lowered my guard and said to myself: If the blow comes, it comes. It can lay me out on the canvas, it can knock me out cold, but one day I’ll recover.” “You’ll find someone else.” “Of course I will: I’m young, pretty, intelligent, desirable, but will I experience all the things I experienced with you?” “You’ll experience different emotions and, you know, although you may not believe it, I loved you while we were together.” “I’m sure you did, but that doesn’t make it any the less painful. We’ll leave in separate taxis tomorrow. I hate goodbyes, especially at airports or train stations.” THE RETURN TO ITHACA We’ll sleep here tonight and, tomorrow, we’ll continue on horseback. My car can’t cope with the sand of the steppes.” We were in a kind of bunker, which looked like a relic from the Second World War. A man, with his wife and his granddaughter, welcomed us and showed us a simple, but spotlessly clean room. Dos went on: “And don’t forget to choose a name.” “I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Mikhail. “Of course it is,” insisted Dos. “I was with his wife recently. I know how she thinks, I know what she has learned, I know what she expects.” Dos’s voice was simultaneously firm and gentle. Yes, I would choose a name, I would do exactly as he suggested; I would continue to discard my personal history and, instead, embark on my personal legend—even if only out of sheer tiredness. I was exhausted. The previous night I had slept for two hours at most: my body had still not adjusted to the enormous time difference. I had arrived in Almaty at about eleven o’clock at night local time, when in France it was only six o’clock in the evening. Mikhail had left me at the hotel and I had dozed for a bit, then woken up in the small hours. I had looked out at the lights below and thought how in Paris it would just be time to go out to supper. I was hungry and asked room service if they could send me up something to eat: “Of course we can, sir, but you really must try to sleep; if you don’t, your body will stay stuck on its European timetable.” For me, the worst possible torture is not being able to sleep. I ate a sandwich and decided to go for a walk. I asked the receptionist my usual question: “Is it dangerous to go walking at this hour?” He told me it wasn’t, and so I set off down the empty streets, narrow alleyways, broad avenues; it was a city like any other, with its neon signs, the occasional passing police car, a beggar here, a prostitute there. I had to keep repeating out loud: “I’m in Kazakhstan!” If I didn’t, I would end up thinking I was merely in some unfamiliar quarter of Paris. “I’m in Kazakhstan!” I said to the deserted city, and a voice replied: “Of course you are.” I jumped. A man was sitting close by, on a bench in a square at dead of night, with his backpack by his side. He got up and introduced himself as Jan, from Holland, adding: “And I know why you’re here.” Was he a friend of Mikhail’s? Or was I being followed by the secret police? “Why am I here, then?” “Like me, you’ve traveled from Istanbul, following the Silk Road.” I gave a sigh of relief, and decided to continue the conversation. “On foot? As I understand it, that means crossing the whole of Asia.” “It’s something I needed to do. I was dissatisfied with my life. I’ve got money, a wife, children, I own a hosiery factory in Rotterdam. For a time, I knew what I was fighting for—my family’s stability. Now I’m not so sure. Everything that once made me happy just bores me, leaves me cold. For the sake of my marriage, the love of my children, and my enthusiasm for my work, I decided to take two months off just for myself, and to take a long look at my life. And it’s working.” “I’ve been doing the same thing these last few months. Are there a lot of pilgrims like you?” “Lots of them. Loads. It can be dangerous, because the political situation in some of these countries is very tricky indeed, and they hate Westerners. But we get by. I think that, as a pilgrim, you’ll always be treated with respect, as long as you can prove you’re not a spy. But I gather from what you say that you have different reasons for being here. What brings you to Almaty?” “The same thing as you. I came to reach the end of a particular road. Couldn’t you sleep either?” “I’ve just woken up. The earlier I set out, the more chance I have of getting to the next town; if not, I’ll have to spend the night in the freezing cold steppes, with that constant wind blowing.” “Have a good journey, then.” “No, stay a while. I need to talk, to share my experiences. Most of the other pilgrims don’t speak English.” And he started telling me about his life, while I tried to remember what I knew about the Silk Road, the old commercial route that connected Europe with the countries of the East. The traditional route started in Beirut, passed through Antioch and went all the way to the shores of the Yangtse in China; but in Central Asia it became a kind of web, with roads heading off in all directions, which allowed for the establishment of trading posts, which, in time, became towns, which were later destroyed in battles between rival tribes, rebuilt by the inhabitants, destroyed, and rebuilt again. Although almost everything passed along that route—gold, strange animals, ivory, seeds, political ideas, refugees from civil wars, armed bandits, private armies to protect the caravans—silk was the rarest and most coveted item. It was thanks to one of these branch roads that Buddhism traveled from China to India. “I left Antioch with about two hundred dollars in my pocket,” said the Dutchman, having described mountains, landscapes, exotic tribes, and endless problems in various countries with police patrols. “I needed to find out if I was capable of becoming myself again. Do you know what I mean?” “Yes, I do.” “I was forced to beg, to ask for money. To my surprise, people are much more generous than I had imagined.” Beg? I studied his backpack and his clothes to see if I could spot the symbol of the tribe—Mikhail’s tribe—but I couldn’t find it. “Have you ever been to an Armenian restaurant in Paris?” “I’ve been to lots of Armenian restaurants, but never in Paris.” “Do you know someone called Mikhail?” “It’s a pretty common name in these parts. If I did know a Mikhail, I can’t remember, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.” “No, I don’t need your help. I’m just surprised by certain coincidences. It seems there are a lot of people, all over the world, who are becoming aware of the same thing and acting in a very similar way.” “The first thing you feel, when you set out on a journey like this, is that you’ll never arrive. Then you feel insecure, abandoned, and spend all your time thinking about giving up. But if you can last a week, then you’ll make it to the end.” “I’ve been wandering like a pilgrim through the streets of one city, and yesterday I arrived in a different one. May I bless you?” He gave me a strange look. “I’m not traveling for religious reasons. Are you a priest?” “No, I’m not a priest, but I feel that I should bless you. Some things aren’t logical, as you know.” The Dutchman called Jan, whom I would never see again, bowed his head and closed his eyes. I placed my hands on his shoulders and, in my native tongue—which he wouldn’t understand—I prayed that he would reach his destination safely and leave behind him on the Silk Road both his sadness and his sense that life was meaningless; I prayed, too, that he would return to his family with shining eyes and with his soul washed clean. 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 space. 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 assured 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 space—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 empty space, 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 glasses, 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 horsemen 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 space. 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 passed. 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 God 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 to their 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 space, but it can’t have escaped your notice that we’ve already seen all kinds of things: shepherds, rivers, tortoises, foxes, and horsemen. 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 horsemen 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 fashionable 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, gratitude, 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 now on, 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. ‘Nobody,’ 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. ‘Nobody! Nobody!’ 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 Nobody.” 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 space 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 glasses on to protect your eyes.” “Where’s Dos?” “He’s gone back to Almaty, but he was very moved by the ceremony yesterday evening. He didn’t really need to do that. It was a bit of a waste of time for you really and a great opportunity to catch pneumonia. I hope you realize that it was just his way of showing you how welcome you are. Here, take the oil.” “I overslept.” “It’s only a two-hour ride to the village. We’ll be there before the sun is at its highest point.” “I need a bath. I need to change my clothes.” “That’s impossible. You’re in the middle of the steppes. Put the oil in the pan, but first offer it up to the Lady. Apart from salt, it’s our most valuable commodity.” “What is Tengri?” “The word means ‘sky worship’; it’s a kind of religion without religion. Everyone has passed through here—Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, Muslims, different sects with their beliefs and superstitions. The nomads became converts to avoid being killed, but they continued and continue to profess the idea that the Divinity is everywhere all the time. You can’t take the Divinity out of nature and put it in a book or between four walls. I’ve felt so much better since coming back to the steppes, as if I had been in real need of nourishment. Thank you for letting me come with you.” “Thank you for introducing me to Dos. Yesterday, during that dedication ceremony, I sensed that he was someone special.” “He learned from his grandfather, who learned from his father, who learned from his father, and so on. The nomadic way of life, and the absence of a written language until the end of the nineteenth century, meant that they had to develop the tradition of the akyn, the person who must remember everything and pass on the stories. Dos is an akyn. When I say ‘learn,’ though, I hope you don’t take that to mean ‘accumulate knowledge.’ The stories have nothing to do with dates and names and facts. They are legends about heroes and heroines, animals and battles, about the symbols of man’s essential self, not just his deeds. They’re not stories about the vanquishers or the vanquished, but about people who travel the world, contemplate the steppes, and allow themselves to be filled by the energy of love. Pour the oil in more slowly, otherwise it will spit.” “I felt blessed.” “I’d like to feel that too. Yesterday, I went to visit my mother in Almaty. She asked if I was well and if I was earning money. I lied and said I was fine, that I was putting on a successful theater production in Paris. I’m going back to my own people today, and it’s as if I had left yesterday, and as if during all the time I’ve spent abroad, I had done nothing of any importance. I talk to beggars, wander the streets with the tribe, organize the meetings at the restaurant, and what have I achieved? Nothing. I’m not like Dos, who learned from his grandfather. I only have the presence to guide me and sometimes I think that perhaps it is just a hallucination; perhaps my visions really are just epileptic fits, and nothing more.” “A minute ago you were thanking me for bringing you with me, and now it seems to have brought you nothing but sadness. Make up your mind what you’re feeling.” “I feel both things at once, I don’t have to choose. I can travel back and forth between the oppositions inside me, between my contradictions.” “I want to tell you something, Mikhail. I too have traveled back and forth between many contradictions since I first met you. I began by hating you, then I accepted you, and as I’ve followed in your footsteps, that acceptance has become respect. You’re still young, and the powerlessness you feel is perfectly normal. I don’t know how many people your work has touched so far, but I can tell you one thing: you changed my life.” “You were only interested in finding your wife.” “I still am, but that didn’t just make me travel across the Kazakhstan steppes: it made me travel through the whole of my past life. I saw where I went wrong, I saw where I stopped, I saw the moment when I lost Esther, the moment that the Mexican Indians call the acomodador—the giving-up point. I experienced things I never imagined I would experience at my age. And all because you were by my side, guiding me, even though you might not have been aware that you were. And do you know something else? I believe that you do hear voices and that you did have visions when you were a child. I have always believed in many things, and now I believe even more.” “You’re not the same man I first met.” “No, I’m not. I hope Esther will be pleased.” “Are you?” “Of course.” “Then that’s all that matters. Let’s have something to eat, wait until the storm eases, and then set off.” “Let’s face the storm.” “No, it’s all right. Well, we can if you want, but the storm isn’t a sign, it’s just one of the consequences of the destruction of the Aral Sea.” The furious wind is abating, and the horses seem to be galloping faster. We enter a kind of valley, and the landscape changes completely. The infinite horizon is replaced by tall, bare cliffs. I look to the right and see a bush full of ribbons. “It was here! It was here that you saw…” “No, my tree was destroyed.” “So what’s this, then?” “A place where something very important must have happened.” He dismounts, opens his saddlebag, takes out a knife, and cuts a strip off the sleeve of his shirt, then ties this to one of the branches. His eyes change; he may be feeling the presence beside him, but I prefer not to ask. I follow his example. I ask for protection and help. I, too, feel a presence by my side: my dream, my long journey back to the woman I love. We remount. He doesn’t tell me what he asked for, and nor do I. Five minutes later, we see a small village of white houses. A man is waiting for us; he comes over to Mikhail and speaks to him in Russian. They talk for a while, then the man goes away. “What did he want?” “He wanted me to go to his house to cure his daughter. Nina must have told him I was arriving today, and the older people still remember my visions.” He seems uncertain. There is no one else around; it must be a time when everyone is working, or perhaps eating. We were crossing the main road, which seemed to lead to a white building surrounded by a garden. “Remember what I told you this morning, Mikhail. You might well just be an epileptic who refuses to accept the diagnosis and who has allowed his unconscious to build a whole story around it, but it could also be that you have a mission in the world: to teach people to forget their personal history and to be more open to love as pure, divine energy.” “I don’t understand you. All the months we’ve known each other, you’ve talked of nothing but this moment—finding Esther. And suddenly, ever since this morning, you seem more concerned about me than anything else. Perhaps Dos’s ritual last night had some effect.” “Oh, I’m sure it did.” What I meant to say was: I’m terrified. I want to think about anything except what is about to happen in the next few minutes. Today, I am the most generous person on the face of this earth, because I am close to my objective and afraid of what awaits me. My reaction is to try and help others, to show God that I’m a good person and that I deserve this blessing that I have pursued so long and hard. Mikhail dismounted and asked me to do the same. “I’m going to the house of the man whose daughter is ill. I’ll take care of your horse while you talk to Esther.” He pointed to the small white building in the middle of the trees. “Over there.” I struggled to keep control of myself. “What does she do?” “As I told you before, she’s learning to make carpets and, in exchange, she teaches French. By the way, although the carpets may look simple, they are, in fact, very complicated—just like the steppes. The dyes come from plants that have to be picked at precisely the right time; otherwise the color won’t be right. Then the wool is spread out on the ground, mixed with hot water, and the threads are made while the wool is still wet; and then, after many days, when the sun has dried them, the work of weaving begins. The final details are done by children. Adult hands are too big for the smallest, most delicate bits of embroidery.” He paused. “And no jokes about it being child’s play. It’s a tradition that deserves respect.” “How is she?” “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her for about six months.” “Mikhail, these carpets are another sign.” “The carpets?” “Do you remember yesterday, when Dos asked me to choose my name, I told you the story of a warrior who returns to an island in search of his beloved? The island is called Ithaca and the woman is called Penelope. What do you think Penelope has been doing since Ulysses left? Weaving! She has been weaving a shroud for her father-in-law, Laertes, as a way of putting off her suitors. Only when she finishes the shroud will she remarry. While she waits for Ulysses to return, she unpicks her work every night and begins again the following day. “Her suitors want her to choose one of them, but she dreams of the return of the man she loves. Finally, when she has grown weary of waiting, Ulysses returns.” “Except that the name of this village isn’t Ithaca and Esther’s name isn’t Penelope.” Mikhail had clearly not understood the story, and I didn’t feel like explaining that it was just an example. I handed him the reins of my horse and then walked the hundred meters that separated me from the woman who had been my wife, had then become the Zahir, and who was once more the beloved whom all men dream of finding when they return from war or from work. I am filthy. My clothes and my face are caked with sand, my body drenched in sweat, even though it’s very cold. I worry about my appearance, the most superficial thing in the world, as if I had made this long journey to my personal Ithaca merely in order to show off my new clothes. As I walk the remaining hundred meters, I must make an effort to think of all the important things that have happened during her—or was it my?—absence. What should I say when we meet? I have often pondered this and come up with such phrases as: “I’ve waited a long time for this moment,” or “I know now that I was wrong,” or “I came here to tell you that I love you,” or even “You’re lovelier than ever.” I decide just to say hello. As if she had never left. As if only a day had passed, not two years, nine months, eleven days, and eleven hours. And she needs to understand that I have changed as I’ve traveled through the same places she traveled through, places about which I knew nothing or in which I had simply never been interested. I had seen the scrap of bloodstained cloth in the hand of a beggar, in the hands of young people and adults in a Paris restaurant, in the hand of a painter, a doctor, and a young man who claimed to see visions and hear voices. While I was following in her footsteps, I had gotten to know the woman I had married and had rediscovered, too, the meaning of my own life, which had been through so many changes and was now about to change again. Despite being married all those years, I had never really known my wife. I had created a love story like the ones I’d seen in the movies, read about in books and magazines, watched on TV. In my story, love was something that grew until it reached a certain size and, from then on, it was just a matter of keeping it alive, like a plant, watering it now and again and removing any dead leaves. Love was also a synonym for tenderness, security, prestige, comfort, success. Love could be translated into smiles, into words like “I love you” or “I feel so happy when you come home.” But things were more complicated than I thought. I could be madly in love with Esther while I was crossing the road, and yet, by the time I had reached the other side, I could be feeling trapped and wretched at having committed myself to someone, and longing to be able to set off once more in search of adventure. And then I would think: “I don’t love her anymore.” And when love returned with the same intensity as before, I would doubt it and say to myself: “I must have just gotten used to it.” Perhaps Esther had had the same thoughts and had said to herself: “Don’t be silly, we’re happy, we can spend the rest of our lives like this.” After all, she had read the same stories, seen the same films, watched the same TV series, and although none of them said that love was anything more than a happy ending, why give herself a hard time about it? If she repeated every morning that she was happy with her life, then she would doubtless end up believing it herself and making everyone around us believe it too. However, she thought differently and acted differently. She tried to show me, but I couldn’t see. I had to lose her in order to understand that the taste of things recovered is the sweetest honey we will ever know. Now I was there, walking down a street in a tiny, cold, sleepy village, once again following a road because of her. The first and most important thread that bound me—“All love stories are the same”—had broken when I was knocked down by that motorbike. In the hospital, love had spoken to me: “I am everything and I am nothing. I am the wind, and I cannot enter windows and doors that are shut.” And I said to love: “But I am open to you.” And love said to me: “The wind is made of air. There is air inside your house, but everything is shut up. The furniture will get covered in dust, the damp will ruin the paintings and stain the walls. You will continue to breathe, you will know a small part of me, but I am not a part, I am Everything, and you will never know that.” I saw that the furniture was covered in dust, that the paintings were being corroded by damp, and I had no alternative but to open the windows and doors. When I did that, the wind swept everything away. I wanted to cling to my memories, to protect what I thought I had worked hard to achieve, but everything had disappeared and I was as empty as the steppes. As empty as the steppes: I understood now why Esther had decided to come here. It was precisely because everything was empty that the wind brought with it new things, noises I had never heard, people with whom I had never spoken. I recovered my old enthusiasm, because I had freed myself from my personal history; I had destroyed the acomodador and discovered that I was a man capable of blessing others, just as the nomads and shamans of the steppes blessed their fellows. I had discovered that I was much better and much more capable than I myself had thought; age only slows down those who never had the courage to walk at their own pace. One day, because of a woman, I made a long pilgrimage in order to find my dream. Many years later, the same woman had made me set off again, this time to find the man who had gotten lost along the way. Now I am thinking about everything except important things: I am mentally humming a tune, I wonder why there aren’t any cars parked here, I notice that my shoe is rubbing, and that my wristwatch is still on European time. And all because a woman, my wife, my guide, and the love of my life, is now only a few steps away; anything to fend off the reality I have so longed for and which I am so afraid to face. I sit down on the front steps of the house and smoke a cigarette. I think about going back to France. I’ve reached my goal, why go on? I get up. My legs are trembling. Instead of setting off on the return journey, I clean off as much sand from my clothes and my face as I can, grasp the door handle, and go in. Although I know that I may have lost forever the woman I love, I must try to enjoy all the graces that God has given me today. Grace cannot be hoarded. There are no banks where it can be deposited to be used when I feel more at peace with myself. If I do not make full use of these blessings, I will lose them forever. God knows that we are all artists of life. One day, he gives us a hammer with which to make sculptures, another day he gives us brushes and paints with which to make a picture, or paper and a pencil to write with. But you cannot make a painting with a hammer, or a sculpture with a paintbrush. Therefore, however difficult it may be, I must accept today’s small blessings, even if they seem like curses because I am suffering and it’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and the children are singing in the street. This is the only way I will manage to leave my pain behind and rebuild my life. The room was flooded with light. She looked up when I came in and smiled, then continued reading A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew to the women and children sitting on the floor, with colorful fabrics all around them. Whenever Esther paused, they would repeat the words, keeping their eyes on their work. I felt a lump in my throat, I struggled not to cry, and then I felt nothing. I just stood studying the scene, hearing my words on her lips, surrounded by colors and light and by people entirely focused on what they were doing. In the words of a Persian sage: Love is a disease no one wants to get rid of. Those who catch it never try to get better, and those who suffer do not wish to be cured. Esther closed the book. The women and children looked up and saw me. “I’m going for a stroll with a friend of mine who has just arrived,” she told the group. “Class is over for today.” They all laughed and bowed. She came over and kissed my cheek, linked arms with me, and we went outside. “Hello,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. I embraced her, rested my head on her shoulder, and began to cry. She stroked my hair, and by the way she touched me I began to understand what I did not want to understand, I began to accept what I did not want to accept. “I’ve waited for you in so many ways,” she said, when she saw that my tears were abating. “Like a desperate wife who knows that her husband has never understood her life, and that he will never come to her, and so she has no option but to get on a plane and go back, only to leave again after the next crisis, then go back and leave and go back….” The wind had dropped; the trees were listening to what she was saying. “I waited as Penelope waited for Ulysses, as Romeo waited for Juliet, as Beatrice waited for Dante. The empty steppes were full of memories of you, of the times we had spent together, of the countries we had visited, of our joys and our battles. Then I looked back at the trail left by my footprints and I couldn’t see you. “I suffered greatly. I realized that I had set off on a path of no return and that when one does that, one can only go forward. I went to the nomad I had met before and asked him to teach me to forget my personal history, to open me up to the love that is present everywhere. With him I began to learn about the Tengri tradition. One day, I glanced to one side and saw that same love reflected in someone else’s eyes, in the eyes of a painter called Dos.” I said nothing. “I was still very bruised. I couldn’t believe it was possible to love again. He didn’t say much; he taught me to speak Russian and told me that in the steppes they use the word ‘blue’ to describe the sky even when it’s gray, because they know that, above the clouds, the sky is always blue. He took me by the hand and helped me to go through those clouds. He taught me to love myself rather than to love him. He showed me that my heart was at the service of myself and of God, and not at the service of others. “He said that my past would always go with me, but that the more I freed myself from facts and concentrated on emotions, the more I would come to realize that in the present there is always a space as vast as the steppes waiting to be filled up with more love and with more of life’s joy. “Finally, he explained to me that suffering occurs when we want other people to love us in the way we imagine we want to be loved, and not in the way that love should manifest itself—free and untrammeled, guiding us with its force and driving us on.” I looked up at her. “And do you love him?” “I did.” “Do you still love him?” “What do you think? If I did love another man and was told that you were about to arrive, do you think I would still be here?” “No, I don’t. I think you’ve been waiting all morning for the door to open.” “Why ask silly questions, then?” Out of insecurity, I thought. But it was wonderful that she had tried to find love again. “I’m pregnant.” For a second, it was as if the world had fallen in on me. “By Dos?” “No. It was someone who stayed for a while and then left again.” I laughed, even though my heart was breaking. “Well, I suppose there’s not much else to do here in this one-horse town,” I said. “Hardly a one-horse town,” she replied, laughing too. “But perhaps it’s time you came back to Paris. Your newspaper phoned me asking if I knew where to find you. They wanted you to report on a NATO patrol in Afghanistan, but you’ll have to say no.” “Why?” “Because you’re pregnant! You don’t want the baby being exposed to all the negative energy of a war, surely.” “The baby? You don’t think a baby’s going to stop me working, do you? Besides, why should you worry? You didn’t do anything to contribute.” “Didn’t contribute? It’s thanks to me that you came here in the first place. Or doesn’t that count?” She took a piece of bloodstained cloth from the pocket of her white dress and gave it to me, her eyes full of tears. “This is for you. I’ve missed our arguments.” And then, after a pause, she added: “Ask Mikhail to get another horse.” I placed my hands on her shoulders and blessed her just as I had been blessed. AUTHOR’S NOTE I wrote The Zahir between January and June 2004, while I was making my own pilgrimage through this world. Parts of the book were written in Paris and St-Martin in France, in Madrid and Barcelona in Spain, in Amsterdam, on a road in Belgium, in Almaty and on the Kazakhstan steppes. I would like to thank my French publishers, Anne and Alain Carrière, who undertook to check all the information about French law mentioned in the book. I first read about the Favor Bank in The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe. The story that Esther tells about Fritz and Hans is based on a story in Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. The mystic quoted by Marie on the importance of remaining vigilant is Kenan Rifai. Most of what the “tribe” in Paris say was told to me by young people who belong to such groups. Some of them post their ideas on the Internet, but it’s impossible to pinpoint an author. The lines that the main character learned as a child and remembers when he is in the hospital (“When the Unwanted Guest arrives…”) are from the poem Consoada by the Brazilian poet Manuel Bandeira. Some of Marie’s remarks following the chapter when the main character goes to the station to meet the American actor are based on a conversation with the Swedish actress Agneta Sjodin. The concept of forgetting one’s personal history, which is part of many initiation traditions, is clearly set out in Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda. The law of Jante was developed by the Danish writer Aksel Sandemose in his novel A Fugitive Crossing His Tracks. Two people who do me the great honor of being my friends, Dmitry Voskoboynikov and Evgenia Dotsuk, made my visit to Kazakhstan possible. In Almaty, I met Imangali Tasmagambetov, author of the book The Centaurs of the Great Steppe and an expert on Kazakh culture, who provided me with much important information about the political and cultural situation in Kazakhstan, both past and present. I would also like to thank the president of the Kazakhstan Republic, Nursultan Nazarbaev, for making me so welcome, and I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate him for putting a stop to nuclear tests in his country, even though all the necessary technology is there, and for deciding instead to destroy Kazakhstan’s entire nuclear arsenal. Lastly, I owe many of my magical experiences on the steppes to my three very patient companions: Kaisar Alimkulov, Dos (Dosbol Kasymov), an extremely talented painter, on whom I based the character of the same name who appears at the end of the book, and Marie Nimirovskaya, who, initially, was just my interpreter but soon became my friend.


Type:Social
👁 :1
Tell Me Your Dreams BY: Sidney Sheldon
Catagory:Fiction
Author:
Posted Date:11/29/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Someone was following her. She had read about stalkers, but they belonged in a different, violent world. She had no idea who it could be, who would want to harm her. She was trying desperately hard not to panic, but lately her sleep had been filled with unbearable nightmares, and she had awakened each morning with a feeling of impending doom. Perhaps it's all in my imagination, Ashley Patterson thought. I'm working too hard. I need a vacation. She turned to study herself in her bedroom mirror. She was looking at the image of a woman in her late twenties, neatly dressed, with patrician features, a slim figure and intelligent, anxious brown eyes. There was a quiet elegance about her, a subtle attractiveness. Her dark hair fell softly to her shoulders. I hate my looks, Ashley thought. I'm too thin. I must start eating more. She walked into the kitchen and began to fix breakfast, forcing her mind to forget about the frightening thing that was happening, and concentrating on preparing a fluffy omelette. She turned on the coffeemaker and put a slice of bread in the toaster. Ten minutes later, everything was ready. Ashley placed the dishes on the table and sat down. She picked up a fork, stared at the food for a moment, then shook her head in despair. Fear had taken away her appetite. This can't go on, she thought angrily. Whoever he is, I won't let him do this to me. I won't. Ashley glanced at her watch. It was time to leave for work. She looked around the familiar apartment, as though seeking some kind of reassurance from it. It was an attractively furnished third-floor apartment on Via Camino Court, with a living room, bedroom and den, bathroom, kitchen and guest powder room. She had lived here in Cupertino, California, for three years. Until two weeks ago, Ashley had thought of it as a comfortable nest, a haven. Now it had turned into a fortress, a place where no one could get in to harm her. Ashley walked to the front door and examined the lock. I'll have a dead bolt put in, she thought. Tomorrow. She turned off all the lights, checked to make sure the door was firmly locked behind her and took the elevator to the basement garage. The garage was deserted. Her car was twenty feet from the elevator. She looked around carefully, then ran to the car, slid inside and locked the doors, her heart pounding. She headed downtown, under a sky the color of malice, dark and foreboding. The weather report had said rain. But it's not going to rain, Ashley thought. The sun is going to come out. I'll make a deal with you, God. If it doesn't rain, it means that everything is all right, that I've been imagining things. Ten minutes later, Ashley Patterson was driving through downtown Cupertino. She was still awed by the miracle of what this once sleepy little corner of Santa Clara Valley had become. Located fifty miles south of San Francisco, it was where the computer revolution had started, and it had been appropriately nicknamed Silicon Valley. Ashley was employed at Global Computer Graphics Corporation, a successful, fast-growing young company with two hundred employees. As Ashley turned the car onto Silverado Street, she had the uneasy feeling that he was behind her, following her. But who? And why? She looked into her rearview mirror. Everything seemed normal. Every instinct told her otherwise. Ahead of Ashley was the sprawling, modem-looking building that housed Global Computer Graphics. She turned into the parking lot, showed the guard her identification and pulled into her parking space. She felt safe here. As she got out of the car, it began to rain. At nine o'clock in the morning, Global Computer Graphics was already humming with activity. There were eighty modular cubicles, occupied by computer whizzes, all young, busily building Web sites, creating logos for new companies, doing artwork for record and book publishing companies and composing illustrations for magazines. The work floor was divided into several divisions: administration, sales, marketing and technical support. The atmosphere was casual. The employees walked around in jeans, tank tops and sweaters. As Ashley headed toward her desk, her supervisor, Shane Miller, approached her. "Morning, Ashley." Shane Miller was in his early thirties, a burly, earnest man with a pleasant personality. In the beginning, he had tried to persuade Ashley to go to bed with him, but he had finally given up, and they had become good friends. He handed Ashley a copy of the latest Time magazine. "Seen this?" Ashley looked at the cover. It featured a picture of a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with silver hair. The caption read "Dr. Steven Patterson, Father of Mini Heart Surgery." "I've seen it." "How does it feel to have a famous father?" Ashley smiled. "Wonderful." "He's a great man." "I'll tell him you said so. We're having lunch." "Good. By the way..." Shane Miller showed Ashley a photograph of a movie star who was going to be used in an ad for a client. "We have a little problem here. Desiree has gained about ten pounds, and it shows. Look at those dark circles under her eyes. And even with makeup, her skin is splotchy. Do you think you can help this?" Ashley studied the picture. "I can fix her eyes by applying the blur filter. I could try to thin her face by using the distort tool, but-No. That would probably end up making her look odd." She studied the picture again. "I'll have to airbrush or use the clone tool in some areas." "Thanks. Are we on for Saturday night?" "Yes." Shane Miller nodded toward the photograph. "There's no hurry on this. They want it last month." Ashley smiled. "What else is new?" She went to work. Ashley was an expert in advertising and graphic design, creating layouts with text and images. Half an hour later, as Ashley was working on the photograph, she sensed someone watching her. She looked up. It was Dennis Tibble. "Morning, honey." His voice grated on her nerves. Tibble was the company's computer genius. He was known around the plant as "The Fixer." Whenever a computer crashed, Tibble was sent for. He was in his early thirties, thin and bald with an unpleasant, arrogant attitude. He had an obsessive personality, and the word around the plant was that he was fixated on Ashley. "Need any help?" "No, thank you." "Hey, what about us having a little dinner Saturday night?" "Thank you. I'm busy." "Going out with the boss again?" Ashley turned to look at him, angry. "Look, it's none of your-" "I don't know what you see in him, anyway. He's a nerd, cubed. I can give you a better time." He winked. "You know what I mean?" Ashley was trying to control her temper. "I have work to do, Dennis." Tibble leaned close to her and whispered, "There's something you're going to learn about me, honey. I don't give up. Ever." She watched him walk away, and wondered: Could he be the one? At 12:30, Ashley put her computer in suspend mode and headed for Margherita di Roma, where she was joining her father for lunch. She sat at a corner table in the crowded restaurant, watching her father come toward her. She had to admit that he was handsome. People were turning to stare at him as he walked to Ashley's table. "How does it feel to have a famous father?" Years earlier, Dr. Steven Patterson had pioneered a breakthrough in minimally invasive heart surgery. He was constantly invited to lecture at major hospitals around the world. Ashley's mother had died when Ashley was twelve, and she had no one but her father. "Sorry I'm late, Ashley." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "That's all right. I just got here." He sat down. "Have you seen Time magazine?" "Yes. Shane showed it to me." He frowned. "Shane? Your boss?" "He's not my boss. He's-he's one of the supervisors." "It's never good to mix business with pleasure, Ashley. You're seeing him socially, aren't you? That's a mistake." "Father, we're just good-" A waiter came up to the table. "Would you like to see a menu?" Dr. Patterson turned to him and snapped, "Can't you see we're in the middle of a conversation? Go away until you're sent for." "I-I'm sorry." The waiter turned and hurried off. Ashley cringed with embarrassment. She had forgotten how savage her father's temper was. He had once punched an intern during an operation for making an error in judgment. Ashley remembered the screaming arguments between her mother and father when she was a little girl. They had terrified her. Her parents had always fought about the same thing, but try as she might, Ashley could not remember what it was. She had blocked it from her mind. Her father went on, as though there had been no interruption. "Where were we? Oh, yes. Going out with Shane Miller is a mistake. A big mistake." And his words brought back another terrible memory. She could hear her father's voice saying, "Going out with Jim Cleary is a mistake. A big mistake..." Ashley had just turned eighteen and was living in Bedford, Pennsylvania, where she was born. Jim Cleary was the most popular boy in Bedford Area High School. He was on the football team, was handsome and amusing and had a killer smile. It seemed to Ashley that every girl in school wanted to sleep with him. And most of them probably have, she had thought, wryly. When Jim Cleary started asking Ashley out, she was determined not to go to bed with him. She was sure he was interested in her only for sex, but as time went on, she changed her mind. She liked being with him, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company. That winter, the senior class went for a weekend skiing trip in the mountains. Jim Cleary loved to ski. "We'll have a great time," he assured Ashley. "I'm not going." He looked at her in astonishment. "Why?" "I hate cold weather. Even with gloves, my fingers get numb." "But it will be fun to-" "I'm not going." And he had stayed in Bedford to be with her. They shared the same interests and had the same ideals, and they always had a wonderful time together. When Jim Cleary had said to Ashley, "Someone asked me this morning if you're my girlfriend. What shall I tell him?" Ashley had smiled and said, "Tell him yes." Dr. Patterson was worried. "You're seeing too much of that Cleary boy." "Father, he's very decent, and I love him." "How can you love him? He's a goddamned football player. I'm not going to let you marry a football player. He's not good enough for you, Ashley." He had said that about every boy she had gone out with. Her father kept making disparaging remarks about Jim Cleary, but the explosion occurred on the night of the high school graduation. Jim Cleary was taking Ashley to an evening graduation party. When he came to pick her up, she was sobbing. "What's the matter? What's happened?" "My-my father told me he's taking me away to London. He's registered me in-in a college there." Jim Cleary looked at her, stunned. "He's doing this because of us, isn't he?" Ashley nodded, miserable. "When do you leave?" "Tomorrow." "No! Ashley, for God's sake, don't let him do this to us. Listen to me. I want to marry you. My uncle offered me a really good job in Chicago with his advertising agency. We'll run away. Meet me tomorrow morning at the railroad station. There's a train leaving for Chicago at seven A.M. Will you come with me?" She looked at him a long moment and said softly, "Yes." Thinking about it later, Ashley could not remember what the graduation party was like. She and Jim had spent the entire evening excitedly discussing their plans. "Why don't we fly to Chicago?" Ashley asked. "Because we would have to give our names to the airline. If we go by train, nobody will know where we've gone." As they were leaving the party, Jim Cleary asked softly, "Would you like to stop off at my place? My folks are out of town for the weekend." Ashley hesitated, torn. "Jim... we've waited this long. A few more days won't matter." "You're right." He grinned. "I may be the only man on this continent marrying a virgin." When Jim Cleary brought Ashley home from the party, Dr. Patterson was waiting, in a rage. "Do you have any idea how late it is?" "I'm sorry, sir. The party-" "Don't give me any of your goddamn excuses, Cleary. Who the hell do you think you're fooling?" "I'm not-" "From now on, you keep your goddamned hands off my daughter, do you understand?" "Father-" "You keep out of this." He was screaming now. "Cleary, I want you to get the hell out of here and stay out." "Sir, your daughter and I-" "Jim-" "Get up to your room." "Sir-" "If I ever see you around here again, I'll break every bone in your body." Ashley had never seen him so furious. It had ended with everyone yelling. When it was over, Jim was gone and Ashley was in tears. I'm not going to let my father do this to me, Ashley thought, determinedly. He's trying to ruin my life. She sat on her bed for a long time. Jim is my future. I want to be with him. I don't belong here anymore. She rose and began to pack an overnight bag. Thirty minutes later, Ashley slipped out the back door and started toward Jim Cleary's home, a dozen blocks away. I'll stay with him tonight, and we'll take the morning train to Chicago. But as she got nearer to his house, Ashley thought. No. This is wrong. I don't want to spoil everything. I'll meet lam at the station. And she turned and headed back home. Ashley was up the rest of that night thinking about her life with Jim and how wonderful it was going to be. At 5:30, she picked up her suitcase and moved silently past the closed door of her father's bedroom. She crept out of the house and took a bus to the railroad station. When she reached the station, Jim had not arrived. She was early. The train was not due for another hour. Ashley sat on a bench eagerly waiting. She thought about her father awakening and finding her gone. He would be furious. But I can't let him live my life. One day he'll really get to know Jim, and he'll see how lucky I am. 6:30... 6:40... 6:45... 6:50... There was still no sign of Jim. Ashley was beginning to panic. What could have happened? She decided to telephone him. There was no answer. 6:55...He'll be coming at any moment. She heard the train whistle in the distance, and she looked at her watch. 6:59. The train was pulling into the station. She rose to her feet and looked around frantically. Something terrible has happened to him. He's had an accident. He's in the hospital. A few minutes later, Ashley stood there watching the train to Chicago pull out of the station, taking all her dreams with it. She waited another half hour and tried to telephone Jim again. When there was still no answer, she slowly headed home, desolate. At noon, Ashley and her father were on a plane to London.... She had attended a college in London for two years, and when Ashley decided she wanted to be involved in working with computers, she applied for the prestigious MEI Wang Scholarship for Women in Engineering at the University of California at Santa Cruz. She had been accepted, and three years later, she was recruited by the Global Computer Graphics Corporation. In the beginning, Ashley had written half a dozen letters to Jim Cleary, but she had torn them all up. His actions and his silence had told her only too clearly how he felt about her. Her father's voice jarred Ashley back to the present. "You're a million miles away. What are you thinking about?" Ashley studied her father across the table. "Nothing." Dr. Patterson signaled the waiter, smiled at him genially and said, "We're ready to look at menus now." It was only when Ashley was on her way back to the office that she remembered she had forgotten to congratulate her father on his cover of Time magazine. When Ashley walked up to her desk, Dennis Tibble was waiting for her. "I hear you had lunch with your father." He's an eavesdropping little creep. He makes it his business to know everything that's going on here. "Yes, I did." "That can't have been much fun." He lowered his voice. "Why don't you ever have lunch with me?" "Dennis... I've told you before. I'm not interested." He grinned. "You will be. Just wait" There was something eerie about him, something scary. She wondered again whether he could be the one who... She shook her head. No. She had to forget about it, move on. On her way home, Ashley stopped and parked her car in front of the Apple Tree Book House. Before she went in, she studied the reflection in the storefront mirror to see if there was anyone behind her whom she recognized. No one. She went inside the store. A young male clerk walked up to her. "May I help you?" "Yes. I- Do you have a book on stalkers?" He was looking at her strangely. "Stalkers?" Ashley felt like an idiot. She said quickly, "Yes. I also want a book on-er-gardening and-and animals of Africa." "Stalkers and gardening and animals of Africa?" "That's right," she said firmly. Who knows? Maybe someday I'll have a garden and I'll take a trip to Africa. When Ashley returned to the car, it began to rain again. As she drove, the rain beat against the windshield, fracturing space and turning the streets ahead into surreal pointillistic paintings. She turned on the windshield wipers. They began to sweep across the window, hissing, "He's gonna get you... gonna get you... gonna get you...." Hastily, Ashley turned them off. No, she thought. They're saying, "No one's there, no one's there, no one's there." She turned the windshield wipers on again. "He's gonna get you... gonna get you... gonna get you. " Ashley parked her car in the garage and pressed the button for the elevator. Two minutes later, she was heading for her apartment. She reached the front door, put the key in the lock, opened the door and froze. Every light in the apartment had been turned on. CHAPTER TWO "All around the mulberry bush, The monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought 'twas all in fun, Pop! goes the weasel." Toni Prescott knew exactly why she liked to sing that silly song. Her mum had hated it. "Stop singing that stupid song. Do you hear me? You have no voice, anyway." "Yes, Mother." And Toni would sing it again and again, under her breath. That had been long ago, but the memory of defying her mother still gave her a glow. Toni Prescott hated working at Global Computer Graphics. She was twenty-two years old, impish, vivacious, and daring. She was half smoldering, half firecracker. Her face was puckishly heart shaped, her eyes were a mischievous brown, her figure alluring. She had been born in London and she spoke with a delightful British accent She was athletic and loved sports, particularly winter sports: siding and bobsledding and ice-skating. Going to college in London, Toni had dressed conservatively during the day, but at night, she had donned miniskirts and disco gear and made the swinging rounds. She had spent her evenings and nights at the Electric Ballroom on Camden High Street, and at Subterania and the Leopard Lounge, mixing with the trendy West End crowd. She had a beautiful voice, sultry and sensuous, and at some of the clubs, she would go to the piano and play and sing, and the patrons would cheer her. That was when she felt most alive. The routine inside the clubs would always follow the same pattern: "Do you know you're a fantastic singer, Toni?" "Ta." "Can I buy you a drink?" She smiled. "A Pimm's would be lovely." "My pleasure." And it would end the same way. Her date would lean close to her and whisper in her ear, "Why don't we go up to my flat and have a shag?" "Buzz off." And Toni would be out of there. She would lie in her bed at night, thinking about how stupid men were and how bloody easy it was to control them. The poor sods did not know it, but they wanted to be controlled. They needed to be controlled. And then came the move from London to Cupertino. In the beginning, it had been a disaster. Toni hated Cupertino and she loathed working at Global Computer Graphics. She was bored with hearing about plug-ins and dpi's and halftones and grids. She desperately missed the exciting nightlife of London. There were a few nightspots in the Cupertino area, and Toni frequented those: San Jose Live or P. J. Mulligan's or Hollywood Junction. She wore tight-fitting miniskirts and tube tops with open-toed shoes having five-inch heels or platform shoes with thick cork soles. She used a lot of makeup-thick, dark eye-liner, false eyelashes, colored eye shadow and bright lipstick. It was as though she were trying to hide her beauty. Some weekends, Toni would drive up to San Francisco, where the real action was. She haunted the restaurants and clubs that had music bars. She would visit Harry Denton's and One Market restaurant and the California Cafe, and during the evening, while the musicians took their break, Toni would go to the piano and play and sing. The customers loved it. When Toni tried to pay her dinner bills, the owners would say, "No, this is on the house. You're wonderful. Please come back again." Did you hear that? Mother? "You're wonderful. Please come back again." On a Saturday night, Toni was having dinner in the French Room at the Cliff Hotel. The musicians had fin- ished their set and left the bandstand. The maitre d' looked at Toni and nodded invitingly. Toni rose and walked across the room to the piano. She sat down and began to play and sing an early Cole Porter number. When she was finished, there was enthusiastic applause. She sang two more songs and returned to her table. A bald, middle-aged man came up to her. "Excuse me. May I join you for a moment?" Toni started to say no, when he added, "I'm Norman Zimmerman. I'm producing a road company of The King and I. I'd like to talk to you about it." Toni had just read a glowing article about him. He was a theatrical genius. He sat down. "You have a remarkable talent, young lady. You're wasting your time fooling around in places like this. You should be on Broadway." Broadway. Did you hear that. Mother? "I'd like to audition you for-" "I'm sorry. I can't." He looked at her in surprise. "This could open a lot of doors for you. I mean it. I don't think you know how talented you are." "I have a job." "Doing what, may I ask?" "I work at a computer company." "I'll tell you what. I'll start by paying you double whatever you're getting now and-" Toni said, "I appreciate it, but I... I can't." Zimmerman sat back in his chair. "You're not interested in show business?" "I'm very interested." "Then what's the problem?" Toni hesitated, then said carefully, "I'd probably have to leave in the middle of the tour." "Because of your husband or-?" "I'm not married." "I don't understand. You said you're interested in show business. This is the perfect showcase for you to-" "I'm sorry. I can't explain." If I did explain, he wouldn't understand, Toni thought miserably. No one would. It's the unholy curse I have to live with. Forever. A few months after Toni started working at Global Computer Graphics, she learned about the Internet, the worldwide open door to meeting men. She was having dinner at the Duke of Edinburgh with Kathy Healy, a friend who worked for a rival computer company. The restaurant was an authentic pub from England that had been torn down, packed in containers and shipped to California. Toni would go there for Cockney fish and chips, prime ribs with Yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash and English sherry trifle. One foot on tile ground, she would say. I have to remember my roots. Toni looked up at Kathy. "I want you to do me a favor." "Name it." "I want you to help me with the Internet, luv. Tell me how to use it." "Toni, the only computer I have access to is at work, and it's against company policy to-" "Sod company policy. You know how to use the Internet, don't you?" "Yes." Toni patted Kathy Healy's hand and smiled. "Great." The following evening, Toni went to Kathy Healy's office, and Kathy introduced Toni to the world of the Internet. After clicking on the Internet icon, Kathy entered her password and waited a moment to connect, then double clicked another icon and entered a chat room. Toni sat in amazement, watching rapid, typed conversations taking place among people all over the globe. "I've got to have that!" Toni said. "I'll get a computer for my flat. Would you be an angel and set me up on the Internet?" "Sure. It's easy. All you do is click your mouse into the URL field, the uniform resource locator, and-" "Like the song says, 'Don't tell me, show me." The next night, Toni was on the Internet, and from that time on, her life changed. She was no longer bored. The Internet became a magic carpet that flew her all over the world. When Toni got home from work, she would immediately turn on her computer and go on-line to explore various chat rooms that were available. It was so simple. She accessed the Internet, pressed a key and a window opened on the screen, split into an upper portion and a lower portion. Toni typed in "Hello. Is anyone there?" The lower portion of the screen flashed the words "Bob. I'm here. I'm waiting for you." She was ready to meet the world. There was Hans in Holland. "Tell me about yourself, Hans." "I'm a DJ in Amsterdam at a great club. I'm into hip-hop, rave, world beat. You name it." Toni typed in her reply. "Sounds great I love to dance. I can go all night long. I live in a horrible little town that has nothing to offer except a few disco nights." "Sounds sad." "It bloody well is." "Why don't you let me cheer you up? What are the chances of our meeting?" "Ta ta." She exited the chat room. There was Paul, in South Africa: "I've been waiting for you to check back in, Toni." "I'm here. I'm dying to know all about you, Paul." "I'm thirty-two. I'm a doctor at a hospital in Johannesburg. I-" Toni angrily signed off. A doctor! Terrible memories came flooding through her. She closed her eyes a moment, her heart pounding. She took several deep breaths. No more tonight, she thought, shakily. She went to bed. The following evening, Toni was back on the Internet. On-line was Sean from Dublin: "Toni... That's a pretty name." "Thank you, Sean." "Have you ever been to Ireland?" "No." "You'd love it. It's the land of leprechauns. Tell me what you look like, Toni. I'll bet you're beautiful." "You're right. I'm beautiful. I'm exciting and I'm single. What do you do, Sean?" "I'm a bartender. I-" Toni ended the chat session. Every night was different. There was a polo player in Argentina, an automobile salesman in Japan, a department store clerk in Chicago, a television technician in New York. The Internet was a fascinating game, and Toni enjoyed it to the fullest. She could go as far as she wanted and yet know that she was safe because she was anonymous. And then one night, in an on-line chat room, she met Jean Claude Parent. "Bon soir. I am happy to meet you, Toni." "Nice to meet you, Jean Claude. Where are you?" "In Quebec City." "I've never been to Quebec. Would I like it?" Toni expected to see the word yes on the screen. Instead, Jean Claude typed, "I do not know. It depends on what kind of person you are." Toni found his answer intriguing. "Really? What kind of person would I have to be to enjoy Quebec?" "Quebec is like the early North American frontier. It is very French. Quebecois are independent. We do not like to take orders from anyone." Toni typed in, "Neither do I." "Then you would enjoy it. It is a beautiful city, sur- rounded by mountains and lovely lakes, a paradise for hunting and fishing." Looking at the typed words appearing on her screen, Toni could almost feel Jean Claude's enthusiasm. "It sounds great. Tell me about yourself." "Moi? There is not much to tell. I am thirty-eight years old, unmarried. I just ended a relationship, and I would like to settle down with the right woman. Et vous? Are you married?" Toni typed back, "No. I'm looking for someone, too. What do you do?" "I own a little jewelry store. I hope you will come and visit it one day." "Is that an invitation?" "Mais oui. Yes." Toni typed in, "It sounds interesting." And she meant it. Maybe I'll find a way to go there, Toni thought. Maybe he's the person who can save me. Toni communicated with Jean Claude Parent almost every night. He had scanned in a picture of himself, and Toni found herself looking at a very attractive, intelligent-looking man. When Jean Claude saw the photograph of Toni that she scanned in, he wrote, "You are beautiful, ma cherie. I knew you would be. Please come to visit me." "I will." "Soon?" "Ta ta." Toni signed off. On the work floor the next morning, Toni heard Shane Miller talking to Ashley Patterson and thought. What the hell does he see in her? She's a right git. To Toni, Ashley was a frustrated, spinsterish Miss Goody Two-shoes. She doesn't bloody know how to have any fun, Toni thought. Toni disapproved of everything about her. Ashley was a stick-in-the-mud who liked to stay home at night and read a book or watch the History Channel or CNN. She had no interest in sports. Boring! She had never entered a chat room. Meeting strangers through a computer was something Ashley would never do, the cold fish. She doesn't know what she's missing, Toni thought. Without the on-line chat room, I never would have met Jean Claude. Toni thought about how much her mother would have hated the Internet. But then her mother had hated everything. She had only two means of communicating: screaming or whining. Toni could never please her. "Can't you ever do anything right, you stupid child?" Well, her mother had yelled at her once too often. Toni thought about the terrible accident in which her mother had died. Toni could still hear her screams for help. The memory of it made Toni smile. "A penny for a spool of thread, A penny for a needle. That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel." CHAPTER THREE In another place, at another time, Alette Peters could have been a successful artist. As far back as she could remember, her senses were tuned to the nuances of color. She could see colors, smell colors and hear colors. Her father's voice was blue and sometimes red. Her mother's voice was dark brown. Her teacher's voice was yellow. The grocer's voice was purple. The sound of the wind in the trees was green. The sound of running water was gray. Alette Peters was twenty years old. She could be plain-looking, attractive or stunningly beautiful, depending on her mood or how she was feeling about herself. But she was never simply pretty. Part of her charm was that she was completely unaware of her looks. She was shy and soft-spoken, with a gentleness that was almost an anachronism. Alette had been born in Rome, and she had a musical Italian accent. She loved everything about Rome. She had stood at the top of the Spanish Steps and looked over the city and felt that it was hers. When she gazed at the ancient temples and the giant Colosseum, she knew she belonged to that era. She had strolled in the Piazza Navona, listened to the music of the waters in the Fountain of the Four Rivers and walked the Piazza Venezia, with its wedding cake monument to Victor Emanuel. She had spent endless hours at St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican Museum and the Borghese Gallery, enjoying the timeless works of Raphael and Fra Bartolommeo and Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo. Their talent both transfixed her and frustrated her. She wished she had been born in the sixteenth century and had known them. They were more real to Alette than the passers-by on the streets. She wanted desperately to be an artist. She could hear her mother's dark brown voice: "You're wasting paper and paint. You have no talent. " The move to California had been unsettling at first. Alette had been concerned as to how she would adjust, but Cupertino had turned out to be a pleasant surprise. She enjoyed the privacy that the small town afforded, and she liked working for Global Computer Graphics Corporation. There were no major art galleries in Cupertino, but on weekends, Alette would drive to San Francisco to visit the galleries there. "Why are you interested in that stuff?" Toni Prescott would ask her. "Come on to P.J. Mulligans with me and have some fun." "Don't you care about art?" Toni laughed. "Sure. What's his last name?" There was only one cloud hanging over Alette Peters' life. She was manic-depressive. She suffered from anomie, a feeling of alienation from others. Her mood swings always caught her unaware, and in an instant, she could go from a blissful euphoria to a desperate misery. She had no control over her emotions. Toni was the only one with whom Alette would discuss her problems. Toni had a solution for everything, and it was usually: "Let's go and have some fun!" Toni's favorite subject was Ashley Patterson. She was watching Shane Miller talking to Ashley. "Look at that tight-assed bitch," Toni said contemptuously. "She's the ice queen." Alette nodded. "She's very serious. Someone should teach her how to laugh." Toni snorted. "Someone should teach her how to fuck." One night a week, Alette would go to the mission for the homeless in San Francisco and help serve dinner. There was one little old woman in particular who looked forward to Alette's visits. She was in a wheelchair, and Alette would help her to a table and bring her hot food. The woman said gratefully, "Dear, if I had a daughter, I'd want her to be exactly like you." Alette squeezed her hand. "That's such a great compliment. Thank you." And her inner voice said. If you had a daughter, she'd look like a pig like you. And Alette was horrified by her thoughts. It was as though someone else inside her was saying those words. It happened constantly. She was out shopping with Betty Hardy, a woman who was a member of Alette's church. They stopped in front of a department store. Betty was admiring a dress in the window. "Isn't that beautiful?'" "Lovely," Alette said. That's the ugliest dress I've ever seen. Perfect for you. One evening, Alette had dinner with Ronald, a sexton at the church. "I really enjoy being with you, Alette. Let's do this more often." She smiled shyly. "I'd like that." And she thought, Non faccia, lo stupido. Maybe in another lifetime, creep. And again she was horrified. What's wrong with me? And she had no answer. The smallest slights, whether intended or not, drove Alette into a rage. Driving to work one morning, a car cut in front of her. She gritted her teeth and thought, I'll kill you, you bastard. The man waved apologetically, and Alette smiled sweetly. But the rage was still there. When the black cloud descended, Alette would imagine people on the street having heart attacks or being struck by automobiles or being mugged and killed. She would play the scenes out in her mind, and they were vividly real. Moments later, she would be filled with shame. * * * On her good days, Alette was a completely different person. She was genuinely kind and sympathetic and enjoyed helping people. The only thing that spoiled her happiness was the knowledge that the darkness would come down on her again, and she would be lost in it. Every Sunday morning, Alette went to church. The church had volunteer programs to feed the homeless, to teach after-school art lessons and to tutor students. Alette would lead children's Sunday school classes and help in the nursery. She volunteered for all of the charitable activities and devoted as much time as she could to them. She particularly enjoyed giving painting classes for the young. One Sunday, the church had a fair for a fund-raiser, and Alette brought in some of her own paintings for the church to sell. The pastor, Frank Selvaggio, looked at them in amazement. "These are-These are brilliant! You should be selling them at a gallery." Alette blushed. "No, not really. I just do them for fun." The fair was crowded. The churchgoers had brought their friends and families, and game booths as well as arts-and-crafts booths had been set up for their enjoyment. There were beautifully decorated cakes, incredible handmade quilts, homemade jams in beautiful jars, carved wooden toys. People were going from booth to booth, sampling the sweets, buying things they would have no use for the next day. "But it's in the name of charity," Alette heard one woman explain to her husband. Alette looked at the paintings that she had placed around the booth, most of them landscapes in bright, vivid colors that leaped from the canvas. She was filled with misgivings. "You're wasting good money on paint, child." A man came up to the booth. "Hi, there. Did you paint these?" His voice was a deep blue. No, stupid. Michelangelo dropped by and painted them. "You're very talented." "Thank you." What do you know about talent? A young couple stopped at Alette's booth. "Look at those colors! I have to have that one. You're really good." And all afternoon people came to her booth to buy her paintings and to tell her how much talent she had. And Alette wanted to believe them, but each time the black curtain came down and she thought. They're all being cheated. An art dealer came by. "These are really lovely. You should merchandise your talent." "I'm just an amateur," Alette insisted. And she refused to discuss it any further. At the end of the day, Alette had sold every one of her paintings. She gathered the money that people had paid her, put it in an envelope and handed it to Pastor Frank Selvaggio. He took it and said, "Thank you, Alette. You have a great gift, bringing so much beauty into people's lives." Did you hear that, Mother? When Alette was in San Francisco, she spent hours visiting the Museum of Modem Art, and she haunted the De Young Museum to study their collection of American art. Several young artists were copying some of the paintings on the museum's walls. One young man in particular caught Alette's eye. He was in his late twenties, slim and blond, with a strong, intelligent face. He was copying Georgia O'Keeffe's Petunias, and his work was remarkably good. The artist noticed Alette watching him. "Hi." His voice was a warm yellow. "Hello," Alette said shyly. The artist nodded toward the painting he was working on. "What do you think?" "Bellissimo. I think it's wonderful." And she waited for her inner voice to say. For a stupid amateur. But it didn't happen. She was surprised. "It's really wonderful." He smiled. "Thank you. My name is Richard, Richard Melton." "Alette Peters." "Do you come here often?" Richard asked. "Si. As often as I can. I don't live in San Francisco." "Where do you live?" "In Cupertino." Not-"It's none of your damn business" or "Wouldn't you like to know?" but-"In Cupertino." What is happening to me? "That's a nice little town." "I like it." Not-"What the hell makes you think it's a nice little town?" or "What do you know about nice little towns?" but-"I like it." He was finished with the painting. "I'm hungry. Can I buy you lunch? Cafe De Young has pretty good food." Alette hesitated only a moment. "Va bene. I'd like that." Not-"You look stupid" or "I don't have lunch with strangers," but-"I'd like that. " It was a new, exhilarating experience for Alette. The lunch was extremely enjoyable and not once did negative thoughts come into Alette's mind. They talked about some of the great artists, and Alette told Richard about growing up in Rome. "I've never been to Rome," he said. "Maybe one day." And Alette thought, It would be fun to go to Rome with you. As they were finishing their lunch, Richard saw his roommate across the room and called him over to the table. "Gary, I didn't know you were going to be here. I'd like you to meet someone. This is Alette Peters. Gary King." Gary was in his late twenties, with bright blue eyes and hair down to his shoulders. "It's nice to meet you, Gary." "Gary's been my best friend since high school, Alette." "Yeah. I have ten years of dirt on Richard, so if you're looking for any good stories-" "Gary, don't you have somewhere to go?" "Right." He turned to Alette. "But don't forget my offer. I'll see you two around." They watched Gary leave. Richard said, "Alette..." "Yes?" "May I see you again?" "I would like that." Very much. Monday morning, Alette told Toni about her experience. "Don't get involved with an artist," Toni warned. "You'll be living on the fruit he paints. Are you going to see him again?" Alette smiled. "Yes. I think he likes me. And I like him. I really like him." It started as a small disagreement and ended up as a ferocious argument Pastor Frank was retiring after forty years of service. He had been a very good and caring pastor, and the congregation was sorry to see him leave. There were secret meetings held to decide what to give him as a going-away present A watch... money... a vacation... a painting... He loved art. "Why don't we have someone do a portrait of him, with the church in the background?" They turned to Alette. "Will you do it?" "Of course," she said happily. Walter Manning was one of the senior members of the church and one of its biggest contributors. He was a very successful businessman, but he seemed to resent everyone else's success. He said, "My daughter is a fine painter. Perhaps she should do it." Someone suggested, "Why not have them both do it, and we'll vote on which one to give Pastor Frank?" Alette went to work. The painting took her five days, and it was a masterpiece, glowing with the compassion and goodness of her subject. The following Sunday, the group met to look at the paintings. There were exclamations of appreciation over Alette's painting. "It's so real, he could almost walk off the canvas. " "Oh, he's going to love that. " "That should be in a museum, Alette. " Walter Manning unwrapped the canvas painted by his daughter. It was a competent painting, but it lacked the fire of Alette's portrait. "That's very nice," one of the members of the congregation said tactfully, "but I think Alette's is-" "I agree. " "Alette's portrait is the one. " Walter Manning spoke up. "This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter's a professional artist"- he looked at Alette-"not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can't turn her down." "But, Walter-" "No, sir. This has to be unanimous. We're either giving him my daughter's painting or we don't give him anything at all." Alette said, "I like her painting very much. Let's give it to the pastor." Walter Manning smiled smugly and said, "He's going to be very pleased with this." On his way home that evening, Walter Manning was killed by a hit-and-run driver. When Alette heard the news, she was stunned. CHAPTER FOUR Ashley Patterson was taking a hurried shower, late for work, when she heard the sound. A door opening? Closing? She turned off the shower, listening, her heart pounding. Silence. She stood there a moment, her body glistening with drops of water, then hurriedly dried herself and cautiously stepped into the bedroom. Everything appeared to be normal. It's my stupid imagination again. I've got to get dressed. She walked over to her lingerie drawer, opened it and stared down at it, unbelievingly. Someone had gone through her undergarments. Her bras and pantyhose were all piled together. She always kept them neatly separated. Ashley suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Had he unzipped his pants, picked up her pantyhose and rubbed them against himself? Had he fantasized about raping her? Raping her and murdering her? She was finding it difficult to breathe. I should go to the police, but they would laugh at me. You want us to investigate this because you think someone got into your lingerie drawer? Someone has been following me. Have you seen who it is? No. Has anyone threatened you? No. Do you know why anyone would want to harm you? No. It's no use, Ashley thought despairingly. I can't go to the police. Those are the questions they would ask me, and I would look like a fool. She dressed as quickly as she could, suddenly eager to escape from the apartment. I'll have to move. I'll go somewhere where he can't find me. But even as she thought it, she had the feeling that it was going to be impossible. He knows where I live, he knows where I work. And what do I know about him? Nothing. She refused to keep a gun in the apartment because she hated violence. But I need some protection now, Ashley thought. She went into the kitchen, picked up a steak knife, carried it to her bedroom and put it in the dresser drawer next to her bed. It's possible that I mixed my lingerie up myself. That's probably what happened. Or is it wishful thinking? * * * There was an envelope in her mailbox in the downstairs entrance hall. The return address read "Bedford Area High School, Bedford, Pennsylvania." Ashley read the invitation twice. Ten-Year Class Reunion! Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Have you often wondered how your classmates have fared during the last ten years? Here's your chance to find out. The weekend of June 15th we're going to have a spectacular get-together. Food, drinks, a great orchestra and dancing. Join the fun. Just mail the enclosed acceptance card so we'll know you're coming. Everyone looks forward to seeing you. Driving to work, Ashley thought about the invitation. "Everyone looks forward to seeing you." Everyone except Jim Cleary, she thought bitterly. "I want to marry you. My uncle offered me a realty good job in Chicago with his advertising agency.... There's a train leaving for Chicago at seven AM. Will you come with me?" And she remembered the pain of desperately waiting at the station for Jim, believing in him, trusting him. He had changed his mind, and he had not been man enough to come and tell her. Instead, he had left her sitting in a train station, alone. Forget the invitation. I'm not going. Ashley had lunch with Shane Miller at TGI Friday's. They sat in a booth, eating in silence. "You seem preoccupied," Shane said. "Sorry." Ashley hesitated a moment. She was tempted to tell him about the lingerie, but it would sound stupid. Someone got into your drawers? Instead, she said, "I got an invitation to my ten-year high school reunion." "Are you going?" "Certainly not." It came out stronger than Ashley had intended. Shane Miller looked at her curiously. "Why not? Those things can be fun." Would Jim Cleary be there? Would he have a wife and children? What would he say to her? "Sorry I wasn't able to meet you at the train station. Sorry I lied to you about marrying you?" "I'm not going." But Ashley was unable to get the invitation out of her mind. It would be nice to see some of my old classmates, she thought. There were a few she had been close to. One in particular was Florence Schiffer. I wonder what's become of her? And she wondered whether the town of Bedford had changed. Ashley Patterson had grown up in Bedford, Pennsylvania, a small town two hours east of Pittsburgh, deep in the Allegheny Mountains. Her father had been head of the Memorial Hospital of Bedford County, one of the top one hundred hospitals in the country. Bedford had been a wonderful town to grow up in. There were parks for picnics, rivers to fish in and social events that-went on all year. Ashley enjoyed visiting Big Valley, where there was an Amish colony. It was a common sight to see horses pulling Amish buggies with different colored tops, colors that depended on the degree of orthodoxy of the owners. There were Mystery Village evenings and live theater and the Great Pumpkin Festival. Ashley smiled at the thought of the good times she had had there. Maybe I will go back, she thought. Jim Cleary won't have the nerve to show up. Ashley told Shane Miller of her decision. "It's a week I from Friday," she said. "I'll be back Sunday night." "Great. Let me know what time you're getting back. I'll pick you up at the airport." "Thank you, Shane." When Ashley returned from lunch, she walked into her work cubicle and turned her computer on. To her surprise, a sudden hail of pixels began rolling down the screen, creating an image. She stared at it, bewildered. The dots were forming a picture of her. As Ashley watched, horrified, a hand holding a butcher knife appeared at the top of the screen. The hand was racing toward her image, ready to plunge the knife into her chest. Ashley screamed, "No!" She snapped off the monitor and jumped to her feet. Shane Miller had hurried to her side. "Ashley! What is it?" She was trembling. "On the... the screen-" Shane turned on the computer. A picture of a kitten chasing a ball of yarn across a green lawn appeared. Shane turned to look at Ashley, bewildered. What-?" "It's-it's gone," she whispered. "What's gone?" She shook her head. "Nothing. I-I've been under a of stress lately, Shane. I'm sorry." "Why don't you go have a talk with Dr. Speakman?", Ashley had seen Dr. Speakman before. He was the company psychologist hired to counsel stressed-out computer whizzes. He was not a medical doctor, but he is intelligent and understanding, and it was helpful to be able to talk to someone. "I'll go," Ashley said. Dr. Ben Speakman was in his fifties, a patriarch at the fountain of youth. His office was a quiet oasis at the far end of the building, relaxed and comfortable. "I had a terrible dream last night," Ashley said. She closed her eyes, reliving it. "I was running. I was in a huge garden filled with flowers... They had weird, ugly faces... They were screaming at me... I couldn't hear what they were saying. I just kept running toward something... I don't know what...." She stopped and opened her eyes. "Could you have been running away from something? Was something chasing you?" "I don't know. I-I think I'm being followed. Dr. Speakman. It sounds crazy, but-I think someone wants to kill me." He studied her a moment. "Who would want to kill you?" "I-I have no idea." "Have you seen anyone following you?" "No." "You live alone, don't you?" "Yes." "Are you seeing anyone? I mean romantically?" "No. Not right now." "So it's been a while since you-I mean sometimes when a woman doesn't have a man in her life-well, a kind of physical tension can build up. " What he's trying to tell me is that I need a good- She could not bring herself to say the word. She could hear her father yelling at her, "Don't ever say that word again. People will think you're a little slut. Nice people don't say flick. Where do you pick up that kind of language?" "I think you've just been working too hard, Ashley. I don't believe you have anything to worry about. It's probably just tension. Take it a little easier for a while. Get more rest." "I'll try." Shane Miller was waiting for her. "What did Dr. Speakman say?" Ashley managed a smile. "He says I'm fine. I've just been working too hard." "Well, we'll have to do something about that," Shane said. "For openers, why don't you take the rest of the day off?" His voice was filled with concern. "Thanks." She looked at him and smiled. He was a dear man. A good friend. He can't be the one, Ashley thought. He can't. During the following week, Ashley could think of nothing but the reunion. I wonder if my going is a mistake? What if Jim Cleary does show up? Does he have any a how much he hurt me? Does he care? Will he even remember me? The night before Ashley was to leave for Bedford, she was unable to sleep. She was tempted to cancel her flight. I'm being silly, she thought. The past is the past. When Ashley picked up her ticket at the airport, she examined it and said, "I'm afraid there's been some mistake. I'm flying tourist. This is a first-class ticket." "Yes. You changed it." She stared at the clerk. "I what?" "You telephoned and said to change it to a first-class ticket." He showed Ashley a slip of paper. "Is this your 'Credit card number?" She looked at it and said slowly, "Yes..." She had not made that phone call. Ashley arrived in Bedford early and checked in at the Bedford Springs Resort. The reunion festivities did not start until six o'clock that evening, so she decided to explore the town. She hailed a taxi in front of the hotel. "Where to, miss?" "Let's just drive around." Hometowns were supposed to look smaller when a native returned years later, but to Ashley, Bedford looked larger than she had remembered. The taxi drove up and down familiar streets, passing the offices of the Bedford Gazette and television station WKYE and a dozen familiar restaurants and art galleries. The Baker's Loaf of Bedford was still there and Clara's Place, the Fort Bedford Museum and Old Bedford Village. They passed the Memorial Hospital, a graceful three-story brick building with a portico. It was there that her father had become famous. She recalled again the terrible, screaming fights between her mother and father. They had always been about the same thing. About what? She could not remember. At five o'clock, Ashley returned to her hotel room. She changed clothes three times before finally deciding on what she was going to wear. She settled on a simple, flattering black dress. When Ashley entered the festively decorated gymnasium of Bedford Area High School, she found herself surrounded by 120 vaguely familiar-looking strangers. Some of her former classmates were completely unrecognizable, others had changed little. Ashley was looking for one person: Jim Cleary. Would he have changed much? Would he have his wife with him? People were approaching Ashley. "Ashley, it's Trent Waterson. You look great!" "Thanks. So do you, Trent." "I want you to meet my wife. " "Ashley, it is you, isn't it?" "Yes. Er-" "Art. Art Davies. Remember me?" "Of course." He was badly dressed and looked ill at ease. "How is everything going, Art?" "Well, you know I wanted to become an engineer, but it didn't work out." "I'm sorry." "Yeah. Anyway, I became a mechanic." "Ashley! It's Lenny Holland. For God's sake, you look beautiful!" "Thank you, Lenny." He had gained weight and was wearing a large diamond ring on his little finger. "I'm in real estate now, doing great. Did you ever get married?" Ashley hesitated. "No." "Remember Nicki Brandt? We got married. We have twins." "Congratulations." It was amazing how much people could change in ten years. They were fatter and thinner... prosperous and downtrodden. They were married and divorced... parents and parentless.... As the evening wore on, there was dining and music and dancing. Ashley made conversation with her former classmates and caught up on their lives, but her mind was on Jim Cleary. There was still no sign of him. He won't come, she decided. He knows I might be here and he's afraid to face me. An attractive-looking woman was approaching. "Ashley! I was hoping I'd see you." It was Florence Schiffer. Ashley was genuinely glad to see her. Florence had been one of her closest friends. The two of them found a table in the corner, where they could talk. "You look great, Florence," Ashley said. "So do you. Sorry I'm so late. The baby wasn't feeling well. Since I last saw you, I've gotten married and divorced. I'm going out with Mr. Wonderful now. What about you? After the graduation party, you disappeared. I tried to find you, but you'd left town." "I went to London," Ashley said. "My father enrolled me in a college over there. We left here the morning after our graduation." "I tried every way I could think of to reach you. The detectives thought I might know where you were. They were looking for you because you and Jim Cleary were going together." Ashley said slowly, "The detectives?" "Yes. The ones investigating the murder." Ashley felt the blood drain from her face. "What... murder?". Florence was staring at her. "My God! You don't know?" "Know what?" Ashley demanded fiercely. "What are you talking about?" "The day after the graduation party, Jim's parents came back and found his body. He had been stabbed to death and... castrated." The room started to spin. Ashley held on to the edge of the table. Florence grabbed her arm. "I'm-I'm sorry, Ashley. I thought you would have read about it, but of course... you had left for London." Ashley squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She saw herself sneaking out of the house that night, heading toward Jim Cleary's house. But she had turned and gone back home to wait for him in the morning. If only I had gone to him, Ashley thought miserably, he would still be alive. And all these years I've hated him. Oh, my God. Who could have killed him? Who-? She could hear her father's voice, "You keep your goddamned hands off my daughter, do you understand? ... If I ever see you around here again, I'll break every bone in your body." She got to her feet. "You'll have to excuse me, Florence. I-I'm not feeling very well." And Ashley fled. The detectives. They must have gotten in touch with her father. Why didn't he tell me? She took the first plane back to California. It was early in the morning before she could fall asleep. She had a nightmare. A figure standing in the dark was stabbing Jim and screaming at him. The figure stepped into the light. It was her father. CHAPTER FIVE The next few months were misery for Ashley. The image of Jim Cleary's bloody, mutilated body kept going through her mind. She thought of seeing Dr. Speakman again, but she knew she dare not discuss this with anyone. She felt guilty even thinking that her father might have done such a terrible thing. She pushed the thought away and tried to concentrate on her work. It was impossible. She looked down in dismay at a logo she had just botched. Shane Miller was watching her, concerned. "Are you all right, Ashley?" She forced a smile. "I'm fine." "I really am sorry about your friend." She had told him about Jim. "I'll-I'll get over it." "What about dinner tonight?" "Thanks, Shane. I-I'm not up to it just yet. Next week." "Right. If there's anything I can do-" "I appreciate it. There's nothing anyone can do." Toni said to Alette, "Miss Tight Ass has a problem. Well, she can get stuffed." "I feel dispiace - sorry for her. She is troubled." "Sod her. We all have our problems, don't we, luv?" As Ashley was leaving on a Friday afternoon before a holiday weekend, Dennis Tibble stopped her. "Hey, babe. I need a favor." "I'm sorry, Dennis, I-" "Come on. Lighten up!" He took Ashley's arm. "I need some advice from a woman's point of view." "Dennis, I'm not in the-" "I've fallen in love with somebody, and I want to marry her, but there are problems. Will you help me?" Ashley hesitated. She did not like Dennis Tibble, but she could see no harm in trying to help him. "Can this wait until tomorrow?" "I need to talk to you now. It's really urgent." Ashley took a deep breath. "All right." "Can we go to your apartment?" She shook her head. "No." She would never be able to make him leave. "Will you stop by my place?" Ashley hesitated. "Very well." That way I can leave when I want to. If I can help him get the woman he's in love with, maybe he'll leave me alone. * * * Toni said to Alette, "God! Goody Two-shoes is going to the twerp's apartment. Can you believe she could be that stupid? Where's her sodding brains?" "She's just trying to help him. There's nothing wrong with-" "Oh, come on, Alette. When are you going to grow up? The man wants to bonk her." "Non va. Non si fa cosi." "I couldn't have said it better myself." Dennis Tibble's apartment was furnished in neonightmare. Posters of old horror movies hung from the walls, next to pinups of naked models and wild animals feeding. Tiny erotic wood carvings were spread out on tables. It's the apartment of a madman, Ashley thought. She could not wait to get out of there. "Hey, I'm glad you could come, baby. I really appreciate this. If-" "I can't stay long, Dennis." Ashley warned him. "Tell me about this woman you're in love with." "She's really something." He held out a cigarette. "Cigarette?" "I don't smoke." She watched him light up. "How about a drink?" "I don't drink." He grinned. "You don't smoke, you don't drink. That leaves an interesting activity, doesn't it?" She said to him sharply, "Dennis, if you don't-" "Only kidding." He walked over to the bar and poured some wine. "Have a little wine. That can't hurt you." He handed her the glass. She took a sip of wine. "Tell me about Miss Right." Dennis Tibble sat down on the couch next to Ashley. "I've never met anybody like her. She's sexy like you and-" "Stop it or I'll leave." "Hey, that was meant as a compliment. Anyway, she's crazy about me, but her mother and father are very social, and they hate me." Ashley made no comment. "So the thing is, if I push it, she'll marry me, but she'll alienate her family. She's really close to them, and if I marry her, they'll sure as hell disown her. Then one day, she'll probably blame me. Do you see the problem?" Ashley took another sip of wine. "Yes. I..." After that, time seemed to vanish in a mist. She awakened slowly, knowing that something was terribly wrong. She felt as though she had been drugged. It was an enormous effort merely to open her eyes. Ashley looked around the room and began to panic. She was lying in a bed, naked, in a cheap hotel room. She managed to sit up, and her head started to pound. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. There was a room service menu on the nightstand, and she reached over and picked it up. The Chicago Loop Hotel. She read it again, stunned. What am I doing in Chicago? How long have I been here? The visit to Dennis Tibble's apartment had been on Friday. What day is this? With growing alarm, she picked up the telephone. "May I help you?" It was difficult for Ashley to speak. "What-what day is this?" "Today is the seventeenth of-" "No. I mean what day of the week is this?" "Oh. Today is Monday. Can I-" Ashley replaced the receiver in a daze. Monday. She had lost two days and two nights. She sat up at the edge of the bed, trying to remember. She had gone to Dennis Tibble's apartment.... She had had a glass of wine.... After that, everything was a blank. He had put something in her glass of wine that had made her temporarily lose her memory. She had read about incidents where a drug like that had been used. It was called the "date rape drug." That was what he had given her. The talk about wanting her advice had been a ruse. And like a fool, I fell for it. She had no recollection of going to the airport, flying to Chicago or checking into this seedy hotel room with Tibble. And worse- no recollection of what had happened in this room. I've got to get out of here, Ashley thought desperately. She felt unclean, as though every inch of her body had been violated. What had he done to her? Trying not to think about it, she got out of bed, walked into the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower. She let the stream of hot water pound against her body, trying to wash away whatever terrible, dirty things had happened to her. What if he had gotten her pregnant? The thought of having his child was sickening. Ashley got out of the shower, dried herself and walked over to the closet. Her clothes were missing. The only things inside the closet were a black leather miniskirt, a cheap-looking tube top and a pair of spiked high-heeled shoes. She was repelled by the thought of putting on the clothes, but she had no choice. She dressed quickly and glanced in the mirror. She looked like a prostitute. Ashley examined her purse. Only forty dollars. Her checkbook and credit card were still there. Thank God! She went out into the corridor. It was empty. She took the elevator down to the seedy-looking lobby and walked over to the checkout desk, where she handed the elderly cashier her credit card. "Leavin' us already?" He leered. "Well, you had a good time, hub?" Ashley stared at him, wondering what he meant and afraid to find out. She was tempted to ask him when Dennis Tibble had checked out, but she decided it was better not to bring it up. The cashier was putting her credit card through a machine. He frowned and put it through again. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry. This card won't go through. You've exceeded your limit." Ashley's mouth dropped open. "That's impossible! There's some mistake!" The clerk shrugged. "Do you have another credit card?" "No. I-I don't Will you take a personal check?" He was eyeing her outfit disapprovingly. "I guess so, if you have some ID." "I need to make a telephone call. " "Telephone booth in the corner." "San Francisco Memorial Hospital. " "Dr. Steven Patterson." "One moment, please. " "Dr. Patterson's office." "Sarah? This is Ashley. I need to speak to my father." "I'm sorry. Miss Patterson. He's in the operating room and-" Ashley's grip tightened on the telephone. "Do you know how long he'll be there?" "It's hard to say. I know he has another surgery scheduled after-" Ashley found herself fighting hysteria. "I need to talk to him. It's urgent. Can you get word to him, please? As soon as he gets a chance, have him call me." She looked at the telephone number in the booth and gave it to her father's receptionist. "I'll wait here until he calls." "I'll be sure to tell him." She sat in the lobby for almost an hour, willing the telephone to ring. People passing by stared at her or ogled her, and she felt naked in the tawdry outfit she was wearing. When the phone finally rang, it startled her. She hurried back into the phone booth. "Hello. " "Ashley?" It was her father's voice. "Oh, Father, I-" "What's wrong?" "I'm in Chicago and-" "What are you doing in Chicago?" "I can't go into it now. I need an airline ticket to San Jose. I don't have any money with me. Can you help me?" "Of course. Hold on." Three minutes later, her father came back on the line. "There's an American Airlines plane leaving O'Hare at ten-forty A.M., Flight 407. There will be a ticket waiting for you at the check-in counter. I'll pick you up at the airport in San Jose and-" "No!" She could not let him see her like this. "I'll- I'll go to my apartment to change." "All right. I'll come down and meet you for dinner. You can tell me all about it then." "Thank you, Father. Thank you." On the plane going home, Ashley thought about the unforgivable thing Dennis Tibble had done to her. I'm going to have to go to the police, she decided. I can't let him get away with this. How many other women has he done this to? When Ashley got back to her apartment, she felt as though she had returned to a sanctuary. She could not wait to get out of the tacky outfit she was wearing. She stripped it off as quickly as she could. She felt as though she needed another shower before she met her father. She started to walk over to her closet and stopped. In front of her, on the dressing table, was a burned cigarette butt. * * * They were seated at a corner table in a restaurant at The Oaks. Ashley's father was studying her, concerned. "What were you doing in Chicago?" "I-I don't know." He looked at her, puzzled. "You don't know?" Ashley hesitated, trying to make up her mind whether to tell him what had happened. Perhaps he could give her some advice. She said carefully, "Dennis Tibble asked me up to his apartment to help him with a problem. " "Dennis Tibble? That snake?" Long ago, Ashley had introduced her father to the people she worked with. "How could you have anything to do with him?" Ashley knew instantly that she had made a mistake. Her father had always overreacted to any problems she had. Especially when it involved a man. "If I ever see you around here again, Cleary. I'll break every bone in your body." "It's not important," Ashley said. "I want to hear it." Ashley sat still for a moment, filled with a sense of foreboding. "Well, I had a drink at Dennis's apartment and. " As she talked, she watched her father's face grow grim. There was a look in his eyes that frightened her. She tried to cut the story short. "No," her father insisted. "I want to hear it all. " Ashley lay in bed that night, too drained to sleep, her thoughts chaotic. If what Dennis did to me becomes public, it will be humiliating. Everyone at work will know what happened. But I can't let him do this to anyone else. I have to tell the police. People had tried to warn her that Dennis was obsessed with her, but she had ignored them. Now, looking back ID it, she could see all the signs: Dennis had hated to see anyone else talking to her; he was constantly begging her for dates; he was always eavesdropping... At least I know who the stalker is, Ashley thought. At 8:30 in the morning, as Ashley was getting ready to leave for work, the telephone rang. She picked it up. "Hello." "Ashley, it's Shane. Have you heard the news?" "What news?" "It's on television. They just found Dennis Tibble's body." For an instant the earth seemed to shift. "Oh, my God! What happened?" "According to the sheriff's office, somebody stabbed him to death and then castrated him." CHAPTER SIX DEPUTY Sam Blake had earned his position in the Cupertino Sheriff's Office the hard way: He had married the sheriff's sister, Serena Dowling, a virago with a tongue sharp enough to fell the forests of Oregon. Sam Blake was the only man Serena had ever met who was able to handle her. He was a short, gentle, mild-mannered person with the patience of a saint. No matter how outrageous Serena's behavior, he would wait until she had calmed down and then have a quiet talk with her. Blake had joined the sheriff's department because Sheriff Matt Dowling was his best friend. They had gone to school together and grown up together. Blake enjoyed police work and was exceedingly good at it. He had a keen, inquiring intelligence and a stubborn tenacity. The combination made him the best detective on the force. * * * Earlier that morning, Sam Blake and Sheriff Dowling were having coffee together. Sheriff Dowling said, "I hear my sister gave you a bad time last night. We got half a dozen calls from the neighbors complaining about the noise. Serena's a champion screamer, all right." Sam shrugged. "I finally got her calmed down, Matt." "Thank God she's not living with me anymore, Sam. I don't know what gets into her. Her temper tantrums-" Their conversation was interrupted. "Sheriff, we just got a 911. There's been a murder over on Sunnyvale Avenue." Sheriff Dowling looked at Sam Blake. Blake nodded. "I'll catch it." Fifteen minutes later. Deputy Blake was walking into Dennis Tibble's apartment. A patrolman in the living room was talking to the building superintendent. "Where's the body?" Blake asked. The patrolman nodded toward the bedroom. "In there, sir." He looked pale. Blake walked to the bedroom and stopped, in shock. A man's naked body was sprawled across the bed, and Blake's first impression was that the room was soaked in blood. As he stepped closer to the bed, he saw where the blood had come from. The ragged edge of a broken bottle had punctured the victim's back, over and over again, and there were shards of glass in his body. The victim's testicles had been slashed off. Looking at it, Blake felt a pain in his groin. "How the hell could a human being do a thing like this?" he said aloud. There was no sign of the weapon, but they would make a thorough search. Deputy Blake went back into the living room to talk to the building superintendent. "Did you know the deceased?" "Yes, sir. This is his apartment." "What's his name?" "Tibble. Dennis Tibble." Deputy Blake made a note. "How long had he lived here?" "Almost three years." "What can you tell me about him?" "Not too much, sir. Tibble kept pretty much to himself, always paid his rent on time. Once in a while he'd have a woman in here. I think they were mostly pros." "Do you know where he worked?" "Oh, yes. Global Computer Graphics Corporation. He was one of them computer nerds." Deputy Blake made another note. "Who found the body?" "One of the maids. Maria. Yesterday was a holiday, so she didn't come in until this morning-" "I want to talk to her." "Yes, sir. I'll get her." Maria was a dark-looking Brazilian woman in her forties, nervous and frightened. "You discovered the body, Maria?" "I didn't do it. I swear to you." She was on the verge of hysteria. "Do I need a lawyer?" "No. You don't need a lawyer. Just tell me what happened." "Nothing happened. I mean- I walked in here this morning to clean, the way I always do. I-I thought he was gone. He's always out of here by seven in the morning. I tidied up the living room and-" Damn! "Maria, do you remember what the room looked like before you tidied up?" "What do you mean?" "Did you move anything? Take anything out of here?" "Well, yes. There was a broken wine bottle on the floor. It was all sticky. I-" "What did you do with it?" he asked excitedly. "I put it in the garbage compactor and ground it up." "What else did you do?" "Well, I cleaned out the ashtray and-" "Were there any cigarette butts in it?" She stopped to remember. "One. I put it in the trash basket in the kitchen." "Let's take a look at it." He followed her to the kitchen, and she pointed to a wastebasket. Inside was a cigarette butt with lipstick on it. Carefully, deputy Blake scooped it up in a coin envelope. He led her back to the living room. "Maria, do you know if anything is missing from the apartment? Does it look as if any valuables are gone?" She looked around. "I don't think so. Mr. Tibble, he liked to collect those little statues. He spent a lot of money on them. It looks like they're all here." So the motive was not robbery. Drugs? Revenge? A love affair gone wrong? "What did you do after you tidied up here, Maria?" "I vacuumed in here, the way I always do. And then-" Her voice faltered. "I walked into the bedroom and... I saw him." She looked at deputy Blake. "I swear I didn't do it." The coroner and his assistants arrived in a coroner's wagon, with a body bag. Three hours later, deputy Sam Blake was back in the sheriff's office. "What have you got, Sam?" "Not much." Deputy Blake sat down across from Sheriff Dowling. "Dennis Tibble worked over at Global. He was apparently some kind of genius." "But not genius enough to keep himself from getting killed." "He wasn't just killed, Matt. He was slaughtered. You should have seen what someone did to his body. It has to be some kind of maniac." "Nothing to go on?" "We aren't sure what the murder weapon is, we're waiting for results from the lab, but it may be a broken wine bottle. The maid threw it in the compactor. It looks like there's a fingerprint on one of the pieces of glass in his back. I talked to the neighbors. No help there. No one saw anyone coming in or out of his apartment. No unusual noises. Apparently, Tibble stuck pretty much to himself. He wasn't the neighborly type. One thing. Tibble had sex before he died. We have vaginal traces, pubic hairs, other trace evidence and a cigarette stub with lipstick. We'll test for DNA." "The newspapers are going to have a good time with this one, Sam. I can see the headlines now-MANIAC STRIKES SILICON VALLEY." Sheriff Dowling sighed. "Let's knock this off as fast as we can." "I'm on my way over to Global Computer Graphics now." It had taken Ashley an hour to decide whether she should go into the office. She was torn. One look at me, and everyone will know that something is wrong. But if I don't show up, they'll want to know why. The police will probably be there asking questions. If they question me, I'll have to tell them the truth. They won't believe me. They'll blame me for killing Dennis Tibble. And if they do believe me, and if I tell them my father knew what he did to me, they'll blame him. She thought of Jim Cleary's murder. She could hear Florence's voice: "Jim's parents came back and found his body. He had been stabbed to death and castrated." Ashley squeezed her eyes shut tightly. My God, what's happening? What's happening? Deputy Sam Blake walked onto the work floor where groups of somber employees stood around, talking quietly. Blake could imagine what the subject of conversation was. Ashley watched him apprehensively as he headed toward Shane Miller's office. Shane rose to greet him. "Deputy Blake?" "Yes." The two men shook hands. "Sit down. Deputy." Sam Blake took a seat. "I understand Dennis Tibble was an employee here?" "That's right. One of the best. It's a terrible tragedy." "He worked here about three years?" "Yes. He was our genius. There wasn't anything he couldn't do with a computer." "What can you tell me about his social life?" Shane Miller shook his head. "Not much. I'm afraid. Tibble was kind of a loner." "Do you have any idea if he was into drugs?" "Dennis? Hell, no. He was a health nut." "Did he gamble? Could he have owed someone a lot of money?" "No. He made a damned good salary, but I think he was pretty tight with a buck." "What about women? Did he have a girlfriend?" "Women weren't very attracted to Tibble." He thought for a moment. "Lately, though, he was going around telling people there was someone he was thinking of marrying." "Did he happen to mention her name?" Miller shook his head. "No. Not to me, anyway." "Would you mind if I talked to some of your employees?" "Not at all. Go ahead. I have to tell you, they're all pretty shaken up." They would be more shaken up if they could have seen his body, Blake thought. The two men walked out onto the work floor. Shane Miller raised his voice. "May I have your attention, please? This is deputy Blake. He'd like to ask a few questions." The employees had stopped what they were doing and were listening. Deputy Blake said, "I'm sure that all of you have heard what happened to Mr. Tibble. We need your help in finding out who killed him. Do any of you know of any enemies he had? Anyone who hated him enough to want to murder him?" There was a silence. Blake went on. "There was a woman he was interested in marrying. Did he discuss her with any of you?" Ashley was finding it difficult to breathe. Now was the time to speak up. Now was the time to tell the deputy what Tibble had done to her. But Ashley remembered the look on her father's face when she had told him about it. They would blame him for the murder. Her father could never kill anyone. He was a doctor. He was a surgeon. Dennis Tibble had been castrated. Deputy Blake was saying, "... and none of you saw him after he left here on Friday?" Toni Prescott thought. Go ahead. Tell him. Miss Goody Two-shoes. Tell him you went to his apartment. Why don't you speak up? Deputy Blake stood there a moment, trying to hide his disappointment. "Well, if any of you remembers anything that might be helpful. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call. Mr. Miller has my number. Thank you." They watched as he moved toward the exit with Shane. Ashley felt faint with relief. Deputy Blake turned to Shane. "Was there anyone here he was particularly close to?" "No, not really," Shane said. "I don't think Dennis was close to anybody. He was very attracted to one of our computer operators, but he never got anywhere with her." Deputy Blake stopped. "Is she here now?" "Yes, but-" "I'd like to talk to her." "All right. You can use my office." They walked back into the room, and Ashley saw them coming. They were headed straight for her cubicle. She could feel her face redden. "Ashley, deputy Blake would like to talk to you." So he knew! He was going to ask her about her visit to Tibble's apartment. I've got to be careful, Ashley thought. The deputy was looking at her. "Do you mind, Miss Patterson?" She found her voice. "No, not at all." She followed him into Shane Miller's office. "Sit down." They both took chairs. "I understand that Dennis Tibble was fond of you?" "I-I suppose..." Careful. "Yes." "Did you go out with him?" Going to his apartment would not be the same as going out with him. "No." "Did he talk to you about this woman he wanted to marry?" She was getting in deeper and deeper. Could he be taping this? Maybe he already knew she had been in Tibble's apartment. They could have found her fingerprints. Now was the time to tell the deputy what Tibble had done to her. But if I do, Ashley thought in despair, it will lead to my father, and they'll connect that to Jim Cleary's murder. Did they know about that, too? But the police department in Bedford would have no reason to notify the police department in Cupertino. Or would they? Deputy Blake was watching her, waiting for an answer. "Miss Patterson?" "What? Oh, I'm sorry. This has got me so upset..." "I understand. Did Tibble ever mention this woman he wanted to marry?" "Yes... but he never told me her name." That, at least, was true. "Have you ever been to Tibble's apartment?" Ashley took a deep breath. If she said no, the questioning would probably end. But if they had found her fingerprints... "Yes." "You have been to his apartment?" "Yes." He was looking at her more closely now. "You said you'd never been out with him." Ashley's mind was racing now. "That's right. Not on a date, no. I went to bring him some papers he had forgotten." "When was this?" She felt trapped. "It was... it was about a week ago." "And that's the only time you've been to his place?' "That's right." Now if they had her fingerprints, she would be in clear. Deputy Blake sat there, studying her, and she felt guilty. She wanted to tell him the truth. Maybe some burglar had broken in and killed him-the same burglar who had killed Jim Cleary ten years earlier and three thousand miles away. If you believed in coincidences. If you believed in Santa Claus. If you believed in the tooth fairy. Damn you, Father. Deputy Blake said, "This is a terrible crime. There doesn't seem to be any motive. But you know, in all the years I've been on the force, I've never seen a crime without a motive." There was no response. "Do you know if Dennis Tibble was into drugs?" "I'm sure he wasn't." "So what do we have? It wasn't drugs. He wasn't robbed. He didn't owe anybody money. That kind of leaves a romantic situation, doesn't it? Someone who was jealous of him." Or a father who wanted to protect his daughter. "I'm as puzzled as you are, Deputy." He stared at her for a moment and his eyes seemed to say, "I don't believe you, lady." Deputy Blake got to his feet. He took out a card and handed it to Ashley. "If there's anything you can think of, I'd appreciate your giving me a call." "I'll be happy to." "Good day." She watched him leave. It's over. Father's in the clear. When Ashley returned to her apartment that evening, there was a message on the answering machine: "You got me real hot last night, baby. I'm talking blue balls. But you'll take care of me tonight, though, the way you promised. Same time, same place." Ashley stood there, listening in disbelief. I'm going crazy, she thought. This has nothing to do with Father. Someone else must be behind all this. But who? And why? Five days later, Ashley received a statement from the credit card company. Three items caught her attention: A bill from the Mod Dress Shop for $450. A bill from the Circus Club for $300. A bill from Louie's Restaurant for $250. She had never heard of the dress shop, the club or the restaurant. CHAPTER SEVEN ASHLEY Patterson followed the investigation of Dennis Tibble's murder in the newspapers and on television every day. The police appeared to have reached a dead end. It's over, Ashley thought. There's nothing more to worry about. That evening deputy Sam Blake appeared at her apartment. Ashley looked at him, her mouth suddenly dry. "I hope I'm not bothering you," deputy Blake said. "I was on my way home, and I just thought I'd drop in for a minute." Ashley swallowed. "No. Come in." Deputy Blake walked into the apartment. "Nice place you have here." "Thank you." "I'll bet Dennis Tibble didn't like this kind of furniture." Ashley's heart began to pound. "I don't know. He's never been in this apartment." "Oh. I thought he might have, you know." "No, I don't know, Deputy. I told you, I never dated him." "Right. May I sit down?" "Please." "You see, I'm having a big problem with this case, Miss Patterson. It doesn't fit into any pattern. Like I said, there's always a motive. I've talked to some of the people over at Global Computer Graphics, and no one seems to have known Tibble very well. He kept pretty much to himself." Ashley listened, waiting for the blow to fall. "In fact, from what they tell me, you're the only one he was really interested in." Had he found out something, or was he on a fishing expedition? Ashley said carefully, "He was interested in me, Deputy, but I was not interested in him. I made that quite clear to him." He nodded. "Well, I think it was nice of you to deliver those papers to his apartment." Ashley almost said, "What papers?" and then suddenly remembered. "It-it was no trouble. It was on my way." "Right. Someone must have hated Tibble a lot to do what they did." Ashley sat there tense, saying nothing. "Do you know what I hate?" Deputy Blake said. "Unsolved murders. They always leave me frustrated. Because when a murder goes unsolved, I don't think it means that the criminals were that smart. I think it means that the police weren't smart enough. Well, so far, I've been lucky. I've solved all the crimes that have come my way." He got to his feet. "I don't intend to give up on this one. If you can think of anything that will helpful, you'll call me, won't you, Miss Patterson?" "Yes, of course." Ashley watched him leave, and she thought. Did he come here as a warning? Does he know more than he's telling me? Toni was more absorbed than ever in the Internet. She enjoyed her chats with Jean Claude the most, but that did not stop her from having other chat-room correspondents. At every chance, she sat in front of her computer, and the typed messages flew back and forth, spilling onto the computer screen. "Toni? Where have you been? I've been in the chat room waiting for you." "I'm worth waiting for, luv. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?" "I work at a pharmacy. I can be good to you. Do you do drugs?" "Sod off." "Is that you, Toni?" "The answer to your dreams. Is it Mark?" "Yes." "You haven't been on the Internet lately." "I've been busy. I'd like to meet you, Toni." "Tell me. Mark, what do you do?" "I'm a librarian." "Isn't that exciting! All those books and everything. " "When can we meet?" "Why don't you ask Nostradamus?" "Hello, Toni. My name is Wendy." "Hello, Wendy." "You sound like fun." "I enjoy life." "Maybe I can help you enjoy it more." "What did you have in mind?" "Well, I hope you're not one of those narrow-minded people who are afraid to experiment and try exciting new things. I'd like to show you a good time." "Thanks, Wendy. You don't have the equipment I need". And then, Jean Claude Parent came back on. "Bonne nuit. Comment ca va? How are you?" "I'm great. How about you?" "I have missed you. I wish very much to meet you in person." "I want to meet you, too. Thanks for sending me your photograph. You're a good-looking bloke." "And you are beautiful. I think it is very important for us to get to know each other. Is your company coming to Quebec for the computer convention?" "What? Not that I know of. When is it?" "In three weeks. Many big companies will be coming, I hope you will be here." "I hope so, too." "Can we meet in the chat room tomorrow at the same time?" "Of course. Until tomorrow." "`A demain." The following morning, Shane Miller walked up to Ashley. "Ashley, have you heard about the big computer convention coming up in Quebec City?" She nodded. "Yes. It sounds interesting." "I was just debating whether we should send a contingent up there. "All the companies are going," Ashley said. "Symantec, Microsoft, Apple. Quebec City is putting on a big show for them. A trip like that could be kind of a Christmas bonus." Shane Miller smiled at her enthusiasm. "Let me check it out." The following morning, Shane Miller called Ashley into his office. "How would you like to spend Christmas in Quebec City?" "We're going? That's great," Ashley said, enthusiastically. In the past, she had spent the Christmas holidays with her father, but this year she had dreaded the prospect. "You'd better take plenty of warm clothes." "Don't worry. I will. I'm really looking forward to this, Shane." Toni was in the Internet chat room. "Jean Claude, the Company is sending a group of us to Quebec City!" "Formidable! I am so pleased. When will you arrive?" "In two weeks. There will be fifteen of us." "Merveilleux! I feel as though something very important is going to happen." "So do I." Something very important. Ashley anxiously watched the news every night, but, there still no new developments in the Dennis Tibble murder. She began to relax. If the police could not connect her with the case, there was no way they could a connection to her father. Half a dozen times she steeled herself to ask him about it, but each time she backed off. What if he were innocent? Could he ever forgive her for accusing him of being a murderer? And if he is guilty, I don't want to know, Ashley thought. I couldn't bear it. And if he has done those terrible things, in his mind, he would have done them to protect me. At least I won't have to face him this Christmas. Ashley telephoned her father in San Francisco. She said, without preamble, "I'm not going to be able to spend Christmas with you this year, Father. My company is sending me to a convention in Canada." There was a long silence. "That's bad timing, Ashley. You and I have always spent Christmas together." "I can't help-" "You're all I have, you know." "Yes, Father, and... you're all I have." "That's what's important." Important enough to kill for? "Where is this convention?" "In Quebec City. It's-" "Ah. Lovely place. I haven't been there in years. I'll tell you what I'll do. I haven't anything scheduled at the hospital around that time. I'll fly up, and we'll have a Christmas dinner together." Ashley said quickly, "I don't think it's-" "You just make a reservation for me at whatever hotel you're staying at. We don't want to break tradition, do we?" She hesitated and said slowly, "No, Father." How can I face him? Alette was excited. She said to Toni, "I've never been to Quebec City. Do they have museums there?" "Of course they have museums there," Toni told her. "They have everything. A lot of winter sports. Skiing, skating..." Alette shuddered. "I hate cold weather. No sports for me. Even with gloves, my fingers get numb. I will stick to the museums. " On the twenty-first of December, the group from Global Computer Graphics arrived at the Jean-Lesage International Airport in Sainte-Foy and were driven to the storied Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City. It was below zero outside, and the streets were blanketed with snow. Jean Claude had given Toni his home telephone number. She called as soon as she checked into her room. "I hope I'm not calling too late." "Mais non! I cannot believe you are here. When may I see you?" "Well, we're all going to the convention center tomorrow morning, but I could slip away and have lunch with you." "Bon! There is a restaurant, Le Paris-Brest, on the Grande Allee Est. Can you meet me there at one o'clock?" "I'll be there." The Centre des Congres de Quebec on Rene Levesque Boulevard is a four-story, glass-and-steel, state-of-the-art building that can accommodate thousands of conventioneers. At nine o'clock in the morning, the vast halls were crowded with computer experts from all over the world, exchanging information on up-to-the-minute developments. They filled multimedia rooms, exhibit halls and video-conferencing centers. There were half a dozen and seminars going on simultaneously. Toni was bored. All talk and no action, she thought. At 12:45, she slipped out of the convention hall and took a taxi to the restaurant. Jean Claude was waiting for her. He took her hand and said warmly, "Toni, I am so pleased you could come." "So am I." "I will try to make certain that your time here is very agreeable," Jean Claude told her. "This is a beautiful city to explore." Toni looked at him and smiled. "I know I'm going to enjoy it." "I would like to spend as much time with you as I can." "Can you take the time off? What about the jewelry store?" Jean Claude smiled. "It will have to manage without me." The maitre brought menus. Jean Claude said to Toni, "Would you like to try some of our French-Canadian dishes?" "Fine." "Then please let me order for you." He said to the maitre d', "Nous voudrions ie Brome Lake Duckling." He explained to Toni, "It is a local dish, duckling cooked in calvados and stuffed with apples." "Sounds delicious." And it was. During luncheon, they filled each other in on their pasts. "So. You've never been married?" Toni asked. "No. And you?" "No." "You have not found the right man." Oh, God, wouldn't it be wonderful if it were that simple. "No." They talked of Quebec City and what there was to do there. "Do you ski?" Toni nodded. "I love it." "Ah, bon, moi aussi. And there is snowmobiling, ice-skating, wonderful shopping..." There was something almost boyish about his enthusiasm. Toni had never felt more comfortable with anyone. Shane Miller arranged it so his group attended the convention mornings and had their afternoons free. "I don't know what to do here," Alette complained to Toni. "It's freezing. What are you going to do?" "Everything." Toni grinned. "A piu tardi." Toni and Jean Claude had lunch together every day, and every afternoon, Jean Claude took Toni on a tour. She had never seen any place like Quebec City. It was like finding a turn-of-the-century picturesque French village in North America. The ancient streets had colorful names like Break Neck Stairs and Below the Fort and Sailor's Leap. It was a Currier & Ives city, framed in snow. They visited La Citadelle, with its walls protecting Old Quebec, and they watched the traditional changing of the guard inside the walls of the fort. They explored the shopping streets. Saint Jean, Cartier, C6te de la Fabrique, and wandered through the Quartier Petit Champlain. "This is the oldest commercial district in North America," Jean Claude told her. "It's super." Everywhere they went, there were sparkling Christmas trees, nativity scenes and music for the enjoyment of the strollers. Jean Claude took Toni snowmobiling in the countryside. As they raced down a narrow slope, he called out, "Are you having a good time?" Toni sensed that it was not an idle question. She nodded and said softly, "I'm having a wonderful time." Alette spent her time at museums. She visited the Basilica of Notre-Dame and the Good Shepherd Chapel and the Augustine Museum, but she had no interest in anything else that Quebec City offered. There were dozens of gourmet restaurants, but when she was not dining at the hotel, she ate at Le Commensal, a vegetarian cafeteria. From time to time, Alette thought about her artist friend, Richard Melton, in San Francisco, and wondered what he was doing and if he would remember her. Ashley was dreading Christmas. She was tempted to call her father and tell him not to come. But what excuse can I give? You're a murderer. I don't want to see you? And each day Christmas was coming closer. "I would like to show you my jewelry store," Jean Claude told Toni. "Would you care to see it?" Toni nodded. "Love to." Parent Jewelers was located in the heart of Quebec City, on rue Notre-Dame. When she walked in the door, Toni was stunned. On the Internet, Jean Claude had said, "I have a little jewelry store." It was a very large store, tastefully done. Half a dozen clerks were busy with customers. Toni looked around and said, "It's-it's smashing." He smiled. "Merci. I would like to give you a cadeau- a gift, for Christmas." "No. That isn't necessary. I-" "Please do not deprive me of the pleasure." Jean Claude led Toni to a showcase filled with rings. "Tell me what you like." Toni shook her head. "Those are much too expensive. I couldn't-" "Please." Toni studied him a moment, then nodded. "All right." She examined the showcase again. In the center was a large emerald ring set with diamonds. Jean Claude saw her looking at it "Do you like the emerald ring?" "It's lovely, but it's much too-" "It is yours." Jean Claude took out a small key, unlocked the case and pulled out the ring. "No, Jean Claude-" "Pour moi." He slipped it on Toni's finger. It was a perfect fit. "Voila! It is a sign." Toni squeezed his hand. "I-I don't know what to say." "I cannot tell you how much pleasure this gives me. There is a wonderful restaurant here called Pavilion. Would you like to have dinner there tonight?" "Anywhere you say." "I will call for you at eight o'clock." At six o'clock that night, Ashley's father telephoned. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you, Ashley. I won't be able to be there for Christmas. An important patient of mine in South America has had a stroke. I'm flying to Argentina tonight." "I'm-I'm sorry, Father," Ashley said. She tried to sound convincing. "We'll make up for it, won't we, darling?" "Yes, Father. Have a good flight." Toni was looking forward to dinner with Jean Claude. It was going to be a lovely evening. As she dressed, she sang softly to herself. "Up and down the city road, In and out of the Eagle, That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel. " I think Jean Claude is in love with me, Mother. Pavilion is located in the cavernous Gare du Palais, Quebec City's old railroad station. It is a large restaurant with a long bar at the entrance and rows of tables spreading toward the back. At eleven o'clock each night, a dozen tables are moved to the side to create a dance floor, and a disc jockey takes over with a variety of tapes ranging from reggae to jazz to blues. Toni and Jean Claude arrived at nine, and they were warmly greeted at the door by the owner. "Monsieur Parent. How nice to see you." "Thank you, Andre. This is Miss Toni Prescott. Mr. Nicholas." "A pleasure, Miss Prescott. Your table is ready." "The food is excellent here," Jean Claude assured Toni, when they were seated. "Let us start with champagne." They ordered paillard de veau and torpille and salad and a bottle of Valpolicella. Toni kept studying the emerald ring Jean Claude had given her. "It's so beautiful!" she exclaimed. Jean Claude leaned across the table. "Tu aussi. I cannot tell you how happy I am that we have finally met." "I am, too," Toni said softly. The music began. Jean Claude looked at Toni. "Would you like to dance?" "I'd love to." Dancing was one of Toni's passions, and when she got out on the dance floor, she forgot everything else. She was a little girl dancing with her father, and her mother said, "The child is clumsy." Jean Claude was holding her close. "You're a wonderful dancer." "Thank you." Do you hear that, Mother? Toni thought, I wish this could go on forever. On the way back to the hotel, Jean Claude said, "Ch`erie, would you like to stop at my house and have a nightcap?" Toni hesitated. "Not tonight, Jean Claude." "Tomorrow, peut-etre?" She squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow." At 3:00 A.M„ Police Officer Rene Picard was in a squad car cruising down Grande Allee in the Quartier Montcalm when he noticed that the front door of a two-story redbrick house was wide open. He pulled over to the curb and stepped out to investigate. He walked to the front door and called, "Bon soir. Y a-t-il, quelqu'un?" There was no answer. He stepped into the foyer and moved toward the large drawing room. "C'est la police. Y a-t-il, quelqu'un?" There was no response. The house was unnaturally quiet. Unbuttoning his gun holster, Officer Picard began to go through the downstairs rooms, calling out as he moved from room to room. The only response was an eerie silence. He returned to the foyer. There was a graceful staircase leading to the floor above. "Allo!" Nothing. Officer Picard started up the stairs. When he got to the top of the stairs, his gun was in his hand. He called out again, then started down the long hallway. Ahead, a bedroom door was ajar. He walked over to it, opened it wide and turned pale. "Mon Dieu!" At five o'clock that morning, in the gray stone and yellow brick building on Story Boulevard, where Centrale de Police is located. Inspector Paul Cayer was asking, "What do we have?" Officer Guy Fontaine replied, "The victim's name is Jean Claude Parent. He was stabbed at least a dozen times, and his body was castrated. The coroner says that the murder took place in the last three or four hours. We found a restaurant receipt from Pavilion in Parent's jacket pocket. He had dinner there earlier in the evening. - We got the owner of the restaurant out of bed." "Yes?" "Monsieur Parent was at Pavilion with a woman named Toni Prescott, a brunette, very attractive, with an English accent. The manager of Monsieur Parent's jewelry store said that earlier that day. Monsieur Parent had brought a woman answering that description into the store and introduced her as Toni Prescott. He gave her an expensive emerald ring. We also believe that Monsieur Parent had sex with someone before he died, and that the murder weapon was a steel-blade letter opener. There were fingerprints on it. We sent them on to our lab and to the FBI. We are waiting to hear." "Have you picked up Toni Prescott?" "Non." "And why not?" "We cannot find her. We have checked all the local hotels. We have checked our files and the files of the FBI. She has no birth certificate, no social security number, no driver's license." "Impossible! Could she have gotten out of the city?" Officer Fontaine shook his head. "I don't think so, Inspector. The airport closed at midnight. The last train out of Quebec City left at five-thirty-five last night. The first train this morning will be at six-thirty-nine. We have sent a description of her to the bus station, the two taxi companies and the limousine company." "For God's sake, we have her name, her description and her fingerprints. She can't just have disappeared." One hour later, a report came in from the FBI. They were unable to identify the fingerprints. There was no record of Toni Prescott. CHAPTER EIGHT FIVE days after Ashley returned from Quebec City, father was on the telephone. "I just got back." "Back?" It took Ashley a moment to remember. "Oh, Your patient in Argentina. How is he?" "He'll live." "I'm glad." "Can you come up to San Francisco for dinner tomorrow?" She dreaded the thought of facing him, but she could think of no excuse. "All right." "I'll see you at Restaurant Lulu. Eight o'clock." Ashley was waiting at the restaurant when her father walked in. Again, she saw the admiring glances of recognition on people's faces. Her father was a famous man. Would he risk everything he had just to-? He was at the table. "It's good to see you, sweetheart. Sorry about our Christmas dinner." She forced herself to say, "So am I." She was staring at the menu, not seeing it, trying to get her thoughts together. "What would you like?" "I-I'm not really hungry," she said. "You have to eat something. You're getting too thin." "I'll have the chicken." She watched her father as he ordered, and she wondered if she dared to bring up the subject. "How was Quebec City?" "It was very interesting," Ashley said. "It's a beautiful place." "We must go there together sometime." She made a decision and tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. "Yes. By the way... last June I went to my ten-year high school reunion in Bedford." He nodded. "Did you enjoy it?" "No." She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I-I found out that the day after you and I left for London, Jim Cleary's body... was found. He had been stabbed... and castrated." She sat there, watching him, waiting for a reaction. Dr. Patterson frowned. "Cleary? Oh, yes. That boy who was panting after you. I saved you from him, didn't I?" What did that mean? Was it a confession? Had he saved her from Jim Cleary by killing him? Ashley took a deep breath and went on. "Dennis Tibble was murdered the same way. He was stabbed and castrated." She watched her father pick up a roll and carefully butter it. When he spoke, he said, "I'm not surprised, Ashley. Bad people usually come to a bad end." And this was a doctor, a man dedicated to saving lives. I'll never understand him, Ashley thought. I don't think I want to. By the time dinner was over, Ashley was no closer to the truth. Toni said, "I really enjoyed Quebec City, Alette. I'd like to go back someday. Did you have a good time?" Alette said shyly, "I enjoyed the museums." "Have you called your boyfriend in San Francisco yet?" "He's not my boyfriend." "I'll bet you want him to be, don't you?" "Forse. Perhaps." "Why don't you call him?" "I don't think it would be proper to-" "Call him." They arranged to meet at the De Young Museum. "I really missed you," Richard Melton said. "How was Quebec?" "Va bene." "I wish I had been there with you." Maybe one day, Alette thought hopefully. "How is the painting coming along?" "Not bad. I just sold one of my paintings to a really well-known collector." "Fantastic!" She was delighted. And she could not help thinking. It's so different when I'm with him. If it were anyone else, I would have thought, Who is tasteless enough to pay money for your paintings? or Don't give up your day job or a hundred other cruel remarks. But/ don't do that with Richard. It gave Alette an incredible feeling of freedom, as though she had found a cure for some debilitating disease. They had lunch at the museum. "What would you like?" Richard asked. "They have great roast beef here." "I'm a vegetarian. I'll just have a salad. Thank you." "Okay." A young, attractive waitress came over to the table. "Hello, Richard." "Hi, Bernice." Unexpectedly, Alette felt a pang of jealousy. Her reaction surprised her. "Are you ready to order?" "Yes. Miss Peters is going to have a salad, and I'm going to have a roast beef sandwich." The waitress was studying Alette. Is she jealous of me? Alette wondered. When the waitress left, Alette said, "She's very pretty. Do you know her well?" Immediately she blushed. I wish I hadn't asked that. Richard smiled. "I come here a lot. When I first came here, I didn't have much money. I'd order a sandwich, and Bernice would bring me a banquet. She's great." "She seems very nice," Alette said. And she thought, She has fat thighs. After they had ordered, they talked about artists. "One day I want to go to Giverny," Alette said, "where Monet painted." "Did you know Monet started out as a caricaturist?" "No." "It's true. Then he met Boudin, who became his; teacher and persuaded him to start painting out of doors. There's a great story about that. Monet got so hooked on painting out of doors that when he decided to paint a picture of a woman in the garden, with a canvas over eight feet high, he had a trench dug in the garden so he could raise or lower the canvas by pulleys. The picture is hanging at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris." The time went by swiftly and happily. After lunch, Alette and Richard walked around looking at the various exhibits. There were more than forty thousand objects in the collection, everything from ancient Egyptian artifacts to contemporary American paintings. Alette was filled with the wonderment of being with Richard and her complete lack of negative thoughts. Che cosa significa? A uniformed guard approached them. "Good afternoon, Richard." "Afternoon, Brian. This is my friend, Alette Peters. Brian Hill." Brian said to Alette, "Are you enjoying the museum?" "Oh, yes. It's wonderful." "Richard's teaching me to paint," Brian said. Alette looked at Richard. "You are?" Richard said modestly, "Oh, I'm just guiding him little bit." "He's doing more than that, miss. I've always wanted to be a painter. That's why I took this job at the museum because I love art. Anyway, Richard comes here and paints. When I saw his work, I thought, I want to be like him. So I asked him if he'd teach me, and he's been great. Have you seen any of his paintings?" "I have," Alette said. "They're wonderful." When they left him, Alette said, "It's lovely of you to do that, Richard." "I like to do things for people," and he was looking at Alette. When they were walking out of the museum, Richard said, "My roommate is at a party tonight. Why don't we stop up at my place?" He smiled. "I have some paintings I'd like to show you." Alette squeezed his hand. "Not yet, Richard." "Whatever you say. I'll see you next weekend?" "Yes." And he had no idea how much she was looking forward to it. Richard walked Alette to the parking lot where she had parked her car. He waved good-bye as she drove off. * * * As Alette was going to sleep that night, she thought. It's like a miracle. Richard has freed me. She fell asleep, earning of him. At two o'clock in the morning, Richard Melton's roommate, Gary, returned from a birthday party. The apartment was dark. He switched on the lights in the living room. "Richard?" He started toward the bedroom. At the door he looked inside and was sick to his stomach. "Calm down, son." Detective Whittier looked at the shivering figure in the chair. "Now, let's go over it again. Did he have any enemies, someone mad enough at him to do this?" Gary swallowed. "No. Everyone... everyone liked Richard." "Someone didn't. How long have you and Richard lived together?" "Two years." "Were you lovers?" "For God's sake," Gary said indignantly. "No. We were friends. We lived together for financial reasons." Detective Whittier looked around the small apartment. "Sure as hell wasn't a burglary," he said. "There's nothing here to steal. Was your roommate seeing anyone romantically?" "No- Well, yes. There was a girl he was interested in. I think he was really starting to like her." "Do you know her name?" "Yes. Alette. Alette Peters. She works in Cupertino." Detective Whittier and Detective Reynolds looked at each other. "Cupertino?" "Jesus," Reynolds said. Thirty minutes later, Detective Whittier was on the phone with Sheriff Dowling. "Sheriff, I thought you might be interested to know that we have a murder here that's the same M.O. as the case you had in Cupertino- multiple stab wounds and castration." "My God!" "I just had a talk with the FBI. Their computer shows that there have been three previous castration killings very similar to this one. The first one happened in Bedford, Pennsylvania, about ten years ago, the next one was a man named Dennis Tibble-that was your case-then there was the same M.O. in Quebec City, and now this one." "It doesn't make sense. Pennsylvania... Cupertino... Quebec City... San Francisco... Is there any link?" "We're trying to find one. Quebec requires passports. The FBI is doing a cross-check to see if anyone who was in Quebec City around Christmas was in any of the other cities at the times of the murders. " When the media got wind of what was happening, their stories were splashed across the front pages across the world: SERIAL KILLER LOOSE... QUATRES HOMMES BRUTALEMENT TUES ET CASTRES… SUCHT WIRD EIN MANN DER SEINE OFFER KAS-TRIERT... QUATTRO UOMINI SONO STATI CASTRATI E UCCISI. On the networks, self-important psychologists analyzed the killings. "... and all the victims were men. Because of the way they were stabbed and castrated, it is undoubtedly the work of a homosexual who. " "...so if the police can find a connection between the victims, they will probably discover that it was the work of a lover the men had all scorned. " "... but I would say they were random killings committed by someone who had a dominating mother. " Saturday morning, Detective Whittier called deputy Blake from San Francisco. "Deputy, I have an update for you." "Go ahead." "I just got a call from the FBI. Cupertino is listed as the residence of an American who was in Quebec on the date of the Parent murder." "That's interesting. What's his name?" "Her. Patterson. Ashley Patterson." At six o'clock that evening, deputy Sam Blake rang the bell at Ashley Patterson's apartment. Through the closed door he heard her call out cautiously, "Who is it?" "Deputy Blake. I'd like to talk to you. Miss Patterson". There was a long silence, then the door opened. Ashley was standing there, looking wary. "May I come in?" "Yes, of course." Is this about Father? I must be careful. Ashley led the deputy to a couch. "What can I do for you, Deputy?" "Would you mind answering a few questions?" Ashley shifted uncomfortably. "I-I don't know. Am I under suspicion for something?" He smiled reassuringly. "Nothing like that. Miss Patterson. This is just routine. We're investigating some murders." "I don't know anything about any murders," she said quickly. Too quickly? "You were in Quebec City recently, weren't you?" "Yes." "Are you acquainted with Jean Claude Parent?" "Jean Claude Parent?" She thought for a moment, "No. I've never heard of him. Who is he?" "He owns a jewelry store in Quebec City." Ashley shook her head. "I didn't do any jewelry shopping in Quebec." "You worked with Dennis Tibble." Ashley felt the fear beginning to rise again. This was about her father. She said cautiously, "I didn't work with him. He worked for the same company." "Of course. You go into San Francisco occasionally, don't you. Miss Patterson?" Ashley wondered where this was leading. Careful. "From time to time, yes." "Did you ever meet an artist there named Richard Melton?" "No. I don't know anyone by that name." Deputy Blake sat there studying Ashley, frustrated. "Miss Patterson, would you mind coming down to headquarters and taking a polygraph test? If you want to, you can call your lawyer and-" "I don't need a lawyer. I'll be glad to take a test." The polygraph expert was a man named Keith Rosson, and he was one of the best. He had had to cancel a dinner ate, but he was happy to oblige Sam Blake. Ashley was seated in a chair, wired to the polygraph chine. Rosson had already spent forty-five minutes chatting with her, getting background information and evaluating her emotional state. Now he was ready to begin. "Are you comfortable?" "Yes." "Good. Let's start." He pressed a button. "What's your name?" "Ashley Patterson." Rosson's eyes kept darting between Ashley and the polygraph printout. "How old are you. Miss Patterson?" "Twenty-eight." "Where do you live?" "10964 Via Camino Court in Cupertino." "Are you employed?" "Yes." "Do you like classical music?" "Yes." "Do you know Richard Melton?" "No." There was no change on the graph. "Where do you work?" "At Global Computer Graphics Corporation." "Do you enjoy your job?" "Yes." "Do you work five days a week?" "Yes." "Have you ever met Jean Claude Parent?" "No." Still no change on the graph. "Did you have breakfast this morning?" "Yes." "Did you kill Dennis Tibble?" "No." The questions continued for another thirty minutes and were repeated three times, in a different order. When the session was over, Keith Rosson walked in Sam Blake's office and handed him the polygraph test "Clean as a whistle. There's a less than one percent chance that she's lying. You've got the wrong person." Ashley left police headquarters, giddy with relief. Thank God it's over. She had been terrified that they might ask questions that would involve her father, but that had not happened. No one can connect Father with any of this now. She parked her car in the garage and took the elevator up to her apartment floor. She unlocked the door, went inside and carefully locked the door behind her. She felt drained, and at the same time, elated. A nice hot bath, Ashley thought. She walked into the bathroom and turned dead white. On her bathroom mirror, someone had scrawled in bright red lipstick YOU WILL DIE. CHAPTER NINE She was fighting hysteria. Her fingers were trembling so hard that she dialed three times trying to reach the number. She took a deep breath and tried again. Two... nine... nine... two... one... zero... one... The phone began to ring. "Sheriff's Office." "Deputy Blake, please. Hurry!" "Deputy Blake has gone home. Can someone else-?' "No! I- Would you ask him to call me? This is Ashley Patterson. I need to talk to him right away." "Let me put you on hold, miss, and I'll see if I reach him." Deputy Sam Blake was patiently listening to his wife Serena, screaming at him. "My brother works you a horse, day and night, and he doesn't give you enough money to support me decently. Why don't you demand a raise? Why?" They were at the dinner table. "Would you pass the potatoes, dear?" Serena reached over and slammed the dish of potatoes in front of her husband. "The trouble is that they don't appreciate you." "You're right, dear. May I have some gravy?" "Aren't you listening to what I'm saying?" she yelled. "Every word, my love. This dinner is delicious. You're a great cook." "How can I fight you, you bastard, if you won't fight back?" He took a mouthful of veal. "It's because I love you, darling." The telephone rang. "Excuse me." He got up and picked up the receiver. "Hello... Yes... Put her trough. Miss Patterson?" He could hear her sobbing. "Something-something terrible has happened. You've got to come over here right away." "I'm on my way." Serena got to her feet. "What? You're going out? We are in the middle of dinner!" "It's an emergency, darling. I'll be back as soon as I can." She watched him strap on his gun. He leaned over kissed her. "Wonderful dinner." * * * Ashley opened the door for him the instant he arrived. Her cheeks were tear stained. She was shivering. Sam Blake stepped into the apartment, looking around warily. "Is anyone else here?" "S-someone was here." She was fighting for self-control. "L-look...." She led him to the bathroom. Deputy Blake read the words on the mirror out loud: "You will die." He turned to Ashley. "Do you have any idea who could have written that?" "No," Ashley said. "This is my apartment. No one else has a key.... And someone has been coming in here. Someone's been following me. Someone's planning to kill me." She burst into tears. "I can't s-stand this any longer." She was sobbing uncontrollably. Deputy Blake put his arm around her and patted her shoulder. "Come on. It's going to be all right. We'll give you protection, and we'll find out who's behind this." Ashley took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I-I don't usually carry on like this. It's-it's just been horrible." "Let's talk," Sam Blake said. She managed to force a smile. "All right." "How about a nice cup of tea?" They sat talking over cups of hot tea. "When did all this start, Miss Patterson?" "About-about six months ago. I felt I was being followed. At first it was just a vague feeling, but then it began to grow. I knew I was being followed, but I couldn't see anyone. Then at work, someone got into my computer and drew a picture of a hand with a knife in it trying to-to stab me." "And do you have any idea who it could have been?" "No." "You said someone has gotten into this apartment before today?" "Yes. Once, someone turned on all the lights when I was gone. Another time I found a cigarette butt on my dressing table. I don't smoke. And someone opened a drawer and went through my... my underwear." She took a deep breath. "And now. this." "Do you have any boyfriends who might feel rejected?" Ashley shook her head. "No." "Have you had any business dealings where somebody's lost money because of you?" "No." "No threats from anyone?" "No." She thought of telling him about the lost weekend in Chicago, but that might involve mentioning her father. She decided to say nothing. "I don't want to be alone here tonight," Ashley said. "All right. I'll call the station and have them send someone here to-" "No! Please! I'm afraid to trust anyone else. Could you stay here with me, just until morning?" "I don't think I-" "Oh, please." She was trembling. He looked into her eyes and thought he had never seen anyone so terrified. "Isn't there someplace you could stay tonight? Don't you have any friends who-?" "What if it's one of my friends who's doing this?" He nodded. "Right. I'll stay. In the morning, I'll arrange for twenty-four-hour protection for you." "Thank you." Her voice was filled with relief. He patted Ashley's hand. "And don't worry. I promise you that we'll get to the bottom of this. Let me call Sheriff Dowling and tell him what's going on." He spoke on the phone for five minutes, and when he bung up, he said, "I'd better call my wife." "Of course." Deputy Blake picked up the telephone again and dialed. "Hello, darling. I won't be home tonight, so why don't you watch some tel-?" "You won't what? Where are you, with one of your cheap whores?" Ashley could hear her screaming over the phone. "Serena-" "You're not fooling me." "Serena- " "That's all you men think about-getting laid." "Serena-" "Well, I won't put up with it any longer." "Serena-" "That's the thanks I get for being such a go wife. " The one-sided conversation went on for another ten minutes. Finally, Deputy Blake replaced the receiver a turned to Ashley, embarrassed. "I'm sorry about that. She's not like that." Ashley looked at him and said, "I understand." "No-I mean it. Serena acts that way because she's scared." "Ashley looked at him curiously. "Scared?" He was silent for a moment. "Serena is dying. She has cancer. It was in remission for a while. It first started about seven years ago. We've been married for five years." "So you knew...?" "Yes. It didn't matter. I love her." He stopped. "It's gotten worse lately. She's scared because she's afraid to die and she's afraid I'll leave her. All the yelling is a cover-up to hide that fear." "I'm-I'm so sorry." "She's a wonderful person. Inside, she's gentle and caring and loving. That's the Serena I know." Ashley said, "I'm sorry if I caused any-" "Not at all." He looked around. Ashley said, "There's just the one bedroom. You can take it, and I'll sleep on the couch." Deputy Blake shook his head. "The couch will be fine for me." Ashley said, "I can't tell you how grateful I am." "No problem. Miss Patterson." He watched her go into a linen closet and take out sheets and blankets. She walked over to the couch and spread the linen out. "I hope that you'll-" "Perfect. I don't plan on doing much sleeping, anyway." He checked the windows to make sure they were locked and then walked over to the door and double-bolted it. "All right." He placed his gun on the table next to the couch. "You get a good night's sleep. In the morning, we'll get everything organized." Ashley nodded. She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you." Deputy Blake watched her walk into the bedroom and close the door. He walked back to the windows and checked them again. It was going to be a long night. At FBI headquarters in Washington, Special Agent Ra-mirez was talking to Roland Kingsley, the chief of his section. "We have the fingerprints and DNA reports found at the murder scenes in Bedford, Cupertino, Quebec, and San Francisco. We just got in the final DNA report. The fingerprints from the scenes all match, and the DNA traces match." Kingsley nodded. "So it's definitely a serial killer." "No question." "Let's find the bastard." At six o'clock in the morning, deputy Sam Blake's naked body was found by the wife of the building superintendent in the alley that ran behind Ashley Patterson's apartment building. He had been stabbed to death and castrated. CHAPTER TEN THERE were five of them: Sheriff Dowling, two plain-clothes detectives and two uniformed policemen. They stood in the living room watching Ashley, sitting in a chair, weeping hysterically. Sheriff Dowling said, "You're the only one who can help us. Miss Patterson." Ashley looked up at the men and nodded. She took several deep breaths. "I'll- I'll try." "Let's start at the beginning. Deputy Blake spent the night here?" "Y-yes. I asked him to. I-I was desperately afraid." "This apartment has one bedroom." "That's right." "Where did deputy Blake sleep?" Ashley pointed to the couch, which had a blanket and a pillow on it. "He-he spent the night there." "What time did you go to bed?" Ashley thought for a moment "It-it must have been around midnight. I was nervous. We had some tea and talked for a while, and I felt calmer. I brought out blankets and a pillow for him, then I went into my bedroom." She was fighting for self-control. "Was that the last time you saw him?" "Yes." "And you went to sleep?" "Not immediately. I finally took a sleeping pill. The next thing I remember, I was awakened by a woman's screams coming from the alley." She began to tremble. "Do you think someone came into this apartment and lolled deputy Blake?" "I-I don't know," Ashley said desperately. "Someone has been getting in here. They even wrote a threatening message on my mirror." "He told me about that on the telephone." "He might have beard something and-and gone outside to investigate," Ashley said. Sheriff Dowling shook his head. "I don't think he would have gone out naked." Ashley cried. "I don't know! I don't know! It's a I nightmare." She covered her eyes with her hands. Sheriff Dowling said, "I'd like to look around the apartment. Do I need a search warrant?" "Of course not G-go ahead." Sheriff Dowling nodded to the detectives. One them went into the bedroom. The other one went into the kitchen. "What did you and deputy Blake talk about?" Ashley took a deep breath. "I-I told him about- about the things that have been happening to me. He was very-" She looked up at the sheriff. "Why would anyone kill him? Why?" "I don't know. Miss Patterson. We're going to find out." Lieutenant Elton, the detective who had gone into the kitchen, stood in the doorway. "Could I see you for a moment, Sheriff?" "Excuse me." Sheriff Dowling walked into the kitchen. "What?" Lieutenant Eiton said, "I found this in the sink." He was holding up a bloodstained butcher knife by the edge of the blade. "It hasn't been washed. I think we're going to get some prints." Kostoff, the second detective, came in from the bed-room and hurried into the kitchen. He was holding an emerald ring, mounted with diamonds. "I found this in jewelry box in the bedroom. It fits the description we got from Quebec of the ring that Jean Claude Parent gave to Toni Prescott." The three men were looking at one another. "This doesn't make any sense," the sheriff said. Gingerly, he took the butcher knife and the ring and walked back into the living room. He held out the knife and said, "Miss Patterson, is this your knife?" Ashley looked at it. "I- Yes. It could be. Why?" Sheriff Dowling held out the ring. "Have you ever seen this ring before?" Ashley looked at it and shook her head. "No." "We found it in your jewelry box." They watched her expression. She was completely bewildered. She whispered, "I- Someone must have put it there. " "Who would do a thing like that?" Her face was pale. "I don't know." A detective walked in the front door. "Sheriff?" "Yes, Baker?" He motioned the detective over to a corner. "What have you got?" "We found bloodstains on the corridor rug and in the elevator. It looks like the body was laid on a sheet, dragged into the elevator and dumped in the alley." "Holy shit!" Sheriff Dowling turned to Ashley. "Miss Patterson, you're under arrest. I'm going to read you your rights. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You are entitled to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the courts." When they reached the sheriff's office. Sheriff Dowling said, "Fingerprint her and book her." Ashley went through the procedure like an automaton. When it was finished, Sheriff Dowling said, "You have the right to make one phone call." Ashley looked up at him and said dully, "I have no one to call. "I can't call my father. Sheriff Dowling watched Ashley being led into a cell. "I'll be goddamned if I understand it. Did you see her polygraph test? I would swear she's innocent." Detective Kostoff walked in. "Sam had sex before he died. We ran an ultraviolet light over his body and the sheet he was wrapped in. We got a positive result for semen and vaginal stains. We-" Sheriff Dowling groaned. "Hold it!" He had been putting off the moment when he would have to give his sister the news. It had to be done now. He sighed and said, "I'll be back." Twenty minutes later, he was at Sam's house. "Well, this is an unexpected pleasure," Serena said. "Is Sam with you?" "No, Serena. I have to ask you a question." This was going to be difficult. She was looking at him curiously. "Yes?" "Did-did you and Sam have sex within the last twenty-four hours?" The expression on her face changed. "What? We... No. Why do you want to-? Sam's not coming back, is he?" "I hate to tell you this, but he-" "He left me for her, didn't he? I knew it would happen. I don't blame him. I was a terrible wife to him. I-" "Serena, Sam's dead." "I was always yelling at him. I really didn't mean it. I remember-" He took her by the arms. "Serena, Sam's dead." "One time we were going out to the beach and-" He was shaking her. "Listen to me. Sam is dead." "-and we were going to have a picnic." As he looked at her, he realized that she had heard him. "So we're at the beach and this man comes up and says, 'Give me your money.' And Sam says, 'Let me see your gun.' " Sheriff Dowling stood there and let her talk. She was in a state of shock, in complete denial. "... that was Sam. Tell me about this woman he went away with. Is she pretty? Sam tells me I'm pretty all the time, but I know I'm not. He says it to make me feel good because he loves me. He'll never leave me. He'll be back. You'll see. He loves me." She went on talking. Sheriff Dowling went to the phone and dialed a number. "Get a nurse over here." He went over and put his arms around his sister. "Everything's going to be all right." "Did I tell you about the time that Sam and I-?" Fifteen minutes later, a nurse arrived. "Take good care of her," Sheriff Dowling said. There was a conference in Sheriff Dowling's office. "There's a call for you on line one." Sheriff Dowling picked up the phone. "Yeah?" "Sheriff, this is Special Agent Ramirez at FBI headquarters in Washington. We have some information for you on the serial killer case. We didn't have any prints on file for Ashley Patterson because she had no criminal record, and before 1988, the DMV didn't require thumb-prints in the state of California to get a driver's license." "Go ahead." "In the beginning, we thought it had to be a computer glitch, but we checked it out and..." For the next five minutes, Sheriff Dowling sat there listening, an incredulous expression on his face. When he finally spoke, he said, "Are you sure there's no mistake? It doesn't seem... All of them... ? I see.... Thank you very much." He replaced the receiver and sat there for a long moment. Then he looked up. "That was the FBI lab in Washington. They've finished cross-checking the fingerprints on the bodies of the victims. Jean Claude Parent in Quebec was seeing an English woman named Toni Prescott when he was murdered." "Yes." "Richard Melton in San Francisco was seeing an Italian lady named Alette Peters when he was killed." They nodded. "And last night Sam Blake was with Ashley Patterson." "Right." Sheriff Dowling took a deep breath. "Ashley Patterson..." "Yes?" "Toni Prescott..." "Yes?" "Alette Peters..." "Yes?" "They're all the same fucking person." BOOK TWO CHAPTER ELEVEN ROBERT Crowther, the real estate broker from Bryan & Crowther, opened the door with a flourish and announced, "Here's the terrace. You can look down on Coit Tower from here." He watched the young husband and wife step outside and walk over to the balustrade. The view from there was magnificent, the city of San Francisco spread out far below them in a spectacular panorama. Robert Crowther saw the couple exchange a glance and a secret smile, and he was amused. They were trying to bide their excitement. The pattern was always the same: Prospective buyers believed that if they showed too much enthusiasm, the price would go up. For this duplex penthouse, Crowther thought wryly, the price is high enough already. He was concerned about whether the couple could afford it. The man was a lawyer, and young lawyers did not make that much. They were an attractive couple, obviously very much in love. David Singer was in his early thirties, blond and intelligent-looking, with an engaging boyishness about him. His wife, Sandra, was lovely looking and warm. Robert Crowther had noticed the bulge around her stomach and had said, "The second guest room would be perfect for a nursery. There's a playground a block away and two schools in the neighborhood." He had watched them exchange that secret smile again. The duplex penthouse consisted of an upstairs master bedroom with a bath and a guest room. On the first floor was a spacious living room, a dining room, a library, a kitchen, a second guest bedroom and two bathrooms. Almost every room had a view of the city. Robert watched the two of them as they walked through the apartment again. They stood in a corner whispering. "I love it," Sandra was saying to David. "And it would be great for the baby. But, darling, can we afford it? It's six hundred thousand dollars!" "Plus maintenance," David added. "The bad news is that we can't afford it today. The good news is that we're going to be able to afford it on Thursday. The genie is coming out of the magic bottle, and our lives are going to change." "I know," she said happily. "Isn't it wonderful!" "Should we go ahead with it?" Sandra took a deep breath. "Let's go for it." David grinned, waved a hand and said, "Welcome home. Miss. Singer." Arm in arm, they walked over to where Robert Crowther was waiting. "We'll take it," David told him. "Congratulations. It's one of the choicest residences in San Francisco. You're going to be very happy here." "I'm sure we are." "You're lucky. I have to tell you, we have a few other people who are very interested in it." "How much of a down payment will you want?" "A deposit of ten thousand dollars now will be fine. I'll have the papers drawn up. When you sign, we'll require another sixty thousand dollars. Your bank can work out a schedule of monthly payments on a twenty-or thirty-year mortgage." David glanced at Sandra. "Okay." "I'll have the papers prepared." "Can we look around once more?" Sandra asked eagerly. Crowther smiled benevolently. "Take all the time you want, Mrs. Singer. It's yours." "It all seems like a wonderful dream, David. I can't believe it's really happening." "It's happening." David took her in his arms. "I want to make all your dreams come true." "You do, darling." They had been living in a small, two-bedroom apartment in the Marina District, but with the baby coming, it was going to be crowded. Until now, they could never have afforded the duplex on Nob Hill, but Thursday was partnership day at the international law firm of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, where David worked. Out of a possible twenty-five candidates, six would be chosen to enter the rarefied air of the firm's partnership, and everyone agreed that David was one of those who would be selected. Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, with offices in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris and Tokyo, was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world, and it was usually the number one target for graduates of all the top law schools. The firm used the stick-and-carrot approach on their young associates. The senior partners took merciless advantage of them, disregarding their hours and illnesses and handing the younger lawyers the donkey's work that they themselves did not want to be bothered with. It was a heavy pressure, twenty-four-hour-a-day job. That was the stick. Those who stayed on did so because of the carrot. The carrot was the promise of a partnership in the firm. Becoming a partner meant a larger salary, a piece of the huge corporate-profit pie, a spacious office with a view, a private washroom, assignments overseas and myriad other perks. David had practiced corporate law with Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley for six years, and it had been a mixed blessing. The hours were horrific and the stress was enormous, but David, determined to hang in there for the partnership, had stayed and had done a brilliant job. Now the day was finally at hand. When David and Sandra left the real estate agent, they went shopping. They bought a bassinet, highchair, stroller, playpen and clothes for the baby, whom they were already thinking of as Jeffrey. "Let's get him some toys," David said. "There's plenty of time for that." Sandra laughed. After shopping, they wandered around the city, walking along the waterfront at Ghirardelli Square, past the Cannery to Fisherman's Wharf. They had lunch at the American Bistro. It was Saturday, a perfect San Francisco day for monogrammed leather briefcases and power ties, dark suits and discreetly monogrammed shirts, a day for power lunches and penthouses. A lawyer's day. David and Sandra had met three years earlier at a small dinner party. David had gone to the party with the daughter of a client of the firm. Sandra was a paralegal, working for a rival firm. At dinner, Sandra and David had gotten into an argument about a decision that had been rendered in a political case in Washington. As the others at the dinner table watched, the argument between the two of them had become more and more heated. And in the middle of it, David and Sandra realized that neither of them cared about the court's decision. They were showing off for each other, engaged in a verbal mating dance. David telephoned Sandra the next day. "I'd like to finish discussing that decision," David said. "I think it's important." "So do I," Sandra agreed. "Could we talk about it at dinner tonight?" Sandra hesitated. She had already made a dinner date for that evening. "Yes," she said. "Tonight will be fine." They were together from that night on. One year from the day they met, they were married. Joseph Kincaid, the firm's senior partner, had given David the weekend off. David's salary at Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley was $45,000 a year. Sandra kept her job as a paralegal. But now, with the baby coming, their expenses were about to go up. "I'll have to give up my job in a few months," Sandra said. "I don't want a nanny bringing up our baby, darling. I want to be here for him." The sonogram had shown that the baby was a boy. "We'll be able to handle it," David assured her. The partnership was going to transform their lives. David had begun to put in even longer hours. He wanted to make sure that he was not overlooked on partnership day. Thursday morning, as David got dressed, he was watching the news on television. An anchorman was saying breathlessly, "We have a breaking story.... Ashley Patterson, the daughter of the prominent San Francisco doctor Steven Patterson, has been arrested as the suspected serial killer the police and the FBI have been searching for...." David stood in front of the television set, frozen. "... last night Santa Clara County Sheriff Matt Dowling announced Ashley Patterson's arrest for a series of murders that included bloody castrations. Sheriff Dowling told reporters, 'There's no doubt that we have the right person. The evidence is conclusive.' " Dr. Steven Patterson. David's mind went back, remembering the past... He was twenty-one years old and just starting law school. He came home from class one day to find his mother on the bedroom floor, unconscious. He called 911, and an ambulance took his mother to San Francisco Memorial Hospital. David waited outside the emergency room until a doctor came to talk to him. "Is she-Is she going to be all right?" The doctor hesitated. "We had one of our cardiologists examine her. She has a ruptured cord in her mitral valve." "What does that mean?" David demanded. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for her. She's too weak to have a transplant, and mini heart surgery is new and too risky." David felt suddenly faint "How-how long can she-?" "I'd say a few more days, maybe a week. I'm sorry, son." David stood there, panicky. "Isn't there anyone who can help her?" "I'm afraid not. The only one who might have been able to help is Steven Patterson, bat he's a very-" "Who's Steven Patterson?" "Dr. Patterson pioneered minimally invasive heart surgery. But between his schedule and his research, there's no chance that-" David was gone. He called Dr. Patterson's office from a pay phone in the hospital corridor. "I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Patterson. It's for my mother. She-" "I'm sorry. We're not accepting any new appointments. The first available time would be six months from now." "She doesn't have six months," David shouted. "I'm sorry. I can refer you to-" David slammed down the phone. The following morning David went to Dr. Patterson's office. The waiting room was crowded. David walked up to the receptionist. "I'd like to make an appointment to see Dr. Patterson. My mother's very ill and-" She looked up at him and said, "You called yesterday, didn't you?" "Yes." "I told you then. We don't have any appointments open, and we're not making any just now." "I'll wait," David said stubbornly. "You can't wait. The doctor is-" David took a seat. He watched the people in the waiting room being called into the inner office one by one until finally he was the only one left. At six o'clock, the receptionist said, "There's no point in waiting any longer. Dr. Patterson has gone home." David went to visit his mother in intensive care that evening. "You can only stay a minute," a nurse warned him. "She's very weak." David stepped inside the room, and his eyes filled with tears. His mother was attached to a respirator with tubes running into her arms and through her nose. She looked whiter than the sheets she lay on. Her eyes were closed. David moved close to her and said, "It's me, Mom. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're going to be fine." Tears were running down his cheeks. "Do you hear me? We're going to fight this thing. Nobody can lick the two of us, not as long as we're together. I'm going to get you the best doctor in the world. You just hang in there. I'll be back tomorrow." He bent down and gently kissed her cheek. Will she be alive tomorrow? The following afternoon, David went to the garage in the basement of the building where Dr. Patterson had his offices. An attendant was parking cars. He came up to David. "May I help you?" "I'm waiting for my wife," David said. "She's seeing Dr. Patterson." The attendant smiled. "He's a great guy." "He was telling us about some fancy car that he owns." David paused, trying to remember. "Was it a Cadillac?" The attendant shook his head. "No." He pointed to a Rolls-Royce parked in the corner. "It's that Rolls over there." David said, "Right. I think he said he has a Cadillac, too." "Wouldn't surprise me," the attendant said. He hurried off to park an incoming car. David walked casually toward the Rolls. When he was sure no one was watching, he opened the door, slipped into the backseat and got down on the floor. He lay there, cramped and uncomfortable, willing Dr. Patterson to come out At 6:15, David felt a slight jar as the front door of the car opened and someone moved into the driver's seat. He heard the engine start, and then the car began to move. "Good night. Dr. Patterson." "Good night, Marco." The car left the garage, and David felt it turn a corner. He waited for two minutes, then took a deep breath and sat up. Dr. Patterson saw him in the rearview mirror. He said calmly, "If this is a holdup, I have no cash with me." "Turn onto a side street and pull over to the curb." Dr. Patterson nodded. David watched warily as the doctor turned the car onto a side street, pulled over to the curb and stopped. "I'll give you what cash I have on me," Dr. Patterson said. "You can take the car. There's no need for violence. If-" David had slid into the front seat. "This isn't a holdup. I don't want the car." Dr. Patterson was looking at him with annoyance. "What the hell do you want?" "My name is Singer. My mother's dying. I want you to save her." There was a flicker of relief on Dr. Patterson's face, replaced by a look of anger. "Make an appointment with my-" "There's no time to make a goddamn appointment" David was yelling. "She's going to die, and I'm not going to let that happen." He was fighting to control himself. "Please. The other doctors told me you're the only hope we have." Dr. Patterson was watching him, still wary. "What's her problem?" "She has a-a ruptured cord in her mitral valve. The doctors are afraid to operate. They say that you're the only one who can save her life." Dr. Patterson shook his head. "My schedule-" "I don't give a shit about your schedule! This is my mother. You've got to save her! She's all have. " There was a long silence. David sat there, his eyes tightly shut. He heard Dr. Patterson's voice. "I won't promise a damn thing, but I'll see her. Where is she?" David turned to look at him. "She's in the intensive care unit at San Francisco Memorial Hospital." "Meet me there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning." David had difficulty finding his voice. "I don't know how to-" "Remember, I'm not promising anything. And don't appreciate being scared out of my wits, young man. Next time, try the telephone." David sat there, rigid. Dr. Patterson looked at him. "What?" "There's another problem." "Oh, really?" "I-I don't have any money. I'm a law student, and I'm working my way through law school." Dr. Patterson was staring at him. David said passionately, "I swear I'll find a way to pay you back. If it takes all my life, I'll see that you get paid know how expensive you are, and I-" "I don't think you do, son." "I have no one else to torn to, Dr. Patterson. I-I'm begging you." There was another silence. "How many years of law school have you had?" "None. I'm just starting." "But you expect to be able to pay me back?" "I swear it." "Get the hell out." When David got home, he was certain he was going to be picked up by the police for kidnapping, threatening bodily harm, God only knew what. But nothing happened. The question in his mind was whether Dr. Patterson was going to show up at the hospital. When David walked into the intensive care ward the next morning. Dr. Patterson was there, examining David's mother. David watched, his heart pounding, his throat dry. Dr. Patterson turned to one of a group of doctors standing there. "Get her up to the operating room, Al. Stat!" As they started to slide David's mother onto a gurney, David said hoarsely, "Is she-?" "We'll see." Six hours later, David was in the waiting room when Dr. Patterson approached him. David jumped to his feet. "How is-?" He was afraid to finish the question. "She's going to be fine. Your mother's a strong lady." David stood there, filled with an overpowering sense of relief. He breathed a silent prayer. Thank you, God. Dr. Patterson was watching him. "I don't even know your first name." "David, sir." "Well, David sir, do you know why decided to do this?" "No..." "Two reasons. Your mother's condition was a challenge for me. I like challenges. The second reason was you." "I-I don't understand." "What you did was the kind of thing I might have done myself when I was younger. You showed imagination. Now"-his tone changed-"you said you were going to repay me." David's heart sank. "Yes, sir. One day-" "How about now?" David swallowed. "Now?" "I'll make you a deal. Do you know how to drive?" "Yes, sir..." "All right. I get tired of driving that big car around. You drive me to work every morning and pick me up at six or seven o'clock every evening for one year. At the end of that time, I'll consider my fee paid. " That was the deal. David drove Dr. Patterson to the office and back home every day, and in exchange. Dr. Patterson saved the life of David's mother. During that year, David learned to revere Dr. Patterson. Despite the doctor's occasional outbursts of temper, he was the most selfless man David had ever known. He was heavily involved in charity work and donated his spare time to free clinics. Driving to and from the office or hospital, he and David had long talks. "What kind of law are you studying, David?" "Criminal law." "Why? So you can help the damn scoundrels get off scot-free?" "No, sir. There are a lot of honest people caught up in the law who need help want to help them." When the year was up. Dr. Patterson shook David's hand and said, "We're even. " David had not seen Steven Patterson in years, but he kept coming across his name. "Dr. Steven Patterson opened a free clinic for babies with AIDS. " "Dr. Steven Patterson arrived in Kenya today to open the Patterson Medical Center. " "Work on the Patterson Charity Shelter began today. " He seemed to be everywhere, donating his time and his money to those who needed him. Sandra's voice shook David out of his reverie. "David. Are you all right?" He turned away from the television set "They've just arrested Steven Patterson's daughter for those serial killings." Sandra said, "That's terrible! I'm so sorry, darling." "He gave Mother seven more years of a wonderful life. It's unfair that anything like that should happen to a man like him. He's the greatest gentleman I've ever known, Sandra. He doesn't deserve this. How could he have a monster like that for a daughter?" He looked at his watch. "Damn! I'm going to be late." "You haven't had breakfast." "I'm too upset to eat." He glanced toward the television set. "This... and today's partnership day. " "You're going to get it. There's no question about." "There's always a question about it, honey. Every year, someone who's supposed to be a shoo-in winds up in the loser's box." She bugged him and said, "They'll be lucky to have you." He leaned over and kissed her. "Thanks, baby. I don't know what I'd do without you." "You'll never have to. You'll call me as soon as you get the news, won't you, David?" "Of course I will. We'll go out and celebrate." And the words reverberated in his mind. Years ago, he had said to someone else, "We'll go out and celebrate. " And he had lolled her. The offices of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley occupied three floors in the TransAmerica Pyramid in downtown San Francisco. When David Singer walked through the doors, he was greeted with knowing smiles. It seemed to him that there was even a different quality in the "good mornings." They knew they were addressing a future partner in the firm. On the way to his small office, David passed the newly decorated office that would belong to one of the chosen partners, and he could not resist looking inside. It was a large, beautiful office with a private washroom, a desk and chairs facing a picture window with a magnificent view of the Bay. He stood there a moment, drinking it in. When David walked into his office, his secretary, Holly, said, "Good morning, Mr. Singer." There was a lilt in her voice. "Good morning, Holly." "I have a message for you." "Yes?" "Mr. Kincaid would like to see you in his office at five o'clock." She broke into a broad smile. So it was really happening. "Great!" She moved closer to David and said, "I think I should also tell you, I had coffee with Dorothy, Mr. Kincaid's secretary, this morning. She says you're at the top of the list." David grinned. "Thanks, Holly." "Would you like some coffee?" "Love it." "Hot and strong, coming up." David walked over to his desk. It was heaped with briefs and contracts and files. Today was the day. Finally. "Mr. Kincaid would like to see you in his office at five o'clock.... You're at the top of the list." He was tempted to telephone Sandra with the news. Something held him back. I'll wait until it happens, he thought. David spent the next two hours dealing with the material on his desk. At eleven o'clock. Holly came in. "There's a Dr. Patterson here to see you. He has no app-" He looked up in surprise. "Dr. Patterson is here?" "Yes." David rose. "Send him in." Steven Patterson came in, and David tried to conceal his reaction. The doctor looked old and tired. "Hello, David." "Dr. Patterson. Please, sit down." David watched him slowly take a chair. "I saw the news this morning. I-can't tell you how very sorry I am." Dr. Patterson nodded wearily. "Yes. It's been quite a blow." He looked up. "I need your help, David." "Of course," David said eagerly. "Anything I can do. Anything." "I want you to represent Ashley." It took a moment for the words to sink in. "I-I can't do that I'm not a criminal defense lawyer." Dr. Patterson looked him in the eye and said, "Ashley's not a criminal." "I-You don't understand, Dr. Patterson. I'm a corporate lawyer. I can recommend an excellent-" "I've already had calls from half a dozen top criminal defense lawyers. They all want to represent her." He leaned forward in his chair. "But they're not interested in my daughter, David. This is a high-profile case, and they're looking for the limelight. They don't give a damn about her. I do. She's all I have." "I want you to save my mother's life. She's all I have." David said, "I really want to help you, but-" "When you got out of law school, you went to work for a criminal law firm." David's heart began to beat faster. ' "That's true, but-" "You were a criminal defense lawyer for several years." David nodded. "Yes, but I-I gave it up. That was a long time ago and-" "Not that long ago, David. And you told me how much you loved it. Why did you quit and go into corporate law?" David sat there, silent for a moment. "It's not important." Dr. Patterson took out a handwritten letter and banded it to David. David knew what it said, without reading it. Dear Dr. Patterson, There are no words that can ever express bow much I owe you and how much I appreciate your great generosity. If there's ever anything at all that I can do for you, all you have to do is ask me, and it shall be done without question. David stared at the letter without seeing it. "David, will you talk to Ashley?" David nodded. "Yes, of course I'll talk to her, but-" Dr. Patterson rose. "Thank you." David watched him walk out the door. "Why did you quit and go into corporate law?" Because I made a mistake, and an innocent woman I loved is dead. I swore I would never take anyone's life in my hands again. Ever. I can't defend Ashley Patterson. David pressed down the intercom button. "Holly, would you ask Mr. Kincaid if he can see me now?" "Yes, sir." Thirty minutes later, David was walking into the elaborate offices of Joseph Kincaid. Kincaid was in his sixties, a gray monochrome of a man, physically, mentally and emotionally. "Well," he said as David walked in the door, "you're an anxious young fellow, aren't you? Our meeting wasn't supposed to be until five o'clock." David approached the desk. "I know. I came here to discuss something else, Joseph." Years ago, David had made the mistake of calling him Joe, and the old man had had a fit. "Don't you ever call me Joe." "Sit down, David." David took a seat. "Cigar? They're from Cuba." "No, thanks." "What's on your mind?" "Dr. Steven Patterson was just in to see me." Kincaid said, "He was on the news this morning. Damned shame. What did he want with you?" "He asked me to defend his daughter." Kincaid looked at David, surprised. "You're not a criminal defense lawyer." "I told him that." "Well, then." Kincaid was thoughtful for a moment "You know. I'd like to get Dr. Patterson as a client. He's very influential. He could bring a lot of business to this firm. He has connections with several medical organizations that-" "There's more." Kincaid looked at David, quizzically. "Oh?" "I promised him I'd talk to his daughter." "I see. Well, I suppose there's no harm in that. Talk to her, and then we'll find a good defense attorney to represent her." "That's my plan." "Good. We'll be building up some points with him. You go ahead." He smiled. "I'll see you at five o'clock." "Right. Thank you, Joseph." As David walked back to his office, he wondered to himself. Why in the world would Dr. Patterson insist on having me represent his daughter? CHAPTER TWELVE AT the Santa Clara County Jail, Ashley Patterson sat in her cell, too traumatized to try to make sense of how she got there. She was fiercely glad that she was in jail because the bars would keep out whoever was doing this to her. She wrapped the cell around herself like a blanket, trying to ward off the awful, inexplicable things that were happening to her. Her whole life had become a screaming nightmare. Ashley thought of all the mysterious events that had been happening: Someone breaking into her apartment and playing tricks on her... the trip to Chicago... the writing on her mirror... and now the police accusing her of unspeakable things she knew nothing about. There was some terrible conspiracy against her, but she had no idea who could be behind it or why. Early that morning one of the guards had come to Ashley's cell. "Visitor." The guard had led Ashley to the visitors' room, where her father was waiting for her. He stood there, looking at her, his eyes grief stricken. "Honey...I don't know what to say." Ashley whispered, "I didn't do any of the terrible things they said I did." "I know you didn't. Someone's made an awful mistake, but we're going to straighten everything out." Ashley looked at her father and wondered how she could have ever thought he was the guilty one. "... don't you worry," he was saying. "Everything's going to be fine. I am getting a lawyer for you. David Singer. He's one of the brightest young men I know. He'll be coming to see you. I want you to tell him everything." Ashley looked at her father and said hopelessly, "Father, I-I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what's happening." "We'll get to the bottom of this, baby. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. No one! Ever! You mean too much to me. You're all I have, honey." "And you're all I have," Ashley whispered. Ashley's father stayed for another hour. When he left, Ashley's world narrowed down to the small cell she was confined in. She lay on her cot, forcing herself not to think about anything. This will be over soon, and I'll find that this is only a dream.... Only a dream... Only a dream... She slept. The voice of a guard awakened her. "You have a visitor." She was taken to the visitors' room, and Shane Miller was there, waiting. He rose as Ashley entered. "Ashley..." Her heart began to pound. "Oh, Shane!" She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Somehow she had known that he would come and free her, that he would arrange for than to let her go. "Shane, I'm so glad to see you!" "I'm glad to see you," Shane said awkwardly. He looked around the drab visitors' room. "Although I must say, not under these circumstances. When I heard the news, I-I couldn't believe it. What happened? What made you do it, Ashley?" The color slowly drained from her face. "What made me-? Do you think that I-?" "Never mind," Shane said quickly. "Don't say any more. You shouldn't talk to anyone but your attorney." Ashley stood there, staring at him. He believed she was guilty. "Why did you come here?" "Well, I-I hale to do this now, but under-under the circumstances, I-the company-is terminating you. I mean... naturally, we can't afford to be connected with anything like this. It's had enough that the newspapers have already mentioned that you work for Global. You understand, don't you? There's nothing personal in this." * * * Driving down to San Jose, David Singer decided what he was going to say to Ashley Patterson. He would find oat what he could from her and then turn the information over to Jesse Quiller, one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. If anyone could help Ashley, it was Jesse. David was ushered into the office of Sheriff Dowling. He handed the sheriff his card. "I'm an attorney. I'm here to see Ashley Patterson and-" "She's expecting you." David looked at him in surprise. "She is?" "Yeah." Sheriff Dowling turned to a deputy and nodded. The deputy said to David, "This way." He led David into the visitors' room, and a few minutes later, Ashley was brought in from her cell. Ashley Patterson was a complete surprise to David. He had met her once years ago, when he was in law school, chauffeuring her father. She had struck David as being an attractive, intelligent young girl. Now, he found himself looking at a beautiful young woman with frightened eyes. She took a seat across from him. "Hello, Ashley. I'm David Singer." "My father told me you would be coming." Her voice was shaky. "I just came to ask a few questions." She nodded. "Before I do, I want you to know that anything you tell me is privileged. It will just be between the two of us. But I need to know the truth." He hesitated. He had not intended to go this far, but he wanted to be able to give Jesse Quiller all the information he could, to persuade him to take the case. "Did you kill those men?" "No!" Ashley's voice rang with conviction. "I'm innocent!" David pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and glanced at it "Were you acquainted with a Jim Cleary?" "Yes. We-we were going to be married. I would have had no reason to harm Jim. I loved him." David studied Ashley a moment, then looked at the sheet of paper again. "What about Dennis Tibble?" "Dennis worked at the company I worked for. I saw him the night he was murdered, but I had nothing to do with that. I was in Chicago." David was watching Ashley's face. "You have to believe me. I-I had no reason to kill him." David said, "All right." He glanced at the sheet again. "What was your relationship with Jean Claude Parent?" "The police asked me about him. I had never even heard of him. How could I have killed him when I didn't even know him?" She looked at David pleadingly. "Don't you see? They have the wrong person. They've arrested the wrong person." She began to weep. "I haven't killed anyone." "Richard Melton?" "I don't know who he is either." David waited while Ashley regained control of herself. "What about deputy Blake?" Ashley shook her head. "Deputy Blake stayed at my apartment that night to watch over me. Someone had been stalking me and threatening me. I slept in my bedroom, and he slept on the couch in the living room. They-they found his body in the alley." Her lips were trembling. "Why would I kill him? He was helping me!" David was studying Ashley, puzzled. Something's very wrong here, David thought, Either she's telling the truth or she's one hell of an actress. He stood up. "I'll be back. I want to talk to the sheriff." Two minutes later, he was in the sheriff's office. "Well, did you talk to her?" Sheriff Dowling asked. "Yes. I think you've gotten yourself in a box. Sheriff." "What does that mean. Counselor?" "It means you might have been too eager to make an arrest Ashley Patterson doesn't even know two of the people you're accusing her of killing." A small smile touched Sheriff Dowling's lips. "She fooled you, too, hub? She sure as hell fooled us." "What are you talking about?" "I'll show you, mister." He opened a file folder on his desk and handed David some papers. "These are copies of coroner's reports, FBI reports, DNA reports and Interpol reports on the five men who were murdered and castrated. Each victim had had sex with a woman before he was murdered. There were vaginal traces and fingerprints at each of the murder scenes. There were supposed to have been three different women involved. Well, the FBI collated all this evidence, and guess what they came up with? The three women turned out to be Ashley Patterson. Her DNA and fingerprints are positive on every one of the murders." David was staring at him in disbelief. "Are-are you sure?" "Yeah. Unless you want to believe that Interpol, the FBI and five different coroner's offices are out to frame your client. It's all there, mister. One of the men she killed was my brother-in-law. Ashley Patterson's going to be tried for first-degree murder, and she's going to be convicted. Anything else?" "Yes." David took a deep breath. "I'd like to see Ashley Patterson again." They brought her back to the visitors' room. When she walked inside, David asked angrily, "Why did you lie to me?" "What? I didn't lie to you. I'm innocent. I-" "They have enough evidence against you to bum you a dozen times over. I told you I wanted the truth." Ashley looked at him for a full minute, and when she spoke, she said in a quiet voice, "I told you the truth. I have nothing more to say." Listening to her, David thought. She really believes what she's saying. I'm talking to a nut case. What am I going to tell Jesse Quiller? "Would you talk to a psychiatrist?" "I don't-Yes. If you want me to." "I'll arrange it." On his way back to San Francisco, David thought, I kept my end of the bargain. I talked to her. If she really thinks she's telling the truth, then she's crazy. I'll get her to Jesse, who will plead insanity, and that will be the end of it. His heart went out to Steven Patterson. At San Francisco Memorial Hospital, Dr. Patterson was receiving the condolences of his fellow doctors. "It's a damn shame, Steven. You sure don't deserve anything like this. " "It must be a terrible burden for you. If there's anything I can do. " "I don't know what gets into kids these days. Ashley always seemed so normal. " And behind each expression of condolence was the thought: Thank God it's not my kid. When David returned to the law firm, he hurried in to see Joseph Kincaid. Kincaid looked up and said, "Well, it's after six o'clock, David, but I waited for you. Did you see Dr. Patterson's daughter?" "Yes, I did." "And did you find an attorney to defend her?" David hesitated. "Not yet, Joseph. I'm arranging for a psychiatrist to see her. I'll be going back in the morning to talk to her again." Joseph Kincaid looked at David, puzzled. "Oh? Frankly, I'm surprised that you're getting this involved. Naturally, we can't have this firm associated with anything as ugly as this trial is going to be." "I'm not really involved, Joseph. It's just that I owe a great deal to her father. I made him a promise." "There's nothing in writing, is there?" "No." "So it's only a moral obligation?" David studied him a moment, started to say something, then stopped. "Yes. It's only a moral obligation." "Well, when you're through with Miss Patterson, I come back and we'll talk." Not a word about the partnership. When David got home that evening, the apartment was in darkness. "Sandra?" There was no answer. As David started to turn on the lights in the hallway, Sandra suddenly appeared from the kitchen, carrying a cake with lit candles. "Surprise! We're having a celebration-" She saw the look on David's face and stopped. "Is something wrong, darling? Didn't you get it, David? Did they give it to someone else?" "No, no," he said reassuringly. "Everything's fine." Sandra put down the cake and moved closer to him. "Something's wrong." "It's just that there's been a... a delay." "Wasn't your meeting with Joseph Kincaid today?" "Yes. Sit down, honey. We have to talk." They sat down on the couch, and David said, "Something unexpected has come up. Steven Patterson came to see me this morning." "He did? What about?" "He wants me to defend his daughter." Sandra looked at him in surprise. "But, David... you're not-" "I know. I tried to tell him that. But I have practiced criminal law." "But you're not doing that anymore. Did you tell him you're about to become a partner in your firm?" "No. He was very insistent that I was the only one who could defend his daughter. It doesn't make any sense, of course I tried to suggest someone like Jesse Quiller, but he wouldn't even listen." "Well, he'll have to get someone else." "Of course. I promised to talk to his daughter, and I did." Sandra sat back on the couch. "Does Mr. Kincaid know about this?" "Yes. I told him. He wasn't thrilled." He mimicked Kincaid's voice. " 'Naturally, we can't have this firm associated with anything as ugly as this trial is going to be.'" "What's Dr. Patterson's daughter like?" "In medical terms, she's a fruitcake." "I'm not a doctor," Sandra said. "What does that mean?" "It means that she really believes she's innocent." "Isn't that possible?" "The sheriff in Cupertino showed me the file on her. Her DNA and fingerprints are all over the murder scenes." "What are you going to do now?" "I've called Royce Salem. He's a psychiatrist that Jesse Quiller's office uses. I'm going to have him examine. Ashley and turn the report over to her father. Dr. Patterson can bring in another psychiatrist if he likes, or turn the report over to whichever attorney is going to handle the case." "I see." Sandra studied her husband's troubled face. "Did Mr. Kincaid say anything about the partnership, David?" He shook his head. "No." Sandra said brightly, "He will. Tomorrow's another day." Dr. Royce Salem was a tall, thin man with a Sigmund Freud beard. Maybe that's just a coincidence, David told himself. Surely he's not trying to look like Freud. "Jesse talks about you often," Dr. Salem said. "He's very fond of you." "I'm fond of him. Dr. Salem." "The Patterson case sounds very interesting. Obviously the work of a psychopath. You're planning an insanity plea?" "Actually," David told him, "I'm not handling the case. Before I get an attorney for her. I'd like to get an evaluation of her mental state." David briefed Dr. Salem on the facts as he knew them. "She claims she's innocent, but the evidence shows she committed the crimes." "Well, let's have a look at the lady's psyche, shall we?" The hypnotherapy session was to take place in the Santa Clara County Jail, in an interrogation room. The furniture in the room consisted of a rectangular wooden table and four wooden chairs. Ashley, looking pale and drawn, was led into the room by a matron. "I'll wait outside," the matron said, and withdrew. David said, "Ashley, this is Dr. Salem. Ashley Patterson." Dr. Salem said, "Hello, Ashley." She stood there, nervously looking from one to the other, without speaking. David had the feeling that she was ready to flee the room. "Mr. Singer tells me that you have no objection to being hypnotized." Silence. Dr. Salem went on. "Would you let me hypnotize you, Ashley?" Ashley closed her eyes for a second and nodded. "Yes." "Why don't we get started?" "Well, I'll be running along," David said. "If-" "Just a moment." Dr. Salem walked over to David. "I want you to stay." David stood there, frustrated. He regretted now that he had gone this far. I'm not going to get in any deeper, David resolved. This will be the end of it. "All right," David said reluctantly. He was eager to have it over with so he could get back to the office. The coming meeting with Kincaid loomed large in his mind. Dr. Salem said to Ashley, "Why don't you sit in this chair?" Ashley sat down. "Have you ever been hypnotized before, Ashley?" She hesitated an instant, then shook her head. "No." "There's nothing to it. All you have to do is relax and listen to the sound of my voice. You have nothing to worry about. No one's going to hurt you. Feel your muscles relax. That's it. Just relax and feel your eyes getting heavy. You've been through a lot. Your body is tired, very tired. All you want to do is to go to sleep. Just close your eyes and relax. You're getting very sleepy... very sleepy. " It took ten minutes to put her under. Dr. Salem walked over to Ashley. "Ashley, do you know where you are?" "Yes. I'm in jail." Her voice sounded hollow, as though coming from a distance. "Do you know why you're in jail?" "People think I did something bad." "And is it true? Did you do something bad?" "No." "Ashley, did you ever kill anyone?" "No." David looked at Dr. Salem in surprise. Weren't people supposed to tell the truth under hypnosis? "Do you have any idea who could have committed those murders?" Suddenly, Ashley's face contorted and she began breathing hard, in short, raspy breaths. The two men watched in astonishment as her persona started changing. Her Ups tightened and her features seemed to shift. She sat up straight, and there was a sudden liveliness in her face. She opened her eyes, and they were sparkling. It was an amazing transformation. Unexpectedly, she began to sing, in a sultry voice with an English accent: "Half a pound of tupenny rice, Half a pound of treacle, Mix it up and make it nice, Pop! goes the weasel." David listened in astonishment. Who does she think she's fooling? She's pretending to be someone else. "I want to ask you some more questions, Ashley." She tossed her head and said in an English accent, "I'm not Ashley." Dr. Salem exchanged a look with David, then turned back to Ashley. "If you're not Ashley, who are you?" "Toni. Toni Prescott." And Ashley is doing this with a straight face, David thought How long is she going to go on with this stupid charade? She was wasting their time. "Ashley," said Dr. Salem. "Toni." She's determined to keep it up, David thought "All right, Toni. What I'd like is-" "Let me tell you what I'd like. I'd like to get out of this bloody place. Can you get us out of here?" "That depends," Dr. Salem said. "What do you know about-?" "-those murders that little Goody Two-shoes is in here for? I can tell you things that-" Ashley's expression suddenly started to change again. As David and Dr. Salem watched, Ashley seemed to shrink in her chair, and her face began to soften and go through an incredible metamorphosis until she seemed to become another distinct personality. She said in a soft voice with an Italian accent, "Toni... don't say any more, per piacere." David was watching in bewilderment. "Toni?" Dr. Salem edged closer. The soft voice said, "I apologize for the interruption, Dr. Salem." Dr. Salem asked, "Who are you?" "I am Alette. Alette Peters." My God, it's not an act, David thought. It's real. He turned to Dr. Salem. Dr. Salem said quietly, "They're alters." David stared at him, totally confused. "They're what?" "I'll explain later." Dr. Salem turned back to Ashley. "Ashley... I mean Alette... How-how many of you are in there?" "Beside Ashley, only Toni and me," Alette answered. "You have an Italian accent." "Yes. I was born in Rome. Have you ever been to Rome?" "No, I've never been to Rome." I can't believe I'm hearing this conversation, David thought. "E molto bello." "I'm sure. Do you know Toni?" "Si, naturalmente." "She has an English accent." "Toni was born in London." "Right Alette, I want to ask you about these murders. Do you have any idea who-?" And David and Dr. Salem watched as Ashley's face and personality changed again before their eyes. Without her saying a word, they knew that she had become Toni. "You're wasting your time with her, luv." There was that English accent. "Alette doesn't know anything. I'm the one you're going to have to talk to." "All right, Toni. I'll talk to you. I have some questions for you." "I'm sure you do, but I'm tired." She yawned. "Miss Tight Ass has kept us up all night I've got to get some sleep." "Not now, Toni. Listen to me. You have to help us to-" Her face hardened. "Why should I help you? What has Miss Goody Two-shoes done for Alette or me? All she ever does is keep us from having fun. Well, I'm sick of it, and I'm sick of her. Do you hear me?" She was screaming, her face contorted. Dr. Salem said, "I'm going to bring her out of it." David was perspiring. "Yes." Dr. Salem leaned close to Ashley. "Ashley... Ashley... Everything is fine. Close your eyes now. They're very heavy, very heavy. You're completely relaxed. Ashley, your mind is at peace. Your body is relaxed. You're going to wake up at the count of five, completely relaxed. One..." He looked over at David and then back at Ashley. "Two..." Ashley began to stir. They watched her expression start to change. "Three..." Her face softened. "Tour..." They could sense her returning, and it was an eerie feeling. "Five." Ashley opened her eyes. She looked around the room. "I feel- Was I asleep?" David stood there, staring at her, stunned. "Yes," Dr. Salem said. Ashley turned to David. "Did I say anything? I mean... was helpful?" My God, David thought. She doesn't know! She really doesn't know! David said, "You did fine, Ashley. I'd like to talk to Dr. Salem alone." "All right." "I'll see you later." The men stood there, watching the matron lead Ashley away. David sank into a chair. "What-what the hell was that all about?" Dr. Salem took a deep breath. "In all the years that I've been practicing, I've never seen a more clear-cut case." "A case of what?" "Have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder?" "What is it?" "It's a condition where there are several completely different personalities in one body. It's also known as dissociatve identity disorder. It's been in the psychiatric literature for more than two hundred years. It usually starts because of a childhood trauma. The victim shuts out the trauma by creating another identity. Sometimes a person will have dozens of different personalities or alters." "And they know about each other?" "Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Toni and Alette know each other. Ashley is obviously not aware of either of them. Alters are created because the host can't stand the pain of the trauma. It's a way of escape. Every time a fresh shock occurs, a new alter can be born. The psychiatric literature on the subject shows that alters can be totally different from one another. Some alters are stupid, while others are brilliant. They can speak different languages. They have varied tastes and personalities." "How-how common is this?" "Some studies suggest that one percent of the entire population suffers from multiple personality disorder, and that up to twenty percent of all patients in psychiatric hospitals have it." David said, "But Ashley seems so normal and-" "People with MPD are normal... until an alter takes over. The host can have a job, raise a family and live a perfectly ordinary life, but an alter can take over at any time. An alter can be in control for an hour, a day or even weeks, and then the host suffers a fugue, a loss of time and memory, for the period that the alter is in charge." "So Ashley-the host-would have no recollection of anything that the alter does?" "None." David listened, spellbound. "The most famous case of multiple personality disorder was Bridey Murphy. That's what first brought the subject to the public's attention. Since then, there have been an endless number of cases, but none as spectacular or as well publicized." "It-it seems so incredible." "It's a subject that's fascinated me for a long time. There are certain patterns that almost never change. For instance, frequently, alters use the same initials as then-host-Ashley Patterson... Alette Peters... Toni Prescott.... "Toni-?" David started to ask. Then he realized, "Antoinette?" "Right. You've heard the expression 'alter ego.' " "Yes." "In a sense, we all have alter egos, or multiple personalities. A kind person can commit acts of cruelty. Cruel people can do kind things. There's no limit to the incredible range of human emotions. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is fiction, but it's based on fact." David's mind was racing. "If Ashley committed the murders. " "She would not be aware of it. It was done by one of her alters." "My God! How can I explain that in court?" Dr. Salem looked at David curiously. "I thought you said you weren't going to be her attorney." David shook his head. "I'm not. I mean, don't know. I-At this point, I'm a multiple personality myself." David was silent for a moment. "Is this curable?" "Often, yes." "And if it can't be cured, what happens?" There was a pause. "The suicide rate is quite high." "And Ashley knows nothing about this?" "No." "Would-would you explain it to her?" "Yes, of course." "No!" It was a scream. She was cowering against the wall of her cell, her eyes filled with terror. "You're lying! It's not true!" Dr. Salem said, "Ashley, it is. You have to face it. I've explained to you that what happened to you is not your fault. I-" "Don't come near me!" "No one's going to hurt you." "I want to die. Help me die!" She began sobbing uncontrollably. Dr. Salem looked at the matron and said, "You'd better give her a sedative. And put a suicide watch on her." David telephoned Dr. Patterson. "I need to talk to you." "I've been waiting to hear from you, David. Did you see Ashley?" "Yes. Can we meet somewhere?" "I'll wait in my office for you." * * * Driving back to San Francisco, David thought. There's no way that I can take this case. I have too much to lose. I'll find her a good criminal attorney and that will be the end of it. Dr. Patterson was waiting for David in his office. "You talked to Ashley?" "Yes." "Is she all right?" How do I answer that question? David took a deep breath. "Have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder?" Dr. Patterson frowned. "Vaguely..." "It's when one or more personalities-or alters-exist in a person and take control from time to time, and that person is not aware of it. Your daughter has multiple personality disorder." Dr. Patterson was looking at him, stunned. "What? I-can't believe it. Are you sure?" "I listened to Ashley while Dr. Salem had her under hypnosis. She has two alters. At various times, they possess her." David was talking more rapidly now. "The sheriff showed me the evidence against your daughter. There's no doubt that she committed the murders." Dr. Patterson said. "Oh, my God! Then she's-she's guilty?" "No. Because I don't believe she was aware that she committed the murders. She was under the influence of one of the alters. Ashley had no reason to commit those crimes. She had no motive, and she was not in control of herself. I think the state may have a difficult time proving motive or intent." "Then your defense is going to be that-" David stopped him. "I'm not going to defend her. I'm going to get you Jesse Quiller. He's a brilliant trial lawyer. I used to work with him, and he's the most-" "No." Dr. Patterson's voice was sharp. "You must defend Ashley." David said patiently, "You don't understand. I'm not the right one to defend her. She needs-" "I told you before that you're the only one I trust. My daughter means everything in the world to me, David. You're going to save her life." "I can't. I'm not qualified to-" "Of course you are. You were a criminal attorney." "Yes, but I-" "I won't have anyone else." David could see that Dr. Patterson was trying to keep his temper under control. This makes no sense, David thought. He tried again. "Jesse Quiller is the best-" Dr. Patterson leaned forward, the color rising in his face. "David, your mother's life meant a lot to you. Ashley's life means as much to me. You asked for my help once, and you put your mother's life in my hands. I'm asking for your help now, and I'm putting Ashley's life in your hands. I want you to defend Ashley. You owe me that." He won't listen, David thought despairingly. What's the matter with him? A dozen objections flashed through David's mind, but they all faded before that one line: "You owe me that." David tried one last time. "Dr. Patterson-" "Yes or no, David." CHAPTER THIRTEEN WHEN David got home, Sandra was waiting for him. "Good evening, darling." He took her in his arms and thought. My God, she's lovely. What idiot said that pregnant woman weren't beautiful? Sandra said excitedly, "The baby lacked again today." She took David's band and put it on her belly. "Can you feel him?" After a few moments, David said, "No. He's a stubborn little devil." "By the way, Mr. Crowther called." "Crowther?" "The real estate broker. The papers are ready to be signed." David felt a sudden sinking feeling. "Oh." "I want to show you something," Sandra said eagerly. "Don't go away." David watched her hurry into the bedroom and thought. What am I going to do? I have to make a decision. Sandra came back into the room holding up several samples of blue wallpaper. "We're doing the nursery in blue, and we'll do the living room of the apartment in blue and white, your favorite colors. Which color wallpaper do you like, the lighter shade or the darker?" David forced himself to concentrate. "The lighter looks good." "I like it, too. The only problem is that the rug is going to be a dark blue. Do you think they should match?" I can't give up the partnership. I've worked too hard for it. It means too much. "David. Do you think they should match?" He looked at her. "What? Oh. Yes. Whatever you think, honey." "I'm so excited. It's going to be beautiful." There's no way we can afford it tf I don't get the partnership. Sandra looked around the little apartment. "We can use some of this furniture, but I'm afraid we're going to need a lot of new things." She looked at him anxiously. "We can handle it, can't we, darling? I don't want to go overboard." "Right," David said absently. She snuggled against his shoulder. "It's going to be like a whole new life, isn't it? The baby and the partnership and the penthouse went by there today wanted to see the playground and the school. The playground's beautiful. It has slides and swings and jungle gyms want you to come with me Saturday to look at it. Jeffrey's going to adore it." Maybe I can convince Kincaid that this would be a good thing for the firm. "The school looks nice. It's just a couple blocks from our condo, and it's not too large think that's important." David was listening to her now and thought, I can't let her down can't take away her dreams. I'll tell Kincaid in the morning that I'm not taking the Patterson case. Patterson will have to find someone else. "We'd better get ready, darling. We're due at the Quillers' at eight o'clock." This was the moment of truth. David felt himself tense. "There's something we have to talk about." "Yes?" "I went to see Ashley Patterson this morning." "Oh? Tell me about it. Is she guilty? Did she do those terrible things?" "Yes and no." "Spoken like a lawyer. What does that mean?" "She committed the murders... but she's not guilty." "David-!" "Ashley has a medical condition called multiple personality disorder. Her personality is split, so that she does things without knowing she's doing them." Sandra was staring at him. "How horrible." "There are two other personalities. I've heard them." "You've heard them?" "Yes. And they're real. I mean, she's not faking." "And she has no idea that she-?" "None." "Then is she innocent or guilty?" "That's for the courts to decide. Her father won't talk to Jesse Quiller, so I'll have to find some other attorney." "But Jesse's perfect. Why won't he talk to him?" David hesitated. "He wants me to defend her." "But you told him you can't, of course." "Of course." "Then-?" "He won't listen." "What did he say, David?" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." "What did he say?" David replied slowly, "He said that I trusted him enough to put my mother's life in his hands, and he saved her, and now he was trusting me enough to put his daughter's life in my hands, and he is asking me to save her." Sandra was studying his face. "Do you think you could?" "I don't know. Kincaid doesn't want me to take the case. If I did take it, I could lose the partnership." "Oh." There was a long silence. When he spoke, David said, "I have a choice. I can say no to Dr. Patterson and become a partner in the firm, or I can defend his daughter and probably go on an unpaid leave, and see what happens afterward." Sandra was listening quietly. "There are people much better qualified to handle Ashley's case, but for some damn reason, her father won't hear of anyone else. I don't know why he's so stubborn about it, but he is. If I take the case and I don't get the partnership, we'll have to forget about moving. We'll have to forget about a lot of our plans, Sandra." Sandra said softly, "I remember before we were married, you told me about him. He was one of the busiest doctors in the world, but he found time to help a penniless young boy. He was your hero, David. You said that if we ever had a son, you would want him to grow up to be like Steven Patterson." David nodded. "When do you have to decide?" "I'm seeing Kincaid first thing in the morning." Sandra took his hand and said, "You don't need that much time. Dr. Patterson saved your mother. You're going to save his daughter." She looked around and smiled. "Anyway, we can always do this apartment over in blue and white." Jesse Quiller was one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the country. He was a tall, rugged man with a homespun touch that made jurors identify with him. They felt that he was one of them, and they wanted to help him. That was one of the reasons he seldom lost a case. The other reasons were that he had a photographic memory and a brilliant mind. Instead of vacationing, Quiller used his summers to teach law, and years earlier David had been one of his pupils. When David graduated, Quiller invited him to join his criminal law firm, and two years later, David had become a partner. David loved practicing criminal law and excelled at it. He made sure that at least 10 percent of his cases were pro bono. Three years after becoming a partner, David had abruptly resigned and gone to work for Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley to practice corporate law. Over the years, David and Quiller had remained close friends. They, and their wives, had dinner together once a week. Jesse Quiller had always fancied tall, sylphlike, sophisticated blondes. Then he had met Emily and fallen in love with her. Emily was a prematurely gray dumpling of a woman, from an Iowa farm-the exact opposite of other women Quiller had dated. She was a caretaker, mother earth. They made an unlikely couple, but the marriage worked because they were deeply in love with each other. Every Tuesday, the Singers and the Quillers had dinner and then played a complicated card game called Liverpool. When Sandra and David arrived at the Quillers' beautiful home on Hayes Street, Jesse met them at the door. He gave Sandra a bug and said, "Come in. We've got the champagne on ice. It's a big day for you, hub? The new penthouse and the partnership. Or is it the partnership and the penthouse?" David and Sandra looked at each other. "Emily's in the kitchen fixing a celebration dinner." He looked at their faces. "I think it's a celebration dinner. Am I missing something?" David said, "No, Jesse. It's just that we may have a- a little problem." "Come on in. Fix you a drink?" He looked at Sandra. "No, thanks. I don't want the baby to get into bad habits." "He's a lucky kid, having parents like you," Quiller said warmly. He turned to David. "What can I get for you?" "I'm fine," David said. Sandra started toward the kitchen. "I'll go see if I can help Emily." "Sit down, David. You look serious." "I'm in a dilemma," David admitted. "Let me guess. Is it the penthouse or the partnership?" "Both." "Both?" "Yes. You know about the Patterson case?" "Ashley Patterson? Sure. What's that got to do with-?" He stored. "Wait a minute. You told me about Steven Patterson, in law school. He saved your mother's life." "Yes. He wants me to defend his daughter. I tried to torn the case over to you, but he won't hear of anyone but me defending her." Quiller frowned. "Does he know you're not practicing criminal law anymore?" "Yes. That's what's so damn strange. There are dozens of lawyers who can do a hell of a lot better job than I can." "He knows that you were a criminal defense lawyer?" "Yes." Quiller said carefully, "How does he feel about his daughter?" What a strange question, David thought "She means more to him than anything in the world." "Okay. Suppose you took her case. The downside is that-" "The downside is that Kincaid doesn't want me to take it. If I do, I have a feeling that I'll lose the partnership." "I see. And that's where the penthouse comes in?" David said angrily, "That's where my whole god-damn future comes in. It would be stupid for me to do this, Jesse. I mean really stupid!" "What are you getting mad about?" David took a deep breath. "Because I'm going to do it." Quiller smiled. "Why am I not surprised?" David ran his hand across his forehead, "if I turned him down, and his daughter was convicted and executed, and I did nothing to help, I-I couldn't live with myself." "I understand. How does Sandra feel about this?" David managed a smile. "You know Sandra." "Yeah. She wants you to go a bead with it." "Right." Quiller leaned forward. "I'll do everything I can to help you, David." David sighed. "No. That's part of my bargain. I have to handle this alone." Quiller frowned. "That doesn't make any sense." "I know. I tried to explain that to Dr. Patterson, but he wouldn't listen." "Have you told Kincaid about this yet?" "I'm having a meeting with him in the morning." "What do you think will happen?" "I know what's going to happen. He's going to advise me not to take the case and, if I insist, he'll ask me to take a leave of absence without pay." "Let's have lunch tomorrow. Rubicon, one o'clock." David nodded. "Fine." Emily came in from the kitchen wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. David and Quiller rose. "Hello, David." Emily hustled up to him, and he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I hope you're hungry. Dinner's almost ready. Sandra's in the kitchen helping me. She's such a dear." She picked up a tray and hurried back into the kitchen. Quiller turned to David. "You mean a great deal to Emily and me. I'm going to give you some advice. You've got to let go." David sat there, saying nothing. "That was a long time ago, David. And what happened wasn't your fault. It could have happened to anyone." David looked at Quiller. "It happened to me, Jesse. I killed her." * * * It was deja vu. All over again. And again. David sat there, transported back to another time and another place. It had been a pro bono case, and David had said to Jesse Quiller, "I'll handle it." Helen Woodman was a lovely young woman accused of murdering her wealthy stepmother. There had been bitter public quarrels between the two, but all the evidence against Helen was circumstantial. After David had gone to the jail and met with her, he was convinced she was innocent. With each meeting, he had become more emotionally involved. In the end, he had broken a basic rule: Never fall in love with a client. The trial had gone well. David had refuted the prosecutor's evidence bit by bit, and he had won the jury over to his client's side. And unexpectedly, a disaster had occurred. Helen's alibi was that at the time of the murder she had been at the theater with a friend. Under questioning in court, her friend admitted that the alibi was a lie, and a witness had come forward to say that he had seen Helen at her stepmother's apartment at the time of the murder. Helen's credibility was completely gone. The jury convicted her of first-degree murder, and the judge sentenced her to be executed. David was devastated. "How could you have done this, Helen?" he demanded. "Why did you lie to me?" "I didn't kill my stepmother, David. When I got to her apartment, I found her on the floor, dead. I was afraid you wouldn't believe me, so I-I made up the story about being at the theater." He stood there, listening, a cynical expression on his face. "I'm telling you the truth, David." "Are you?" He turned and stormed out. Sometime during the night, Helen committed suicide. One week later, an ex-convict caught committing a burglary confessed to the murder of Helen's stepmother. The next day, David quit Jesse Quiller's firm. Quiller had tried to dissuade him. "It wasn't your fault, David. She lied to you and-" "That's the point. I let her. I didn't do my job. I didn't make sure she was telling me the truth. I wanted to believe her, and because of that, I let her down." Two weeks later, David was working for Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley. "I'll never be responsible for another person's life," David had sworn. And now he was defending Ashley Patterson. CHAPTER FOURTEEN AT ten o'clock the following morning, David walked into Joseph Kincaid's office. Kincaid was signing some papers and he glanced up as David entered. "Ah. Sit down, David. I'll be through in a moment." David sat down and waited. When Kincaid had finished, he smiled and said, "Well! You have some good news, I trust?" Good news for whom? David wondered. "You have a very bright future here, David, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to do anything to spoil that. The firm has big plans for you." David was silent, trying to find the right words. Kincaid said, "Well? Have you told Dr. Patterson that you'd find another lawyer for him?" "No. I've decided that I'm going to defend her." Kincaid's smile faded. "Are you really going to defend that woman, David? She's a vicious, sick murderer. Anyone who defends her will be tarred with the same brush." "I'm not doing this because I want to, Joseph. I'm obligated. I owe Dr. Patterson a great deal, and this is the only way I can ever repay him." Kincaid sat there, silent. When he finally spoke, he said, "If you've really decided to go ahead with this, then I suggest that it would be appropriate for you to take a leave of absence. Without pay, of course." Good-bye, partnership. "After the trial, naturally, you'll come back to us and the partnership will be waiting for you." David nodded. "Naturally." "I'll have Collins take over your workload. I'm sure you'll want to begin concentrating on the trial." Thirty minutes later, the partners of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley were in a meeting. "We can't afford to have this firm be involved in a trial like that," Henry Turner objected. Joseph Kincaid was quick to respond. "We're not really involved, Henry. We're giving the boy a leave of absence." Albert Rose spoke up. "I think we should cut him loose." "Not yet. That would be shortsighted. Dr. Patterson could be a cash cow for us. He knows everybody, and he'll be grateful to us for letting him borrow David. No matter what happens at the trial, it's a win-win situation. If it goes well, we get the doctor as a client and make Singer a partner. If the trial goes badly, we'll drop Singer and see if we can't keep the good doctor. There's really no downside." There was a moment of silence, then John Ripley grinned. "Good thinking, Joseph." When David left Kincaid's office, he went to see Steven Patterson. He had telephoned ahead, and the doctor was waiting for him. "Well, David?" My answer is going to change my life, David thought. And not for the better. "I'm going to defend your daughter, Dr. Patterson." Steven Patterson took a deep breath. "I knew it I would have bet my life on it." He hesitated a moment. "I'm betting my daughter's life on it." "My firm has given me a leave of absence. I'm going to get help from one of the best trial lawyers in the-" Dr. Patterson raised a hand. "David, I thought I made it clear to you that I don't want anyone else involved in this case. She's in your hands and your hands only." "I understand," David said. "But Jesse Quiller is-" Dr. Patterson got to his feet. "I don't want to hear anything more about Jesse Quiller or any of the rest of them. I know trial lawyers, David. They're interested in the money and the publicity. This isn't about money or publicity. This is about Ashley." David started to speak, then stopped. There was nothing he could say. The man was fanatic on the subject. I can use all the help I can get, David thought. Why won't he let me? "Have I made myself clear?" David nodded. "Yes." "I'll take care of your fee and your expenses, of course." "No. This is pro bono." Dr. Patterson studied him a moment then nodded. "Quid pro quo?" "Quid pro quo." David managed a smile. "Do you drive?" "David, if you're on a leave of absence, you'll need some expense money to keep you going. I insist." "As you wish," David said. At least we'll eat during the trial. Jesse Quiller was waiting for David at Rubicon. "How did it go?" David sighed. "It was predictable. I'm on a leave of absence, no salary." "Those bastards. How can they-?" "I can't blame them," David interrupted. "They're a very conservative firm." "What are you going to do now?" "What do you mean?" "What do I mean? You're handling the trial of the century. You don't have an office to work in anymore; you don't have access to research files or case files, criminal law books or a fax machine, and I've seen that outdated computer that you and Sandra have. It won't be able to run the legal software you'll need or get you on the Internet." "I'll be all right," David said. "You're damn right you will. There's an empty office in my suite that you're going to use. You'll find everything you need there." It took David a moment to find his voice. "Jesse, I can't-" "Yes, you can." Quiller grinned. "You'll find a way to pay me back. You always pay people back, don't you, and Saint David?" He picked up a menu. "I'm starved." He looked up. "By the way, lunch is on you." David went to visit Ashley in the Santa Clara County Jail. "Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning." She looked even paler than usual. "Father was here this morning. He told me that you're going to get me out of here." I wish I were that optimistic, David thought. He said carefully, "I'm going to do everything I can, Ashley. The trouble is that not many people are familiar with the problem you have. We're going to let them know about it. We're going to get the finest doctors in the world to come here and testify for you." "It scares me," Ashley whispered. "What does?" "It's as though two different people are living inside me, and I don't even know them." Her voice was trembling. "They can take over anytime they want to, and I have no control over them. I'm so frightened." Her eyes filled with tears. David said quietly, "They're not people, Ashley. They're in your mind. They're part of you. And with the proper treatment, you're going to be well." When David got home that evening, Sandra gave him a hug and said, "Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?" "Because I'm out of a job?" David asked. "That, too. By the way, Mr. Crowther called. The real estate broker. He said the papers are ready to sign. They want the down payment of sixty thousand dollars. I'm afraid we'll have to tell him we can't afford-" "Wait! I have that much in the company pension plan. With Dr. Patterson giving us some expense money, maybe we can still swing this." "It doesn't matter, David. We don't want to spoil the baby with a penthouse, anyway." "Well, I have some good news. Jesse is going to let me-" "I know. I talked to Emily. We're moving into Jesse's offices." David said, "We?" "You forget, you married a paralegal. Seriously, darling, I can be very helpful. I'll work with you until"- she touched her stomach-"Jeffrey comes along, and then we'll see." "Mrs. Singer, do you have any idea how much I love you?" "No. But take your time. Dinner's not for another hour." "An hour isn't enough time," David told her. She put her arms around him and murmured, "Why don't you get undressed, Tiger?" "What?" He pulled back and looked at her, worried. "What about the-What does Dr. Bailey say?" "The doctor says if you don't get undressed in a hurry, I should attack you." David grinned. "His word's good enough for me." The following morning, David moved into the back office of Jesse Quiller's suite. It was a serviceable office, part of a five-office suite. "We've expanded a little since you were here," Jesse explained to David. "I'm sure you'll find everything. The law library is next door; you've got faxes, computers, everything you need. If there's anything you don't see, just ask." "Thanks," David said. "I-I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Jesse." Jesse smiled. "You're going to pay me back. Remember?" Sandra arrived a few minutes later. "I'm ready," she said. "Where do we begin?" "We begin by looking up every case we can find on multiple personality trials. There's probably a ton of stuff on die Internet. We'll try the California Criminal Law Observer, the Court TV site and some other criminal law links, and we'll gather whatever useful information we can get from Westlaw and Lexis-Nexis. Next, we get hold of doctors who specialize in multiple personality problems, and we contact them as possible expert witnesses. We'll need to interview them and see if we can use their testimony to strengthen our case. I'll have to brush up on criminal court procedures and get ready for voir dire. We've also got to get a list of the district attorney's witnesses and the witnesses' statements. I want his whole discovery package." "And we have to send him ours. Are you going to call Ashley to the stand?" David shook his head. "She's much too fragile. The prosecution would tear her apart." He looked up at Sandra. "This is going to be a hard one to win." Sandra smiled. "But you're going to win it. I know you are." David put in a call to Harvey Udell, the accountant at Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley. "Harvey. David Singer." "Hello, David. I hear you're leaving us for a little while." "Yes." "That's an interesting case you're taking on. The papers are full of it. What can I do for you?" David said, "I have sixty thousand dollars in my pension plan there, Harvey. I wasn't going to take it out this early, but Sandra and I just bought a penthouse, and I'm going to need the money for a down payment." "A penthouse. Well, congratulations." "Thanks. How soon can I get the money?" There was a brief hesitation. "Can I get back to you?" "Of course." David gave him his telephone number. "I'll call you right back." "Thanks." Harvey Udell replaced the receiver and then picked up the telephone again. "Tell Mr. Kincaid I'd like to see him." Thirty minutes later he was in Joseph Kincaid's office. "What is it, Harvey?" "I got a call from David Singer, Mr. Kincaid. He's bought a penthouse, and he needs the sixty thousand he has in his pension fund for a down payment. In my opinion, we're not obligated to give him the money now. He's on leave, and he's not-" "I wonder if he knows how expensive it is to maintain a penthouse?" "Probably not. I'll just tell him we can't-" "Give him the money." Harvey looked at him in surprise. "But we don't have to-" Kincaid leaned forward in his chair. "We're going to help him dig a hole for himself, Harvey. Once he puts a down payment on that penthouse... we own him." Harvey Udell telephoned David. "I've good news for you, David. That money you have in the pension plan, you're taking it out early, but there's no problem. Mr. Kincaid says to give you anything you want." "Mr. Crowther. David Singer." "I've been waiting to hear from you, Mr. Singer." "The down payment on the penthouse is on its way. You'll have it tomorrow." "Wonderful. As I told you, we have some other folks who are anxious to get it, but I have the feeling that you and your wife are the right owners for it. You're going to be very happy there." All it will take, David thought, is a few dozen miracles. Ashley Patterson's arraignment took place in the Superior Court of the County of Santa Clara on North First Street in San Jose. The legal wrangling about jurisdiction had gone on for weeks. It had been complicated, because the murders had taken place in two countries and two different states. A meeting was held in San Francisco, attended by Officer Guy Pontaine from the Quebec Police Department, Sheriff Dowling from Santa Clara County, Detective Eagan from Bedford, Pennsylvania, Captain Rudford from the San Francisco Police Department, and Roger Toland, the chief of police in San Jose. Fontaine said, "We would like to try her in Quebec because we have absolute evidence of her guilt. There's no way she can win a trial there." Detective Eagan said, "For that matter, so do we, Officer Fontaine. Jim Cleary's was the first murder she committed, and I think that should take precedence over the others." Captain Rudford of the San Francisco police said, "Gentlemen, there's no doubt that we can all prove her guilt. But three of these murders took place in California, and she should be tried here for all of them. That gives us a much stronger case." "I agree," Sheriff Dowling said. "And two of them took place in Santa Clara County, so this is where the jurisdiction should lie." They spent the next two hours arguing the merits of their positions, and in the end, it was decided that the trial for the murders of Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and deputy Sam Blake would be held at the Hall of Justice in San Jose. They agreed that the murders in Bedford and Quebec would be put on hold. On the day of arraignment, David stood at Ashley's side. The judge on the bench said, "How do you plead?" "Not guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity." The judge nodded. "Very well." "Your Honor, we're requesting bail at this time." The attorney from the prosecutor's office jumped in. "Your Honor, we strongly object. The defendant is accused of three savage murders and faces the death penalty. If she were given the opportunity, she would flee the country." "That's not true," David said. "There's no-" The judge interrupted. "I've reviewed the file and the prosecutor's affidavit in support of no bail. Bail denied. This case is assigned to Judge Williams for all purposes. The defendant will be held in custody at the Santa Clara County Jail until trial." David sighed. "Yes, Your Honor." He turned to Ashley. "Don't worry. Everything's going to work out. Remember... you're not guilty." When David returned to the office. Sandra said, "Have you seen the headlines? The tabloids are calling Ashley 'the Butcher Bitch.' The story is all over television." "We knew this was going to be rough," David said. "And this is only the beginning. Let's go to work." The trial was eight weeks away. The next eight weeks were filled with feverish activity. David and Sandra worked all day and far into the night, digging up transcripts of trials of defendants with multiple personality disorder. There were dozens of cases. The various defendants had been tried for murder, rape, robbery, drug dealing, arson.... Some had been convicted, some had been acquitted. "We're going to get Ashley acquitted," David told Sandra. Sandra gathered the names of prospective witnesses and telephoned them. "Dr. Nakamoto, I'm working with David Singer. I believe you testified in The State of Oregon Versus Bo-hannan. Mr. Singer is representing Ashley Patterson.... Oh, you did? Yes. Well, we would like you to come to San Jose and testify in her behalf. " "Dr. Booth, I'm calling from David Singer's office. He's defending Ashley Patterson. You testified in the Dickerson case. We're interested in your expert testimony.... We would like you to come to San Jose and testify for Miss Patterson. We need your expertise. " "Dr. Jameson, this is Sandra Singer. We need you to come to. " And so it went, from morning until midnight. Finally, a list of a dozen witnesses was compiled. David looked at it and said, "It's pretty impressive. Doctors, a dean. heads of law schools." He looked up at Sandra and smiled. "I think we're in good shape." From time to time, Jesse Quiller came into the office David was using. "How are you getting along?" he asked. "Anything can do to help?" "I'm fine." Quiller looked around the office. "Do you have everything you need?" David smiled. "Everything, including my best friend." On a Monday morning, David received a package from the prosecutor's office listing the state's discovery. As David read it, his spirits sank. Sandra was watching him, concerned. "What is it?" "Look at this. He's bringing in a lot of heavyweight medical experts to testify against MPD." "How are you going to handle that?" Sandra asked. "We're going to admit that Ashley was at the scenes when the murders took place, but that the murders were actually committed by an alter ego." Can I persuade a jury to believe that? * * * Five days before the trial was to begin, David received a telephone call saying that Judge Williams wanted to meet with him. David walked into Jesse Quiller's office. "Jesse, what can you tell me about Judge Williams?" Jesse leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "Tessa Williams... Were you ever a Boy Scout, David?" "Yes..." "Do you remember the Boy Scout motto,-'be prepared'?" "Sure." "When you walk into Tessa Williams's courtroom, be prepared. She's brilliant. She came up the hard way. Her folks were Mississippi sharecroppers. She went through college on a scholarship, and the people in her hometown were so proud of her, they raised the money to put her through law school. There's a rumor that she turned down a big appointment in Washington because she likes it where she is. She's a legend." "Interesting," David said. "The trial is going to be in Santa Clara County?" "Yes." "Then you'll have my old friend Mickey Brennan prosecuting." "Tell me about him." "He's a feisty Irishman, tough on the inside, tough on the outside. Brennan comes from a long line of over-achievers. His father runs a huge publishing business; his mother's a doctor; his sister is a college professor. Brennan was a football star in his college days, and he was at the top of his law class." He leaned forward. "He's good, David. Be careful. His trick is to disarm witnesses and then move in for the kill. He likes to blind-side them.... Why does Judge Williams want to see you?" "I have no idea. The call just said she wants to discuss the Patterson case with me." Jesse Quiller frowned. "That's unusual. When are you meeting with her?" "Wednesday morning." "Watch your back." "Thanks, Jesse. I will." The superior courthouse in Santa Clara County is a white, four-story building on North First Street. Directly inside the courthouse entrance is a desk manned by a uniformed guard; there is a metal detector, a railing alongside and an elevator. There are seven courtrooms m the building, each one presided over by a judge and staff. At ten o'clock Wednesday morning, David Singer was ushered into the chambers of Judge Tessa Williams, in the room with her was Mickey Brennan. The leading prosecutor from the district attorney's office was in his fifties, a short, burly man with a slight brogue. Tessa Williams was in her late forties, a slim, attractive African-American woman with a crisp, authoritative manner. "Good morning, Mr. Singer. I'm Judge Williams. This is Mr. Brennan." The two men shook hands. "Sit down, Mr. Singer. I want to talk about the Patterson case. According to the records, you've filed a plea of not guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity?" "Yes, Your Honor." Judge Williams said, "I brought you two together because think we can save a lot of time and save the state a great deal of expense. I'm usually against plea bargaining, but in this case, think it's justified." David was listening, puzzled. The judge turned to Brennan. "I've read the preliminary hearing transcript, and see no reason for this case to go to trial. I'd like the state to waive the death penalty and accept a guilty plea with no chance of parole." David said, "Wait a minute. That's out of the question!" They both turned to look at him. "Mr. Singer-" "My client is not guilty. Ashley Patterson passed a lie detector test that proves-" "That doesn't prove anything, and as you well know it's not admissible in court. Because of all the publicity, this is going to be a long and messy trial." "I'm sure that-" "I've been practicing law a long time, Mr. Singer. I've heard the whole basket of legal pleas. I've heard pleas of self-defense-that's an acceptable plea; murder by reason of temporary insanity-that's a reasonable plea; diminished capacity.... But I'll tell you what don't believe in, Counselor. 'Not guilty because didn't commit the crime, my alter ego did it.' To use a term you might not find in Blackstone, that's 'bullshit.' Your client either committed the crimes or she didn't. If you change your plea to guilty, we can save a lot of-" "No, Your Honor, won't." Judge Williams studied David a moment. "You're very stubborn. A lot of people find that an admirable quality." She leaned forward in her chair. "I don't." "Your Honor-" "You're forcing us into a trial that's going to last at least three months-maybe longer." Brennan nodded. "I agree." "I'm sorry that you feel-" "Mr. Singer, I'm here to do you a favor. If we try your client, she's going to die." "Hold on! You're prejudging this case without-" "Prejudging it? Have you seen the evidence?" "Yes, I-" "For God's sake. Counselor, Ashley Patterson's DNA and fingerprints are at every crime scene. I've never seen a more clear-cut case of guilt. If you insist on going ahead with this, it could turn into a circus. Well, I'm not going to let that happen. I don't like circuses in my court. Let's dispose of this case here and now. I'm going to ask you once more, will you plead your client to life without parole?" David said stubbornly, "No." She was glaring at him. "Right. I'll see you next week." He had made an enemy. CHAPTER FIFTEEN SAN Jose had quickly taken on the atmosphere of a carnival town. Media from all over the world were pouring in. Every hotel was booked, and some of the members of the press were forced to take rooms in the outlying towns of Santa Clara, Sunnyvale and Palo Alto. David was besieged by reporters. "Mr. Singer, tell us about the case. Are you pleading your client not guilty...?" "Are you going to put Ashley Patterson on the stand...?" "Is it true that the district attorney was willing to plea-bargain?" "Is Dr. Patterson going to testify for his daughter...?" "My magazine will pay fifty thousand dollars for an interview with your client..." * * * Mickey Brennan was also pursued by the media. "Mr. Brennan, would you say a few words about the trial?" Brennan turned and smiled at the television cameras. "Yes. I can sum up the trial in five words. 'We're going to win it.' No further comment." "Wait! Do you think she's insane...?" "Is the state going to ask for the death penalty...?" "Did you call it an open-and-shut case...?" David rented an office in San Jose close to the court-house, where he could interview his witnesses and prepare them for the trial. He had decided that Sandra would work out of Quiller's office in San Francisco until the trial started. Dr. Salem had arrived in San Jose. "I want you to hypnotize Ashley again," David said. "Let's get all the information we can from her and the alters before the trial starts." They met Ashley in a holding room at the county detention center. She was trying hard to conceal her nervousness. To David, she looked like a deer trapped in the headlights of a Juggernaut. "Morning, Ashley. You remember Dr. Salem?" Ashley nodded. "He's going to hypnotize you again. Will that be all right?" Ashley said, "He's going to talk to the... the others?" "Yes. Do you mind?" "No. But I-I don't want to talk to them." "That's all right. You don't have to." "I hate this!" Ashley burst out angrily. "I know," David said soothingly. "Don't worry. It's going to be over soon." He nodded to Dr. Salem. "Make yourself comfortable, Ashley. Remember how easy this was. Close your eyes and relax. Just try to clear your mind. Feel your body relaxing. Listen to the sound of my voice. Let everything else go. You're getting very sleepy. Your eyes are getting very heavy. You want to go to sleep.... Go to sleep. " In ten minutes, she was under. Dr. Salem signaled to David. David walked over to Ashley. "I'd like to talk to Alette. Are you in there, Alette?" And they watched Ashley's face soften and go through the same transformation they had seen earlier. And then, that soft, mellifluous Italian accent. "Buon giorno." "Good morning, Alette. How do you feel?" "Male. This is a very difficult time." "It's difficult for all of us," David assured her, "but everything's going to be all right." "I hope so." "Alette, I'd like to ask you a few questions." "Si..." "Did you know Jim Cleary?" "No." "Did you know Richard Melton?" "Yes." There was a deep sadness in her voice. "It was... it was terrible what happened to him." David looked over at Dr. Salem. "Yes, it was terrible. When was the last time you saw him?" "I visited him in San Francisco. We went to a museum and then had dinner. Before I left, he asked me to go to his apartment with him." "And did you go?" "No. I wish I had," Alette said regretfully. "I might have saved his life." There was a short silence. "We said good-bye, and drove back to Cupertino." "And that was the last time you saw him?" "Yes." "Thank you, Alette." David moved closer to Ashley and said, "Toni? Are you there, Toni? I'd like to talk to you." As they watched, Ashley's face went through another remarkable transformation. Her persona changed before their eyes. There was a new assurance, a sexual awareness. She began to sing in that clear, throaty voice: "Up and down the city road, In and out of the Eagle. That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel. " She looked at David. "Do you know why I like to sing that song, luv?" "No." "Because my mother hated it. She hated me." "Why did she hate you?" "Well, we can't ask her now, can we?" Toni laughed. "Not where she is. I couldn't do anything right for her. What kind of mother did you have, David?" "My mother was a wonderful person." "You're lucky then, aren't you? It's really the luck of the draw, I suppose. God plays games with us, doesn't he?" "Do you believe in God? Are you a religious person, Toni?" "I don't know. Maybe there's a God. If there is, he has a strange sense of humor, doesn't he? Alette is the religious one. She goes to church regularly, that one." "And do you?" Toni gave a short laugh. "Well, if she's there. I'm there." "Toni, do you believe it's right to kill people?" "No, of course not." "Then-" "Not unless you have to." David and Dr. Salem exchanged a look. "What do you mean by that?" Her tone of voice changed. She suddenly sounded defensive. "Well, you know, like if you have to protect yourself. If someone's hurting you." She was getting agitated. "If some git is trying to do dirty things to you." She was becoming hysterical. "Toni-" She started sobbing. "Why can't they leave me alone? Why did they have to-?" She was screaming. "Toni-" Silence. "Toni..." Nothing. Dr. Salem said, "She's gone. I'd like to wake Ashley up." David sighed. "All right." A few minutes later, Ashley was opening her eyes. "How do you feel?" David asked. "Tired. Did it...did it go all right?" "Yes. We talked to Alette and Toni. They-" "I don't want to know." "All right. Why don't you go rest now, Ashley? I'll be back to see you this afternoon." They watched a female jailer lead her away. Dr. Salem said, "You have to put her on the stand, David. That will convince any jury in the world that-" "I've given it a lot of thought," David said. "I don't think I can." Dr. Salem looked at him a moment. "Why not?" "Brennan, the prosecuting attorney, is a killer. He would tear her apart can't take that chance." David and Sandra were having dinner with the Quillers two days before the preliminaries of the trial were to begin. "We've checked into the Wyndham Hotel," David said. "The manager did me a special favor. Sandra's coming down with me. The town is crowded beyond belief." "And if it's that bad now," Emily said, "imagine what it's going to be like when the trial starts." Quiller looked at David. "Anything can do to help?" David shook his head. "I have a big decision to make. Whether to put Ashley on the stand or not." "It's a tough call," Jesse Quiller said. "You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. The problem is that Brennan is going to build Ashley Patterson up as a sadistic, murdering monster. If you don't put her on the stand, that's the image the jurors will carry in then-minds when they go into the jury room to reach a verdict. On the other hand, from what you tell me, if you do put Ashley on the stand, Brennan can destroy her." "Brennan's going to have all his medical experts there to discredit multiple personality disorder." "You've got to convince them that it's real." "And I intend to," David said. "Do you know what bothers me, Jesse? The jokes. The latest one going around is that wanted to ask for a change of venue, but decided not to because there are no places left where Ashley hasn't murdered someone. Do you remember when Johnny Carson was on television? He was funny and he always remained a gentleman. Now, the hosts on the late-night shows are all malicious. Then-humor at the expense of other people is savage." "David?" "Yes." Jesse Quiller said quietly, "It's going to get worse." David Singer was unable to sleep the night before he was to go into court. He could not stem the negative thoughts swirling through his head. When he finally fell asleep, he heard a voice saying. You let your last client die. What if you let this one die? He sat up in bed, bathed in perspiration. Sandra opened her eyes. "Are you all right?" "Yes. No. What the hell am I doing here? All I had to do was say no to Dr. Patterson." Sandra squeezed his aim and said softly, "Why didn't you?" He grunted. "You're right. I couldn't." "All right then. Now, how about getting some sleep so you'll be nice and fresh in the morning?" "Great idea." He was awake the rest of the night. Judge Williams had been correct about the media. The reporters were relentless. Journalists were swarming in from around the world, avid to cover the story of a beautiful young woman being tried as a serial killer who sexually mutilated her victims. The fact that Mickey Brennan was forbidden to bring the names of Jim Cleary or Jean Claude Parent into the trial had been frustrating, but the media had solved the problem for him. Television talk shows, magazines and newspapers all carried lurid stories of the five murders and castrations. Mickey Brennan was pleased. When David arrived at the courtroom, the press was out in full force. David was besieged. "Mr. Singer, are you still employed by Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley...?" "Look this way, Mr. Singer. " "Is it true you were fired for taking this case. ?" "Can you tell us about Helen Woodman? Didn't you handle her murder trial. ?" "Did Ashley Patterson say why she did it. ?" "Are you going to put your client on the stand. ?" "No comment," David said curtly. When Mickey Brennan drove up to the courthouse, he was instantly surrounded by the media. "Mr. Brennan, how do you think the trial is going to go. ?" "Have you ever tried an alter ego defense before. ?" Brennan smiled genially. "No. I can't wait to talk to all the defendants." He got the laugh that he wanted. "If there are enough of them, they can have their own ball club." Another laugh. "I've got to get inside. I don't want to keep any of the defendants waiting." The voir dire started with Judge Williams asking general questions of the potential jurors. When she had finished, it was the defense's turn and then the prosecution's. To laymen, the selection of a jury seems simple: Choose the prospective juror who seemed friendly and dismiss the others. In fact, voir dire was a carefully planned ritual. Skilled trial lawyers did not ask direct questions that would bring yes or no answers. They asked general questions that would encourage the jurors to talk and reveal something of themselves and their true feelings. Mickey Brennan and David Singer had different agendas. In this case, Brennan wanted a preponderance of men on the jury, men who would be disgusted and shocked at the idea of a woman stabbing and castrating her victims. Brennan's questions were meant to pinpoint people who were traditional in their thinking, who would be less likely to believe in spirits and goblins and people who claimed they were inhabited by alters. David took the opposite approach. "Mr. Harris, is it? I'm David Singer. I'm representing the defendant. Have you ever served on a jury before, Mr. Hams?" "No." "I appreciate your taking the time and trouble to do this." "It should be interesting, a big murder trial like this." "Yes. I think it will be." "In fact, I've been looking forward to it." "Have you?" "Yeah." "Where do you work, Mr. Hams?" "At United Steel." "I imagine you and your fellow workers have talked about the Patterson case." "Yes. As a matter of fact, we have." David said, "That's understandable. Everyone seems to be talking about it. What's the general opinion? Do your fellow workers think Ashley Patterson is guilty?" "Yeah. I have to say they do." "And do you think so?" "Well, it sure looks like it." "But you're willing to listen to the evidence before making up your mind?" "Yeah. I'll listen to it." "What do you like to read, Mr. Hams?" "I'm not a big reader. I like to camp out and hunt and fish." "An outdoorsman. When you're camping out at night and you look at the stars, do you ever wonder if there are other civilizations up there?" "You mean that crazy UFO stuff? I don't believe in all that nonsense." David turned to Judge Williams. "Pass for cause, Your Honor." Another juror interrogation: "What do you like to do in your spare time, Mr. Alien?" "Well, I like to read and watch television." "I like to do the same things. What do you watch on television?" "There's some great shows on Thursday nights. It's hard to choose. The damn networks put all the good shows on at the same time." "You're right. It's a shame. Do you ever watch the X-Files?' "Yeah. My kids love it." "What about Sabrina, the Teenage Witch?" "Yeah. We watch that. That's a good show." "What do you like to read?" "Anne Rice, Stephen King..." Yes. * * * Another juror interrogation: "What do you like to watch on television, Mr. Mayer?" "Sixty Minutes, the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, documentaries..." "What do you like to read?" "Mainly history and political books." "Thank you." No. Judge Tessa Williams sat on the bench, listening to the questioning, her face betraying nothing. But David could feel her disapproval every time she looked at him. When the last juror was finally selected, the panel consisted of seven men and five women. Brennan glanced at David triumphantly. This is going to be a slaughter. CHAPTER SIXTEEN EARLY ON the morning the trial of Ashley Patterson was to begin, David went to see Ashley at the detention center. She was near hysteria. "I can't go through with this. I can't! Tell them to leave me alone." "Ashley, it's going to be all right. We're going to face them, and we're going to win." "You don't know-You don't know what this is like. I feel as though I'm in some kind of hell." "We're going to get you out of it. This is the first step." She was trembling. "I'm afraid they're-they're going to do something terrible to me." "I won't let them," David said firmly. "I want you to believe in me. Just remember, you're not responsible for what happened. You haven't done anything wrong. They're waiting for us." She took a deep breath. "All right. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be fine." Seated in the spectators' section was Dr. Steven Patter-son. He had responded to the barrage of reporters' questions outside the courtroom with one answer: "My daughter is innocent." Several rows away were Jesse and Emily Quiller, there for moral support. At the prosecutor's table were Mickey Brennan and two associates, Susan Freeman and Eleanor Tucker. Sandra and Ashley were seated at the defendant's table, with David between them. The two women had met the previous week. "David, you can look at Ashley and know she's innocent." "Sandra, you can look at the evidence she left on her victims and know she killed them. But killing them and being guilty are two different things. Now all I have to do is convince the jury." Judge Williams entered the courtroom and moved to the bench. The court clerk announced, "All rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tessa Williams presiding." Judge Williams said, "You may be seated. This is the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson. Let's get started." Judge Williams looked at Brennan. "Would the prosecutor like to make an opening statement?" Mickey Brennan rose. "Yes, Your Honor." He turned to the jury and moved toward them. "Good morning. As you know, ladies and gentlemen, the defendant is on trial, accused of committing three bloody murders. Murderers come in many disguises." He nodded toward Ashley. "Her disguise is that of an innocent, vulnerable young woman. But the state will prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant willfully and knowingly murdered and mutilated three innocent men. "She used an alias to commit one of these murders, hoping not to get caught. She knew exactly what she was doing. We're talking calculated, cold-blooded murder. As the trial goes on, I will show you all the strands, one by one, that tie this case to the defendant sitting there. Thank you." He returned to his seat. Judge Williams looked at David. "Does the defense have an opening statement?" "Yes, Your Honor." David stood and faced the jury. He took a deep breath. "Ladies and gentlemen, in the course of this trial, I will prove to you that Ashley Patterson is not responsible for what happened. She had no motive for any of the murders, nor any knowledge of them. My client is a victim. She is a victim of MPD- multiple personality disorder, which in the course of this trial will be explained to you." He glanced at Judge Williams and said firmly, "MPD is an established medical fact. It means that there are other personalities, or alters, that take over their hosts and control their actions. MPD has a long history. Benjamin Rush, a physician and signer of the Declaration of Independence, discussed case histories of MPD in his lectures. Many incidents of MPD were reported through-out the nineteenth century and in this century of people taken over by alters." Brennan was listening to David, a cynical smile on his face. "We will prove to you that it was an alter who took command and committed the murders that Ashley Patterson had absolutely no reason to commit None. She had no control over what happened, and therefore is not responsible for what happened. During the course of the trial, I will bring in eminent doctors who will explain in greater detail about MPD. Fortunately, it is curable." He looked into the faces of the jurors. "Ashley Patterson had no control over what she did, and in the name of justice, we ask that Ashley Patterson not be convicted of crimes for which she is not responsible." David took his seat. Judge Williams looked at Brennan. "Is the state ready to proceed?" Brennan rose. "Yes, Your Honor." He flashed a smile at his associates and moved in front of the jury box. Brennan stood there a moment and deliberately let out a loud burp. The jurors were staring at him, surprised. Brennan looked at them a moment as though puzzled and then his face cleared. "Oh, I see. You were waiting for me to say 'excuse me.' Well, I didn't say it because I didn't do that. My alter ego, Pete, did it." David was on his feet, furious. "Objection. Your Honor, this is the most outrageous-" "Sustained." But the damage had already been done. Brennan gave David a patronizing smile and then turned back to the jury. "Well, I guess there hasn't been a defense like this since the Salem witch trials three hundred years ago." He turned to look at Ashley. "I didn't do it. No, sir. The devil made me do it." David was on his feet again. "Objection. The-" "Overruled." David slammed back into his seat. Brennan stepped closer to the jury box. "I promised you that I was going to prove that the defendant willfully and cold-bloodedly murdered and mutilated three men- Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and deputy Samuel Blake. Three men! In spite of what the defense says"- he turned and pointed to Ashley again-"there's only one defendant sitting there, and she's the one who committed the murders. What did Mr. Singer call it? Multiple personality disorder? Well, I'm going to bring some prominent doctors here who will tell you, under oath, that there is no such thing! But first, let's hear from some experts who are going to tie the defendant to the crimes." Brennan turned to Judge Williams. "I would like to call my first witness. Special Agent Vincent Jordan." A short bald man stood up and moved toward the witness box. The clerk said, "Please state your full name and spell it for the record." "Special Agent Vincent Jordan, J-o-r-d-a-n." Brennan waited until he was sworn in and took a seat. "You are with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C.?" "Yes, sir." "And what do you do with the FBI, Special Agent Jordan?" "I'm in charge of the fingerprints section." "How long have you had that job?" "Fifteen years." "Fifteen years. In all that time have you ever come across a duplicate set of fingerprints from different people?" "No, sir." "How many sets of fingerprints are currently on file with the FBI?" "At last count, just over two hundred and fifty million, but we receive over thirty-four thousand fingerprint cards a day." "And none of them matches any others?" "No, sir." "How do you identify a fingerprint?" "We use seven different fingerprint patterns for identification purposes. Fingerprints are unique. They're formed before birth and last throughout one's life. Barring accidental or intentional mutilation, no two patterns are alike." "Special Agent Jordan, you were sent the fingerprints found at the scenes of the three victims who the defendant is accused of murdering?" "Yes, sir. We were." "And you were also sent the fingerprints of the defendant, Ashley Patterson?" "Yes, sir." "Did you personally examine those prints?" "I did." "And what was your conclusion?" "That the prints left at the murder scenes and the prints that were taken from Ashley Patterson were identical." There was a loud buzz in the courtroom. "Order! Order!" Brennan waited until the courtroom quieted down. "They were identical? Is there any doubt in your mind, Agent Jordan? Could there be any mistake?" "No, sir. All the prints were clear and easily identifiable." "Just to clarify this... we're talking about the fingerprints left at the murder scenes of Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and deputy Samuel Blake?" "Yes, sir." "And the fingerprints of the defendant, Ashley Patterson, were found at all the scenes of the murders?" "That is correct." "And what would you say was the margin of error?" "None." "Thank you. Agent Jordan." Brennan turned to David Singer. "Your witness." David sat there a moment, then rose and walked over to the witness box. "Agent Jordan, when you examine fingerprints, do you ever find that some have been deliberately smudged, or damaged in some way, in order for the felon to conceal his crime?" "Yes, but we're usually able to correct them with high-intensity laser techniques." "Did you have to do that in the case of Ashley Patterson?" "No, sir." "Why was that?" "Well, like I said... the fingerprints were all clear." David glanced at the jury. "So what you're saying is that the defendant made no attempt to erase or disguise her fingerprints?" "That is correct." "Thank you. No further questions." He turned to the jury. "Ashley Patterson made no attempt to conceal her prints because she was innocent and-" Judge Williams snapped, "That's enough. Counselor! You'll have your chance to plead your case later." David resumed his seat. Judge Williams turned to Special Agent Jordan. "You're excused." The FBI agent stepped down. Brennan said, "I would like to call as my next witness, Stanley Clarke." A young man with long hair was ushered into the courtroom. He walked toward the witness stand. The courtroom was still as he was sworn in and took his seat. Brennan said, "What is your occupation, Mr. Clarke?" "I'm with National Biotech Laboratory work with deoxyribonucleic acid." "More commonly known to us simple nonscientists as DNA?" "Yes, sir." "How long have you worked at National Biotech Laboratory?" "Seven years." "And what is your position?" "I'm a supervisor." "So, in that seven years, I assume that you've had a lot of experience with testing DNA?" "Sure. I do it every day." Brennan glanced at the jury. "I think we're all familiar with the importance of DNA." He pointed to the spectators. "Would you say that perhaps half a dozen people in this courtroom have identical DNA?" "Hell no, sir. If we took a profile of DNA strands and assigned it a frequency based on collected databases, only one in five hundred billion unrelated Caucasians would have the same DNA profile." Brennan looked impressed. "One in five hundred billion. Mr. Clarke, how do you obtain DNA from a crime scene?" "Lots of ways. We find DNA in saliva or semen or vaginal discharge, blood, a strand of hair, teeth, bone marrow..." "And from any one of those things you can match it to a specific person?" "That's correct." "Did you personally compare the DNA evidence in the murders of Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and Samuel Blake?" "I did." "And were you later given several strands of hair from the defendant, Ashley Patterson?" "I was." "When you compared the DNA evidence from the various murder scenes with the strands of hair from the defendant, what was your conclusion?" "They were identical." This time the reaction from the spectators was even noisier. Judge Williams slammed down her gavel. "Order! Be quiet, or I'll have the courtroom cleared." Brennan waited until the room was still. "Mr. Clarke, did you say that the DNA taken from every one of the three murder scenes and the DNA of the accused were identical?" Brennan leaned on the word. "Yes, sir." Brennan glanced over at the table where Ashley was sitting, then turned back to the witness. "What about contamination? We're all aware of a famous criminal trial where the DNA evidence was supposedly contaminated. Could the evidence in this case have been mishandled so that it was no longer valid or-?" "No, sir. The DNA evidence in these murder cases was very carefully handled and sealed." "So there's no doubt about it. The defendant murdered the three-?" David was on his feet. "Objection, Your Honor. The prosecutor is leading the witness and-" "Sustained." David took his seat. "Thank you, Mr. Clarke." Brennan turned to David. "Nothing further." Judge Williams said, "Your witness, Mr. Singer." "No questions." The jurors were staring at David. Brennan acted surprised. "No questions?" Brennan looked at the jurors and said, "I'm amazed that the defense is not questioning the evidence, because it proves beyond a doubt that the defendant murdered and castrated three innocent men and-" David was on his feet. "Your Honor-" "Sustained. You're stepping over the boundaries, Mr. Brennan!" "Sorry, Your Honor. No more questions." Ashley was looking at David, frightened. He whispered, "Don't worry. It will be our turn soon." The afternoon consisted of more witnesses for the prosecution, and their testimony was devastating. "The building superintendent summoned you to Dennis Tibble's apartment. Detective Light man?" "Yes." "Would you tell as what you found there?" "It was a mess. There was blood all over the place." "What was the condition of the victim?" "He had been stabbed to death and castrated." Brennan glanced at the jury, a look of horror on his face. "Stabbed to death and castrated. Did you find any evidence at the scene of the crime?" "Oh, yes. The victim had had sex before he died. We found some vaginal discharge and fingerprints." "Why didn't you arrest someone immediately?" "The fingerprints we found didn't match any that we had on record. We were waiting for a match on the prints we had." "But when you finally got Ashley Patterson's fingerprints and her DNA, it all came together?" "It sure did. It all came together." Dr. Steven Patterson was at the trial every day. He sat in the spectators' section just behind the defendant's table. Whenever he entered or left the courtroom, he was besieged by reporters. "Dr. Patterson, how do you think the trial is going?" "It's going very well." "What do you think is going to happen?" "My daughter is going to be found innocent." Late one afternoon when David and Sandra got back to the hotel, there was a message waiting for them. "Please call Mr. Kong at your bank." David and Sandra looked at each other. "Is it time for another payment already?" Sandra asked. "Yes. Time flies when you're having fan," he said dryly. David was thoughtful for a moment. "The trial's going to be over soon, honey. We have enough left in our bank account to give them this month's payment." Sandra looked at him, worried. "David, if we can't make all the payments... do we lose everything we've put in?" "We do. But don't worry. Good things happen to good people." And he thought about Helen Woodman. * * * Brian Hill was sitting in the witness box after being sworn in. Mickey Brennan gave him a friendly smile. "Would you tell us what you do, Mr. Hill?" "Yes, sir. I'm a guard at the De Young Museum in San Francisco." "That must be an interesting job." "It is, if you like art. I'm a frustrated painter." "How long have you worked there?" "Four years." "Do a lot of the same people visit the museum? That is, do people come again and again?" "Oh, yes. Some people do." "So I suppose that over a period of time, they would become familiar to you, or at least they would be familiar faces?" "That's true." "And I'm told that artists are permitted to come in to copy some of the museum's paintings?" "Oh, yes. We have a lot of artists." "Did you ever meet any of them, Mr. Hill?" "Yes, we-You kind of become friendly after a while." "Did you ever meet a man named Richard Melton?" Brian Hill sighed. "Yes. He was very talented." "So talented, in fact that you asked him to teach you to paint?" "That's right." David got to his feet. "Your Honor, this is fascinating, but I don't see what it has to do with the trial. If Mr. Brennan-" "It's relevant, Your Honor. I'm establishing that Mr. Hill could identify the victim by sight and by name and tell us who the victim associated with." "Objection overruled. You may go ahead." "And did he teach you to paint?" "Yes, he did, when he had time." "When Mr. Melton was at the museum, did you ever see him with any young ladies?" "Well, not in the beginning. But then he met somebody he was kind of interested in, and I used to see him with her." "What was her name?" "Alette Peters." Brennan looked puzzled. "Alette Peters? Are you sure you have the right name?" "Yes, sir. That's the way he introduced her." "You don't happen to see her in this courtroom right now, do you, Mr. Hill?" "Yes, sir." He pointed to Ashley. "That's her sitting there." Brennan said, "But that's not Alette Peters. That's the defendant, Ashley Patterson." David was on his feet. "Your Honor, we have already said that Alette Peters is a part of this trial. She is one of the alters who controls Ashley Patterson and-" "You're getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Singer. Mr. Brennan, please continue." "Now, Mr. Hill, you're sure that the defendant, who's here under the name of Ashley Patterson, was known to Richard Melton as Alette Peters?" "That's right." "And there's no doubt that this is the same woman?" Brian Hill hesitated. "Well... Yeah, it's the same woman." "And you saw her with Richard Melton the day that Melton was murdered?" "Yes, sir." "Thank you." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David got up and slowly walked over to the witness box. "Mr. Hill, I would think it's a big responsibility being a guard in a place where so many hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of art was being exhibited." "Yes, sir. It is." "And to be a good guard, you have to be on the alert all the time." "That's right." "You have to be aware of what's going on all the me." "You bet." "Would you say that you're a trained observer, Mr. Hill?" "Yes, I would." "I ask that because I noticed when Mr. Brennan asked you if you had any doubts about whether Ashley Patterson was the woman who was with Richard Melton, you hesitated. Weren't you sure?" There was a momentary pause. "Well, she looks a lot like the same woman, but in a way she seems different." "In what way, Mr. Hill?" "Alette Peters was more Italian, and she had an Italian accent... and she seemed younger than the defendant." "That's exactly right, Mr. Hill. The person you saw in San Francisco was an alter of Ashley Patterson. She was born in Rome, she was eight years younger-" Brennan was on his feet, furious. "Objection." David turned to Judge Williams. "Your Honor, was-" "Will counsel approach the bench, please?" David and Brennan walked over to Judge Williams. "I don't want to have to tell you this again, Mr. Singer. The defense will have its chance when the prosecution rests. Until then, stop pleading your case." Bernice Jenkins was on the stand. "Would you tell us your occupation. Miss Jenkins?" "I'm a waitress." "And where do you work?" "The cafe at the De Young Museum." "What was your relationship with Richard Melton?" "We were good friends." "Could you elaborate on that?" "Well, at one time we had a romantic relationship and then things kind of cooled off. Those things happen." "I'm sure they do. And then what?" "Then we became like brother and sister. I mean, I-I told him about all my problems, and he told me about all his problems." "Did he ever discuss the defendant with you?" "Well, yeah, but she called herself by a different name." "And that name was?" "Alette Peters." "But he knew her name was really Ashley Patterson?" "No. He thought her name was Alette Peters." "You mean she deceived him?" David sprang to his feet, furious. "Objection." "Sustained. You will stop leading the witness, Mr. Brennan." "Sorry, Your Honor." Brennan turned back to the witness box. "He spoke to you about this Alette Peters, but did you ever see the two of them together?" "Yes, I did. He brought her into the restaurant one day and introduced us." "And you're speaking of the defendant, Ashley Patterson?" "Yeah. Only she called herself Alette Peters." Gary King was on the stand. Brennan asked, "You were Richard Melton's roommate?" "Yes." "Were you also friends? Did you go out with him socially?" "Sure. We double-dated a lot together." "Was Mr. Melton interested in any young lady in particular?" "Yeah." "Do you know her name?" "She called herself Alette Peters." "Do you see her in this courtroom?" "Yeah. She's sitting over there." "For the record, you are pointing to the defendant, Ashley Patterson?" "Right." "When you came home on the night of the murder, you found Richard Melton's body in the apartment?" "I sure did." "What was the condition of the body?" "Bloody." "The body had been castrated?" A shudder. "Yeah. Man, it was awful." Brennan looked over at the jury for their reaction. It was exactly what he hoped for. "What did you do next, Mr. King?" "I called the police." "Thank you." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David rose and walked over to Gary King. "Tell us about Richard Melton. What kind of man was he?" "He was great." "Was he argumentative? Did he like to get into fights?" "Richard? No. Just the opposite. He was very quiet, laid back." "But he liked to be around women who were tough and kind of physical?" Gary was looking at him strangely. "Not at all. Richard liked nice, quiet women." "Did he and Alette have a lot of fights? Did she yell at him a lot?" Gary was puzzled. "You've got it all wrong. They never yelled at each other. They were great together." "Did you ever see anything that would lead you to believe that Alette Peters would do anything to harm-?" "Objection. He's leading the witness." "Sustained." "No more questions," David said. When David sat down, he said to Ashley, "Don't worry. They're building up our case for us." He sounded more confident than he felt. David and Sandra were having dinner at San Fresco, the restaurant in the Wyndham Hotel, when the maitre d' came up to David and said, "There's an urgent telephone call for you, Mr. Singer." "Thank you." David said to Sandra, "I'll be right back." He followed the maitre d' to a telephone. "This is David Singer." "David-Jesse. Go up to your room and call me back. The goddamn roof is falling in!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JESSE -?" "David, I know I'm not supposed to interfere, but I think you should ask for a mistrial." "What's happened?" "Have you been on the Internet in the past few days?" "No. I've been a little busy." "Well, the trial is all over the damned Internet. That's all they're talking about in the chat rooms." "That figures," David said. "But what's the-?" "It's all negative, David. They're saying that Ashley is guilty and that she should be executed. And they're saying it in very colorful ways. You can't believe how vicious they are." David, suddenly realizing, said, "Oh, my God! If any of the jurors are on the Internet-" "The odds are pretty good that some of them are, and they'll be influenced. I would ask for a mistrial, or at the very least, to have the jurors sequestered." "Thanks, Jesse. Will do." David replaced the receiver. When he returned to the restaurant where Sandra was waiting, she asked, "Bad?" "Bad." Before court convened the following morning, David asked to see Judge Williams. He was ushered into her chambers, along with Mickey Brennan. "You asked to see me?" "Yes, Your Honor. I learned last night that this trial is the number one subject on the Internet. It's what all the chat rooms are discussing, and they've already convicted the defendant. It's very prejudicial. And since I'm sure that some of the jurors have computers with on-line access, or talk to friends who have on-line access, it could seriously damage the defense. Therefore, I'm making a motion for a mistrial." She was thoughtful for a moment. "Motion denied." David sat there, fighting to control himself. "Then I make a motion to immediately sequester the jury so that-" "Mr. Singer, every day the press is at this courtroom in full force. This trial is the number one topic on television, on radio and in the newspapers all over the world. I waned you that this was going to turn into a circus, and you wouldn't listen." She leaned forward. "Well, it's your circus, if you wanted the jury sequestered, you should have made that motion before the trial. And I probably would not have granted it. Is there anything else?" David sat there, his stomach churning. "No, Your Honor." "Then let's get into the courtroom." Mickey Brennan was questioning Sheriff Dowling. "Deputy Sam Blake called to tell you that he was going to spend the night at the defendant's apartment in order to protect her? She told him that someone was threatening her life?" "That is correct." "When did you hear from deputy Blake again?" "I-I didn't. I got a call in the morning that his-his body had been found in the alley in back of Miss Patterson's apartment building." "And of course you went there immediately?" "Of course." "And what did you find?" He swallowed. "Sam's body was wrapped in a bloody sheet. He had been stabbed to death and castrated like the other two victims." "Like the other two victims. So all those murders were carried out in a similar fashion?" "Yes, sir." "As though they were killed by the same person?" David was on his feet. "Objection!" "Sustained." "I'll withdraw that. What did you do next. Sheriff?" "Well, up until that time, Ashley Patterson wasn't a suspect. But after this happened, we took her in and had her fingerprints taken." "And then?" "We sent them to the FBI, and we got a positive make on her." "Would you explain to the jury what you mean by a positive make?" Sheriff Dowling turned to the jury. "Her fingerprints matched other fingerprints on file that they were trying to identify from the previous murders." "Thank you. Sheriff." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David got up and walked over to the witness box. "Sheriff, we've heard testimony in this courtroom that a bloody knife was found in Miss Patterson's kitchen." "That's right." "How was it hidden? Wrapped up in something? Stashed away where it couldn't be found?" "No. It was right out in the open." "Right out in the open. Left there by someone who had nothing to hide. Someone who was innocent because-" "Objection!" "Sustained." "No more questions." "The witness is dismissed." Brennan said, "If it pleases the court..." He signaled someone at the back of the courtroom, and a man in overalls came in, carrying the mirror from Ashley Patterson's medicine cabinet. On it, in red lipstick, was written YOU WILL DIE. David rose. "What is this?" Judge Williams turned to Mickey Brennan. "Mr. Brennan?" "This is the bait the defendant used to get deputy Blake to come to her apartment so she could murder him. I would like this marked as exhibit D. It came from the medicine chest of the defendant." "Objection, Your Honor. It has no relevance." "I will prove that there is a relevance." "We'll see. In the meantime, you may proceed." Brennan placed the mirror in full view of the jury. "This minor was taken from the defendant's bathroom." He looked at the jurors. "As you can see, scrawled across it is 'You Will Die.' This was the defendant's pretext for having deputy Blake come to her apartment that night to protect her." He turned to Judge Williams. "I would like to call my next witness. Miss Laura Niven." A middle-aged woman walking with a cane approached the witness box and was sworn in. "Where do you work. Miss Niven?" "I'm a consultant for the County of San Jose." "And what do you do?" "I'm a handwriting expert." "How long have you worked for the county. Miss Niven?" "Twenty-two years." Brennan nodded toward the mirror. "You have been shown this mirror before?" "Yes." "And you've examined it?" "I have." "And you've been shown an example of the defendant's handwriting?" "Yes." "And had a chance to examine that?" "Yes." "And you've compared the two?" "I have." "And what is your conclusion?" "They were written by the same person." There was a collective gasp from the courtroom. "So what you're saying is that Ashley Patterson wrote this threat to herself?" "That is correct." Mickey Brennan looked over at David. "Your witness." David hesitated. He glanced at Ashley. She was staring down at the table, shaking her head. "No questions." Judge Williams was studying David. "No questions, Mr. Singer?" David rose to his feet. "No. All this testimony is meaningless." He turned to the jury. "The prosecution will have to prove that Ashley Patterson knew the victims and had a motive to-" Judge Williams said angrily, "I've warned you before. It is not your place to instruct the jury on the law. If-" "Someone has to," David exploded. "You're letting him get away with-" "That's enough, Mr. Singer. Approach the bench." David walked to the bench. "I'm citing you for contempt of court and sentencing you to a night here in our nice jail the day this trial is over." "Wait, Your Honor. You can't-" She said grimly, "I've sentenced you to one night. Would you like to try for two?" David stood there, glaring at her, taking deep breaths. "For the sake of my client, I'll-I'll keep my feelings to myself." "A wise decision," Judge Williams said curtly. "Court is adjourned." She turned to a bailiff. "When this trial is ended, I want Mr. Singer taken into custody." "Yes, Your Honor." Ashley turned to Sandra. "Oh, my God! What's happening?" Sandra squeezed her arm. "Don't worry. You have to trust David." Sandra telephoned Jesse Quiller. "I heard," he said. "It's all over the news, Sandra. I don't blame David for losing his temper. She's been goading him from the beginning. What did David do to get her so down on him?" "I don't know, Jesse. It's been horrible. You should see the faces of the jurors. They hate Ashley. They can't wait to convict her. Well, it's the defense's turn next. David will change their minds." "Hold the thought." "Judge Williams hates me, Sandra, and it's banning Ashley. If I don't do something about this, Ashley is going to die. I can't let that happen." "What can you do?" Sandra asked. David took a deep breath. "Resign from the case." Both of them knew what that meant. The media would be full of his failure. "I never should have agreed to take on the trial," David said bitterly. "Dr. Patterson trusted me to save his daughter's life, and I've-" He could not go on. Sandra put her arms around him and held him close. "Don't worry, darling. Everything's going to turn out fine." I've let everyone down, David thought. Ashley, Sandra... I'm going to be kicked out of the firm, I won't have a job and the baby is due soon. "Everything's going to turn out fine." Right. In the morning, David asked to see Judge Williams in her chambers. Mickey Brenman was there. Judge Williams said, "You asked to see me, Mr. Singer?" "Yes, Your Honor. I want to resign from the case." Judge Williams said, "On what grounds?" David spoke carefully. "I don't believe I'm the right lawyer for this trial. I think I'm hurting my client I would like to be replaced." Judge Williams said quietly, "Mr. Singer, if you think I'm going to let you walk away from this and then have to start this trial all over again and waste even more time and money, you're quite mistaken. The answer is no. Do you understand me?" David closed his eyes for an instant, forcing himself to stay calm. He looked up and said, "Yes, Your Honor. I understand you." He was trapped. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN More than three months had gone by since the beginning of the trial, and David could not remember when he had last had a full night's sleep. One afternoon, when they returned from the court-room, Sandra said, "David, I think I should go back to San Francisco." David looked at her in surprise. "Why? We're right in the middle of-Oh, my God." He put his arms around her. "The baby. Is it coming?" Sandra smiled. "Anytime now. I'd feel safer if I were back there, closer to Dr. Bailey. Mother said she'd come and stay with me." "Of course. You have to go back," David said. "I lost track of time. He's due in three weeks, isn't he?" "Yes." He grimaced. "And I can't be there with you." Sandra took his hand. "Don't be upset, darling. This trial's going to be over soon." "This goddamn trial is ruining our lives." "David, we're going to be fine. My old job's waiting for me. After the baby comes, I can-" David said, "I'm so sorry, Sandra. I wish-" "David, don't ever be sorry for doing something you believe is right." "I love you." "I love you." He stroked her stomach. "I love you both." He sighed. "All right I'll help you pack. I'll drive you back to San Francisco tonight and-" "No," Sandra said firmly. "You can't leave here. I'll ask Emily to come and pick me up." "Ask her if she can join us here for dinner tonight." "All right." Emily had been delighted. "Of course I'll come to pick you up." And she had arrived in San Jose two hours later. The three of them had dinner that evening at Chai Jane. "It's terrible timing," Emily said. "I hate to see you two away from each other right now." "The trial's almost over," David said hopefully. "Maybe it will end before the baby comes." Emily smiled. "We'll have a double celebration." It was time to go. David held Sandra in his arms. "I'll talk to you every night," he said. "Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I love you very much." Sandra looked at him and said, "Take care of yourself, David. You look tired." It wasn't until Sandra left that David realized how utterly alone he was. Court was in session. ÑÙÒ Mickey Brennan rose and addressed the court. "I would like to call Dr. Lawrence Larkin as my next witness." A distinguished gray-haired man was sworn in and took the stand. "I want to thank you for being here. Dr. Larkin. I know your time is very valuable. Would you tell us a little about your background?" "I have a successful practice in Chicago. I'm a past resident of the Chicago Psychiatric Association." "How many years have you been in practice, Doctor?" "Approximately thirty years." "And as a psychiatrist, I imagine you've seen many cases of multiple personality disorder?" "No." Brennan frowned. "When you say no, you mean you haven't seen a lot of them? Maybe a dozen?" "I've never seen one case of multiple personality disorder." Brennan looked at the jury in mock dismay, then back at the doctor. "In thirty years of working with mentally disturbed patients, you have never seen a single case of multiple personality disorder?" "That's correct." "I'm amazed. How do you explain that?" "It's very simple. I don't think that multiple personality disorder exists." "Well, I'm puzzled. Doctor. Haven't cases of multiple personality disorder been reported?" Dr. Larkin snorted. "Being reported doesn't mean they're real. You see, what some doctors believe is MPD, they're confusing with schizophrenia, depressions and various other anxiety disorders." "That's very interesting. So in your opinion, as an expert psychiatrist, you don't believe that multiple personality disorder even exists?" "That is correct." "Thank you. Doctor." Mickey Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David rose and walked over to the witness box. "You are a past president of the Chicago Psychiatric Association, Dr. Larkin?" "Yes." "You must have met a great many of your peers." "Yes. I'm proud to say that I have." "Do you know Dr. Royce Salem?" "Yes. I know him very well." "Is he a good psychiatrist?" "Excellent. One of the best." "Did you ever meet Dr. Clyde Donovan?" "Yes. Many times." "Would you say that he's a good psychiatrist?" "I would use him"-a small chuckle-"if I needed one." "And what about Dr. Ingram? Do you know him?" "Ray Ingram? Indeed, I do. Fine man." "Competent psychiatrist?" "Oh, yes." "Tell me, do all psychiatrists agree on every mental condition?" "No. Of course we have some disagreements. Psychiatry is not an exact science." "That's interesting. Doctor. Because Dr. Salem, Dr. Donovan and Dr. Ingram are going to come here and testify that they have treated cases of multiple personality disorder. Perhaps none of them is as competent as you are. That's all. No further questions." Judge Williams turned to Brennan. "Redirect?" Brennan got to his feet and walked over to the witness box. "Dr. Larkin, do you believe that because these other doctors disagree with your opinion about MPD that that makes them right and you wrong?" "No. I could produce dozens of psychiatrists who don't believe in MPD." "Thank you. Doctor. No more questions." Mickey Brennan said, "Dr. Upton, we've heard testimony that sometimes what is thought to be multiple personality disorder is really confused with other disorders. What are the tests that prove multiple personality disorder isn't one of those other conditions?" "There is no test." Brennan's mouth dropped open in surprise as he glanced at the jury. "There is no test? Are you saying that there's no way to tell whether someone who claims he has MPD is lying or malingering or using it to excuse some crime he or she doesn't want to be held responsible for?" "As I said, there is no test." "So it's simply a matter of opinion? Some psychiatrists believe in it and some don't?" "That's right." "Let me ask you this, Doctor. If you hypnotize someone, surely you can tell whether they really have MPD or they're pretending to have it?" Dr. Upton shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Even under hypnosis or with Sodium Amytal, there is no way of exposing someone if he or she is faking." "That's very interesting. Thank you, Doctor. No more questions." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David rose and walked over to the witness box. "Dr. Upton, have you ever had patients come to you, having been diagnosed by other doctors as having MPD?" "Yes. Several times." "And did you treat those patients?" "No, I didn't." "Why not?" "I can't treat conditions that don't exist. One of the patients was an embezzler who wanted me to testify that he wasn't responsible because he had an alter who did it. Another patient was a housewife who was arrested for beating her children. She says that someone inside her made her do it. There were a few more like that with different excuses, but they were all trying to bide from something. In other words, they were faking." "You seem to have a very definite opinion about this, Doctor." "I do. I know I'm right." David said, "You know you're right?" "Well, I mean-" "-that everyone else must be wrong? All the doctors who believe in MPD are all wrong?" "I didn't mean that-" "And you're the only one who's right. Thank you, Doctor. That's all." Dr. Simon Raleigh was on the stand. He was a short, bald man in his sixties. Brennan said, "Thank you for coming here. Doctor. You've had a long and illustrious career. You're a doctor, you're a professor, you went to school at-" David stood up. "The defense will stipulate to the witness's distinguished background." "Thank you." Brennan turned back to the witness. "Dr. Raleigh, what does iatrogenicity mean?" "That's when there's an existing illness, and medical treatment of psychotherapy aggravates it." "Would you be more specific. Doctor?" "Well, in psychotherapy, very often the therapist influences the patient with his questions or attitude. He might make the patient feel that he has to meet the expectations of the therapist." "How would that apply to MPD?" " "If the psychiatrist is questioning the patient about different personalities within him, the patient might make up some in order to please the therapist. It's a very tricky area. Amytal and hypnosis can mimic MPD in patients who are otherwise normal." "So what you're saying is that under hypnosis the psychiatrist himself can alter the condition of the patient so that the patient believes something that is not true?" "That has happened, yes." "Thank you. Doctor." He looked at David. "Your witness." David said, "Thank you." He rose and walked over to the witness box. David said disarmingly, "Your credentials are very impressive. You're not only a psychiatrist, but you teach at a university." "Yes." "How long have you been teaching. Doctor?" "More than fifteen years." "That's wonderful. How do you divide your time? By that I mean, do you spend half of your time teaching and the other half working as a doctor?" "Now, I teach full-time." "Oh? How long has it been since you actually practiced medicine?" "About eight years. But I keep up on all the current medical literature." "I have to tell you, I find that admirable. So you read up on everything. That's how you're so familiar with iatrogenicity?" "Yes." "And in the past, a lot of patients came to you claiming they had MPD?" "Well, no..." "Not a lot? In the years you were practicing as a doctor, would you say you had a dozen cases who claimed they had MPD?" "No." "Six?" Dr. Raleigh shook his head. "Four?" There was no answer. "Doctor, have you ever had a patient who came to you with MPD?" "Well, it's hard to-" "Yes or no. Doctor?" "No." "So all you really know about MPD is what you've read? No further questions." The prosecution called six more witnesses, and the pattern was the same with each. Mickey Brennan had assembled nine top psychiatrists from around the country, all united in their belief that MPD did not exist. The prosecution's case was winding to a close. When the last witness on the prosecution's list had been excused. Judge Williams turned to Brennan. "Do you have any more witnesses to call, Mr. Brennan?" "No, Your Honor. But I would like to show the jury police photographs of the death scenes from the murders F-" David said furiously, "Absolutely not". Judge Williams turned to David. "What did you say, Mr. Singer?" "I said"-David caught himself-"objection. The prosecution is trying to inflame the jury by-" "Objection overruled. The foundation was laid in a pretrial motion." Judge Williams turned to Brennan. "You may show the photographs." David took his seat, furious. Brennan walked back to his desk and picked up a stack of photographs and handed them out to the jurors. "These are not pleasant to look at, ladies and gentlemen, but this is what the trial is about. It's not about words or theories or excuses. It's not about mysterious alter egos killing people. It's about three real people who were savagely and brutally murdered. The law says that someone has to pay for those murders. It's up to each one of you to see that justice is done." Brennan could see the horror on the faces of the jurors as they looked at the photographs. He turned to Judge Williams. "The State rests." Judge Williams looked at her watch. "It's four o'clock. The court will recess for the day and begin again at ten o'clock Monday morning. Court adjourned." CHAPTER NINETEEN ASHLY Patterson was on the gallows being hanged, when a policeman ran up and said, "Wait a minute. She's supposed to be electrocuted." The scene changed, and she was in the electric chair. A guard reached up to pull the switch, and Judge Williams came running in screaming, "No. We're going to kill her with a lethal injection." David woke up and sat upright in bed, his heart pounding. His pajamas were wet with perspiration. He started to get up and was suddenly dizzy. He had a pounding headache, and he felt feverish. He touched his forehead. It was hot. As David started to get out of bed, he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. "Oh, no," he groaned. "Not today. Not now." This was the day he had been waiting for, the day the defense would begin to present its case. David stumbled into the bathroom and bathed his face in cold water. He looked in the mirror. "You look like hell." When David arrived in court, Judge Williams was already on the bench. They were all waiting for him. "I apologize for being late," David said. His voice was a croak. "May I approach the bench?" "Yes." David walked up to the bench, with Mickey Brennan close behind him. "Your Honor," David said, "I'd like to ask for a one-day stay." "On what grounds?" "I-I'm not feeling very well, Your Honor. I'm sure a doctor can give me something and tomorrow I'll be fine." Judge Williams said, "Why don't you have your associate take over for you?" David looked at her in surprise. "I don't have an associate." "Why don't you, Mr. Singer?" "Because..." Judge Williams leaned forward. "I've never seen a murder trial conducted like this. You're a one-man show looking for glory, aren't you? Well, you won't find it in this court. I'll tell you something else. You probably think I should refuse myself because I don't believe in your devil-made-me-do-it defense, but I'm not refusing myself. We're going to let the jury decide whether they think your client is innocent or guilty. Is there anything else, Mr. Singer?" David stood there looking at her, and the room was swimming. He wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. He wanted to get on his knees and beg her to be fair. He wanted to go home to bed. He said in a hoarse voice, "No. Thank you. Your Honor." Judge Williams nodded. "Mr. Singer, you're on. Don't waste any more of this court's time." David walked over to the jury box, trying to forget about he's headache and fever. He spoke slowly. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have listened to the prosecution ridiculing the facts of multiple personality disorder. I'm sure that Mr. Brennan wasn't being deliberately malicious. His statements were made out of ignorance. The fact is that he obviously knows nothing about multiple personality disorder, and the same is true of some of the witnesses he has put on the stand. But I'm going to have some people talk to you who do know about it. These are reputable doctors, who are experts in this problem. When you have heard their testimony. I'm sure that it will cast a whole different light on what Mr. Brennan has had to say. "Mr. Brennan has talked about my client's guilt in committing these terrible crimes. That's a very important point. Guilt. For murder in the first degree to be proved, there must be not only a guilty act, but also a guilty intention. I will show you that there was no guilty intention, because Ashley Patterson was not in control at the time the crimes occurred. She was totally unaware that they were taking place. Some eminent doctors are going to testify that Ashley Patterson has two additional personalities, or alters, one of them a controlling one." David looked into the faces of the jurors. They seemed to be swaying in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. "The American Psychiatric Association recognizes multiple personality disorder. So do prominent physicians around the world who have treated patients with this problem. One of Ashley Patterson's personalities committed murder, but it was a personality-an alter- over which she had no control." His voice was getting stronger. "To see the problem clearly, you must understand that the law does not punish an innocent person. So there is a paradox here. Imagine that a Siamese twin is being tried for murder. The law says that you cannot punish the guilty one because you would then have to punish the innocent one." The jury was listening intently. David nodded toward Ashley. "In this case, we have not two but three personalities to deal with." He turned to Judge Williams. "I would like to call my first witness. Dr. Joel Ashanti." "Dr. Ashanti, where do you practice medicine?" "At Madison Hospital in New York." "And did you come here at my request?" "No. I read about the trial, and I wanted to testify. I've worked with patients who have multiple personality disorder, and I wanted to be helpful, if I could. MPD is much more common than the public realizes, and I want to try to clear up any misunderstandings about it." "I appreciate that, Doctor. In cases like these, is it usual to find a patient with two personalities or alters?" "In my experience, people with MPD usually have many more alters, sometimes as many as a hundred." Eleanor Tucker turned to whisper something to Mickey Brennan. Brennan smiled. "How long have you been dealing with multiple personality disorder? Dr. Ashanti?" "For the past fifteen years." "In a patient with MPD, is there usually one alter who dominates?" "Yes." Some of the jurors were making notes. "And is the host-the person who has those personalities within him or her-aware of the other alters?" "It varies. Sometimes some of the alters know all the other alters, sometimes they know only some of them. But the host is usually not aware of them, not until psychiatric treatment." "That's very interesting. Is MPD curable?" "Often, yes. It requires psychiatric treatment over long periods. Sometimes up to six or seven years." "Have you ever been able to cure MPD patients?" "Oh, yes." "Thank you. Doctor." David turned to study the jury for a moment. Interested, but not convinced, he thought. He looked over at Mickey Brennan. "Your witness." Brennan rose and walked over to the witness box. "Dr. Ashanti, you testified that you flew here all the way from New Yolk because you wanted to be helpful?" "That's correct." "Your coming here couldn't have anything to do with the fact that this is a high-profile case and that the publicity would be beneficial to-" David was on his feet. "Objection. Argumentative." "Overruled." Dr. Ashanti said calmly, "I stated why I came here." "Right. Since you've been practicing medicine. Doctor, how many patients would you say you've treated for mental disorders?" "Oh, perhaps two hundred." "And of those cases, how many would you say suffered from multiple personality disorder?" "A dozen..." Brennan looked at him in feigned astonishment. "Out of two bundled patients?" "Well, yes. You see-" "What I don't see. Dr. Ashanti, is how you can consider yourself an expert if you've dealt with only those few cases. I would appreciate it if you would give us some evidence that would prove or disprove the existence of multiple personality disorder." "When you say proof-" "We're in a court of law, Doctor. The jury is not going to make decisions based on theory and 'what if.' What if, for example, the defendant hated the men she murdered, and after killing them, decided to use the excuse of an alter inside her so that she-" David was on his feet "Objection! That's argumentative and leading the witness." "Overruled." "Your Honor-" "Sit down, Mr. Singer." David glared at Judge Williams and angrily took his seat. "So what you're telling us. Doctor, is that there's no evidence that will prove or disprove the existence of MPD?" "Well, no. But-" Brennan nodded. "That's all." Dr. Royce Salem was on the witness stand. David said, "Dr. Salem, you examined Ashley Patterson?" "I did." "And what was your conclusion?" "Miss Patterson is suffering from MPD. She has two alters who call themselves Toni Prescott and Alette Peters." "Does she have any control over them?" "None. When they take over, she is in a state of fugue amnesia." "Would you explain that? Dr. Salem?" "Fugue amnesia is a condition where the victim loses consciousness of where he is, or what he is doing. It can last for a few minutes, days or sometimes weeks." "And during that time would you say that that person is responsible for his or her actions?" "No." "Thank you. Doctor." He turned to Brennan. "Your witness." Brennan said, "Dr. Salem, you are a consultant at several hospitals and you give lectures all around the world?" "Yes, sir." "I assume that your peers are gifted, capable doctors?" "Yes, I would say they are." "So, they all agree about multiple personality disorder?" "No." "What do you mean, no?" "Some of them don't agree." "You mean, they don't believe it exists?" "Yes." "But they're wrong and you're right?" "I've treated patients, and I know that there is such a thing. When-" "Let me ask you something. If there were such a thing as multiple personality disorder, would one alter always be in charge of telling the host what to do? The alter says, 'Kill,' and the host does it?" "It depends. Alters have various degrees of influence." "So the host could be in charge?" "Sometimes, of course." "The majority of times?" "No." "Doctor, where is the proof that MPD exists?" "I have witnessed complete physical changes in patients under hypnosis, and I know-" "And that's a basis of truth?" "Yes." "Dr. Salem, if I hypnotized you in a warm room and told you that you were at the North Pole naked in a snowstorm, would your body temperature drop?" "Well, yes, but-" "That's all." David walked over to the witness stand. "Dr. Salem, is there any doubt in your mind that these alters exist in Ashley Patterson?" "None. And they are absolutely capable of taking over and dominating her." "And she would not be aware of it?" "She would not be aware of it." "Thank you." "I would like to call Shane Miller to the stand." David watched him being sworn in. "What do you do, Mr. Miller?" "I'm a supervisor at Global Computer Graphics Corporation." "And how long have you worked there?" "About seven years." "And was Ashley Patterson employed there?" "Yes." "And did she work under your supervision?" "She did." "So you got to know her pretty well?" "That's right." "Mr. Miller, you've heard doctors testify that some of the symptoms of multiple personality disorder are paranoia, nervousness, distress. Have you ever noticed any of those symptoms in Miss Patterson?" "Well, I-" "Didn't Miss Patterson tell you that she felt someone was stalking her?" "Yes. She did." "And what she had no idea who it could be or why anyone would do that?" "That's right." "Didn't she once say that someone used her computer to threaten her with a knife?" "Yes." "And didn't things get so bad that you finally sent her to the psychologist who works at your company Dr Speakman?" "Yes." "So Ashley Patterson did exhibit the symptoms we're talking about?" "That's right." "Thank you, Mr. Miller." David turned to Mickey Brennan. "Your witness." "How many employees do you have directly under you Mr. Miller?" "Thirty." "And out of thirty employees, Ashley Patterson is the only one you've ever seen get upset?" "Well, no..." "Oh, really?" "Everyone gets upset sometimes." "You mean other employees had to go and see your company psychologist?" "Oh, sure. They keep him pretty busy." Brennan seemed impressed. "Is that so?" "Yeah. A lot of them have problems. Hey, they're all human." "No further questions." "Redirect." David approached the witness stand. "Mr. Miller, you said that some of the employees under you had problems. What kind of problems?" "Well, it could be about an argument with a boyfriend or a husband. " "Yes?" "Or it could be about a financial problem. " "Yes?" "Or their kids bugging them. " "In other words, the ordinary kinds of domestic problems that any of us might face?" "Yes." "But no one went to see Dr. Speakman because they thought they were being stalked or because they thought someone was threatening to kill them?" "No." "Thank you." The trial was recessed for lunch. David got into his car and drove through the park, depressed. The trial was going badly. The doctors couldn't make up their minds whether MPD existed or not. If they can't agree, David thought, how am I going to get a jury to agree? I can't let anything happen to Ashley. I can't. He was approaching Harold's Cafe, a restaurant near the courthouse. He parked the car and went inside. The hostess smiled at him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Singer." He was famous. Infamous? "Right this way, please." He followed her to a booth and sat down. The hostess handed him the menu, gave him a lingering smile and walked away, her hips moving provocatively. The perks of fame, David thought wryly. He was not hungry, but he could hear Sandra's voice saying, "You have to eat to keep up your strength." There were two men and two women seated in the booth next to him. One of the men was saying, "She's a hell of a lot worse than Lizzie Borden. Borden killed only two people." The other man added, "And she didn't castrate them." "What do you think they'll do to her?" "Are you kidding? She'll get the death sentence." "Too bad the Butcher Bitch can't get three death sentences." That's the public speaking, David thought. He had the depressing feeling that if he walked around the restaurant, he would hear variations of the same comments. Brennan had built her up as a monster. He could hear Quiller's voice. "If you don't put her on the stand, that's the image the jurors will carry in their minds when they go into the jury room to reach a verdict." I've got to take the chance. I've got to let the jurors see for themselves that Ashley's telling the truth. The waitress was at his side. "Are you ready to order, Mr. Singer?" "I've changed my mind," David said. "I'm not hungry." As he got up and walked out of the restaurant, he could feel baleful eyes following him. I hope they're not armed, David thought. CHAPTER TWENTY When David returned to the courthouse, he visited Ashley in her cell. She was seated on the little cot, staring at the floor. "Ashley." She looked up, her eyes filled with despair. David sat next to her. "We have to talk." She watched him, silent. "These terrible things they're saying about you... none of them are true. But the jurors don't know that. They don't know you. We've got to let them see what you're really like." Ashley looked at him and said dully, "What am I really like?" "You're a decent human being who has an illness. They'll sympathize with that." "What do you want me to do?" "I want you to get on the witness stand and testify." She was staring at him, horrified. "I-I can't. I don't know anything. I can't tell them anything." "Let me handle that. All you have to do is answer my questions." A guard came up to the cell. "Court's coming into session." David rose and squeezed Ashley's hand. "It's going to work. You'll see." "All rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tessa Williams presiding in the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson." Judge Williams took her seat on the bench. David said, "May I approach the bench?" "You may." Mickey Brennan walked to the bench with David. "What is it, Mr. Singer?" "I'd like to call a witness who's not on the discovery list." Brennan said, "It's awfully late in the trial to introduce new witnesses." "I would like to call Ashley Patterson as my next witness." Judge Williams said, "I don't-" Mickey Brennan said quickly, "The state has no objection, Your Honor." Judge Williams looked at the two attorneys. "Very well. You may call your witness, Mr. Singer." "Thank you. Your Honor." He walked over to Ashley and held out his hand. "Ashley..." She sat there in a panic. "You must." She rose, her heart palpitating, and slowly made her way to the witness stand. Mickey Brennan whispered to Eleanor, "I was praying that he'd call her." Eleanor nodded. "It's over." Ashley Patterson was being sworn in by the court cleric. "You do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" "I do." Her voice was a whisper. Ashley took her seat in the witness box. David walked over to her. He said gently, "I know this is very difficult for you. You've been accused of horrible crimes that you did not commit. All I want is for the jury to know the truth. Do you have any memory of committing any of those crimes?" Ashley shook her head. "No." David glanced at the jury, and then went on. "Did you know Dennis Tibble?" "Yes. We worked together at Global Computer Graphics Corporation." "Did you have any reason to kill Dennis Tibble?" "No." It was difficult for her to speak. "I-I went to his apartment to give him some advice that he had asked me for, and that was the last time I saw him." "Did you know Richard Melton?" "No..." "He was an artist. He was murdered in San Francisco. The police found evidence of your DNA and fingerprints there." Ashley was shaking her head from side to side. "I-I don't know what to say. I didn't know him!" "You knew deputy Sam Blake?" "Yes. He was helping me. I didn't kill him!" "Are you aware that you have two other personalities, alters, within you, Ashley?" "Yes." Her voice was strained. "When did you learn this?" "Before the trial. Dr. Salem told me about it. I couldn't believe it. I-I still can't believe it. It's-it's to awful." "You had no previous knowledge of these alters." "No." "You had never heard of Toni Prescott or Alette Peters?" "No!" "Do you believe now that they exist within you?" "Yes...I have to believe it. They must have done all these-these horrible things. " "So you have no recollection of ever having met Richard Melton, you had no motive for killing Dennis Tibble or for killing deputy Sam Blake, who was at your apartment to protect you?" "That's right." Her eyes swept over the crowded courtroom, and she felt a sense of panic. "One last question," David said. "Have you ever been in trouble with the law?" "Never." David put his hand on hers. "That's all for now." He tamed to Mickey Brennan. "Your witness." Brennan rose, a big smile on his face. "Well, Miss Patterson, we finally get to talk to all of you. Did you ever, at any time, have sexual intercourse with Dennis Tibble?" "No." "Did you ever have sexual intercourse with Richard Melton?" "No." "Did you ever, at any time, have sexual intercourse; with deputy Samuel Blake?" "No." "That's very interesting." Brennan glanced at the jury. "Because traces of a vaginal discharge were found on the bodies of all three men. The DNA tests matched your DNA." "I...don't know anything about that." "Maybe you've been framed. Maybe some fiend got hold of it-" "Objection! It's argumentative." "Overruled." "-and planted it on those three mutilated bodies. Do you have any enemies who would do such a thing to you?" "I... don't know." "The FBI's fingerprint lab checked the fingerprints the police found at the scenes of the crimes. And I'm sure this will surprise you-" "Objection." "Sustained. Be careful, Mr. Brennan." "Yes, Your Honor." Satisfied, David slowly sat down. Ashley was on the verge of hysteria. "The alters must have-" "The fingerprints at the scenes of the three murders were yours, and yours alone." Ashley sat there, silent. Brennan walked over to a table, picked up a butcher knife wrapped in cellophane and held it up. "Do you recognize this?" "It-it could be one of... one of my-" "One of your knives? It is. It has already been admitted into evidence. The stains on it match the blood of deputy Blake. Your fingerprints are on this murder weapon." Ashley was mindlessly shaking her head from side to side. "I've never seen a clearer case of cold-blooded murder or a more feeble defense. Hiding behind two nonexistent, imaginary characters is the most-" David was on his feet again. "Objection." "Sustained. I've already warned you, Mr. Brennan." "Sorry, Your Honor." Brennan went on. "I'm sure that the jury would like to meet the characters you're talking about. You are Ashley Patterson, correct?" "Yes..." "Fine. I would like to talk to Toni Prescott." "I...I can't bring her out." Brennan looked at her in surprise. "You can't? Really? Well, then, how about Alette Peters?" Ashley shook her head despairingly. "I...don't control them." "Miss Patterson, I'm trying to help you," Brennan said. "I want to show the jury your alters who killed and mutilated three innocent men. Bring them out!" "I...I can't." She was sobbing. "You can't because they don't exist! You're hiding behind phantoms. You're the only one sitting in that box, and you're the only one who's guilty. They don't exist, but you do, and I'll tell you what else exists-irrefutable, undeniable proof that you murdered three men and cold-bloodedly emasculated them." He turned to Judge Williams. "Your Honor, the state rests." David turned to look at the jury. They were all staring at Ashley and their faces were filled with repulsion. Judge Williams turned to David. "Mr. Singer?" David rose. "Your Honor, I would like permission to have the defendant hypnotized so that-" Judge Williams said curtly, "Mr. Singer, I warned you before that I will not have this trial turned into a sideshow. You can't hypnotize her in my courtroom. The answer is no." David said fiercely, "You have to let me do this. You don't know how important." "That's enough, Mr. Singer." Her voice was ice. "I'm citing you a second time for contempt. Do you want to reexamine the witness or don't you?" David stood there, frustrated. "Yes, Your Honor." He walked over to the witness box. "Ashley, you know you're under oath?" "Yes." She was taking deep breaths, fighting to control herself. "And everything you've said is the truth as you know it?" "Yes." "You know that there are two alters in your mind and body and soul who you have no control over?" "Yes." "Toni and Alette?" "Yes." "You didn't commit any of those terrible murders?" "No." "One of them did, and you're not responsible." Eleanor looked at Brennan questioningly, but he smiled and shook his head. "Let him hang himself," he whispered. "Helen-" David stopped, white-faced at his slip. "I mean, Ashley...want you to have Toni come out." Ashley looked at David and shook her head helplessly. "I-I can't," she whispered. David said, "Yes, you can. Toni is listening to us right now. She's enjoying herself, and why shouldn't she? She got away with three murders." He raised his voice. "You're very clever, Toni. Come on out and take a bow. No one can touch you. They can't punish you because Ashley is innocent, and they'd have to punish her to get at you." Everyone in the courtroom was staring at David. Ashley sat there, frozen. David moved closer to her. "Toni! Toni, can you hear me? I want you to come out. Now!" He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He raised his voice. "Toni! Alette! Come out! Come on out. We all know you're in there!" There was not a sound in the courtroom. David lost control. He was yelling, "Come out Show your faces.... Damn it! Now! Now!" Ashley dissolved in tears. Judge Williams said furiously, "Approach the bench, Mr. Singer." Slowly, David walked over to the bench. "Are you through badgering your client, Mr. Singer? I'm going to send a report of your behavior to the state bar association. You're a disgrace to your profession, and I'm going to recommend that you're disbarred." David had no answer. "Do you have any more witnesses to call?" David shook his head defeated. "No, Your Honor." It was over. He had lost Ashley was going to die. "The defense rests." Joseph Kincaid was seated in the last row of the courtroom, watching, his face grim. He turned to Harvey Udell. "Get rid of him." Kincaid got up and left. Udell stopped David as he was leaving the courtroom. "David..." "Hello, Harvey." "Sorry about the way this turned out." "It's not-" "Mr. Kincaid hates to do this, but, well, he thinks it would be better if you didn't come back to the firm. Good luck." The moment David stepped outside the courtroom, he was surrounded by television cameras and shouting reporters. "Do you have a statement, Mr. Singer...?" "We hear Judge Williams says you're going to be disbarred. " "Judge Williams says she's going to hold you for contempt of court. Do you think you-?" "The experts feel you've lost this case. Do you plan to appeal. ?" "Our network legal experts say that your client will get the death penalty. " "Have you made any plans for the future...?" David got into his car without a word and drove away. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE HE rewrote the scenes in his mind, over and over again, endlessly. I saw the news this morning. Dr. Patterson. I can't tell you how very sorry I am. Yes. It's been quite a blow. I need your help, David. Of course. Anything I can do. I want you to represent Ashley. I can't do that. I'm not a criminal defense lawyer. But I can recommend a great attorney, Jesse Quitter. That will be fine. Thank you, David.... You're an anxious young fellow, aren't you? Our meeting wasn't supposed to be until five o'clock. Well, I have good news for you. We're making you a partner. * * * You asked to see me? Yes, Your Honor. They're talking about this trial on the Internet, and they've already convicted the defendant. This could seriously damage the defense. Therefore, I'm making a motion for a mistrial. I think those are excellent grounds for a mistrial, Mr. Singer. I'm going to grant it.... The bitter-tasting game of "what if."... The following morning, the court was in session. "Is the prosecution ready to make its closing argument?" Brennan stood up. He walked over to the jury box and looked at the jurors one by one. "You're in a position to make history here. If you believe that the defendant is really a lot of different people and she's not responsible for what she's done, for the terrible crimes she committed, and you let her go, then you're saying that anybody can get away with murder by simply claiming that they didn't do it, that some mysterious alter ego did it. They can rob, rape and kill, and are they guilty? No. I didn't do it. My alter ego did it.' Ken or Joe or Suzy or whatever they want to call themselves. Well, I think you're all too intelligent to fall for that fantasy. The reality is in those photographs you looked at. Those people weren't murdered by any alter egos. They were all deliberately, calculatedly, cruelly murdered by the defendant sitting at that table, Ashley Patterson. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what the defense has tried to do in this court has been tried before. In Mann Versus Teller, the decision was that a finding of MPD does not, per se, require a finding of acquittal. In United States Versus Whirley, a nurse who murdered a baby pleaded that she had MPD. The court found her guilty. "You know, I almost feel sorry for the defendant.. All those characters living in that poor girl. I'm sure none of us would want a bunch of crazy strangers moving around inside us, would we? Going around murdering and castrating men. I'd be scared." He turned to look at Ashley. "The defendant doesn't seem scared, does she? Not too scared to put on a pretty dress and comb her hair nicely and apply makeup. Six doesn't seem scared at all. She thinks you're going to believe her story and let her go. No one can prove whether this multiple personality disorder really exists at all, so we're going to have to make our own judgments. "The defense claims that these characters come out and take over. Let's see-there's Toni; she was born ii England. And Alette; she was born in Italy. They're al the same person. They were just born in different countries at different times. Does that confuse you? I know it confuses me. I offered the defendant a chance to let us see her alters, but she didn't take me up on it. I wonder why? Could it be because they don't exist...? Does California law recognize MPD as a mental condition? No. Colorado law? No. Mississippi? No. Federal law? No. As a matter of fact, no state has a law confirming MPD as a legal defense. And why? Because it isn't a defense. Ladies and gentlemen, it's a fictitious alibi to punishment. " "What the defense is asking you to believe is that are two people inside the defendant, so no one bears any responsibility for her criminal actions. But there is only one defendant sitting in this courtroom - Ashley Patterson. We have proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is a murderer. But she claims she didn't commit the crimes. That was done by someone else, someone who borrowed her body to kill innocent people - her alters. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we all had alters, someone to carry out anything we secretly wanted done that society doesn't permit? Or maybe not. Would you like to live in a world where people could go around murdering others and say, 'You can't touch me, my alter did it' and 'You can't punish my alter because my alter is really me'? "But this trial is not about some mythical characters who don't exist. The defendant, Ashley Patterson, is on trial for three vicious, cold-blooded murders, and the state is asking the death penalty. Thank you." Mickey Brennan returned to his seat. "Is the defense ready to present its closing argument?" David rose. He walked to the jury box and looked into the faces of the jurors, and what he saw there was disheartening. "I know that this has been a very difficult case for all of us. You've heard experts testify that they've treated multiple personality disorder, and you've heard other experts testify that there is no such thing. You're not doctors, so no one expects you to make your judgment based on medical knowledge. I want to apologize to all of you if my behavior yesterday seemed boorish. I yelled at Ashley Patterson only because I wanted to force her alters to come out. I've talked to those alters. I know they exist. There really is an Alette and a Toni, and they can control Ashley anytime they want to. She has no knowledge of committing any murders. "I told you at the beginning of this trial that for someone to be convicted of first-degree murder, there has to be physical evidence and a motive. There is no motive here, ladies and gentlemen. None. And the law says that the prosecution must prove a defendant is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. I'm sure you'll agree that in this case, there is a reasonable doubt. "As far as proof is concerned, the defense does not question it. There are Ashley Patterson's fingerprints and traces of DNA at each of the crime scenes. But the very fact that they are there should give us pause. Ashley Patterson is an intelligent young woman. If she committed a murder and did not want to be caught, would she have been stupid enough to leave her fingerprints at each one of the scenes? The answer is no." David went on for another thirty minutes. At the end, he looked at their faces and was not reassured. He sat down. Judge Williams turned to the jurors. "I want to instruct you now on the applicable law to this case. I want you to listen carefully." She talked for the next twenty minutes, detailing what was admissible and allowable by law. "If you have any questions, or want any part of the testimony read back to you, the court reporter will do so. The jury is excused to go deliberate. Court is adjourned until they return with their verdict." David watched the jury file out of the box and into the jury room. The longer the jurors take, the better our chances, David thought. The jurors returned forty-five minutes later. David and Ashley watched as the jurors filed in and took their seats in the jury box. Ashley was stone-faced. David found that he was perspiring. Judge Williams turned to the jury foreman. "Have the jurors reached a verdict?" "We have. Your Honor." "Would you please hand it to the bailiff." The bailiff carried the piece of paper to the judge. Judge Williams unfolded it. There was not a sound in the courtroom. The bailiff returned the paper to the jury foreman. "Would you read the verdict, please?" In a slow, measured tone, he read, "In the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson, we, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Ashley Patterson, guilty of the murder of Dennis Tibble, a violation of Penal Code Section 187." There was a gasp in the courtroom. Ashley shut her eyes tightly. "In the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson, we, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Ashley Patterson, guilty of the murder of deputy Samuel Blake, a violation of Penal Code Section 187. "In the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson, we, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Ashley Patterson, guilty of the murder of Richard Melton, a violation of Penal Code Section 187. We, the jury, in all the verdicts, further fix the degree at first degree." David was finding it difficult to breathe. He turned to Ashley, but he had no words. He leaned over and put his arms around her. Judge Williams said, "I would like to have the jury polled." One by one, each juror stood up. "Was the verdict read, your verdict?" And when each one had affirmed it, Judge Williams said, "The verdict will be recorded and entered into the record." She went on. "I want to thank the jury for their time and service in this case. You're dismissed. Tomorrow the court will take up the issue of sanity." David sat there, numb, watching Ashley being led away. Judge Williams got up and walked to her chambers without looking at David. Her attitude told David more clearly than words what her decision was going to be in the morning. Ashley was going to be sentenced to die. Sandra called from San Francisco. "Are you all right, David?" He tried to sound cheerful. "Yes, I'm great. How are you feeling?" "I'm fine. I've been watching the news on television. The judge wasn't fair to you. She can't have you disbarred. You were only trying to help your client." He had no answer. "I'm so sorry, David. I wish were with you. I could drive down and-" "No," David said. "We can't take any chances. Did you see the doctor today?" "Yes." "What did he say?" "Very soon now. Any day." Happy birthday, Jeffrey. Jesse Quiller called. "I bungled it," David said. "Like hell you did. You got the wrong judge. What did you ever do to get ho: so down on you?" David said, "She wanted me to plea-bargain. She didn't want this to go to trial. Maybe I should have listened to her." All the television channels were full of the news of his disgrace. He watched one of the network's legal experts discussing the case. "I've never heard of a defending attorney screaming at his own client before. I must tell you, the courtroom was stunned. It was one of the most outrageous-" David switched off the station. Where did it all go wrong? Life is supposed to have a happy ending. Because I've bungled everything, Ashley's going to die. I'm going to be disbarred, the baby's going to be born any minute and I don't even have a job. He sat in his hotel room in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness. It was the lowest moment of his life. Playing over and over again in his mind was the final courtroom scene. "You can't hypnotize her in my courtroom. The answer is no. " If only she had let me hypnotize Ashley on the stand, I know she would have convinced the jury. Too late. It's all over now. And a small, nagging voice in his mind said. Who says it's over? I don't hear the fat lady singing. There's nothing more I can do. Your client is innocent. Are you going to let her die? Leave me alone. Judge Williams's words kept echoing in his mind. "You can't hypnotize her in my courtroom." And three words kept repeating themselves-"in my courtroom." At five o'clock in the morning, David made two excited, urgent phone calls. As he finished, the sun was just beginning to appear over the horizon. It's an omen, David thought. We're going to win. A little later, David hurried into an antiques store. The clerk approached him. "May I help you, sir?" He recognized David. "Mr. Singer." "I'm looking for a folding Chinese screen. Do you have something like that?" "Yes, we do. We don't have any real antique screens, but-" "Let's see what you have." "Certainly." He led David over to the section where there were several Chinese folding screens. The clerk pointed to the first one. "Now, this one-" "That's fine," David said. "Yes, sir. Where shall I send it?" "I'll take it with me." David's next stop was at a hardware store, where he bought a Swiss Army knife. Fifteen minutes later, he was walking into the lobby of the courthouse carrying the screen. He said to the guard at the desk, "I made arrangements to interview Ashley Patterson. I have permission to use Judge Goldberg's chambers. He's not here today." The guard said, "Yes, sir. It's all set. I'll have the defendant brought up. Dr. Salem and another man are already up there, waiting." "Thank you." The guard watched David carry the Chinese screen into the elevator. Crazy as a loon, he thought. Judge Goldberg's chamber was a comfortable-looking room with a desk facing the window, a swivel chair, and near one wall a couch and several chars. Dr. Salem and another man were standing in the room when David entered. "Sorry I'm late," David said. Dr. Salem said, "This is Hugh Iverson. He's the expert you asked for." The two men shook hands. "Let's get set up fast," David said. "Ashley's on her way here." He turned to Hugh Iverson and pointed to a corner of the room. "How's that for you?" "Fine." He watched Iverson go to work. A few minutes later, the door opened and Ashley entered with a guard. "I'll have to stay in the room," the guard said. David nodded. "That's all right." He turned to Ashley. "Sit down, please." He watched her take a seat. "First of all, I want to tell you how terribly sorry I am about the way things went." She nodded, almost dazed. "But it's not over yet. We still have a chance." She looked at him with disbelieving eyes. "Ashley, I would like Dr. Salem to hypnotize you again." "No. What's the point in-" "Do it for me. Will you?" She shrugged. David nodded to Dr. Salem. Dr. Salem said to Ashley, "We've done this before, so you know that all you have to do is close your eyes and relax. Just relax. Feel all the muscles in your body letting go of all the tension. All you want to do is sleep. You're getting very drowsy. " Ten minutes later. Dr. Salem looked at David and said, "She's completely under." David moved toward Ashley, and his heart was pounding. "I want to talk to Toni." There was no reaction. David raised his voice. "Toni, I want you to come out. Do you hear me? Alette...want you both to talk tome." Silence. David was yelling now. "What's the matter with you? Are you too frightened? That's what happened in the courtroom, isn't it? Did you hear what the jury said? Ashley's guilty. You were afraid to come out. You're a coward, Toni!" They looked at Ashley. There was no reaction. David looked at Dr. Salem in despair. It was not going to work. "Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tessa Williams presiding." Ashley was seated at the defendant's table next to David. David's hand was wrapped in a large bandage. David rose. "May I approach the bench? Your Honor?" "You may." David walked toward the bench. Brennan followed him. David said, "I would like to present new evidence to this case." "Absolutely not," Brennan objected. Judge Williams turned to him and said, "Let me make that decision, Mr. Brennan." She turned back to David. "The trial is over. Your client has been convicted and-" "This concerns the insanity plea," David said. "All I'm asking for is ten minutes of your time." Judge Williams said angrily, "Time doesn't mean much to you, does it, Mr. Singer? You have already wasted a great deal of everyone's time." She made her decision. "All right. I hope this is the last request you'll ever be able to make in a court of law. The court is recessed for ten minutes." David and Brennan followed the judge to her chambers. She turned to David. "I'm giving you your ten minutes. What is it, Counselor?" "I want to show you a piece of film. Your Honor." Brennan said, I don't see what this has to do with-" Judge Williams said to Brennan, "I don't, either." She turned to David. "You now have nine minutes." David hurried over to the door leading to the hallway and opened it. "Come in." Hugh Iverson walked in, carrying a sixteen-millimeter projector and a portable screen. "Where should I set it up?" David pointed to a corner of the room. "Over there." They watched as the man set up the equipment and plugged in the projector. "May I pull down the shades?" David asked. It was all Judge Williams could do to hold back her anger. "Yes, you go right ahead, Mr. Singer." She looked at her watch. "You have seven minutes." The projector was turned on. Judge Goldberg's chambers flickered onto the screen. David and Dr. Salem were watching Ashley, who was seated in a chair. On the screen, Dr. Salem said, "She's completely under." David walked up to Ashley. "I want to talk to Toni.... Toni, want you to come out. Do you hear me? Alette...want you both to talk to me." Silence. Judge Williams sat there, her face tight, watching the film. David was yelling now. "What's the matter with you? Are you too frightened? That's what happened in the courtroom, isn't it? Did you hear what the jury said? Ashley's guilty. You were afraid to come out. You're a coward, Toni!" Judge Williams got to her feet. "I've had enough of this! I've seen this disgusting performance before. Your time is up, Mr. Singer." "Wait," David said. "You haven't-" "It's finished," Judge Williams told him and started for the door. Suddenly, a song began to fill the room. "A penny for a spool of thread. A penny for a needle. That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel." Puzzled, Judge Williams turned around. She looked at the picture on the screen. Ashley's face had completely changed. It was Toni. Toni said angrily, "Too frightened to come out in court? Did you really think I would come out just because you ordered me to? What do you think I am, a trained pony?" Judge Williams slowly moved back into the room, staring at the film. "I listened to all those bloody gits making fools of themselves." She mimicked one of their voices. " 'I don't think that multiple personality disorder exists.' What idiots. I've never seen such-" As they watched, Ashley's face changed again. She seemed to relax in her chair, and her face took on a shy look. In her Italian accent, Alette said, "Mr. Singer, know you did the best you could. I wanted to appear in court and help you, but Toni wouldn't let me." Judge Williams was watching, her face blank. The face and voice changed again. "You're bleeding right wouldn't," Toni said. David said, "Toni, what do you think is going to happen to you if the judge gives Ashley the death sentence?" "She's not going to give her the death sentence. Ashley didn't even know one of the men. Remember?" David said, "But Alette knew them all. You committed those murders, Alette. You had sex with those men and then you stabbed them to death and castrated them. " Toni said, "You bloody idiot! You don't know anything, do you? Alette would never have had the nerve to do that. I did it. They deserved to die. All they wanted to do was have sex." She was breathing hard. "But I made them all pay for it, didn't I? And no one can ever prove I did it. Let little Miss Goody Two-shoes take the blame. We'll all go to a nice cozy asylum and-" In the background, behind the Chinese screen in the corner, there was a loud click. Toni turned. "What was that?" "Nothing," David said quickly. "It was just-" Toni rose and started running toward the camera until her face filled the screen. She pushed against something, and the scene tilled; part of the folding Chinese screen fell into the picture. A small hole had been cut in the center. "You've got a fucking camera behind here," Toni screamed. She turned to David. "You son of a bitch, what are you trying to do? You tricked me!" On the desk was a letter opener. Toni grabbed it and lunged at David, screaming, "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you!" David tried to hold her, but he was no match for her. The letter opener sliced into his hand. Toni raised her arm to strike again, and the guard ran to her and tried to grab her. Toni knocked him to the floor. The door opened and a uniformed officer ran in. When he saw what was happening, he lunged at Toni. She kicked him in the groin, and he went down. Two more officers came running in. It took three of them to pin Toni to the chair, and all the time she was yelling and screaming at them. Blood was pouring from David's hand. He said to Dr. Salem, "For God's sake, wake her up." Dr. Salem said, "Ashley... Ashley... listen to me. You're going to come out now. Toni is gone. It's safe to come out now, Ashley. I'm going to count to three." And as the group watched, Ashley's body became quiet and relaxed. "Can you hear me?" "Yes." It was Ashley's voice, sounding far away. "You'll awaken at the count of three. One... two... three... How do you feel?" Her eyes opened. "I feel so tired. Did I say anything?" The screen in Judge Williams' s office went blank. David walked over to the wall and turned on the lights. Brennan said, "Well! What a performance. If they were giving out Oscars for the best-" Judge Williams turned to him. "Shut up." Brennan looked at her, in shock. There was a momentary silence. Judge Williams turned to David. "Counselor." "Yes?" There was a pause. "I owe you an apology." Seated on the bench, Judge Tessa Williams said, "Both counsels have agreed that they will accept the opinion of a psychiatrist who has already examined the defendant, Dr. Salem. The decision of this court is that the defendant is not guilty by reason of insanity. She will be ordered to a mental health facility, where she can be treated. The court is now adjourned.' David stood up, drained. It's over, he thought. It's finally over. He and Sandra could start living their lives again. He looked at Judge Williams and said happily, "We're having a baby." Dr. Salem said to David, "I would like to make a suggestion. I'm not sure it can be done, but if you can arrange it, I think it would be helpful to Ashley." "What is it?" "The Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital back east has handled more cases of MPD than any other place in the country. A friend of mine, Dr. Otto Lewison, is in charge of it. If you could arrange for the court to have Ashley sent there, I think it would be very beneficial." "Thanks," David said. "I'll see what I can do." Dr. Steven Patterson said to David, "I-I don't know how to thank you." David smiled. "You don't have to. It was quid pro quo. Remember?" "You did a brilliant job. For a while I was afraid-" "So was I." "But justice has been served. My daughter's going to be cured." "I'm sure of it," David said. "Dr. Salem suggested a psychiatric hospital in Connecticut. Their doctors are trained in MPD." Dr. Patterson was silent for a moment. "You know, Ashley didn't deserve any of this. She's such a beautiful person." "I agree. I'll talk to Judge Williams and try to get the transfer." Judge Williams was in her chambers. "What can I do for you, Mr. Singer?" "I'd like to ask a favor." She smiled. "I hope I can grant it. What is it?" David explained to the judge what Dr. Salem had told him. "Well, that's a rather unusual request. We have some fine psychiatric facilities right here in California." David said, "All right. Thank you. Your Honor." He turned to leave, disappointed. "I haven't said no, Mr. Singer." David stopped. "It's an unusual request, but this has been an unusual case." David waited. "I think I can arrange for her to be transferred." "Thank you. Your Honor. I appreciate it." In her cell, Ashley thought. They've sentenced me to death. A long death in an asylum filled with crazy people. It would have been kinder to kill me now. She thought of the endless, hopeless years ahead of her, and she began to sob. The cell door opened, and her father came in. He stood there a moment, looking at her, his face filled with anguish. "Honey..." He sat down opposite her. "You're going to live," he said. She shook her head. "I don't want to live." "Don't say that. You have a medical problem, but it can be cured. And it's going to be. When you're better, you're going to come and live with me, and I'll take care of you. No matter what happens, we'll always have each other. They can't take that away from us." Ashley sat there, saying nothing. "I know how you're feeling right now, but believe me, that's going to change. My girl is going to come home to me, cured." He slowly got to his feet "I'm afraid I have to get back to San Francisco." He waited for Ashley to say something. She was silent. "David told me that he thinks you're going to be sent to one of the best psychiatric centers in the world. I'll come and visit you. Would you like that?" She nodded, dully. "Yes." "All right, honey." He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug. "I'm going to see to it that you have the best care in the world. I want my little girl back." Ashley watched her father leave, and she thought, Why can't I die now? Why won't they let me die? One hour later, David came to see her. "Well, we did it," he said. He looked at her in concern. "Are you all right?" "I don't want to go to an insane asylum. I want to die. I can't stand living like this. Help me, David. Please help me." "Ashley, you're going to get help. The past is over. You have a future now. The nightmare is going to be finished." He took her hand. "Look, you've trusted me this far. Keep trusting me. You're going to live a normal life again." She sat there, silent. "Say 'I believe you, David.' " She took a deep breath. "I-I believe you, David." He grinned. "Good girl. This is a new beginning for you." The moment the ruling was made public, the media went crazy. Overnight, David was a hero. He had taken an impossible case and won it. He called Sandra. "Honey, I-" "I know, darling. I know. I just saw it on television. Isn't it wonderful? I'm so proud of you." "I can't tell you how glad I am that it's over. I'll be coming back tonight. I can't wait to see-" "David...?" "Yes?" "David... oooh..." "Yes? What's wrong, honey?" "... Oooh... We're having a baby. " "Wait for me!" David shouted. Jeffrey Singer weighed eight pounds, ten ounces, and was the most beautiful baby David had ever seen. "He looks just like you, David," Sandra said. "He does, doesn't he?" David beamed. "I'm glad everything turned out so well," Sandra said. David sighed. "There were times when I wasn't so sure". "I never doubted you." David bugged Sandra and said, "I'll be back, honey. I have to clean out my things at the office." When David arrived at the offices of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, he was greeted warmly. "Congratulations, David. " "Good job. " "You really showed them. " David walked into his office. Holly was gone. David started cleaning out his desk. "David-" David turned around. It was Joseph Kincaid. Kincaid walked up to him and said, "What are you doing?" "I'm cleaning out my office. I was fired." Kincaid smiled. "Fired? Of course not No, no, no. There was some kind of a misunderstanding." He beamed. "We're making you a partner, my boy. In fact, I've set up a press conference for you here this afternoon at three o'clock." David looked at him. "Really?" Kincaid nodded. "Absolutely." David said, "You'd better cancel it. I've decided to go back into criminal law. I've been offered a partnership by Jesse Quiller. At least when you're dealing with that part of the law, you know who the criminals really are. So, Joey, baby, you take your partnership and shove it where the sun don't shine." And David walked out of the office. * * * Jesse Quiller looked around the penthouse and said, "This is great. It really becomes you two." "Thank you," Sandra said. She heard a sound from the nursery. "I'd better check on Jeffrey." She hurried off to the next room. Jesse Quiller walked over to admire a beautiful sterling silver picture frame with Jeffrey's first photograph already in it. "This is lovely. Where did it come from?" "Judge Williams sent it" Jesse said, "I'm glad to have you back, partner." "I'm glad to be back, Jesse." "You'll probably want a little time to relax now. Rest up a little. " "Yes. We thought we'd take Jeffrey and drive up Oregon to visit Sandra's parents and-" "By the way, an interesting case came into the of this morning, David. This woman is accused of murdering her two children. I have a feeling she's innocent. Unfortunately, I'm going to Washington on another case, but I thought that you might just talk to her and see what you think. " BOOK THREE CHAPTER TWENTY TWO THE COnnecticut Psychiatric Hospital, fifteen miles north of Westport, was originally the estate of Wim Booker, a wealthy Dutchman, who built the house in 1910. The forty lush acres contained a large manor house, a workshop, stable and swimming pool. The state had bought the property in 1925 and had refitted the manor house to accommodate a hundred patients. A tall chain-link fence had been erected around the property, with a manned guard post at the entrance. Metal bars had been placed on all the windows, and one section of the house had been fortified as a security area to hold dangerous inmates. In the office of Dr. Otto Lewison, head of the psychiatric clinic, a meeting was taking place. Dr. Gilbert Keller and Dr. Craig Poster were discussing a new patient who was about to arrive. Gilbert Keller was a man in his forties, medium height, blond hair and intense gray eyes. He was a renowned expert on multiple personality disorder. Otto Lewison, the superintendent of the Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital, was in his seventies, a neat, dapper little man with a full beard and pince-nez glasses. Dr. Craig Foster had worked with Dr. Keller for years and was writing a book on multiple personality disorder. All were studying Ashley Patterson's records. Otto Lewison said, "The lady has been busy. She's only twenty-eight and she's murdered five men." He glanced at the paper again. "She also tried to murder her attorney." "Everyone's fantasy," Gilbert Keller said dryly. Otto Lewison said, "We're going to keep her in security ward A until we can get a full evaluation." "When is she arriving?" Dr. Keller asked. The voice of Dr. Lewison's secretary came over the intercom. "Dr. Lewison, they're bringing Ashley Patterson in. Would you like to have them bring her into your office?" "Yes, please." Lewison looked up. "Does that answer your question?" The trip had been a nightmare. At the end of her trial, Ashley Patterson had been taken back to her cell and held there for three days while arrangements were made to fly her back east. A prison bus had driven her to the airport in Oakland, where a plane was waiting for her. It was a converted DC-6, part of the huge National Prisoner Transportation System run by the U.S. Marshals Service. There were twenty-four prisoners aboard, all manacled and shackled. Ashley was wearing handcuffs, and when she sat down, her feet were shackled to the bottom of the seat. Why are they doing this to me? I'm not a dangerous criminal. I'm a normal woman. And a voice inside her said. Who murdered five innocent people? The prisoners on the plane were hardened criminals, convicted of murder, rape, armed robbery and a dozen other crimes. They were on their way to top security prisons around the country. Ashley was the only woman on board. One of the convicts looked at her and grinned. "Hi, baby. How would you like to come over and warm up my lap?" "Cool it," a guard warned. "Hey! Don't you have any romance in your soul? This bitch ain't going to get laid for-What's your sentence, baby?" Another convict said, "Are you have any, honey? How about me movin' into the seat next to you and slippin' you-?" Another convict was staring at Ashley. "Wait a minute!" he said. "That's the broad who killed five men and castrated them." They were all looking at Ashley now. That was the end of the badgering. On the way to New York, the plane made two landings to discharge or pick up passengers. It was a long flight, the air was turbulent and by the time they landed at La Guardia Airport, Ashley was airsick. Two uniformed police officers were waiting for her on the tarmac when the plane landed. She was unshackled from the plane seat and shackled again in die interior of a police van. She had never felt so humiliated. The fact that she felt so normal made it all the more unbearable. Did they think she was going to try to escape or murder someone? All that was over, in the past. Didn't they know that? She was sure it would never happen again. She wanted to be away from there. Anywhere. Sometime during the long, dreary drive to Connecticut, she dozed off. She was awakened by a guard's voice. "We're here." They had reached the gates of the Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital. When Ashley Patterson was ushered into Dr. Lewison's office, he said, "Welcome to Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital, Miss Patterson." Ashley stood there, pale and silent. Dr. Lewison made the introductions and held out a chair. "Sit down, please." He looked at the guard. "Take off the handcuffs and shackles." The restraints were removed, and Ashley took a seat. Dr. Foster said, "I know this must be very difficult for you. We're going to do everything we can to make it as easy as possible. Our goal is to see that one day you will leave this place, cured." Ashley found her voice. "How-how long could that -take?" Otto Lewison said, "It's too soon to answer that yet. If you can be cured, it could take five or six years." Each word hit Ashley like a thunderbolt. '"If you can be cured, it could take five or six years. " "The therapy is nonthreatening. It will consist of a combination of sessions with Dr. Keller-hypnotism, group therapy, art therapy. The important thing to remember is that we're not your enemies." Gilbert Keller was studying her face. "We're here to help you, and we want you to help us do that." There was nothing more to say. Otto Lewison nodded to the attendant, and he walked over to Ashley and took her arm. Craig Foster said, "He'll take you to your quarters now. We'll talk again later." When Ashley had left the room, Otto Lewison turned to Gilbert Keller. "What do you think?" "Well, there's one advantage. There are only two alters to work on." Keller was trying to remember. "What's the most we've had?" "The Beltrand woman-ninety alters." Ashley had not known what to expect, but somehow she had envisioned a dark, dreary prison. The Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital was more like a pleasant clubhouse-with metal bars. As the attendant escorted Ashley through the long, cheerful corridors, Ashley watched the inmates freely walking back and forth. There were people of every age, and all of them seemed normal. Why are they here? Some of them smiled at her and said, "Good morning," but Ashley was too bewildered to answer. Everything seemed surreal. She was in an insane asylum. Am I insane? They reached a large steel door that closed off a part of the building. There was a male attendant behind the door. He pressed a red button and the huge door opened. "This is Ashley Patterson." The second attendant said, "Good morning, Miss Patterson." They made everything seem so normal. But nothing is normal anymore, Ashley thought. The world is upside down. "This way. Miss Patterson." He walked her to another door and opened it. Ashley stepped inside. Instead of a cell, she was looking at a pleasant, medium-size room with pastel blue walls, a small couch and a comfortable-looking bed. "This is where you'll be staying. They'll be bringing your things in a few minutes." Ashley watched the guard leave and close the door behind him. This is where you'll be staying. She began to feel claustrophobic. What if I don't want to stay? What if I want to get out of here? She walked over to the door. It was locked. Ashley sat down on the couch, trying to organize her thoughts. She tried to concentrate on the positive. We're going to try to cure you. We're going to try to cure you. We're going to cure you. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE Dr. Gilbert Keller was in charge of Ashley's therapy. His specialty was treating multiple personality disorder, and while he had had failures, his success rate was high. In cases like this, there were no easy answers. His first job was to get the patient to trust him, to feel comfortable with him, and then to bring out the alters, one by one, so that in the end they could communicate with one another and understand why they existed, and finally, why there was no more need for them. That was the moment of blending, when the personality states came together as a single entity. We're a long way from that. Dr. Keller thought. The following morning, Dr. Keller had Ashley brought to his office. "Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning. Dr. Keller." "I want you to call me Gilbert. We're going to be friends. How do you feel?" She looked at him and said, "They tell me I've killed five people. How should I feel?" "Do you remember killing any of them?" "No." "I read the transcript of your trial, Ashley. You didn't kill them. One of your alters did. We're going to get acquainted with your alters, and in time, with your help we'll make them disappear." "I-I hope you can-" "I can. I'm here to help you, and that's what I'm going to do. The alters were created in your mind to save you from an unbearable pain. We have to find out what caused that pain. I need to find out when those alters were born and why." "How-how do you do that?" "We'll talk. Things will come to you. From time to time, we'll use hypnotism or Sodium Amytal. You've been hypnotized before, haven't you?" "Yes." "No one's going to pressure you. We're going to take our time." He added reassuringly, "And when we're through, you're going to be well." They talked for almost an hour. At the end of that time, Ashley felt much more relaxed. Back in her room, she thought, I really think he can do it. And she said a little prayer. Dr. Keller had a meeting with Otto Lewison. "We talked this morning," Dr. Keller said. "The good news is that Ashley admits she has a problem, and she's willing to be helped." "That's a beginning. Keep me informed." "I will, Otto." Dr. Keller was looking forward to the challenge ahead of him. There was something very special about Ashley Patterson. He was determined to help her. They talked every day, and a week after Ashley arrived, Dr. Keller said, "I want you to be comfortable and relaxed. I'm going to hypnotize you." He moved toward her. "No! Wait!" He looked at her, surprised. "What's the matter?" A dozen terrible thoughts flashed through Ashley's head. He was going to bring out her alters. She was terrified of the idea. "Please," she said. "I-I don't want to meet them." "You won't," Dr. Keller assured her. "Not yet." She swallowed. "All right." "Are you ready?" She nodded. "Yes." "Good. Here we go." It took fifteen minutes to hypnotize her. When she was under, Gilbert Keller glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. Toni Prescott and Alette Peters. It was time for switching, the process of changing from one dominating personality state to another. He looked at Ashley, asleep in her chair, then leaned forward. "Good morning, Tonni. Can you hear me?" He watched Ashley's face transform, taken over by an entirely different personality. There was a sudden vivacity in her face. She began to sing: "Half a pound of tupenny rice, Half a pound of treacle, Mix it up and make it nice, Pop! goes the weasel..." "That was very nice, Toni. I'm Gilbert Keller." "I know who you are," Toni said. "I'm glad to meet you. Did anyone ever tell you that you have a beautiful singing voice?" "Sod off." "I mean it. Did you ever take singing lessons? I'll bet you did." "No, I didn't. As a matter of fact, I wanted to, but my"-For God's sakes, will you stop that terrible noise! Whoever told you you could sing?-"never mind." "Toni, I want to help you." "No, you don't, Dockie baby. You want to lay me." "Why do you think that, Toni?" "That's all you bloody men ever want to do. Ta." "Toni...? Toni...?" Silence. Gilbert Keller looked at Ashley's face again. It was serene. Dr. Keller leaned forward. "Alette?" There was no change in Ashley's expression. "Alette...?" Nothing. "I want to speak to you, Alette." Ashley began to stir uneasily. "Come out, Alette." Ashley took a deep breath, and then there was a sudden explosion of words spoken in Italian. "C'i qualcuno che parla Italuaw?" "Alette-" "Non so dove mi trovo" "Alette, listen to me. You're safe. I want you to relax." "Mi sento stanca.... I'm tired." "You've been through a terrible time, but all that is behind you. Your future is going to be very peaceful. Do you know where you are?" His voice was white. "Si. It's some kind of place for people who are pazzo." That's why you're here, Doctor. You're the crazy one. "It's a place where you're going to be cored. Alette, when you close your eyes and visualize this place, what comes to your mind?" "Hogarth. He painted insane asylums and scenes that are terrifying." You're too ignorant ever to have heard of him. "I don't want you to think of this place as terrifying. Tell me about yourself, Alette. What do you like to do? What would you like to do while you're here?" "I like to paint." "We'll have to get you some paints." "No!" "Why?" "I don't want to." "What do you call that, child? It looks like an ugly blob to me." Leave me alone. "Alette?" Gilbert Keller watched Ashley's face change again. Alette was gone. Dr. Keller awakened Ashley. She opened her eyes and blinked. "Have you started?" "We've finished." "How did I do?" "Toni and Alette talked to me. We've made a good beginning, Ashley." The letter from David Singer read: Dear Ashley, Just a note to let you know that I'm thinking about you and hoping that you're making good progress. As a matter of fact, I think about you often. I feel as though we've gone through the wars together. It was a tough fight, but we won. And I have good news. I've been assured that the murder charges against you in Bedford and Quebec will be dropped. If there is anything I can do for you, let me know. Warmest wishes, David The following morning, Dr. Keller was talking to Toni while Ashley was under hypnosis. "What is it now, Dockie?" "I just want to have a little chat with you. I'd like to help you." "I don't need your bloody help. I'm doing fine." "Well, I need your help, Toni. I want to ask you a question. What do you think of Ashley?" "Miss Tight Ass? Don't get me started." "You don't like her?" "In spades." "What don't you like about her?" There was a pause. "She tries to keep everybody from having fun. If I didn't take over once in a while, our lives would be boring. Boring. She doesn't like to go to parties or travel or do any fun things." "But you do?" "You bet I do. That's what life's all about, isn't it, luv?" "You were born in London, weren't you, Toni? Do you want to tell me about it?" "I'll tell you one thing. I wish I were there now." Silence. "Toni...? Toni...?" She was gone. Gilbert Keller said to Ashley, "I'd like to speak to Alette." He watched the expression on Ashley's face change. He leaned forward and said softly, "Alette." "Si." "Did you hear my conversation with Toni?" "Yes." "Do you and Toni know each other?" "Yes." 0f course we do, stupid. "But Ashley doesn't know either of you?" "No." "Do you like Ashley?" "She's all right." Why are you asking me all these foolish questions? "Why don't you talk to her?" "Toni does not want me to." "Does Toni always tell you what to do?" "Toni is my friend." It's none of your business. "I want to be your friend, Alette. Tell me about yourself. Where were you born?" "I was born in Rome." "Did you like Rome?" Gilbert Keller watched the expression on Ashley's face change, and she began to weep. Why? Dr. Keller leaned forward and said soothingly, "It's all right. You're going to awaken now. Ashley. " She opened her eyes. "I talked to Toni and Alette. They're friends. I want you all to be friends." While Ashley was at lunch, a male nurse walked into her room and saw a painting of a landscape on the floor. He studied it a moment, then took it to Dr. Keller's office. There was a meeting in Dr. Lewison's office. "How's it going, Gilbert?" Dr. Keller said thoughtfully, "I've talked to the two alters. The dominant one is Toni. She has an English background and won't talk about it. The other one, Alette, was born in Rome, and she doesn't want to talk about it, either. So that's where I'm going to concentrate. That's where the traumas occurred. Toni is the more aggressive one. Alette is sensitive and withdrawn. She's interested in painting, but she's afraid to pursue it. I have to find out why." "So you think Toni dominates Ashley?" "Yes. Toni takes over. Ashley wasn't aware that she exists, or for that matter, that Alette existed. But Toni and Alette know each other. It's interesting. Toni has a lovely singing voice, and Alette is a talented painter." He held up the painting that the male nurse had brought him. "I think their talents may be the key to getting through to them." Ashley received a letter from her father once a week. After she read them, she would sit in her room quietly, not wanting to talk to anyone. "They're her only link to home," Dr. Keller said to Otto Lewison. "I think it increases her desire to get out of here and start leading a normal life. Every little bit helps. " Ashley was becoming used to her surroundings. The patients seemed to walk about, although there were attendants at every door and in the corridors. The gates to the grounds were always locked. There was a recreation room where they could gather and watch television, a gymnasium where inmates could work out and a common dining room. There were many kinds of people there: Japanese, Chinese, French, Americans. Every effort had been made to make the hospital as ordinary- looking as possible, but when Ashley went to her room, the doors were always locked behind her. "This isn't a hospital," Toni complained to Alette. "It's a bloody prison." "But Dr. Keller thinks he can cure Ashley. Then we can get out of here." "Don't be stupid, Alette. Don't you see? The only way he can cure Ashley is to get rid of us, make us disappear. In other words, to cure her, we have to die. Well, I'm not going to let that happen." "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to find a way for us to escape." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR The following morning a male nurse was escorting Ashley back to her room. He said, "You seem different today." "Do I, Bill?" "Yeah. Almost like another person." Toni said softly, "That's because of you." "What do you mean?" "You make me feel different." She touched his arm and looked into his eyes. "You make me feel wonderful." "Come on." "I mean it. You're very sexy. Do you know that?" "No." "Well, you are. Are you married. Bill?" "I was, once." "Your wife was mad to ever let you go. How long have you worked here, Bill?" "Five years." "That's a long time. Do you ever feel you want to get out of here?" "Sometimes, sure." Toni lowered her voice. "You know there's nothing really wrong with me. I admit I had a little problem when I came in, but I'm cured now. I'd like to get out of here, too. I'll bet you could help me. The two of us could leave here together. We'd have a wonderful time." He studied her a moment. "I don't know what to say." "Yes, you do. Look how simple it would be. All you have to do is let me out of here one night when everyone's asleep, and we'll be on our way." She looked over at him and said softly, "I'll make it worth your while." He nodded. "Let me think about it." "You do that," Toni said confidently. When Toni returned to the room, she said to Alette, "We're getting out of this place." The following morning, Ashley was escorted into Dr. Keller's office. "Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning, Gilbert." "We're going to try some Sodium Amytal this morning. Have you ever had it?" "No." "Well, you'll find it's very relaxing." Ashley nodded. "All right. I'm ready." Five minutes later. Dr. Keller was talking to Toni. "Good morning, Toni." "Hi, Dockie." "Are you happy here, Toni?" "It's funny you should ask that. To tell you the truth, I'm really beginning to like this place. I feel at home here." "Then why do you want to escape?" Toni's voice hardened. "What?" "Bill tells me that you asked him to help you escape from here." "That son of a bitch!" There was fury in her voice. She flew out of the chair, ran over to the desk, picked up a paperweight and flung it at Dr. Keller's head. He ducked. "I'll kill you, and I'll kill him!" Dr. Keller grabbed her. "Toni-" He watched the expression on Ashley's face change. Toni had gone. He found that his heart was pounding. "Ashley!" When Ashley awakened, she opened her eyes, looked around, puzzled, and said, "Is everything all right?" "Toni attacked me. She was angry because I found out she was trying to escape." "I-I'm sorry. I had a feeling that something bad was happening." "It's all right. I want to bring you and Toni and Alette together." "No!" "Why not?" "I'm afraid. I-I don't want to meet them. Don't you understand? They're not real. They're my imagination." "Sooner or later, you're going to have to meet them, Ashley. You have to get to know one another. It's the only way you're going to be cured." Ashley stood up. "I want to go back to my room." When she was returned to her room, Ashley watched the attendant leave. She was filled with a deep sense of despair. She thought. I'm never going to get out of here. They're lying to me. They can't cure me. She could not face the reality that other personalities were living inside of her.... Because of them, people had been murdered, families destroyed. Why me, God? She began to weep. What did I ever do to you? She sat down on the bed and thought, I can't go on like this. There's only one way to end it. I have to do it now. She got up and walked around the small room, looking for something sharp. There was nothing. The rooms had been carefully designed so that there was nothing in them that would allow the patients to harm themselves. As her eyes darted around the room, she saw the paints and canvas and paintbrushes and walked over to them. The handles of the paintbrushes were wooden. Ashley snapped one in half, exposing sharp, jagged edges. Slowly, she took the sharp edge and placed it on her wrist. In one fast, deep movement, she cut into her veins and her blood began to pour out. Ashley placed the jagged edge on her other wrist and repeated the movement. She stood there, watching the blood stain the carpet. She began to feel cold. She dropped to the floor and curled up into a fetal position. And then the room went dark. When Dr. Gilbert Keller heard the news, he was shocked. He went to visit Ashley in the infirmary. Her wrists were heavily bandaged. Watching her lying there, Dr. Keller thought, I can't ever let this happen again. "We almost lost you," he said. "It would have made me look bad." Ashley managed a wry smile. "I'm sorry. But everything seems so-so hopeless." "That's where you're wrong," Dr. Keller assured her. "Do you want to be helped, Ashley?" "Yes." "Then you have to believe in me. You have to work with me. I can't do it alone. What do you say?" There was a long silence. "What do you want me to do?" "First, I want a promise from you that you'll never try to harm yourself again." "All right. I promise." "I'm going to get the same promise now from Toni and Alette. I'm going to put you to sleep now." A few minutes later. Dr. Keller was speaking to Toni. "That selfish bitch tried to kill us all. She thinks only about herself. Do you see what I mean?" "Toni-" "Well, I'm not having it. I-" "Will you be quiet and listen to me?" "I'm listening." "I want you to promise that you'll never harm Ashley." "Why should I promise?" "I'll tell you why. Because you're part of her. You were born out of her pain. I don't know yet what you've had to go through, Toni, but I know that it must have been terrible. But you have to realize that she went through the same thing, and Alette was born for the same reason as you. The three of you have a lot in common. You should help each other, not hate each other. Will you give me your word?" Nothing. "Toni?" "I suppose so," she said grudgingly. "Thank you. Do you want to talk about England now?" "No." "Alette. Are you there?" "Yes." Where do you think I am, stupid? "I want you to make me the same promise that Toni did. Promise never to harm Ashley." That's the only one you care about, isn't it? Ashley, Ashley, Ashley. What about us? "Alette?" "Yes. I promise." The months were going by, and there were no signs of progress. Dr. Keller sat at his desk, reviewing notes, recalling sessions, trying to find a clue to what was wrong. He was taking care of half a dozen other patients, but he found that it was Ashley he was most concerned about. There was such an incredible chasm between her innocent vulnerability and the dark forces that were able to take over her life. Every time he talked to Ashley, he had an overpowering urge to try to protect her. She's like a daughter to me, he thought. Who am I kidding? I'm falling in love with her. Dr. Keller went to see Otto Lewison. "I have a problem, Otto." "I thought that was reserved for our patients." "This involves one of our patients. Ashley Patterson." "Oh?" "I find that I'm-I'm very attracted to her." "Reverse transference?" "Yes." "That could be very dangerous for both of you, Gilbert." "I know." "Well, as long as you're aware of it... Be careful." "I intend to." NOVEMBER. I gave Ashley a diary this morning. "I want you and Toni and Alette to use this, Ashley. You can keep it in your room. Anytime that any of you has any thoughts or ideas that you prefer to write down instead of talking to me, just put them down." "All right, Gilbert." A month later. Dr. Keller wrote in his diary: DECEMBER The treatment is at a standstill. Toni and Alette refuse to discuss the past. It is becoming more difficult to persuade Ashley to undergo hypnosis. MARCH The diary is still blank. I'm not sure whether the most resistance is coming from Ashley or Toni. When I do hypnotize Ashley, Toni and Alette come out very briefly. They are adamant about not discussing the past. JUNE I meet with Ashley regularly, but I feel there's no progress. The diary is still untouched. I have given Alette an easel and a set of paints. I am hoping that if she begins to paint, there may be a breakthrough. JULY Something happened, but I'm not sure if it's a sign of progress. Alette painted a beautiful picture of the hospital grounds. When I complimented her on it, she seemed pleased. That evening the painting was torn to shreds. Dr. Keller and Otto Lewison were having coffee. "I think I'm going to try a little group therapy," Dr. Keller said. "Nothing else seems to be working." "How many patients did you have in mind?" "Not more than half a dozen. I want her to start interacting with other people. Right now she's living in a world of her own. I want her to break out of that." "Good idea. It's worth a try." Dr. Keller led Ashley into a small meeting room. There were six people in the room. "I want you to meet some friends," Dr. Keller said. He took Ashley around the room introducing them, but Ashley was too self-conscious to listen to their names. One name blurred into the next. There was Fat Woman, Bony Man, Bald Woman, Lame Man, Chinese Woman and Gentle Man. They all seemed very pleasant. "Sit down," Bald Woman said. "Would you like some coffee?" Ashley took a seat. "Thank you." "We've heard about you," Gentle Man said. "You've been through a lot." Ashley nodded. Bony Man said, "I guess we've all been through a lot, but we're being helped. This place is wonderful." "They have the best doctors in the world," Chinese Woman said. They all seem so normal, Ashley thought. Dr. Keller sat to one side, monitoring the conversations. Forty-five minutes later he rose. "I think it's time to go, Ashley." Ashley stood up. "It was nice meeting all of you." Lame Man walked up to her and whispered, "Don't drink the water here. It's poisoned. They want to kill us and still collect the money from the state." Ashley gulped. "Thanks. I'll- I'll remember." As Ashley and Dr. Keller walked down the corridor, she said, "What are their problems?" "Paranoia, schizophrenia, MPD, compulsive disoders. But, Ashley, their improvement since they came here has been remarkable. Would you like to chat with them regularly?" "No." Dr. Keller walked into Otto Lewison's office. "I'm not getting anywhere," he confessed. The group therapy didn't work, and the hypnotism sessions aren't working at all. I want to try something different." "What?" "I need your permission to take Ashley to dinner off the grounds." "I don't think that's a good idea, Gilbert. It could be dangerous. She's already-" "I know. But right now I'm the enemy. I want to become a friend." "Her alter, Toni, tried to kill you once. What if she tries again?" "I'll handle it." Dr. Lewison thought about it. "All right. Do you want someone to go with you?" "No. I'll be fine, Otto." "When do you want to start this?" "Tonight." 'You want to take me out to dinner?" "Yes. I think it would be good for you to get away from this place for a while, Ashley. What do you say?" "Yes." * * * Ashley was surprised at bow excited she was at the thought of going out to dinner with Gilbert Keller. It will be fun to get out of here for an evening, Ashley thought. But she knew that it was more than that. The thought of being with Gilbert Keller on a date was exhilarating. They were having dinner at a Japanese restaurant called Otani Gardens, five miles from the hospital. Dr. Keller knew that he was taking a risk. At any moment, Toni or Alette could take over. He had been warned. It's more important that Ashley learns to trust me so that I can help her. "It's funny, Gilbert," Ashley said, looking around the crowded restaurant. "What is?" "These people don't look any different from the people at the hospital." "They aren't really different, Ashley. I'm sure they all have problems. The only difference is the people at the hospital aren't able to cope with them as well, so we help them." "I didn't know I had any problems until- Well, you know." "Do you know why, Ashley? Because you buried them. You couldn't face what happened to you, so you built the fences in your mind and shut the bad things away. To one degree or another, a lot of people do that." He deliberately changed the subject. "How's your steak?" "Delicious, thank you." From then on, Ashley and Dr. Keller had meals away from the hospital once a week. They had lunch at an excellent little Italian restaurant called Banducci's and dinners at The Palm, Eveleene's and The Gumbo Pot Neither Toni nor Alette made an appearance. One night, Dr. Keller took Ashley dancing. It was at a small nightclub with a wonderful band. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked. "Very much. Thank you." She looked at him and said, "You're not like other doctors." "They don't dance?" "You know what I mean." He was holding her close, and both of them felt the urgency of the moment. "That could be very dangerous for both of you, Gilbert. " CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE I know what the bloody hell you're trying to do, Dockie. You're trying to make Ashley think you're her friend." "I am her friend, Toni, and yours." "No, you're not. You think she's great, and I'm nothing." "You're wrong. I respect you and Alette as much as I respect Ashley. You're all equally important to me." "Is that true?" "Yes. Toni, when I told you that you had a beautiful singing voice, I meant it. Do you play an instrument?" "Piano." "If I could arrange for you to use the piano in the recreation hall so you can play and sing, would you be interested?" "I might be." She sounded excited. Dr. Keller smiled. "Then I'll be happy to do it. It will be there for you to use." "Thanks." Dr. Keller arranged for Toni to have private access to the recreation room for one hour every afternoon. In the beginning, the doors were closed, but as other inmates heard the piano music and the singing from inside, they opened the door to listen. Soon, Toni was entertaining dozens of patients. Dr. Keller was looking over his notes with Dr. Lewison. Dr. Lewison said, "What about the other one-Alette?" "I've set it up for her to paint in the garden every afternoon. She'll be watched, of course. I think it's going to be good therapy." But Alette refused. In a session with her, Dr. Keller said, "You don't use the paints I gave you, Alette. It's a shame to let them go to waste. You're so talented." How would you know? "Don't you enjoy painting?" "Yes." "Then why don't you do it?" "Because I'm no good." Stop pestering me. "Who told you that?" "My-my mother." "We haven't talked about your mother. Do you want to tell me about her?" "There's nothing to tell." "She died in an accident, didn't she?" There was a long pause. "Yes. She died in an accident." The following day, Alette started to paint. She enjoyed being in the garden with her canvas and brushes. When she painted, she was able to forget everything else. Some of the patients would gather around bar and watch. They talked in multicolored voices. "Your paintings should be in a gallery." Black. "You're really good." Yellow. "Where did you learn to do that?" Black. "Can you paint a picture of me sometime?" Orange. "I wish I knew how to do that." Black. She was always sorry when her time was up and she had to go back into the big building. "I want you to meet someone, Ashley. This is Lisa Garrett." She was a woman in her fifties, small and wraithlike. "Lisa is going home today." The woman beamed. "Isn't that wonderful? And I owe it all to Dr. Keller." Gilbert Keller looked at Ashley and said, "Lisa suffered from MPD and had thirty alters." "That's right, dear. And they're all gone." Dr. Keller said pointedly, "She's the third MPD patient leaving us this year." And Ashley felt a surge of hope. Alette said, "Dr. Keller is sympathetic. He really seems to like us." "You're bloody stupid," Toni scoffed. "Don't you see what's happening? I told you once. He's pretending to like us so we'll do what he wants us to do. And do you know what that is? He wants to bring us all together, luv, and then convince Ashley that she doesn't need us. And do you know what happens then? You and I die. Is that what you want? I don't." "Well, no," Alette said hesitantly. "Then listen to me. We go along with the doctor. We make him believe that we're really trying to help him. We string him along. We're in no hurry. And I promise you that one day I'll get us out of here." "Whatever you say, Toni." "Good. So we'll let old Dockie think he's doing just great." A letter arrived from David. In tile envelope was a photograph of a small boy. The letter read: Dear Ashley, I hope that you're coming along well and that the therapy is progressing. Everything's fine here. I'm working hard and enjoying it. Enclosed is a photograph of our two-year-old, Jeffrey. At the rate he's growing, in a few inmates, he'll be getting married. There's no real news to report. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you. Sandra joins me in sending our warm regards, David Ashley studied the photograph. He's a beautiful little boy, she thought. I hope he has a happy life. She went to lunch, and when she returned, the photograph was on the floor of her room, torn to bits. June 15, 1:30 P.M. Patient: Ashley Patterson. Therapy session using Sodium Amytal. Alter, Alette Peters. "Tell me about Rome, Alette." "It's the most beautiful city in the world. It's filled all the great museums. I used to visit all of them." What 'could you know about museums? "And you wanted to be a painter?" "Yes." What did you think I wanted to be, a firefighter? "Did you study painting?" "No, I didn't." Can't you go bother someone else? "Why not? Because of what your mother told you?" "Oh, no. I just decided that I wasn't good enough." Toni, get him away from me! "Did you have any traumas during that period? Did any terrible things happen to you that you can recall?" "No. I was very happy." Toni! August 15, 9:00 A.M. Patient: Ashley Patterson. Hypnotherapy session with alter, Toni Prescott. "Do you want to talk about London, Toni?" "Yes. I had a lovely time there. London is so civilized. There's so much to do there." "Did you have any problems?" "Problems? No. I was very happy in London." "Nothing had happened there at all that you remember?" "Of course not." What are you going to make of that, you willy? Each session brought back memories to Ashley. When she went to bed at night, she dreamed that she was at Global Computer Graphics. Shane Miller was there, and he was complimenting her on some work she had done. "We couldn't get along without you, Ashley. We're going to keep you here forever." Then the scene shifted to a prison cell, and Shane Miller was saying, "Well, I hate to do this now, but under the circumstances, the company is terminating you. Naturally, we can't afford to be connected with anything like this. You understand, don't you? There's nothing personal in this." In the morning, when Ashley awakened, her pillow I was wet with tears. Alette was saddened by the therapy sessions. They reminded her of how much she missed Rome and how happy she had been with Richard Melton. We could have had such a happy life together, but now it is too late. Too late. Toni hated the therapy sessions because they brought back too many bad memories for her, too. Everything she had done had been to protect Ashley and Alette. But did anybody appreciate her? No. She was locked away as though she were some kind of criminal. But I'll get out of here, Toni promised herself. I'll get out of here. The pages of the calendar were wiped away by time, and another year came and went. Dr. Keller was getting more and more frustrated. "I've read your latest report," Dr. Lewison told Gilbert Keller. "Do you think there's a genuine lacuna, or are they playing games?" "They're playing games, Otto. It's as though they know what I'm trying to do, and they won't let me. I think Ashley genuinely wants to help, but they won't allow her to. Usually under hypnosis you can get through to them, but Toni is very strong. She takes complete control, and she's dangerous." "Dangerous?" "Yes. Imagine how much hatred she must have in her to murder and castrate five men." The rest of the year went no better. Dr. Keller was having success with his other patients, but Ashley, the one he was most concerned about, was making no progress. Dr. Keller had a feeling that Toni enjoyed playing games with him. She was determined that he was not going to succeed. And then, unexpectedly, there was a breakthrough. It started with another letter from Dr. Patterson. June 5 Dear Ashley, I'm on my way to New York to take care of some business, and I would like very much to stop by and see you. I will call Dr. Lewison, and if there's no objection, you can expect me around the 25th. Much love, Father Three weeks later, Dr. Patterson arrived with attractive, dark-haired woman in her early forties and three-year-old daughter, Katrina. They were ushered into Dr. Lewison's office. He rose as they entered. "Dr. Patterson, I'm delighted to meet you." "Thank you. This is Miss Victoria Aniston and her daughter, Katrina." "How do you do, Miss Aniston? Katrina." "I brought them along to meet Ashley." "Wonderful. She's with Dr. Keller right now, but they should be finished soon." Dr. Patterson said, "How is Ashley doing?" Otto Lewison hesitated. "I wonder if I could speak to you alone for a few minutes?" "Certainly." Dr. Patterson turned to Victoria and Katrina. "It looks like there's a beautiful garden out there. Why don't you wait for me, and I'll join you with Ashley." Victoria Aniston smiled. "Fine." She looked over at Otto Lewison. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor." "Thank you, Miss Aniston." Dr. Patterson watched the two of them leave. He turned to Otto Lewison. "Is there a problem?" "I'll be frank with you, Dr. Patterson. We're not making as much progress as I had hoped we would. Ashley says she wants to be helped, but she's not cooperating with us. In fact, she's fighting the treatment." Dr. Patterson was studying him, puzzled. "Why?" "It's not that unusual. At some stage, patients with MPD are afraid of meeting their alters. It terrifies them. The very thought that other characters can be living in their mind and body and take over at will- Well, you can imagine how devastating that can be." Dr. Patterson nodded. "Of course." "There's something that puzzles us about Ashley's problem. Almost always, these problems start with a history of molestation when the patient is very young. We have no record of anything like that in Ashley's case, so we have no idea how or why this trauma began." Dr. Patterson sat there silently for a moment. When he spoke, he said heavily, "I can help you." He took a deep breath. "I blame myself." Otto Lewison was watching intently. "It happened when Ashley was six. I had to go to England. My wife couldn't go. I took Ashley with me. My wife had an elderly cousin over there named John. I didn't realize it at the time, but John had... emotional problems. I had to leave to give a lecture one day, and John offered to baby-sit. When I got back that evening, he was gone. Ashley was in a state of complete hysteria. It took a long, long time to calm her down. After that, she wouldn't let anyone come near her, she became timid and withdrawn and a week later, John was arrested as a serial child molester." Dr. Patterson's face was filled with pain. "I never forgave myself. I never left Ashley alone with anyone after that." There was a long silence. Otto Lewison said, "I'm terribly sorry. But I think you've given us the answer to what we've been looking for, Dr. Patterson. Now Dr. Keller will have something specific to work on." "It's been too painful for me even to discuss before." "I understand." Otto Lewison looked at his watch. "Ashley's going to be a little while. Why don't you join Miss Aniston in the garden, and I'll send Ashley out when she comes." Dr. Patterson rose. "Thank you. I will." Otto Lewison watched him leave. He could not wait to tell Dr. Keller what he had learned. Victoria Aniston and Katrina were waiting for him. "Did you see Ashley?" Victoria asked. "They'll send her out in a few minutes," Dr. Patterson said. He looked around the spacious grounds. "This is lovely, isn't it?" Katrina ran up to him, "I want to go up to the sky again." He smiled. "All right." He picked her up, threw her into the air and caught her as she came down. "Higher!" "Hang on. Here we go." He threw her up again and caught her, and she was screaming with delight. "Again!" Dr. Patterson's back was to the main building, so he did not see Ashley and Dr. Keller come out. "Higher!" Katrina screamed. Ashley stopped in the doorway, frozen. She watched her father playing with the little girl, and time seemed to fragment. Everything after that happened in slow motion. There were flashes of a little girl being thrown into the air.... "Higher, Papa!" "Hang on. Here we go." And then the girl being tossed onto a bed... A voice saying, "You'll like this. " An image of the man getting into bed beside her. The little girl was screaming, "Stop it. No. Please, no." The man was in the shadow. He was holding her down, and he was stroking her body. "Doesn't that feel good?" And suddenly the shadow lifted, and Ashley could see the man's face. It was her father. Looking at him now, in the garden, playing with the little girl, Ashley opened her mouth and began to scream, and could not stop. Dr. Patterson, Victoria Aniston and Katrina turned around, startled. Dr. Keller said quickly, "I'm terribly sorry. This is a bad day. Could you come back another time?" And he carried Ashley inside. They had her in one of the emergency rooms. "Her pulse is abnormally high," Dr. Keller said. "She's in a fugue state." He moved close to her and said, "Ashley, you have nothing to be frightened about. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you. Just listen to my voice and relax... relax... relax. " It took half an hour. "Ashley, tell me what happened. What upset you?" "Father and the little girl. " "What about them?" It was Toni who answered. "She can't face it. She's afraid he's going to do to the little girl what he did to her." Dr. Keller stared at her a moment. "What-what did he do to her?" It was in London. She was in bed. He sat down next to her and said, "I'm going to make you very happy, baby," and began tickling her, and she was laughing. And then... he took her pajamas off, and he started playing with her. "Don't my hands feel good?" Ashley started screaming, "Stop it. Don't do that." But he wouldn't stop. He held her down and went on and on.... Dr. Keller asked, "Was that the first time it happened, Toni?" "Yes." "How old was Ashley?" "She was six." "And that's when you were born?" "Yes. Ashley was too terrified to face it." "What happened after that?" Father came to her every night and got into bed with her." The words were pouring out now. "She couldn't stop him. When they got home, Ashley told Mother what happened, and Mother called her a lying little bitch. "Ashley was afraid to go to sleep at night because she knew Papa was going to come to her room. He used to make her touch him and then play with himself. And he said to her, 'Don't tell anyone about this or I won't love you anymore.' She couldn't tell anyone. Mama and Papa were yelling at each other all the time, and Ashley thought it was her fault. She knew she had done something wrong, but she didn't know what. Mama hated her." "How long did this go on?" Dr. Keller asked. "When I was eight..." Toni stopped. "Go on, Toni." Ashley's face changed, and it was Alette sitting in the chair. She said, "We moved to Roma, where he did research at Policlinico Umberto Primo." "And that's where you were born?" "Yes. Ashley couldn't stand what happened one night, so I came to protect her." "What happened, Alette?" "Papa came into her room while she was asleep, and he was naked. And he crawled into her bed, and this time he forced himself inside her. She tried to stop him, but she couldn't. She begged him never to do it again, but he came to her every night. And he always said, "This is how a man shows a woman he loves her, and you're my woman, and I love you. You must never tell anyone about this.' And she could never tell anyone." Ashley was sobbing, tears running down her cheeks. It was all Gilbert Keller could do not to take her in his arms and hold her and tell her that he loved her and everything was going to be all right. But, of course, it was impossible. I'm her doctor. When Dr. Keller returned to Dr. Lewison's office. Dr. Patterson, Victoria Aniston and Katrina had left. "Well, this is what we've been waiting for," Dr. Keller told Otto Lewison. "We finally got a breakthrough. I know when Toni and Alette were born and why. We should see a big change from now on." Dr. Keller was right. Things began to move. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX THE hypnotherapy session had begun. Once Ashley was under. Dr. Keller said, "Ashley, tell me about Jim Cleary." "I loved Jim. We were going to run away together and get married." "Yes...?" "At the graduation party, Jim asked me if I would go to his house with him, and I... I said no. When he brought me home, my father was waiting up for us. He was furious. He told Jim to get out and stay out." "What happened then?" "I decided to go to Jim. I packed a suitcase and I started toward his house." She hesitated. "Halfway to his house, I changed my mind and I went back home. I-" Ashley's expression started to change. She began to relax in her chair, and it was Toni sitting there. "Like hell she did. She went to his house, Dockie." When she reached Jim Cleary's house, it was dark. "My folks will be away for the weekend." Ashley rang the doorbell. A few minutes later, Jim Cleary opened the door. He was in his pajamas. "Ashley. " His face lit up in a grin. "You decided to come." He pulled her inside. "I came because I-" "I don't care why you came. You're here." He put his arms around her and kissed her. "How about a drink?" "No. Maybe some water." She was suddenly apprehensive. "Sure. Come on. " He took her hand and led her into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water for her and watched her drink it. "You look nervous." "I-I am." "There's nothing to be nervous about. There's no chance that my folks will come back. Let's go upstairs." "Jim, I don't think we should." He came up behind her, his arms reaching for her breasts. She turned. "Jim..." His lips were on hers, and he was forcing her against the kitchen counter. "I'm going to make you happy, honey." It was her father saying, "I'm going to make you happy, honey." She froze. She felt him pulling her clothes off and entering her as she stood there naked, silently screaming. And the feral rage took over. She saw the large butcher knife sticking out of a wooden block. She picked it up and began stabbing him in the chest, screaming, "Stop it, Father.... Stop it... Stop it... Stop it..." She looked down, and Jim was tying on the floor, blood spurting out of him. "You animal," she screamed. "You won't do this to anyone again. " She reached down and plunged the knife into his testicles. At six o'clock in the morning, Ashley went to the railroad station to wait for Jim. There was no sign of him. She was beginning to panic. What could have happened? Ashley heard the train whistle in the distance. She looked at her watch: 7:00. The train was pulling into the station. Ashley rose to her feet and looked around frantically. Something terrible has happened to him. A few minutes later, she stood there watching the train pull out of the station, taking her dreams with it. She waited another half hour and then slowly headed home. That noon, Ashley and her father were on a plane to London.... The session was ending. Dr. Keller counted, "... four... five. You're awake now." Ashley opened her eyes. "What happened?" "Toni told me how she killed Jim Cleary. He was attacking you." Ashley's face went white. "I want to go to my room." * * * Dr. Keller reported to Otto Lewison. "We're really beginning to make some advances, Otto. Up to now, it's been a logjam, with each one of them afraid to make the first move. But they're getting more relaxed. We're going in the right direction, but Ashley is still afraid to face reality." Dr. Lewison said, "She has no idea how these murders took place?" "Absolutely none. She's completely blanked it out. Toni took over." It was two days later. "Are you comfortable, Ashley?" "Yes." Her voice sounded far away. "I want us to talk about Dennis Tibble. Was he a friend of yours?" "Dennis and I worked for the same company. We weren't really friends." "The police report says that your fingerprints were found at his apartment." "That's right. I went there because he wanted me to give him some advice." "And what happened?" "We talked for a few minutes, and he gave me a glass of wine with a drug in it." "What's the next thing you remember?" "I-I woke up in Chicago." Ashley's expression began to change. In an instant, it was Toni talking to him. "Do you want to know what really happened...?" "Tell me, Toni." Dennis Tibble picked up the bottle of wine and said, "Let's get comfortable." He started leading her toward the bedroom. "Dennis, I don't want to-" And they were in the bedroom, and he was taking off her clothes. "I know what you want, baby. You want me to screw you. That's why you come up here." She was fighting to get free. "Stop it, Dennis!" "Not until I give you what you came here for. You're going to love it, baby. " He pushed her onto the bed, holding her tightly, his hands moving down to her groin, it was her father's voice. "You're going to love it, baby." And he was forcing himself into her, again and again, and she was silently screaming, "No, Father. Stop" And then the unspeakable fury took over. She saw the wine bottle. She reached for it, smashed it against the edge of the table and jammed the ragged edge of the bottle into his back. He screamed and tried to get up, but she held him tightly while she kept ramming the broken bottle into him. She watched him roll onto the floor. "Stop it," he whimpered. "Do you promise to never do that again? Well, we'll make sure." She picked up the broken glass and reached for his groin." Dr. Keller let a moment of silence pass. "What did you do after that, Toni?" "I decided I'd better get out of there before the police came. I have to admit I was pretty excited. I wanted to get away from Ashley's boring life for a while, and I had a friend in Chicago, so I decided to go there. It turned out he wasn't home, so I did a little shopping, hit some of the bars and bad a good time." "And what happened next?" "I checked into a hotel and fell asleep." She shrugged. "From then on it was Ashley's party." She awakened slowly, knowing something was wrong, terribly wrong. She felt as though she had been drugged. Ashley looked around the room and began to panic. She was tying in bed, naked, in some cheap hotel room. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She managed to sit up, and her head started to pound. She got out of bed, walked into the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower. She let the stream of hot water pound against her body, trying to wash away whatever terrible, dirty things had happened to her. What if he had gotten her pregnant? The thought of having his child was sickening. Ashley got out of the shower, dried herself and walked over to the closet. Her clothes were missing. The only things inside the closet were a black leather miniskirt, a cheap-looking tube top and a pair of spiked high-heeled shoes. She was repelled by the thought of putting the clothes on, but she had no choice. She dressed quickly and glanced in the mirror. She looked like a prostitute. "Father. I-" "What's wrong?" "I'm in Chicago and-" "What are you doing in Chicago?" "I can't go into it now. I need on airline ticket to San Jose. I don't have any money with me. Can you help me?" "Of course. Hold on.... There's an American Airlines plane leaving 0'Hare at ten-forty AM.. Flight 407. There will be a ticket waiting for you at the check-in counter." "Alette, can you hear me? Alette." "I'm here. Dr. Keller." "I want us to talk about Richard Melton. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?" "Yes. He was very... simp'atico. I was in love with him." "Was he in love with you?" "I think so, yes. He was an artist. We would go to museums together and look at all of the wonderful paintings. When I was with Richard I felt... alive. I think if someone had not killed him, then one day we would have been married." "Tell me about the last time you were together." "When we were walking out of a museum, Richard said, 'My roommate is at a party tonight. Why don't we stop at my place? I have some paintings I'd like to show you.' " " 'Not yet, Richard.' " " 'Whatever you say. I'll see you next weekend?' " " 'Yes' " "I drove away," Alette said. "And that was the last time I- " Dr. Keller watched her face begin to take on Toni's animation. "That's what she wants to think," Toni said. "That's not what happened." "What did happen?" Dr. Keller asked. She went to his apartment on Fell Street. It was small, but Richard's paintings made it look beautiful. "It makes the room come alive, Richard." "Thank you, Alette. "He took her in his arms. "I want to make love to you. You're beautiful." "You're beautiful," her father said. And she froze. Because she knew the terrible thing that was going to happen. She was tying on the bed, naked, feeling the familiar pain of him entering her, tearing her apart. And she was screaming, "No! Stop it, Father! Stop it!" And then the manic-depressive frenzy took over. She had no recollection of where she got the knife, but she was stabbing his body over and over, yelling at him, "I told you to stop it! Stop it!" Ashley was writhing in her chair, screaming. "It's all right, Ashley," Dr. Keller said. "You're safe. You're going to wake up now, at the count of five." Ashley awoke, trembling. "Is everything all right?" "Toni told me about Richard Melton. He made love to you. You thought it was your father, so you-" She put her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear any more!" * * * Dr. Keller went to see Otto Lewison. "I think we're finally making the breakthrough. It's very traumatic for Ashley, but we're nearing the end. We still have two murders to retrieve." "And then?" "I'm going to bring Ashley, Toni and Alette together." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN Toni? Toni, can you hear me?" Dr. Keller watched Ashley's expression change. "I hear you, Dockie." "Let's talk about Jean Claude Parent." "I should have known he was too good to be true." "What do you mean?" "In the beginning, he seemed like a real gentleman. He took me out every day, and we really had a good time. I thought he was different, but he was like all the others. All he wanted was sex." "I see." "He gave me a beautiful ring, and I guess he thought that he owned me. I went with him to his house." The house was a beautiful two-story, redbrick house filled with antiques. "It's lovely." "There's something special I want to show you upstairs in the bedroom." And he was taking her upstairs, and she was powerless to stop him. They were in the bedroom, and he took her in his arms and whispered, "Get undressed." "I don't want to-" "Yes, you do. We both want it." He undressed her quickly, then laid her down on the bed and got on top of her. She was moaning, "Don't. Please don't. Father!" But he paid no attention. He kept plunging into her until suddenly he said, "Ah," and then stopped. "You 're wonderful, " he said. And the malevolent explosion shook her. She grabbed the sharp letter opener from the desk and plunged it into his chest, up and down and up and down. "You won't do that to anyone again." She reached for his groin. Afterward, she took a leisurely shower, dressed and went back to the hotel. "Ashley..." Ashley's face began to change. "Wake up now." Ashley slowly came awake. She looked at Dr. Keller and said, "Toni again?" "Yes. She met Jean Claude on the Internet. Ashley, when you were in Quebec, were there periods when you seemed to lose time? When suddenly it was hours later or a day later, and you didn't know where the time had gone?" She nodded slowly. "Yes. It-it happened a lot." "That's when Toni took over." "And that's when... when she-?" "Yes." The next few months were uneventful. In the afternoons, Dr. Keller would listen to Toni play the piano and sing, and he would watch Alette painting in the garden. There was one more murder to discuss, but he wanted Ashley to be relaxed before he started talking about it. It had been five years now since she had come to the hospital. She's almost cured. Dr. Keller thought. On a Monday morning, he sent for Ashley and watched her walk into the office. She was pale, as though she knew what she was facing. "Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning, Gilbert." "How are you feeling?" "Nervous. This is the last one, isn't it?" "Yes. Let's talk about deputy Sam Blake. What was he doing in your apartment?" "I asked him to come. Someone had written on my bathroom mirror, 'You Will Die.' I didn't know what to do. I thought someone was trying to kill me. I called the police, and deputy Blake came over. He was very sympathetic." "Did you ask him to stay with you?" "Yes. I was afraid to be alone. He said that he would spend the night, and then in the morning, he would arrange for twenty-four-hour protection for me. I offered to sleep on the couch and let him sleep in the bedroom, but he said he would sleep on the couch. I remember he checked the windows to make sure they were locked, and then he double-bolted the door. His gun was on the table next to the couch. I said good night and went into the bedroom and closed the door." "And then what happened?" "I- The next thing I remember is being awakened by someone screaming in the alley. Then the sheriff came in to tell me that deputy Blake had been found dead." She stopped, her face pale. "All right. I'm going to put you to sleep now. Just relax.... Close your eyes and relax...." It took ten minutes. Dr. Keller said, "Toni..." "I'm here. You want to know what really happened, don't you? Ashley was a fool to invite Sam to stay at the apartment. I could have told her what he would do." He heard a cry from the bedroom, quickly rose from the couch and scooped up his gun. He hurried over to the bedroom door and listened a moment. Silence. He had imagined it. As he started to turn away, he heard it again. He pushed the door open, gun in hand. Ashley was in bed, naked, asleep. There was no one else in the room. She was making little moaning sounds. He moved to her bedside. She looked beautiful tying there, curled up in a fetal position. She moaned again, trapped in some terrible dream. He meant only to comfort her, to take her in his arms and hold her. He lay down at her side and gently pulled her toward him, and he felt the heat of her body and began to be aroused. She was awakened by his voice saying, "It's all right now. You're safe." And his lips were on hers, and he was moving her legs apart and was inside her. And she was screaming, "No, Father!" And he moved faster and faster in a primal urgency, and then the savage revenge took over. She grabbed the knife from the dresser drawer at her bedside and began to slash into his body. "What happened after you killed him?" "She wrapped his body in the sheets and dragged him to the elevator and then through the garage to the alley in back." "... and then," Dr. Keller told Ashley, "Toni wrapped his body in the sheets and dragged him into the elevator and through the garage to the alley in back." Ashley sat there, her face dead white. "She's a mon- I'm a monster." Gilbert Keller said, "No. Ashley, you must remember that Toni was born out of your pain, to protect you. The same is true of Alette. It's time to bring this to a closure. I want you to meet them. It's the next step to your getting well." Ashley's eyes were tightly shut. "All right. When do we... do this?" "Tomorrow morning." Ashley was in a deep hypnotic state. Dr. Keller started with Toni. "Toni, I want you and Alette to talk to Ashley." "What makes you think she can handle us?" "I think she can." "All right, Dockie. Whatever you say." "Alette, are you ready to meet Ashley?" "If Toni says it's all right." "Sure, Alette. It's about time." Dr. Keller took a deep breath and said, "Ashley, I want you to say hello to Toni." There was a long silence. Then, a timid, "Hello, Toni..." "Hello." "Ashley, say hello to Alette." "Hello, Alette..." "Hello, Ashley..." Dr. Keller breathed a deep sigh of relief. "I want you all to get to know one another. You've suffered through the same terrible traumas. They've separated you from one another. But there's no reason for that separation anymore. You're going to become one whole, healthy person. It's a long journey, but you've begun it. I promise you, the most difficult part is over." From that point on, Ashley's treatment moved swiftly. Ashley and her two alters talked to one another every day. "I had to protect you," Toni explained. "I suppose every time I killed one of those men, I was killing Father for what he had done to you." "I tried to protect you, too," Alette said. "I-I appreciate that. I'm grateful to both of you." Ashley turned to Dr. Keller and said wryly, "It's really all me, isn't it? I'm talking to myself." "You're talking to two other parts of yourself," he corrected her gently. "It's time for all of you to unify and become one again." Ashley looked at him and smiled. "I'm ready." That afternoon. Dr. Keller went to see Otto Lewison. Dr. Lewison said, "I hear good reports, Gilbert." Dr. Keller nodded. "Ashley's made remarkable progress. In another few months, I think she can be released and go on with her treatment as an outpatient." "That's wonderful news. Congratulations." I'll miss her. Dr. Keller thought. I'll miss her terribly. "Dr. Salem is on line two for you, Mr. Singer." "Right." David reached for the phone, puzzled. Why would Dr. Salem be calling? It had been years since the two men had talked. "Royce?" "Good morning, David. I have some interesting information for you. It's about Ashley Patterson." David felt a sudden sense of alarm. "What about her?" "Do you remember how hard we tried to find the trauma that had caused her condition, and we failed?" David remembered it well. It had been a major weakness in their case. "Yes." "Well, I just learned the answer. My friend, Dr. Lewison, who's head of the Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital, just called. The missing piece of the puzzle is Dr. Steven Patterson. He's the one who molested Ashley when she was a child." David asked incredulously, "What?" "Dr. Lewison just learned about it." David sat listening as Dr. Salem went on, but his mind was elsewhere. He was recalling Dr. Patterson's words. "You're the only one I trust, David. My daughter means everything in the world to me. You're going to save her life.... I want you to defend Ashley, and I won't have anyone else involved in this case. " And David suddenly realized why Dr. Patterson had been so insistent on his representing Ashley alone. The doctor was sure that if David had ever discovered what he had done, he would have protected him. Dr. Patterson had had to decide between his daughter and his reputation, and he had chosen his reputation. The son of a bitch! "Thanks, Royce." That afternoon, as Ashley passed the recreation room, she saw a copy of the Westport News that someone had left there. On the front page of the newspaper was a photograph of her father with Victoria Aniston and Katrina. The beginning of the story read, "Dr. Steven Patterson is to be married to socialite Victoria Aniston, who has a three-year-old daughter from a previous marriage. Dr. Patterson is joining the staff of St. John's Hospital in Manhattan, and he and his future wife have bought a house on Long Island. " Ashley stopped and her face contorted into a mask of rage. "I'll kill the son of a bitch," Toni screamed. "I'll kill him!" She was completely out of control. They had to put her in a padded room where she could not hurt herself, restrained by handcuffs and leg-irons. When the attendants came to feed her, she tried to grab them, and they had to be careful not to get too close to her. Toni had taken total possession of Ashley. When she saw Dr. Keller, she screamed, "Let me out of here, you bastard. Now!" "We're going to let you out of here," Dr. Keller said soothingly, "but first you have to calm down." "I'm calm," Toni yelled. "Let me go!" Dr. Keller sat on the floor beside her and said, "Toni, when you saw that picture of your father, you said you were going to hurt him, and-" "You're a liar! I said I was going to kill him!" "There's been enough killing. You don't want to stab anyone else." "I'm not going to stab him. Have you heard of hydrochloric acid? It will eat through anything, including skin. Wait until I-" "I don't want you to think like that." "You're right. Arson! Arson is better. He won't have to wait until hell to burn to death. I can do it so they'll never catch me if-" "Toni, forget about this." "All right. I can think of some other ways that are even better." He studied her a moment, frustrated. "Why are you so angry?" "Don't you know? I thought you were supposed to be such a great doctor. He's marrying a woman with a teen-year-old daughter. What's going to happen to that little girl, Mr. Famous Doctor? I'll tell you what. The same thing that happened to us. Well, I'm going to stop it!" "I'd hoped we'd gotten rid of all that hate." "Hate? You want to hear about hate?" It was raining, a steady downpour of raindrops flitting the roof of the speeding car. She looked at her mother sitting at the wheel, squinting at the road ahead, and she smiled, in a happy mood. She began to sing: "All around the mulberry bush, The monkey chased-" Her mother turned to her and screamed, "Shut up. I told you I detest that song. You make me sick, you miserable little-" After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The curve ahead, the car skidding off the road, the tree. The crash flung her out of the car. She was shaken, but unhurt. She got to her feet. She could hear her mother, trapped in the car, screaming, "Get me out of here. Help me! Help me!" And she stood there watching until the car finally exploded. "Hate? Do you want to hear more?" Walter Manning said, "This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter's a professional artist, not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can't turn her down.... This has to be unanimous. We're either giving him my daughter's painting or we don't give him anything at all." She was parked at the curb, with the motor running. She watched Walter Manning cross the street, headed for the garage where he kept his car. She put the car in gear and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. At the last moment, he heard the sound of the car coming toward him, and he turned. She watched the expression on his face as the car smashed into him and then hurled his broken body aside. She kept driving. There were no witnesses. God was on her side. "That's hate, Dockie! That's real hate!" Gilbert Keller listened to her recital, appalled, shaken by the cold-blooded viciousness of it. He canceled the rest of his appointments for the day. He needed to be alone. The following morning when Dr. Keller walked into the padded cell, Alette had taken over. "Why are you doing this to me. Dr. Keller?" Alette asked. "Let me out of here." "I will," Dr. Keller assured her. "Tell me about Toni. What has she told you?" "She said we have to escape from here and kill Father." Toni took over. "Morning, Dockie. We're fine now. Why don't you let us go?" Dr. Keller looked into her eyes. There was cold-blooded murder there. * * * Dr. Otto Lewison sighed. "I'm terribly sorry about what's happened, Gilbert. Everything was going so well." "Right now, I can't even reach Ashley." "I suppose this means having to start the treatment all over." Dr. Keller was thoughtful. "Not really, Otto. We've arrived at the point where the three alters have gotten to know one another. That was a big breakthrough. The next step was to get them to integrate. I have to find a way to do that." "That damned article-" "It's fortunate for us that Toni saw that article." Otto Lewison looked at him in surprise. "Fortunate?" "Yes. Because there's that residual hate in Toni. Now that we know it's there, we can work on it. I want to try an experiment. If it works, we'll be in good shape. If it doesn't"-he paused and added quietly-"then I think Ashley may have to be confined here for the rest of her life." "What do you want to do?" "I think it's a bad idea for Ashley's father to see her again, but I want to hire a national clipping service, and I want them to send me every article that appears about Dr. Patterson." Otto Lewison blinked. "What's the point?" "I'm going to show them all to Toni. Eventually, her hate has to bum itself out. That way I can monitor it and try to control it." "It may take a long time, Gilbert." "At least a year, maybe longer. But it's the only chance Ashley has." Five days later Ashley had taken over. When Dr. Keller walked into the padded cell, Ashley said, "Good morning, Gilbert. I'm sorry that all this happened." "I'm glad it did, Ashley. We're going to get all of our feelings oat in the open." He nodded to the guard to remove the leg-irons and handcuffs. Ashley stood up and rubbed her wrists. "That wasn't very comfortable," she said. They walked out into the corridor. "Toni's very angry." "Yes, but she's going to get over it. Here's my plan. " There were three or four articles about Dr. Steven Pat-terson every month. One read: "Dr. Steven Patterson is to wed Victoria Aniston in an elaborate wedding ceremony on Long Island this Friday. Dr. Patterson's colleagues will fly in to attend. " Toni was hysterical when Dr. Keller showed the story to her. "That marriage isn't going to last long." "Why do you say that, Toni?" "Because he's going to be dead." "Dr. Steven Patterson has resigned from St. John's Hospital and will head the cardiac staff at Manhattan Methodist Hospital. " "So he can rape all the little girls there," Toni screamed. "Dr. Steven Patterson received the Lasker Award for his work in medicine and is being honored at the White House. " "They should hang the bastard!" Toni yelled. Gilbert Keller saw to it that Toni received all the articles written about her father. And as time went by, with each new item, Toni's rage seemed to be diminishing. It was as though her emotions had been worn out. She went from hatred to anger and, finally, to a resigned acceptance. There was a mention in the real estate section. "Dr. Steven Patterson and his new bride have moved into a home in Manhattan, but they plan to purchase a second home in the Hamptons and will be spending their summers there with their daughter, Katrina." Toni started sobbing. "How could he do that to us?" "Do you feel that that little girl has taken your place, Toni?" "I don't know. I'm-I'm confused." Another year went by. Ashley had therapy sessions three times a week. Alette painted almost every day, but Toni refused to sing or play the piano. At Christmas, Dr. Keller showed Toni a new clipping. There was a picture of her father and Victoria and Katrina. The caption read: THE PATTERSONS CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS IN THE HAMPTONS. Toni said wistfully, "We used to spend Christmases together. He always gave me wonderful gifts." She looked at Dr. Keller. "He wasn't all bad. Aside from the-you know-he was a good father. I think he really loved me." It was the first sign of a new breakthrough. One day, as Dr. Keller passed the recreation room, he heard Toni singing and playing the piano. Surprised, he stepped into the room and watched her. She was completely absorbed in the music. The next day, Dr. Keller had a session with Toni. "Your father's getting older, Toni. How do you think you'll feel when he dies?" "I-I don't want him to die. I know I said a lot of stupid things, but I said them because I was angry with him." "You're not angry anymore?" She thought about it. "I'm not angry, I'm hurt. I think you were right. I did feel that the little girl was taking my place." She looked up at Dr. Keller and said, "I was confused. But my father has a right to get on with his life, and Ashley has a right to get on with hers." Dr. Keller smiled. We're back on track. The three of them talked to one another freely now. Dr. Keller said, "Ashley, you needed Toni and Alette because you couldn't stand the pain. How do you feel about your father now?" There was a brief silence. She said slowly, "I can never forget what he did to me, but I can forgive him. I want to put the past behind me and start my future." "To do that, we must make you all one again. How do you feel about that, Alette?" Alette said, "If I'm Ashley, can I still go on painting?" "Of course you can." "Well, then, all right." "Toni?" "Will I still be able to sing and play the piano?" "Yes," he said. "Then, why not?" "Ashley?" "I'm ready for all of us to be one. I-I want to thank them for helping me when I needed them." "My pleasure, luv." "Anche il mio," Alette said. It was time for the final step: integration. "All right I'm going to hypnotize you now, Ashley. I want you to say good-bye to Toni and Alette." Ashley took a deep breath. "Good-bye, Toni. Goodbye, Alette." "Good-bye, Ashley." "Take care of yourself, Ashley." Ten minutes later, Ashley was in a deep hypnotic state. "Ashley, there's nothing more to be afraid of. All your problems are behind you. You don't need anyone to protect you anymore. You're able to handle your life without help, without shutting out any bad experiences. You're able to face whatever happens. Do you agree with me?" "Yes, I do. I'm ready to face the future." "Good. Toni?" There was no answer. "Toni?" There was no answer. "Alette?" Silence. "Alette?" Silence. "They're gone, Ashley. You're whole now and you're cured." He watched Ashley's face light up. "You'll awaken at the count of three. One... two... three..." Ashley opened her eyes and a beatific smile lit her face. "It-it happened, didn't it?" He nodded. "Yes." She was ecstatic. "I'm free. Oh, thank you, Gilbert! I feel-I feel as though a terrible dark curtain has been taken away." Dr. Keller took her hand. "I can't tell you how pleased I am. We'll be doing some more tests over the next few months, but if they turn out as I think they will, well, we'll be sending you home. I'll arrange for some outpatient treatment for you wherever you are." Ashley nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT OVER the next few months, Otto Lewison had three psychiatrists examine Ashley. They used hypnotherapy and Sodium Amytal. "Hello, Ashley. I'm Dr. Montfort, and I need to ask you some questions. How do you feel about yourself?" "I feel wonderful, Doctor. It's as though I've just gotten over a long illness." "Do you think you're a bad person?" "No. I know some bad things have happened, but I don't believe I'm responsible for them." "Do you hate anyone?" "No." "What about your father? Do you hate him?" "I did. I don't hate him anymore. I don't think he could help what he did. I just hope he's all right now." "Would you like to see him again?" "I think it would be better if I didn't. He has his life. I want to start a new life for myself." "Ashley?" "Yes." "I'm Dr. Vaughn. I'd like to have a little chat with you." "All right." "Do you remember Toni and Alette?" "Of course. But they're gone." "How do you feel about them?" "In the beginning, I was terrified, but now I know I needed them. I'm grateful to them." "Do you sleep well at night?" "Now I do, yes." "Tell Me Your Dreams." "I used to have terrible dreams; something was always chasing me. I thought I was going to be murdered." "Do you still have those dreams?" "Not anymore. My dreams are very peaceful. I see bright colors and smiling people. Last night, I dreamed I was at a ski resort, flying down the slopes. It was wonderful. I don't mind cold weather at all anymore." "How do you feel about your father?" "I want him to be happy, and I want to be happy." "Ashley?" "Yes." "I'm Dr. Hoelterhoff." "How do you do, Doctor?" "They didn't tell me how beautiful you were. Do you think you're beautiful?" "I think I'm attractive. " "I hear that you have a lovely voice. Do you think you do?" "It's not a trained voice, but, yes"-she laughed- "I do manage to sing on key." "And they tell me you paint. Are you good?" "For an amateur, I think I'm quite good. Yes." He was studying her thoughtfully. "Do you have any problems that you would like to discuss with me?" "I can't think of any. I'm treated very well here." "How do you feel about leaving here and getting out into the world?" "I've thought a lot about it. It's scary, but at the same time it's exciting." "Do you think you would be afraid out there?" "No. I want to build a new life. I'm good with computers. I can't go back to the company I worked for, but I'm sure I can get a job at another company." Dr. Hoelterhoff nodded. "Thank you, Ashley. It was a pleasure talking to you." Dr. Montfort, Dr. Vaughn, Dr. Hoelterhoff and Dr. Keller were gathered in Otto Lewison's office. He was studying their reports. When he finished, he looked up at Dr. Keller and smiled. "Congratulations," he said. "These reports are all positive. You've done a wonderful job." "She's a wonderful woman. Very special, Otto. I'm glad she's going to have her life back again." "Has she agreed to outpatient treatment when she leaves here?" "Absolutely." Otto Lewison nodded. "Very well. I'll have the release papers drawn up." He turned to the other doctors. "Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your help." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE Two days later, she was called into Dr. Lewison's office. Dr. Keller was there. Ashley was to be discharged and would return to her home in Cupertino, where regular therapy and evaluation sessions had been arranged with a court approved psychiatrist. Dr. Lewison said, "Well, today's the day. Are you excited?" Ashley said, "I'm excited. I'm frightened. I'm-I don't know. I feel like a bird that's just been set free. I feel like I'm flying." Her face was glowing. "I'm glad you're leaving, but I'm-I'm going to miss you," Dr. Keller said. Ashley took his hand and said warmly, "I'm going to miss you, too. I don't know how I... how I can ever thank you." Her eyes filled with tears. "You've given me my life back." She turned to Dr. Lewison. "When I'm back in California, I'll get a job at one of the computer plants there. I'll let you know how it works out and how I get on with the outpatient therapy. I want to make sure that what happened before never happens to me again." "I don't think you have anything to worry about," Dr. Lewison assured her. When she left. Dr. Lewison turned to Gilbert Keller. "This makes up for a lot of the ones that didn't succeed, doesn't it, Gilbert?" It was a sunny June day, and as she walked down Madison Avenue in New York City, her radiant smile made people turn back to look at her. She had never been so happy. She thought of the wonderful life ahead of her, and all that she was going to do. There could have been a terrible ending for her, she thought, but this was the happy ending she had prayed for. She walked into Pennsylvania Station. It was the busiest train station in America, a charmless maze of airless rooms and passages. The station was crowded with people. And each person has an interesting story to tell, she thought. They're all going to different places, living their own lives, and now. I'm going to live my own life. She purchased a ticket from one of the machines. Her train was just pulling in. Serendipity, she thought. She boarded the train and took a seat. She was filled with excitement at what was about to happen. The train gave a jerk and then started picking up speed. I'm on my way at last. And as the train headed toward the Hamptons, she began to sing softly: "All around the mulberry bush, The monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought 'twas oil in fun, Pop! goes the weasel. " AUTHOR'S NOTE DURING the past twenty years, there have been dozens of criminal trials involving defendants claiming to have multiple personalities. The charges covered a wide range of activities, including murder, kidnapping, rape and arson. Multiple personality disorder (MPD), also known as dissociative identity disorder (DID), is a controversial topic among psychiatrists. Some psychiatrists believe that it does not exist. On the other hand, for years many doctors, hospitals and social services organizations have been treating patients who suffer from MPD. Some studies estimate that between 5 and 15 percent of psychiatric patients are afflicted with it. Current statistics from the Department of Justice indicate that approximately one third of juvenile victims of sexual abuse are children under six years of age, and that one out of three girls is sexually abused before the age of eighteen. Most reported cases of incest involve a father and daughter. A research project in three countries suggests that MPD affects percent of the general population. Dissociative disorders are often misdiagnosed, and studies have shown that, on average, people with MPD have spent seven years seeking treatment, prior to an accurate diagnosis. Two thirds of the cases of multiple personality disorder are treatable. http://www.esnips.com/web/eb00ks


Type:Social
👁 :32
The Witch of Portobello Paulo Coelho
Catagory:Fiction
Author:
Posted Date:11/29/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Before these statements left my desk and followed the fate I eventually chose for them, I considered using them as the basis for a traditional, painstakingly researched biography, recounting a true story. And so I read various biographies, thinking this would help me, only to realise that the biographer's view of his subject inevitably influences the results of his research. Since it wasn't my intention to impose my own opinions on the reader, but to set down the story of the 'Witch of Portobello' as seen by its main protagonists, I soon abandoned the idea of writing a straight biography and decided that the best approach would be simply to transcribe what people had told me. Heron Ryan, 44, journalist No one lights a lamp in order to hide it behind the door: the purpose of light is to create more light, to open people's eyes, to reveal the marvels around. No one sacrifices the most important thing she possesses: love. No one places her dreams in the hands of those who might destroy them. No one, that is, but Athena. A long time after Athena's death, her former teacher asked me to go with her to the town of Prestonpans in Scotland. There, taking advantage of certain ancient feudal powers which were due to be abolished the following month, the town had granted official pardons to 81 people – and their cats – who were executed in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for practising witchcraft. According to the official spokeswoman for the Barons Courts of Prestoungrange & Dolphinstoun: 'Most of those persons condemned…were convicted on the basis of spectral evidence – that is to say, prosecuting witnesses declared that they felt the presence of evil spirits or heard spirit voices.' There's no point now in going into all the excesses committed by the Inquisition, with its torture chambers and its bonfires lit by hatred and vengeance; however, on our way to Prestonpans, Edda said several times that there was something about that gesture which she found unacceptable: the town and the 14th Baron of Prestoungrange & Dolphinstoun were 'granting pardons' to people who had been brutally executed. 'Here we are in the twenty-first century, and yet the descendants of the real criminals, those who killed the innocent victims, still feel they have the right to grant pardons. Do you know what I mean, Heron?' I did. A new witch-hunt is starting to gain ground. This time the weapon isn't the red-hot iron, but irony and repression. Anyone who happens to discover a gift and dares to speak of their abilities is usually regarded with distrust. Generally speaking, their husband, wife, father or child, or whoever, instead of feeling proud, forbids all mention of the matter, fearful of exposing their family to ridicule. Before I met Athena, I thought all such gifts were a dishonest way of exploiting people's despair. My trip to Transylvania to make a documentary on vampires was also a way of proving how easily people are deceived. Certain superstitions, however absurd they may seem, remain in the human imagination and are often used by unscrupulous people. When I visited Dracula's castle, which has been reconstructed merely to give tourists the feeling that they're in a special place, I was approached by a government official, who implied that I would receive a 'significant' (to use his word) gift when the film was shown on the BBC. In the mind of that official, I was helping to propagate the myth, and thus deserved a generous reward. One of the guides said that the number of visitors increased each year, and that any mention of the place would prove positive, even a programme saying that the castle was a fake, that Vlad Dracula was a historical figure who had nothing to do with the myth, and that it was all merely a product of the wild imaginings of one Irishman (Editor's note: Bram Stoker), who had never even visited the region. I knew then that, however rigorous I was with the facts, I was unwittingly collaborating with the lie; even if the idea behind my script was to demythologise the place, people would believe what they wanted to believe; the guide was right, I would simply be helping to generate more publicity. I immediately abandoned the project, even though I'd already spent quite a lot of money on the trip and on my research. And yet my journey to Transylvania was to have a huge impact on my life, for I met Athena there when she was trying to track down her mother. Destiny – mysterious, implacable Destiny – brought us face to face in the insignificant foyer of a still more insignificant hotel. I was witness to her first conversation with Deidre – or Edda, as she likes to be called. I watched, as if I were a spectator of my own life, as my heart struggled vainly not to allow itself to be seduced by a woman who didn't belong to my world. I applauded when reason lost the battle, and all I could do was surrender and accept that I was in love. That love led me to see things I'd never imagined could exist – rituals, materialisations, trances. Believing that I was blinded by love, I doubted everything, but doubt, far from paralysing me, pushed me in the direction of oceans whose very existence I couldn't admit. It was this same energy which, in difficult times, helped me to confront the cynicism ofjournalist colleagues and to write about Athena and her work. And since that love remains alive, the energy remains, even though Athena is dead, even though all I want now is to forget what I saw and learned. I could only navigate that world while hand in hand with Athena. These were her gardens, her rivers, her mountains. Now that she's gone, I need everything to return as quickly as possible to how it used to be. I'm going to concentrate more on traffic problems, Britain's foreign policy, on how we administer taxes. I want to go back to thinking that the world of magic is merely a clever trick, that people are superstitious, that anything science cannot explain has no right to exist. When the meetings in Portobello started to get out of control, we had endless arguments about how she was behaving, although I'm glad now that she didn't listen to me. If there is any possible consolation in the tragedy of losing someone we love very much, it's the necessary hope that perhaps it was for the best. I wake and fall asleep with that certainty; it's best that Athena left when she did rather than descend into the infernos of this world. She would never have regained her peace of mind after the events that earned her the nickname 'the witch of Portobello'. The rest of her life would have been a bitter clash between her personal dreams and collective reality. Knowing her as I did, she would have battled on to the end, wasting her energy and her joy on trying to prove something that no one, absolutely no one, was prepared to believe. Who knows, perhaps she sought death the way a shipwreck victim seeks an island. She must have stood late at night in many a Tube station, waiting for muggers who never came. She must have walked through the most dangerous parts of London in search of a murderer who never appeared, or perhaps tried to provoke the anger of the physically strong, who refused to get angry. Until, finally, she managed to get herself brutally murdered. But, then, how many of us will be saved the pain of seeing the most important things in our lives disappearing from one moment to the next? I don't just mean people, but our ideas and dreams too: we might survive a day, a week, a few years, but we're all condemned to lose. Our body remains alive, yet, sooner or later, our soul will receive the mortal blow. The perfect crime – for we don't know who murdered our joy, what their motives were or where the guilty parties are to be found. Are they aware of what they've done, those nameless guilty parties? I doubt it, because they, too the depressed, the arrogant, the impotent and the powerful – are the victims of the reality they created. They don't understand and would be incapable of understanding Athena's world. Yes, that's the best way to think of it – Athena's world. I'm finally coming to accept that I was only a temporary inhabitant, there as a favour, like someone who finds themselves in a beautiful mansion, eating exquisite food, aware that this is only a party, that the mansion belongs to someone else, that the food was bought by someone else, and that the time will come when the lights will go out, the owners will go to bed, the servants will return to their quarters, the door will close, and we'll be out in the street again, waiting for a taxi or a bus to restore us to the mediocrity of our everyday lives. I'm going back, or, rather, part of me is going back to that world where only what we can see, touch and explain makes sense. I want to get back to the world of speeding tickets, people arguing with bank cashiers, eternal complaints about the weather, to horror films and Formula 1 racing. This is the universe I'll have to live with for the rest of my days. I'll get married, have children, and the past will become a distant memory, which will, in the end, make me ask myself: How could I have been so blind? How could I have been so ingenuous? I also know that, at night, another part of me will remain wandering in space, in contact with things as real as the pack of cigarettes and the glass of gin before me now. My soul will dance with Athena's soul; I'll be with her while I sleep; I'll wake up sweating and go into the kitchen for a glass of water. I'll understand that in order to combat ghosts you must use weapons that form no part of reality. Then, following the advice of my grandmother, I'll place an open pair of scissors on my bedside table to snip off the end of the dream. The next day, I'll look at the scissors with a touch of regret, but I must adapt to living in the world again or risk going mad. Andrea McCain, 32, actress 'No one can manipulate anyone else. In any relationship, both parties know what they're doing, even if one of them complains later on that they were used.' That's what Athena used to say, but she herself behaved quite differently, because she used and manipulated me with no consideration for my feelings. And given that we're talking about magic here, this makes the accusation an even more serious one; after all, she was my teacher, charged with passing on the sacred mysteries, with awakening the unknown force we all possess. When we venture into that unfamiliar sea, we trust blindly in those who guide us, believing that they know more than we do. Well, I can guarantee that they don't. Not Athena, not Edda, nor any of the people I came to know through them. She told me she was learning through teaching, and although, at first, I refused to believe this, later, I came to think that perhaps it was true. I realised it was one of her many ways of getting us to drop our guard and surrender to her charm. People who are on a spiritual quest don't think, they simply want results. They want to feel powerful and superior to the anonymous masses. They want to be special. Athena played with other people's feelings in a quite terrifying way. I understand that she once felt a profound admiration for St Thérèse of Lisieux. I have no interest in the Catholic faith, but, from what I've heard, Thérèse experienced a kind of mystical and physical union with God. Athena mentioned once that she would like to share a similar fate. Well, in that case, she should have joined a convent and devoted her life to prayer or to the service of the poor. That would have been much more useful to the world and far less dangerous than using music and rituals to induce in people a kind of intoxicated state that brought them into contact with both the best and the worst of themselves. I sought her out when I was looking for some meaning to my life, although I didn't say as much at our first meeting. I should have realised from the start that Athena wasn't very interested in that; she wanted to live, dance, make love, travel, to gather people around her in order to demonstrate how wise she was, to show off her gifts, to provoke the neighbours, to make the most of all that is profane in us – although she always tried to give a spiritual gloss to that search. Whenever we met, whether it was to perform some magical ceremony or to meet for a drink, I was conscious of her power. It was so strong I could almost touch it. Initially, I was fascinated and wanted to be like her. But one day, in a bar, she started talking about the 'Third Rite', which has to do with sexuality. She did this in the presence of my boyfriend. Her excuse was that she was teaching me something. Her real objective, in my opinion, was to seduce the man I loved. And, of course, she succeeded. It isn't good to speak ill of people who have passed from this life onto the astral plane. However, Athena won't have to account to me, but to all those forces which she turned to her own benefit, rather than channelling them for the good of humanity and for her own spiritual enlightenment. The worst thing is that if it hadn't been for her compulsive exhibitionism, everything we began together could have worked out really well. Had she behaved more discreetly, we would now be fulfilling the mission with which we were entrusted. But she couldn't control herself; she thought she was the mistress of the truth, capable of overcoming all barriers merely by using her powers of seduction. And the result? I was left alone. And I can't leave the work half-finished – I'll have to continue to the end, even though sometimes I feel very weak and often dispirited. I'm not surprised that her life ended as it did: she was always flirting with danger. They say that extroverts are unhappier than introverts, and have to compensate for this by constantly proving to themselves how happy and contented and at ease with life they are. In her case, at least, this is absolutely true. Athena was conscious of her own charisma, and she made all those who loved her suffer. Including me. Deidre O'Neill, 37, doctor, known as Edda If a man we don't know phones us up one day and talks a little, makes no suggestions, says nothing special, but nevertheless pays us the kind of attention we rarely receive, we're quite capable of going to bed with him that same night, feeling relatively in love. That's what we women are like, and there's nothing wrong with that – it's the nature of the female to open herself to love easily. It was this same love that opened me up to my first encounter with the Mother when I was nineteen. Athena was the same age the first time she went into a trance while dancing. But that's the only thing we had in common – the age of our initiation. In every other aspect, we were totally and profoundly different, especially in the way we dealt with other people. As her teacher, I always did my best to help her in her inner search. As her friend – although I'm not sure my feelings of friendship were reciprocated – I tried to alert her to the fact that the world wasn't ready for the kind of transformations she wanted to provoke. I remember spending a few sleepless nights before deciding to allow her to act with total freedom and follow the demands of her heart. Her greatest problem was that she was a woman of the twenty-second century living in the twentyfirst, and making no secret of the fact either. Did she pay a price? She certainly did. But she would have paid a still higher price if she had repressed her true exuberant self. She would have been bitter and frustrated, always concerned about 'what other people might think', always saying 'I'll just sort these things out, then I'll devote myself to my dream', always complaining 'that the conditions are never quite right'. Everyone's looking for the perfect teacher, but although their teachings might be divine, teachers are all too human, and that's something people find hard to accept. Don't confuse the teacher with the lesson, the ritual with the ecstasy, the transmitter of the symbol with the symbol itself. The Tradition is linked to our encounter with the forces of life and not with the people who bring this about. But we are weak: we ask the Mother to send us guides, and all she sends are signs to the road we need to follow. Pity those who seek for shepherds, instead of longing for freedom! An encounter with the superior energy is open to anyone, but remains far from those who shift responsibility onto others. Our time on this Earth is sacred, and we should celebrate every moment. The importance of this has been completely forgotten: even religious holidays have been transformed into opportunities to go to the beach or the park or skiing. There are no more rituals. Ordinary actions can no longer be transformed into manifestations of the sacred. We cook and complain that it's a waste of time, when we should be pouring our love into making that food. We work and believe it's a divine curse, when we should be using our skills to bring pleasure and to spread the energy of the Mother. Athena brought to the surface the immensely rich world we all carry in our souls, without realising that people aren't yet ready to accept their own powers. We women, when we're searching for a meaning to our lives or for the path of knowledge, always identify with one of four classic archetypes. The Virgin (and I'm not speaking here of a sexual virgin) is the one whose search springs from her complete independence, and everything she learns is the fruit of her ability to face challenges alone. The Martyr finds her way to self-knowledge through pain, surrender and suffering. The Saint finds her true reason for living in unconditional love and in her ability to give without asking anything in return. Finally, the Witch justifies her existence by going in search of complete and limitless pleasure. Normally, a woman has to choose from one of these traditional feminine archetypes, but Athena was all four at once. Obviously we can justify her behaviour, alleging that all those who enter a state of trance or ecstasy lose contact with reality. That's not true: the physical world and the spiritual world are the same thing. We can see the Divine in each speck of dust, but that doesn't stop us wiping it away with a wet sponge. The Divine doesn't disappear; it's transformed into the clean surface. Athena should have been more careful. When I reflect upon the life and death of my pupil, it seems to me that I had better change the way I behave too. Lella Zainab, 64, numerologist Athena? What an interesting name! Let's see…her Maximum number is nine. Optimistic, sociable, likely to be noticed in a crowd. People might go to her in search of understanding, compassion, generosity, and for precisely that reason, she should be careful, because that tendency to popularity could go to her head and she'll end up losing more than she gains. She should also watch her tongue, because she tends to speak more than common sense dictates. As for her Minimum number eleven, I sense that she longs for some leadership position. She has an interest in mystical subjects and through these tries to bring harmony to those around her. However, this is in direct conflict with the number nine, which is the sum of the day, month and year of her birth reduced to a single figure: she'll always be subject to envy, sadness, introversion and impulsive decisions. She must be careful not to let herself be affected by negative vibrations: excessive ambition, intolerance, abuse of power, extravagance. Because of that conflict, I suggest she take up some career that doesn't involve emotional contact with people, like computing or engineering. Oh, she's dead? I'm sorry. So what did she do? What did Athena do? She did a little of everything, but, ifI had to summarise her life, I'd say: she was a priestess who understood the forces of nature. Or, rather, she was someone who, by the simple fact of having little to lose or to hope for in life, took greater risks than other people and ended up being transformed into the forces she thought she mastered. She was a supermarket checkout girl, a bank employee, a property dealer, and in each of these positions she always revealed the priestess within. I lived with herfor eight years, and I owed her this: to recover her memory, her identity. The most difficult thing in collecting together these statements was persuading people to let me use their real names. Some said they didn't want to be involved in this kind of story; others tried to conceal their opinions andfeelings. I explained that my real intention was to help all those involved to understand her better, and that no reader would believe in anonymous statements. They finally agreed because they all believed that they knew the unique and definitive version of any event, however insignificant. During the recordings, I saw that things are never absolute; they depend on each individual's perceptions. And the best way to know who we are is often to find out how others see us. This doesn't mean that we should do what others expect us to do, but it helps us to understand ourselves better. I owed it to Athena to recover her story, to write her myth. Samira R. Khalil, 57, housewife, Athena's mother Please, don't call her Athena. Her real name is Sherine. Sherine Khalil, our much-loved, muchwanted daughter, whom both my husband and I wish we had engendered. Life, however, had other plans – when fate is very generous with us, there is always a well into which all our dreams can tumble. We lived in Beirut in the days when everyone considered it the most beautiful city in the Middle East. My husband was a successful industrialist, we married for love, we travelled to Europe every year, we had friends, we were invited to all the important social events, and, once, the President of the United States himself visited my house. Imagine that! Three unforgettable days, during two of which the American secret service scoured every corner of our house (they'd been in the area for more than a month already, taking up strategic positions, renting apartments, disguising themselves as beggars or young lovers). And for one day, or, rather, two hours, we partied. I'll never forget the look of envy in our friends' eyes, and the excitement of having our photo taken alongside the most powerful man on the planet. We had it all, apart from the one thing we wanted most – a child. And so we had nothing. We tried everything: we made vows and promises, went to places where miracles were guaranteed, we consulted doctors, witchdoctors, took remedies and drank elixirs and magic potions. I had artificial insemination twice and lost the baby both times. On the second occasion, I also lost my left ovary, and, after that, no doctor was prepared to risk such a venture again. That was when one of the many friends who knew of our plight suggested the one possible solution: adoption. He said he had contacts in Romania, and that the process wouldn't take long. A month later, we got on a plane. Our friend had important business dealings with the dictator who ruled the country at the time, and whose name I now forget (Editor's note: Nicolae Ceauºescu), and so we managed to avoid the bureaucratic red tape and went straight to an adoption centre in Sibiu, in Transylvania. There we were greeted with coffee, cigarettes, mineral water, and with the paperwork signed and sealed, all we had to do was choose a child. They took us to a very cold nursery, and I couldn't imagine how they could leave those poor children in such a place. My first instinct was to adopt them all, to carry them off to Lebanon where there was sun and freedom, but obviously that was a crazy idea. We walked up and down between the cots, listening to the children crying, terrified by the magnitude of the decision we were about to take. For more than an hour, neither I nor my husband spoke a word. We went out, drank coffee, smoked and then went back in again – and this happened several times. I noticed that the woman in charge of adoptions was growing impatient; she wanted an immediate decision. At that moment, following an instinct I would dare to describe as maternal – as if I'd found a child who should have been mine in this incarnation, but who had come into the world in another woman's womb – I pointed to one particular baby girl. The woman advised us to think again. And she'd been so impatient for us to make a decision! But I was sure. Nevertheless – trying not to hurt my feelings (she thought we had contacts in the upper echelons of the Romanian government) – she whispered to me, so that my husband wouldn't hear: 'I know it won't work out. She's the daughter of a gipsy.' I retorted that culture isn't something that's transmitted through the genes. The child, who was barely three months old, would be our daughter, brought up according to our customs. She would go to our church, visit our beaches, read books in French, study at the American School in Beirut. Besides, I knew nothing about gipsy culture – and I still know nothing. I only know that they travel a lot, don't wash very often, aren't to be trusted, and wear earrings. Legend has it that they kidnap children and carry them off in their caravans, but here, exactly the opposite was happening; they had left a child behind for me to take care of. The woman tried again to dissuade me, but I was already signing the papers and asking my husband to do the same. On the flight back to Beirut, the world seemed different: God had given me a reason for living, working and fighting in this vale of tears. We now had a child to justify all our efforts. Sherine grew in wisdom and beauty – I expect all parents say that, but I really do think she was an exceptional child. One afternoon, when she was five, one of my brothers said that, if, in the future, she wanted to work abroad, her name would always betray her origins, and he suggested changing it to one that gave nothing away, like Athena, for example. Now, of course, I know that Athena refers not only to the capital of Greece, but that it is also the name of the Greek goddess of wisdom, intelligence and war. Perhaps my brother knew not only that, but was aware, too, of the problems an Arab name might bring in the future, for he was very involved in politics, as were all our family, and wanted to protect his niece from the black clouds which he, and only he, could see on the horizon. Most surprising of all was that Sherine liked the sound of the word. That same afternoon, she began referring to herself as Athena and no one could persuade her to do otherwise. To please her, we adopted the nickname too, thinking that it would be a passing fancy. Can a name affect a person's life? Time passed, and the name stuck. From very early on we discovered that she had a strong religious vocation – she spent all her time in the church and knew the gospels by heart; this was at once a blessing and a curse. In a world that was starting to be divided more and more along religious lines, I feared for my daughter's safety. It was then that Sherine began telling us, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that she had a series of invisible friends – angels and saints whose images she was accustomed to seeing in the church we attended. All children everywhere have visions, but they usually forget about them after a certain age. They also treat inanimate objects, such as dolls or fluffy tigers, as if they were real. However, I really did feel she was going too far when I picked her up from school one day, and she told me that she'd seen 'a woman dressed in white, like the Virgin Mary'. Naturally, I believe in angels. I even believe that the angels speak to little children, but when a child starts seeing visions of grown-ups, that's another matter. I've read about various shepherds and country people who claimed to have seen a woman in white, and how this eventually destroyed their lives, because others sought them out, expecting miracles; then the priests took over, their village became a centre of pilgrimage, and the poor children ended their lives in a convent or a monastery. I was, therefore, very concerned about this story. Sherine was at an age when she should be more concerned with make-up kits, painting her nails, watching soppy TV soaps and children's programmes. There was something wrong with my daughter, and I consulted an expert. 'Relax,' he said. According to this paediatrician specialising in child psychology – and according to most other doctors in the field – invisible friends are a projection of a child's dreams and a safe way of helping the child to discover her desires and express her feelings. 'Yes, but a vision of a woman in white?' He replied that perhaps Sherine didn't understand our way of seeing or explaining the world. He suggested that we should gradually begin preparing the ground to tell her that she was adopted. In the paediatrician's words, the worst thing that could happen would be for her to find out by herself. Then she would begin to doubt everyone, and her behaviour might become unpredictable. From then on, we changed the way we talked to her. I don't know how much children remember of what happens to them, but we started trying to show her just how much we loved her and that there was no need for her to take refuge in an imaginary world. She needed to see that her visible universe was as beautiful as it could possibly be, that her parents would protect her from any danger, that Beirut was a lovely city and its beaches full of sun and people. Without ever mentioning 'the woman in white', I began spending more time with my daughter; I invited her schoolfriends to come to our house; I seized every opportunity to shower her with affection. The strategy worked. My husband used to travel a lot, and Sherine always missed him. In the name of love, he resolved to change his way of life a little. Her solitary conversations began to be replaced by games shared by father, mother and daughter. Everything was going well. Then, one night, she came into our room in tears, saying that she was frightened and that hell was close at hand. I was alone at home. My husband had had to go away again, and I thought perhaps this was the reason for her despair. But hell? What were they teaching her at school or at church? I decided to go and talk to her teacher the next day. Sherine, meanwhile, wouldn't stop crying. I took her over to the window and showed her the Mediterranean outside, lit by the full moon. I told her there were no devils, only stars in the sky and people strolling up and down the boulevard outside our apartment. I told her not to worry, that she needn't be afraid, but she continued to weep and tremble. After spending almost half an hour trying to calm her, I began to get worried. I begged her to stop, after all, she was no longer a child. I thought perhaps her first period had started and discreetly asked if there was any blood. 'Yes, lots.' I got some cotton wool and asked her to lie down so that I could take care of her 'wound'. It wasn't important. I would explain tomorrow. However, her period hadn't started. She cried for a while longer, but she must have been tired, because then she fell asleep. And the following morning, there was blood. Four men had been murdered. To me, this was just another of the eternal tribal battles to which my people have become accustomed. To Sherine, it clearly meant nothing, because she didn't even mention her nightmare. Meanwhile, from that date onwards, hell came ever closer and it hasn't gone away since. On that same day, twenty-six Palestinians were killed on a bus, as revenge for the murders. Twenty-four hours later, it was impossible to walk down the street because of shots coming from every angle. The schools closed, Sherine was hurried home by one of her teachers, and the situation went from bad to worse. My husband interrupted his business trip halfway through and came home, where he spent whole days on the phone to his friends in government, but no one said anything that made any sense. Sherine heard the shots outside and my husband's angry shouts indoors, but, to my surprise, she didn't say a word. I tried to tell her that it wouldn't last, that soon we'd be able to go to the beach again, but she would simply look away or ask for a book to read or a record to play. While hell gradually put down roots, Sherine read and listened to music. But, if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to dwell on that. I don't want to think about the threats we received, about who was right, who was guilty and who was innocent. The fact is that, a few months later, if you wanted to cross a particular street, you had to catch a boat across to the island of Cyprus, get on another boat and disembark on the other side of the street. For nearly a year, we stayed pretty much shut up indoors, always hoping that the situation would improve, always thinking it was a temporary thing, and that the government would take control. One morning, while she was listening to a record on her little portable record-player, Sherine started dancing and saying things like: 'This is going to last for a long, long time.' I tried to stop her, but my husband grabbed my arm. I realised that he was listening to what she was saying and taking it seriously. I never understood why, and we've never spoken about it since. It's a kind of taboo between us. The following day, he began taking unexpected steps, and two weeks later we were on a boat bound for London. Later, we would learn that, although there are no reliable statistics, during those years of civil war about 44,000 people died, 180,000 were wounded, and thousands made homeless. The fighting continued for other reasons, the country was occupied by foreign troops, and the hell continues to this day. 'It's going to last for a long, long time,' said Sherine. Unfortunately, she was right. Lukás Jessen-Petersen, 32, engineer, ex-husband When I first met Athena, she already knew that she was adopted. She was just nineteen and about to have a stand-up fight with a fellow student in the university cafeteria because the fellow student, assuming Athena to be English (white skin, straight hair, eyes that were sometimes green, sometimes grey), had made some insulting remark about the Middle East. It was the first day of term for these students and they knew nothing about each other. But Athena got up, grabbed the other girl by the collar and started screaming: 'Racist!' I saw the look of terror in the girl's eyes and the look of excitement in the eyes of the other students, eager to see what would happen next. I was in the year above, and I knew exactly what the consequences would be: they would both be hauled up before the vice-chancellor, an official complaint would be made, and that would probably be followed by expulsion from the university and a possible police inquiry into alleged racism, etc. etc. Everyone would lose. 'Shut up!' I yelled, without really knowing what I was saying. I knew neither of the girls. I'm not the saviour of the world and, to be perfectly honest, young people find the occasional fight stimulating, but I couldn't help myself. 'Stop it!' I shouted again at the pretty young woman, who now had the other equally pretty young woman by the throat. She shot me a furious glance. Then, suddenly, something changed. She smiled, although she still had her hands around her colleague's throat. 'You forgot to say “please”,' she said. Everyone laughed. 'Stop,' I asked again. 'Please.' She released the other girl and came over to me. All heads turned to watch. 'You have excellent manners. Do you also have a cigarette?' I offered her my pack of cigarettes, and we went outside for a smoke. She had gone from outrage to nonchalance, and minutes later, she was laughing, discussing the weather, and asking if I liked this or that pop group. I heard the bell ringing for class and solemnly ignored the rule I'd been brought up to obey all my life: do your duty. I stayed there chatting, as if there were no university, no fights, no canteens, no wind or cold or sun. There was only that young woman with the grey eyes, saying the most boring and pointless things, but capable, nonetheless, of holding my interest for the rest of my life. Two hours later, we were having lunch together. Seven hours later, we were in a bar, having supper and drinking whatever our limited budgets allowed us to eat and drink. Our conversations grew ever more profound, and in a short space of time, I knew practically everything about her life – Athena recounted details of her childhood and adolescence with no prompting from me. Later, I realised she was the same with everyone, but, that day, I felt like the most important man on the face of the Earth. She had come to London fleeing the civil war that had broken out in Lebanon. Her father, a Maronite Christian (Editor's note: a branch of the Catholic Church, which, although it comes under the authority of the Vatican, does not require priests to be celibate and uses both Middle Eastern and Orthodox rituals), had started to receive death threats because he worked for the Lebanese government, but despite this, he couldn't make up his mind to leave and go into exile. Then Athena, overhearing a phone conversation, decided that it was time she grew up, that she assumed her filial responsibilities and protected those she loved. She performed a kind of dance and pretended that she'd gone into a trance (she had learned all about this kind of thing at school when she studied the lives of the saints), and started making various pronouncements. I don't know how a mere child could possibly persuade adults to make decisions based on what she said, but that, according to Athena, was precisely what happened. Her father was very superstitious, and she was convinced that she'd saved the lives of her family. They arrived here as refugees, but not as beggars. The Lebanese community is scattered all over the world, and her father soon found a way of re-establishing his business, and life went on. Athena was able to study at good schools, she attended dance classes – because dance was her passion – and when she'd finished at secondary school, she chose to take a degree in engineering. Once they were living in London, her parents invited her out to supper at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, and explained, very carefully, that she had been adopted. Athena pretended to be surprised, hugged them both, and said that nothing would change their relationship. The truth was, though, that a friend of the family, in a moment of malice, had called her 'an ungrateful orphan' and put her lack of manners down to the fact that she was 'not her parents' “real” daughter'. She had hurled an ashtray at him cutting his face, and then cried for two whole days, after which she quickly got used to the idea that she was adopted. The malicious family friend was left with an unexplained scar and took to saying that he'd been attacked in the street by muggers. I asked if she would like to go out with me the next day. She told me that she was a virgin, went to church on Sundays, and had no interest in romantic novels – she was more concerned with reading everything she could about the situation in the Middle East. She was, in short, busy. Very busy. 'People think that a woman's only dream is to get married and have children. And given what I've told you, you probably think that I've suffered a lot in life. It's not true, and, besides, I've been there already. I've known other men who wanted to “protect” me from all those tragedies. What they forget is that, from Ancient Greece on, the people who returned from battle were either dead on their shields or stronger, despite or because of their scars. It's better that way: I've lived on a battlefield since I was born, but I'm still alive and I don't need anyone to protect me.' She paused. 'You see how cultured I am?' 'Oh, very, but when you attack someone weaker than yourself, you make it look as if you really do need protection. You could have ruined your university career right there and then.' 'You're right. OK, I accept the invitation.' We started seeing each other regularly, and the closer I got to her, the more I discovered my own light, because she always encouraged me to give the best of myself. She had never read any books on magic or esoterics. She said they were things of the Devil, and that salvation was only possible through Jesus – end of story. Sometimes, though, she said things that didn't seem entirely in keeping with the teachings of the Church. 'Christ surrounded himself with beggars, prostitutes, tax-collectors and fishermen. I think what he meant by this was that the divine spark is in every soul and is never extinguished. When I sit still, or when I'm feeling very agitated, I feel as if I were vibrating along with the whole Universe. And I know things then that I don't know, as if God were guiding my steps. There are moments when I feel that everything is being revealed to me.' faith. Then she would correct herself: 'But that's wrong.' Athena always lived between two worlds: what she felt was true and what she had been taught by her One day, after almost a semester of equations, calculations and structural studies, she announced that she was going to leave university. 'But you've never said anything to me about it!' I said. 'I was even afraid of talking about it to myself, but this morning I went to see my hairdresser. She worked day and night so that her daughter could finish her sociology degree. The daughter finally graduated and, after knocking on many doors, found work as a secretary at a cement works. Yet even today, my hairdresser said very proudly: “My daughter's got a degree.” Most of my parents' friends and most of my parents' friends' children, also have degrees. This doesn't mean that they've managed to find the kind of work they wanted. Not at all; they went to university because someone, at a time when universities seemed important, said that, in order to rise in the world, you had to have a degree. And thus the world was deprived of some excellent gardeners, bakers, antique dealers, sculptors and writers.' I asked her to give it some more thought before taking such a radical step, but she quoted these lines by Robert Frost: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. The following day, she didn't turn up for class. At our following meeting, I asked what she was going to do. 'I'm going to get married and have a baby.' This wasn't an ultimatum. I was twenty, she was nineteen, and I thought it was still too early to take on such a commitment. But Athena was quite serious. And I needed to choose between losing the one thing that really filled my thoughts – my love for that woman – and losing my freedom and all the choices that the future promised me. To be honest, the decision was easy. Father Giancarlo Fontana, 72 Of course I was surprised when the couple, both of them much too young, came to the church to arrange the wedding ceremony. I hardly knew Lukás Jessen-Petersen, but that same day, I learned that his family – obscure aristocrats from Denmark – were totally opposed to the union. They weren't just against the marriage, they were against the Church as well. According to his father – who based himself on frankly unanswerable scientific arguments – the Bible, on which the whole religion is based, wasn't really a book, but a collage of sixty-six different manuscripts, the real name or identity of whose authors is unknown; he said that almost a thousand years elapsed between the writing of the first book and the last, longer than the time that has elapsed since Columbus discovered America. And no living being on the planet – from monkeys down to parrots – needs ten commandments in order to know how to behave. All that it takes for the world to remain in harmony is for each being to follow the laws of nature. Naturally, I read the Bible and know a little of its history, but the human beings who wrote it were instruments of Divine Power, and Jesus forged a far stronger bond than the ten commandments: love. Birds and monkeys, or any of God's creatures, obey their instincts and merely do what they're programmed to do. In the case of the human being, things are more complicated because we know about love and its traps. Oh dear, here I am making a sermon, when I should be telling you about my meeting with Athena and Lukás. While I was talking to the young man – and I say talking, because we don't share the same faith, and I'm not, therefore, bound by the secret of the confessional – I learned that, as well as the household's general anticlericalism, there was a lot of resistance to Athena because she was a foreigner. I felt like quoting from the Bible, from a part that isn't a profession of faith, but a call to common sense: 'Thou shalt not abhor an Edomite, for he is thy brother; thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou wast a stranger in his land.' I'm sorry, there I am quoting the Bible again, and I promise I'll try to control myself from now on. After talking to the young man, I spent at least two hours with Sherine, or Athena as she preferred to be called. Athena had always intrigued me. Ever since she first started coming to the church, it seemed to me that she had one clear ambition: to become a saint. She told me – although her fiancé didn't know this – that shortly before civil war broke out in Beirut, she'd had an experience very similar to that of St Thérèse of Lisieux: she had seen the streets running with blood. One could attribute this to some trauma in childhood or adolescence, but the fact is that, to a greater or lesser extent, all creative human beings have such experiences, which are known as 'possession by the sacred'. Suddenly, for a fraction of a second, we feel that our whole life is justified, our sins forgiven, and that love is still the strongest force, one that can transform us forever. But, at the same time, we feel afraid. Surrendering completely to love, be it human or divine, means giving up everything, including our own well-being or our ability to make decisions. It means loving in the deepest sense of the word. The truth is that we don't want to be saved in the way God has chosen; we want to keep absolute control over our every step, to be fully conscious of our decisions, to be capable of choosing the object of our devotion. It isn't like that with love – it arrives, moves in and starts directing everything. Only very strong souls allow themselves to be swept along, and Athena was a strong soul. So strong that she spent hours in deep contemplation. She had a special gift for music; they say that she danced very well too, but since the church isn't really the appropriate place for that, she used to bring her guitar each morning and spend some time there singing to the Holy Virgin before going off to her classes. I can still remember the first time I heard her. I'd just finished celebrating morning mass with the few parishioners prepared to get up that early on a winter's morning, when I realised that I'd forgotten to collect the money left in the offering box. When I went back in, I heard some music that made me see everything differently, as if the atmosphere had been touched by the hand of an angel. In one corner, in a kind of ecstasy, a young woman of about twenty sat playing her guitar and singing hymns of praise, with her eyes fixed on the statue of the Holy Virgin. I went over to the offering box. She noticed my presence and stopped what she was doing, but I nodded to her, encouraging her to go on. Then I sat down on one of the pews, closed my eyes and listened. At that moment, a sense of Paradise, of 'possession by the sacred', seemed to descend from the heavens. As if she understood what was going on in my heart, the young woman began to intersperse music with silence. Each time she stopped playing, I would say a prayer. Then the music would start up again. And I was conscious that I was experiencing something unforgettable, one of those magical moments which we only understand when it has passed. I was entirely in the present, with no past, no future, absorbed in experiencing the morning, the music, the sweetness and the unexpected prayer. I entered a state of worship and ecstasy and gratitude for being in the world, glad that I'd followed my vocation despite my family's opposition. In the simplicity of that small chapel, in the voice of that young woman, in the morning light flooding everything, I understood once again that the grandeur of God reveals itself through simple things. After many tears on my part and after what seemed to me an eternity, the young woman stopped playing. I turned round and realised that she was one of my parishioners. After that, we became friends, and whenever we could, we shared in that worship through music. However, the idea of marriage took me completely by surprise. Since we knew each other fairly well, I asked how she thought her husband's family would react. 'Badly, very badly.' As tactfully as I could, I asked if, for any reason, she was being forced into marriage. 'No, I'm still a virgin. I'm not pregnant.' I asked if she'd told her own family, and she said that she had, and that their reaction had been one of horror, accompanied by tears from her mother and threats from her father. 'When I come here to praise the Virgin with my music, I'm not bothered about what other people might think, I'm simply sharing my feelings with Her. And that's how it's always been, ever since I was old enough to think for myself. I'm a vessel in which the Divine Energy can make itself manifest. And that energy is asking me now to have a child, so that I can give it what my birth mother never gave me: protection and security.' 'No one is secure on this Earth,' I replied. She still had a long future ahead of her; there was plenty of time for the miracle of creation to occur. However, Athena was determined: 'St Thérèse didn't rebel against the illness that afflicted her, on the contrary, she saw it as a sign of God's Glory. St Thérèse was only fifteen, much younger than me, when she decided to enter a convent. She was forbidden to do so, but she insisted. She decided to go and speak to the Pope himself – can you imagine? To speak to the Pope! And she got what she wanted. That same Glory is asking something far simpler and far more generous of me – to become a mother. If I wait much longer, I won't be able to be a companion to my child, the age difference will be too great, and we won't share the same interests.' She wouldn't be alone in that, I said. But Athena continued as if she wasn't listening: 'I'm only happy when I think that God exists and is listening to me; but that isn't enough to go on living, when nothing seems to make sense. I pretend a happiness I don't feel; I hide my sadness so as not to worry those who love me and care about me. Recently, I've even considered suicide. At night, before I go to sleep, I have long conversations with myself, praying for this idea to go away; it would be such an act of ingratitude, an escape, a way of spreading tragedy and misery over the Earth. In the mornings, I come here to talk to St Thérèse and to ask her to free me from the demons I speak to at night. It's worked so far, but I'm beginning to weaken. I know I have a mission which I've long rejected, and now I must accept it. That mission is to be a mother. I must carry out that mission or go mad. If I don't feel life growing inside me, I'll never be able to accept life outside me.' Lukás Jessen-Petersen, ex-husband When Viorel was born, I had just turned twenty-two. I was no longer the student who had married a fellow student, but a man responsible for supporting his family, and with an enormous burden on my shoulders. My parents, who didn't even come to the wedding, made any financial help conditional on my leaving Athena and gaining custody of the child (or, rather, that's what my father said, because my mother used to phone me up, weeping, saying I must be mad, but saying, too, how much she'd like to hold her grandson in her arms). I hoped that, as they came to understand my love for Athena and my determination to stay with her, their resistance would gradually break down. It didn't. And now I had to provide for my wife and child. I abandoned my studies at the Engineering Faculty. I got a phone-call from my father, a mixture of stick and carrot: he said that if I continued as I was, I'd end up being disinherited, but that if I went back to university, he'd consider helping me, in his words, 'provisionally'. I refused. The romanticism of youth demands that we always take very radical stances. I could, I said, solve my problems alone. During the time before Viorel was born, Athena began helping me to understand myself better. This didn't happen through sex – our sexual relationship was, I must confess, very tentative – but through music. As I later learned, music is as old as human beings. Our ancestors, who travelled from cave to cave, couldn't carry many things, but modern archaeology shows that, as well as the little they might have with them in the way of food, there was always a musical instrument in their baggage, usually a drum. Music isn't just something that comforts or distracts us, it goes beyond that – it's an ideology. You can judge people by the kind of music they listen to. As I watched Athena dance during her pregnancy and listened to her play the guitar to calm the baby and make him feel that he was loved, I began to allow her way of seeing the world to affect my life too. When Viorel was born, the first thing we did when we brought him home was to play Albinoni's Adagio. When we quarrelled, it was the force of music – although I can't make any logical connection between the two things, except in some kind of hippyish way – that helped us get through difficult times. But all this romanticism didn't bring in the money. Since I played no instrument and couldn't even offer my services as background music in a bar, I finally got a job as a trainee with a firm of architects, doing structural calculations. They paid me a very low hourly rate, and so I would leave the house very early each morning and come home late. I hardly saw my son, who would be sleeping by then, and I was almost too exhausted to talk or make love to my wife. Every night, I asked myself: when will we be able to improve our financial situation and live in the style we deserve? Although I largely agreed with Athena when she talked about the pointlessness of having a degree, in engineering (and law and medicine, for example), there are certain basic technical facts that are essential if we're not to put people's lives at risk. And I'd been forced to interrupt my training in my chosen profession, which meant abandoning a dream that was very important to me. The rows began. Athena complained that I didn't pay enough attention to the baby, that he needed a father, that if she'd simply wanted a child, she could have done that on her own, without causing me all these problems. More than once, I slammed out of the house, saying that she didn't understand me, and that I didn't understand either how I'd ever agreed to the 'madness' of having a child at twenty, before we had even a minimum of financial security. Gradually, out of sheer exhaustion and irritation, we stopped making love. I began to slide into depression, feeling that I'd been used and manipulated by the woman I loved. Athena noticed my increasingly strange state of mind, but, instead of helping me, she focused her energies on Viorel and on music. Work became my escape. I would occasionally talk to my parents, and they would always say, as they had so many times before, that she'd had the baby in order to get me to marry her. She also became increasingly religious. She insisted on having our son baptised with a name she herself had decided on – Viorel, a Romanian name. Apart from a few immigrants, I doubt that anyone else in England is called Viorel, but I thought it showed imagination on her part, and I realised, too, that she was making some strange connection with a past she'd never known – her days in the orphanage in Sibiu. I tried to be adaptable, but I felt I was losing Athena because of the child. Our arguments became more frequent, and she threatened to leave because she feared that Viorel was picking up the 'negative energy' from our quarrels. One night, when she made this threat again, I was the one who left, thinking that I'd go back as soon as I'd calmed down a bit. I started wandering aimlessly round London, cursing the life I'd chosen, the child I'd agreed to have, and the wife who seemed to have no further interest in me. I went into the first bar I came to, near a Tube station, and downed four glasses of whisky. When the bar closed at eleven, I searched out one of those shops that stay open all night, bought more whisky, sat down on a bench in a square and continued drinking. A group of youths approached me and asked to share the bottle with me. When I refused, they attacked me. The police arrived, and we were all carted off to the police station. I was released after making a statement. I didn't bring any charges, saying that it had been nothing but a silly disagreement; after all, I didn't want to spend months appearing at various courts, as the victim of an attack. I was still so drunk that, just as I was about to leave, I stumbled and fell sprawling across an inspector's desk. The inspector was angry, but instead of arresting me on the spot for insulting a police officer, he threw me out into the street. And there was one of my attackers, who thanked me for not taking the case any further. He pointed out that I was covered in mud and blood and suggested I get a change of clothes before returning home. Instead of going on my way, I asked him to do me a favour: to listen to me, because I desperately needed to talk to someone. For an hour, he listened in silence to my woes. I wasn't really talking to him, but to myself: a young man with his whole life before him, with a possibly brilliant career ahead of him – as well as a family with the necessary contacts to open many doors – but who now looked like a beggar – drunk, tired, depressed and penniless. And all because of a woman who didn't even pay me any attention. By the end of my story I had a clearer view of my situation: a life which I had chosen in the belief that love conquers all. And it isn't true. Sometimes love carries us into the abyss, taking with us, to make matters worse, the people we love. In my case, I was well on the way to destroying not only my life, but Athena's and Viorel's too. At that moment, I said to myself once again that I was a man, not the boy who'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and that I'd faced with dignity all the challenges that had been placed before me. Athena was already asleep, with the baby in her arms. I took a bath, went outside again to throw my dirty clothes in the bin, and lay down, feeling strangely sober. The next day, I told Athena that I wanted a divorce. She asked me why. 'Because I love you. Because I love Viorel. And because all I've done is to blame you both because I had to give up my dream of becoming an engineer. If we'd waited a little, things would have been different, but you were only thinking about your plans and forgot to include me in them.' Athena said nothing, as if she had been expecting this, or as if she had unconsciously been provoking such a response. My heart was bleeding because I was hoping that she'd ask me, please, to stay. But she seemed calm and resigned, concerned only that the baby might hear our conversation. It was then that I felt sure she had never loved me, and that I had merely been the instrument for the realisation of her mad dream to have a baby at nineteen. I told her that she could keep the house and the furniture, but she wouldn't hear of it. She'd stay with her parents for a while, then look for a job and rent her own apartment. She asked if I could help out financially with Viorel, and I agreed at once. I got up, gave her one last, long kiss and insisted again that she should stay in the house, but she repeated her resolve to go to her parents' house as soon as she'd packed up all her things. I stayed at a cheap hotel and waited every night for her to phone me, asking me to come back and start a new life. I was even prepared to continue the old life if necessary, because that separation had made me realise that there was nothing and no one more important in the world than my wife and child. A week later, I finally got that call. All she said, however, was that she'd cleared out all her things and wouldn't be going back. Two weeks after that, I learned that she'd rented a small attic flat in Basset Road, where she had to carry the baby up three flights of stairs every day. A few months later, we signed the divorce papers. My real family left forever. And the family I'd been born into received me with open arms. After my separation from Athena and the great suffering that followed, I wondered if I hadn't made a bad, irresponsible decision, typical of people who've read lots of love stories in their adolescence and desperately want to repeat the tale of Romeo and Juliet. When the pain abated – and time is the only cure for that – I saw that life had allowed me to meet the one woman I would ever be capable of loving. Each second spent by her side had been worthwhile, and given the chance, despite all that had happened, I would do the same thing over again. But time, as well as healing all wounds, taught me something strange too: that it's possible to love more than one person in a lifetime. I remarried. I'm very happy with my new wife, and I can't imagine living without her. This, however, doesn't mean that I have to renounce all my past experiences, as long as I'm careful not to compare my two lives. You can't measure love the way you can the length of a road or the height of a building. Something very important remained from my relationship with Athena: a son, her great dream, of which she spoke so frankly before we decided to get married. I have another child by my second wife, and I'm better prepared for all the highs and lows of fatherhood than I was twelve years ago. Once, when I went to fetch Viorel and bring him back to spend the weekend with me, I decided to ask her why she'd reacted so calmly when I told her I wanted a separation. 'Because all my life I've learned to suffer in silence,' she replied. And only then did she put her arms around me and cry out all the tears she would like to have shed on that day. Father Giancarlo Fontana I saw her when she arrived for Sunday mass, with the baby in her arms as usual. I knew that she and Lukás were having difficulties, but, until that week, these had all seemed merely the sort of misunderstandings that all couples have, and since both of them were people who radiated goodness, I hoped that, sooner or later, they would resolve their differences. It had been a whole year since she last visited the church in the morning to play her guitar and praise the Virgin. She devoted herself to looking after Viorel, whom I had the honour to baptise, although I must admit I know of no saint with that name. However, she still came to mass every Sunday, and we always talked afterwards, when everyone else had left. She said I was her only friend. Together we had shared in divine worship, now, though, it was her earthly problems she needed to share with me. She loved Lukás more than any man she had ever met; he was her son's father, the person she had chosen to spend her life with, someone who had given up everything and had courage enough to start a family. When the difficulties started, she tried to convince him that it was just a phase, that she had to devote herself to their son, but that she had no intention of turning Viorel into a spoiled brat. Soon she would let him face certain of life's challenges alone. After that, she would go back to being the wife and woman he'd known when they first met, possibly with even more intensity, because now she had a better understanding of the duties and responsibilities that came with the choice she'd made. Lukás still felt rejected; she tried desperately to divide herself between her husband and her child, but she was always obliged to choose, and when that happened, she never hesitated: she chose Viorel. Drawing on my scant knowledge of psychology, I said that this wasn't the first time I'd heard such a story, and that in such situations men do tend to feel rejected, but that it soon passes. I'd heard about similar problems in conversations with my other parishioners. During one of our talks, Athena acknowledged that she had perhaps been rather precipitate; the romance of being a young mother had blinded her to the real challenges that arise after the birth of a child. But it was too late now for regrets. She asked if I could talk to Lukás, who never came to church, perhaps because he didn't believe in God or perhaps because he preferred to spend his Sunday mornings with his son. I agreed to do so, as long as he came of his own accord. Just when Athena was about to ask him this favour, the major crisis occurred, and he left her and Viorel. I advised her to be patient, but she was deeply hurt. She'd been abandoned once in childhood, and all the hatred she felt for her birth mother was automatically transferred to Lukás, although later, I understand, they became good friends again. For Athena, breaking family ties was possibly the gravest sin anyone could commit. She continued attending church on Sundays, but always went straight back home afterwards. She had no one now with whom to leave her son, who cried lustily throughout mass, disturbing everyone else'sconcentration. On one of the rare occasions when we could speak, she said that she was working for a bank, had rented an apartment, and that I needn't worry about her. Viorel's father (she never mentioned her husband's name now) was fulfilling his financial obligations. Then came that fateful Sunday. I learned what had happened during the week – one of the parishioners told me. I spent several nights praying for an angel to bring me inspiration and tell me whether I should keep my commitment to the Church or to flesh-and-blood men and women. When no angel appeared, I contacted my superior, and he said that the only reason the Church has survived is because it's always been rigid about dogma, and if it started making exceptions, we'd be back in the Middle Ages. I knew exactly what was going to happen. I thought of phoning Athena, but she hadn't given me her new number. That morning, my hands were trembling as I lifted up the host and blessed the bread. I spoke the words that had come down to me through a thousand-year-old tradition, using the power passed on from generation to generation by the apostles. But then my thoughts turned to that young woman with her child in her arms, a kind of Virgin Mary, the miracle of motherhood and love made manifest in abandonment and solitude, and who had just joined the line as she always did, and was slowly approaching in order to take communion. I think most of the congregation knew what was happening. And they were all watching me, waiting for my reaction. I saw myself surrounded by the just, by sinners, by Pharisees, by members of the Sanhedrin, by apostles and disciples and people with good intentions and bad. Athena stood before me and repeated the usual gesture: she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to receive the Body of Christ. The Body of Christ remained in my hands. She opened her eyes, unable to understand what was going on. 'We'll talk later,' I whispered. But she didn't move. 'There are people behind you in the queue. We'll talk later.' 'What's going on?' she asked, and everyone in the line could hear her question. 'We'll talk later.' 'Why won't you give me communion? Can't you see you're humiliating me in front of everyone? Haven't I been through enough already?' 'Athena, the Church forbids divorced people from receiving the sacrament. You signed your divorce papers this week. We'll talk later,' I said again. When she still didn't move, I beckoned to the person behind her to come forward. I continued giving communion until the last parishioner had received it. And it was then, just before I turned to the altar, that I heard that voice. It was no longer the voice of the girl who sang her worship of the Virgin Mary, who talked about her plans, who was so moved when she shared with me what she'd learned about the lives of the saints, and who almost wept when she spoke to me about her marital problems. It was the voice of a wounded, humiliated animal, its heart full of loathing. 'A curse on this place!' said the voice. 'A curse on all those who never listened to the words of Christ and who have transformed his message into a stone building. For Christ said: “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Well, I'm heavy laden, and they won't let me come to Him. Today I've learned that the Church has changed those words to read: “Come unto me all ye who follow our rules, and let the heavy laden go hang!”' I heard one of the women in the front row of pews telling her to be quiet. But I wanted to hear. I needed to hear. I turned to her, my head bowed – it was all I could do. 'I swear that I will never set foot in a church ever again. Once more, I've been abandoned by a family, and this time it has nothing to do with financial difficulties or with the immaturity of those who marry too young. A curse upon all those who slam the door in the face of a mother and her child! You're just like those people who refused to take in the Holy Family, like those who denied Christ when he most needed a friend!' With that, she turned and left in tears, her baby in her arms. I finished the service, gave the final blessing and went straight to the sacristy – that Sunday, there would be no mingling with the faithful, no pointless conversations. That Sunday, I was faced by a philosophical dilemma: I had chosen to respect the institution rather than the words on which that institution was based. I'm getting old now, and God could take me at any moment. I've remained faithful to my religion and I believe that, for all its errors, it really is trying to put things right. This will take decades, possibly centuries, but one day, all that will matter is love and Christ's words: 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I've devoted my entire life to the priesthood and I don't regret my decision for one second. However, there are times, like that Sunday, when, although I didn't doubt my faith, I did doubt men. I know now what happened to Athena, and I wonder: Did it all start there, or was it already in her soul? I think of the many Athenas and Lukáses in the world who are divorced and because of that can no longer receive the sacrament of the Eucharist; all they can do is contemplate the suffering, crucified Christ and listen to His words, words that are not always in accord with the laws of the Vatican. In a few cases, these people leave the church, but the majority continue coming to mass on Sundays, because that's what they're used to, even though they know that the miracle of the transmutation of the bread and the wine into the flesh and the blood of the Lord is forbidden to them. I like to imagine that, when she left the church, Athena met Jesus. Weeping and confused, she would have thrown herself into his arms, asking him to explain why she was being excluded just because of a piece of paper she'd signed, something of no importance on the spiritual plane, and which was of interest only to registry offices and the tax man. And looking at Athena, Jesus might have replied: 'My child, I've been excluded too. It's a very long time since they've allowed me in there.' Pavel Podbielski, 57, owner of the apartment Athena and I had one thing in common: we were both refugees from a war and arrived in England when we were still children, although I fled Poland over fifty years ago. We both knew that, despite that physical change, our traditions continue to exist in exile – communities join together again, language and religion remain alive, and in a place that will always be foreign to them, people tend to look after each other. Traditions continue, but the desire to go back gradually disappears. That desire needs to stay alive in our hearts as a hope with which we like to delude ourselves, but it will never be put into practice; I'll never go back to live in Czêstochowa, and Athena and her family will never return to Beirut. It was this kind of solidarity that made me rent her the third floor of my house in Basset Road normally, I'd prefer tenants without children. I'd made that mistake before, and two things had happened: I complained about the noise they made during the day, and they complained about the noise I made during the night. Both noises had their roots in sacred elements – crying and music – but they belonged to two completely different worlds and it was hard for them to coexist. I warned her, but she didn't really take it in, and told me not to worry about her son. He spent all day at his grandmother's house anyway, and the apartment was conveniently close to her work at a local bank. Despite my warnings, and despite holding out bravely at first, eight days later the doorbell rang. It was Athena, with her child in her arms. 'My son can't sleep. Couldn't you turn the music down at least for one night?' Everyone in the room stared at her. 'What's going on?' The child immediately stopped crying, as if he were as surprised as his mother to see that group of people, who had stopped in mid-dance. I pressed the pause button on the cassette player and beckoned her in. Then I restarted the music so as not to interrupt the ritual. Athena sat down in one corner of the room, rocking her child in her arms and watching him drift off to sleep despite the noise of drums and brass. She stayed for the whole ceremony and left along with the other guests, but – as I thought she would – she rang my doorbell the next morning, before going to work. 'You don't have to explain what I saw – people dancing with their eyes closed – because I know what that means. I often do the same myself, and at the moment, those are the only times of peace and serenity in my life. Before I became a mother, I used to go to clubs with my husband and my friends, and I'd see people dancing with their eyes closed there too. Some were just trying to look cool, and others seemed to be genuinely moved by a greater, more powerful force. And ever since I've been old enough to think for myself, I've always used dance as a way of getting in touch with something stronger and more powerful than myself. Anyway, could you tell me what that music was?' 'What are you doing this Sunday?' 'Nothing special. I might go for a walk with Viorel in Regent's Park and get some fresh air. I'll have plenty of time later on for a social calendar of my own; for the moment, I've decided to follow my son's.' 'I'll come with you, if you like.' On the two nights before our walk, Athena came to watch the ritual. Her son fell asleep after only a few minutes, and she merely watched what was going on around her without saying a word. She sat quite still on the sofa, but I was sure that her soul was dancing. On Sunday afternoon, while we were walking in the park, I asked her to pay attention to everything she was seeing and hearing: the leaves moving in the breeze, the waves on the lake, the birds singing, the dogs barking, the shouts of children as they ran back and forth, as if obeying some strange logic, incomprehensible to grown-ups. 'Everything moves, and everything moves to a rhythm. And everything that moves to a rhythm creates a sound. At this moment, the same thing is happening here and everywhere else in the world. Our ancestors noticed the same thing when they tried to escape from the cold into caves: things moved and made noise. The first human beings may have been frightened by this at first, but that fear was soon replaced by a sense of awe: they understood that this was the way in which some Superior Being was communicating with them. In the hope of reciprocating that communication, they started imitating the sounds and movements around them – and thus dance and music were born. A few days ago, you told me that dance puts you in touch with something stronger than yourself.' 'Yes, when I dance, I'm a free woman, or, rather, a free spirit who can travel through the universe, contemplate the present, divine the future, and be transformed into pure energy. And that gives me enormous pleasure, a joy that always goes far beyond everything I've experienced or will experience in my lifetime. There was a time when I was determined to become a saint, praising God through music and movement, but that path is closed to me forever now.' 'Which path do you mean?' She made her son more comfortable in his pushchair. I saw that she didn't want to answer that question and so I asked again: when mouths close, it's because there's something important to be said. Without a flicker of emotion, as if she'd always had to endure in silence the things life imposed on her, she told me about what had happened at the church, when the priest – possibly her only friend – had refused her communion. She also told me about the curse she had uttered then, and that she had left the Catholic Church forever. 'A saint is someone who lives his or her life with dignity,' I explained. 'All we have to do is understand that we're all here for a reason and to commit ourselves to that. Then we can laugh at our sufferings, large and small, and walk fearlessly, aware that each step has meaning. We can let ourselves be guided by the light emanating from the Vertex.' 'What do you mean by the Vertex? In mathematics, it's the topmost angle of a triangle.' 'In life, too, it's the culminating point, the goal of all those who, like everyone else, make mistakes, but who, even in their darkest moments, never lose sight of the light emanating from their hearts. That's what we're trying to do in our group. The Vertex is hidden inside us, and we can reach it if we accept it and recognise its light.' I explained that I'd come up with the name 'the search for the Vertex' for the dance she'd watched on previous nights, performed by people of all ages (at the time there were ten of us, aged between nineteen and sixty-five). Athena asked where I'd found out about it. I told her that, immediately after the end of the Second World War, some of my family had managed to escape from the Communist regime that was taking over Poland, and decided to move to England. They'd been advised to bring with them art objects and antiquarian books, which, they were told, were highly valued in this part of the world. Paintings and sculptures were quickly sold, but the books remained, gathering dust. My mother was keen for me to read and speak Polish, and the books formed part of my education. One day, inside a nineteenth-century edition of Thomas Malthus, I found two pages of notes written by my grandfather, who had died in a concentration camp. I started reading, assuming it would be something to do with an inheritance or else a passionate letter intended for a secret lover, because it was said that he'd fallen in love with someone in Russia. There was, in fact, some truth in this. The pages contained a description of his journey to Siberia during the Communist revolution. There, in the remote village of Diedov, he fell in love with an actress. (Editor's note: It has not been possible to locate this village on the map. The name may have been deliberately changed, or the place itself may have disappeared after Stalin'sforced migrations.) According to my grandfather, the actress was part of a sect, who believed that they had found the remedy for all ills through a particular kind of dance, because the dance brought the dancer into contact with the light from the Vertex. They feared that the tradition would disappear; the inhabitants of the village were soon to be transported to another place. Both the actress and her friends begged him to write down what they had learned. He did, but clearly didn't think it was of much importance, because he left his notes inside a book, and there they remained until the day I found them. Athena broke in: 'But dance isn't something you write about, you have to do it.' 'Exactly. All the notes say is this: Dance to the point of exhaustion, as if you were a mountaineer climbing a hill, a sacred mountain. Dance until you are so out of breath that your organism is forced to obtain oxygen some other way, and it is that, in the end, which will cause you to lose your identity and your relationship with space and time. Dance only to the sound of percussion; repeat the process every day; know that, at a certain moment, your eyes will, quite naturally, close, and you will begin to see a light that comes from within, a light that answers your questions and develops your hidden powers.' 'Have you developed some special power?' Instead of replying, I suggested that she join our group, since her son seemed perfectly at ease even when the noise of the cymbals and the other percussion instruments was at its loudest. The following day, at the usual time, she was there for the start of the session. I introduced her to my friends, explaining that she was my upstairs neighbour. No one said anything about their lives or asked her what she did. When the moment came, I turned on the music and we began to dance. She started dancing with the child in her arms, but he soon fell asleep, and she put him down on the sofa. Before I closed my eyes and went into a trance, I saw that she had understood exactly what I meant by the path of the Vertex. Every day, except Sunday, she was there with the child. We would exchange a few words of welcome, then I would put on the music a friend of mine had brought from the Russian steppes, and we would all dance to the point of exhaustion. After a month of this, she asked me for a copy of the tape. 'I'd like to do the dancing in the morning, before I leave Viorel at my Mum's house and go to work.' I tried to dissuade her. 'I don't know, I think a group that's connected by the same energy creates a kind of aura that helps everyone get into the trance state. Besides, doing the dancing before you go to work is just asking to get the sack, because you'll be exhausted all day.' Athena thought for a moment, then said: 'You're absolutely right when you talk about collective energy. In your group, for example, there are four couples and your wife. All of them have found love. That's why they can share such a positive vibration with me. But I'm on my own, or, rather, I'm with my son, but he can't yet manifest his love in a way we can understand. So I'd prefer to accept my loneliness. If I try to run away from it now, I'll never find a partner again. If I accept it, rather than fight against it, things might change. I've noticed that loneliness gets stronger when we try to face it down, but gets weaker when we simply ignore it.' 'Did you join our group in search of love?' 'That would be a perfectly good reason, I think, but the answer is “No”. I came in search of a meaning for my life, because, at present, its only meaning is my son, Viorel, and I'm afraid I might end up destroying him, either by being over-protective or by projecting onto him the dreams I've never managed to realise. Then one night, while I was dancing, I felt that I'd been cured. If we were talking about some physical ailment, we'd probably call it a miracle, but it was a spiritual malaise that was making me unhappy, and suddenly it vanished.' I knew what she meant. 'No one taught me to dance to the sound of that music,' Athena went on, 'but I have a feeling I know what I'm doing.' 'It's not something you have to learn. Remember our walk in the park and what we saw there? Nature creating its own rhythms and adapting itself to each moment.' 'No one taught me how to love either, but I loved God, I loved my husband, I love my son and my family. And yet still there's something missing. Although I get tired when I'm dancing, when I stop, I seem to be in a state of grace, of profound ecstasy. I want that ecstasy to last throughout the day and for it to help me find what I lack: the love of a man. I can see the heart of that man while I'm dancing, but not his face. I sense that he's close by, which is why I need to remain alert. I need to dance in the morning so that I can spend the rest of the day paying attention to everything that's going on around me.' 'Do you know what the word “ecstasy” means? It comes from the Greek and means, “to stand outside yourself”. Spending the whole day outside yourself is asking too much of body and soul.' 'I'd like to try anyway.' I saw that there was no point arguing and so I made her a copy of the tape. And from then on, I woke every morning to the sound of music and dancing upstairs, and I wondered how she could face her work at the bank after almost an hour of being in a trance. When we bumped into each other in the corridor, I suggested she come in for a coffee, and she told me that she'd made more copies of the tape and that many of her work colleagues were also now looking for the Vertex. 'Did I do wrong? Was it a secret?' Of course it wasn't. On the contrary, she was helping me preserve a tradition that was almost lost. According to my grandfather's notes, one of the women said that a monk who visited the region had once told them that each of us contains our ancestors and all the generations to come. When we free ourselves, we are freeing all humanity. 'So all the men and women in that village in Siberia must be here now and very happy too. Their work is being reborn in this world, thanks to your grandfather. There's one thing I'd like to ask you: what made you decide to dance after you read those notes? If you'd read something about sport instead, would you have decided to become a footballer?' This was a question no one had ever asked me. 'Because, at the time, I was ill. I was suffering from a rare form of arthritis, and the doctors told me that I should prepare myself for life in a wheelchair by the age of thirty-five. I saw that I didn't have much time ahead of me and so I decided to devote myself to something I wouldn't be able to do later on. My grandfather had written on one of those small sheets of paper that the inhabitants of Diedov believed in the curative powers of trances.' 'And it seems they were right.' I didn't say anything, but I wasn't so sure. Perhaps the doctors were wrong. Perhaps the fact of being from an immigrant family, unable to allow myself the luxury of being ill, acted with such force upon my unconscious mind that it provoked a natural reaction in my body. Or perhaps it really was a miracle, although that went totally against what my Catholic faith preaches: dance is not a cure. I remember that, as an adolescent, I had no idea what the right music would sound like, and so I used to put on a black hood and imagine that everything around me had ceased to exist: my spirit would travel to Diedov, to be with those men and women, with my grandfather and his beloved actress. In the silence of my bedroom, I would ask them to teach me to dance, to go beyond my limits, because soon I would be paralysed forever. The more my body moved, the more brightly the light in my heart shone, and the more I learned – perhaps on my own, perhaps from the ghosts of the past. I even imagined the music they must have listened to during their rituals, and when a friend visited Siberia many years later, I asked him to bring me back some records. To my surprise, one of them was very similar to the music I had imagined would accompany the dancing in Diedov. It was best to say nothing of all this to Athena; she was easily influenced and, I thought, slightly unstable. 'Perhaps what you're doing is right,' was all I said. We talked again, shortly before her trip to the Middle East. She seemed contented, as if she'd found everything she wanted: love. 'My colleagues at work have formed a group, and they call themselves “the Pilgrims of the Vertex”. And all thanks to your grandfather.' 'All thanks to you, you mean, because you felt the need to share the dance with others. I know you're leaving, but I'd like to thank you for giving another dimension to what I've been doing all these years in trying to spread the light to a few interested people, but always very tentatively, always afraid people might find the whole story ridiculous.' 'Do you know what I've learned? That although ecstasy is the ability to stand outside yourself, dance is a way of rising up into space, of discovering new dimensions while still remaining in touch with your body. When you dance, the spiritual world and the real world manage to coexist quite happily. I think classical dancers dance on pointes because they're simultaneously touching the earth and reaching up to the skies.' As far as I can remember, those were her last words to me. During any dance to which we surrender with joy, the brain loses its controlling power, and the heart takes up the reins of the body. Only at that moment does the Vertex appear. As long as we believe in it, of course. Peter Sherney, 47, manager of a branch of [name of Bank omitted] in Holland Park, London I only took on Athena because her family was one of our most important customers; after all, the world revolves around mutual interests. She seemed a very restless person, and so I gave her a dull clerical post, hoping that she would soon resign. That way, I could tell her father that I'd done my best to help her, but without success. My experience as a manager had taught me to recognise people's states of mind, even if they said nothing. On a management course I attended, we learned that if you wanted to get rid of someone, you should do everything you can to provoke them into rudeness, so that you would then have a perfectly good reason to dismiss them. I did everything I could to achieve my objective with Athena. She didn't depend on her salary to live and would soon learn how pointless it was: having to get up early, drop her son off at her mother's house, slave away all day at a repetitive job, pick her son up again, go to the supermarket, spend time with her son before putting him to bed, and then, the next day, spend another three hours on public transport, and all for no reason, when there were so many other more interesting ways of filling her days. She grew increasingly irritable, and I felt proud of my strategy. I would get what I wanted. She started complaining about the apartment where she lived, saying that her landlord kept her awake all night, playing really loud music. Then, suddenly, something changed. At first, it was only Athena, but soon it was the whole branch. How did I notice this change? Well, a group of workers is like a kind of orchestra; a good manager is the conductor, and he knows who is out of tune, who is playing with real commitment, and who is simply following the crowd. Athena seemed to be playing her instrument without the least enthusiasm; she seemed distant, never sharing the joys and sadnesses of her personal life with her colleagues, letting it be known that, when she left work, her free time was entirely taken up with looking after her son. Then, suddenly, she became more relaxed, more communicative, telling anyone who would listen that she had discovered the secret of rejuvenation. 'Rejuvenation', of course, is a magic word. Coming from someone who was barely twenty-one, it sounded pretty ridiculous, and yet other members of staff believed her and started to ask her for the secret formula. Her efficiency increased, even though her workload remained unchanged. Her colleagues, who, up until then, had never exchanged more than a 'Good morning' or a 'Goodnight' with her, started asking her out to lunch. When they came back, they seemed very pleased, and the department's productivity made a giant leap. I know that people who are in love do have an effect on the environment in which they live, and so I immediately assumed that Athena must have met someone very important in her life. I asked, and she agreed, adding that she'd never before gone out with a customer, but that, in this case, she'd been unable to refuse. Normally, this would have been grounds for immediate dismissal – the bank's rules are clear: personal contact with customers is forbidden. But, by then, I was aware that her behaviour had infected almost everyone else. Some of her colleagues started getting together with her after work, and a few of them had, I believe, been to her house. I had a very dangerous situation on my hands. The young trainee with no previous work experience, who up until then had seemed to veer between shyness and aggression, had become a kind of natural leader amongst my workers. If I fired her, they would think it was out ofjealousy, and I'd lose their respect. If I kept her on, I ran the risk, within a matter of months, of losing control of the group. I decided to wait a little, but meanwhile, there was a definite increase in the 'energy' at the bank (I hate that word 'energy', because it doesn't really mean anything, unless you're talking about electricity). Anyway, our customers seemed much happier and were starting to recommend other people to come to us. The employees seemed happy too, and even though their workload had doubled, I didn't need to take on any more staff because they were all coping fine. One day, I received a letter from my superiors. They wanted me to go to Barcelona for a group meeting, so that I could explain my management techniques to them. According to them, I had increased profit without increasing expenditure, and that, of course, is the only thing that interests executives everywhere. But what techniques? At least I knew where it had all started, and so I summoned Athena to my office. I complimented her on her excellent productivity levels, and she thanked me with a smile. I proceeded cautiously, not wishing to be misinterpreted. 'And how's your boyfriend? I've always found that anyone who is loved has more love to give. What does he do?' 'He works for Scotland Yard.' (Editor's note: Police investigation department linked to London's Metropolitan Police.) I preferred not to ask any further questions, but I needed to keep the conversation going and I didn't have much time. 'I've noticed a great change in you and–' 'Have you noticed a change in the bank too?' How to respond to a question like that? On the one hand, I would be giving her more power than was advisable, and on the other, if I wasn't straight with her, I would never get the answers I needed. 'Yes, I've noticed a big change, and I'm thinking of promoting you.' 'I need to travel. I'd like to get out of London and discover new horizons.' Travel? Just when everything was going so well in my branch, she wanted to leave? Although, when I thought about it, wasn't that precisely the way out I needed and wanted? 'I can help the bank if you give me more responsibility,' she went on. Yes, she was giving me an excellent opportunity. Why hadn't I thought of that before? 'Travel' meant getting rid of her and resuming my leadership of the group without having to deal with the fall-out from a dismissal or a rebellion. But I needed to ponder the matter, because rather than her helping the bank, I needed her to help me. Now that my superiors had noticed an increase in productivity, I knew that I would have to keep it up or risk losing prestige and end up worse off than before. Sometimes I understand why most of my colleagues don't do very much in order to improve: if they don't succeed, they're called incompetent. If they do succeed, they have to keep improving all the time, a situation guaranteed to bring on an early heart attack. I took the next step very cautiously: it's not a good idea to frighten the person in possession of a secret before she's revealed that secret to you; it's best to pretend to grant her request. 'I'll bring your request to the attention of my superiors. In fact, I'm having a meeting with them in Barcelona, which is why I called you in. Would it be true to say that our performance has improved since, shall we say, the other employees began getting on better with you?' 'Or shall we say, began getting on better with themselves?' 'Yes, but encouraged by you – or am I wrong?' 'You know perfectly well that you're not.' 'Have you been reading some book on management I don't know about?' 'I don't read that kind of book, but I would like a promise from you that you really will consider my request.' I thought of her boyfriend at Scotland Yard. If I made a promise and failed to keep it, would I be the object of some reprisal? Could he have taught her some cutting-edge technology that enables one to achieve impossible results? 'I'll tell you everything, even if you don't keep your promise, but I can't guarantee that you'll get the same results if you don't practise what I teach.' 'You mean the “rejuvenation technique”?' 'Exactly.' 'Wouldn't it be enough just to know the theory?' 'Possibly. The person who taught me learned about it from a few sheets of paper.' I was glad she wasn't forcing me to make decisions that went beyond my capabilities or my principles. But I must confess that I had a personal interest in that whole story, because I, too, dreamed of finding some way of 'recycling' my potential. I promised that I'd do what I could, and Athena began to describe the long, esoteric dance she performed in search of the so-called Vertex (or was it Axis, I can't quite remember now). As we talked, I tried to set down her mad thoughts in objective terms. An hour proved not to be enough, and so I asked her to come back the following day, and together we would prepare the report to be presented to the bank's board of directors. At one point in our conversation, she said with a smile: 'Don't worry about describing the technique in the same terms we've been using here. I reckon even a bank's board of directors are people like us, made of flesh and blood, and interested in unconventional methods.' Athena was completely wrong. In England, tradition always speaks louder than innovation. But why not take a risk, as long as it didn't endanger my job? The whole thing seemed absurd to me, but I had to summarise it and put it in a way that everyone could understand. That was all. Before I presented my 'paper' in Barcelona, I spent the whole morning repeating to myself: 'My' process is producing results, and that's all that matters. I read a few books on the subject and learned that in order to present a new idea with the maximum impact, you should structure your talk in an equally provocative way, and so the first thing I said to the executives gathered in that luxury hotel were these words of St Paul: 'God hid the most important things from the wise because they cannot understand what is simple.' (Editor's note: It is impossible to know here whether he is referring to a verse from Matthew 11: 25: 'I thank thee, O Father, thou hast hid these thingsfrom the wise andprudent, and hast revealed them unto babes', orfrom St Paul (1 Corinthians 1: 27): 'But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty. ') When I said this, the whole audience, who had spent the last two days analysing graphs and statistics, fell silent. It occurred to me that I had almost certainly lost my job, but I carried on. Firstly, because I had researched the subject and was sure of what I was saying and deserved credit for this. Secondly, because although, at certain points, I was obliged to omit any mention of Athena's enormous influence on the whole process, I was, nevertheless, not lying. 'I have learned that, in order to motivate employees nowadays, you need more than just the training provided by our own excellent training centres. Each of us contains something within us which is unknown, but which, when it surfaces, is capable of producing miracles. 'We all work for some reason: to feed our children, to earn money to support ourselves, to justify our life, to get a little bit of power. However, there are always tedious stages in that process, and the secret lies in transforming those stages into an encounter with ourselves or with something higher. 'For example, the search for beauty isn't always associated with anything practical and yet we still search for it as if it were the most important thing in the world. Birds learn to sing, but not because it will help them find food, avoid predators or drive away parasites. Birds sing, according to Darwin, because that is the only way they have of attracting a partner and perpetuating the species.' I was interrupted by an executive from Geneva, who called for a more objective presentation. However, to my delight, the Director-General asked me to go on. 'Again according to Darwin, who wrote a book that changed the course of all humanity (Editor's note: The Origin of Species, 1859, in which he first posited that human beings evolvedfrom a type of ape), those who manage to arouse passions are repeating something that has been going on since the days we lived in caves, where rituals for courting a partner were fundamental for the survival and evolution of the human species. Now, what difference is there between the evolution of the human race and that of the branch of a bank? None. Both obey the same laws – only the fittest survive and evolve.' At this point, I was obliged to admit that I'd developed this idea thanks to the spontaneous collaboration of one of my employees, Sherine Khalil. 'Sherine, who likes to be known as Athena, brought into the workplace a new kind of emotion passion. Yes, passion, something we never normally consider when discussing loans or spreadsheets. My employees started using music as a stimulus for dealing more efficiently with their clients.' Another executive interrupted, saying that this was an old idea: supermarkets did the same thing, using piped music to encourage their customers to buy more. 'I'm not saying that we used music in the workplace. People simply started living differently because Sherine, or Athena if you prefer, taught them to dance before facing their daily tasks. I don't know precisely what mechanism this awakens in people; as a manager, I'm only responsible for the results, not for the process. I myself didn't participate in the dancing, but I understand that, through dance, they all felt more connected with what they were doing. 'We were born and brought up with the maxim: Time is money. We know exactly what money is, but what does the word “time” mean? The day is made up of twenty-four hours and an infinite number of moments. We need to be aware of each of those moments and to make the most of them regardless of whether we're busy doing something or merely contemplating life. If we slow down, everything lasts much longer. Of course, that means that washing the dishes might last longer, as might totting up the debits and credits on a balance sheet or checking promissory notes, but why not use that time to think about pleasant things and to feel glad simply to be alive?' The Director-General was looking at me in surprise. I was sure he wanted me to explain in detail what I'd learned, but some of those present were beginning to grow restless. 'I understand exactly what you mean,' he said. 'I understand, too, that your employees worked with more enthusiasm because they were able to enjoy one moment in the day when they came into full contact with themselves. And I'd like to compliment you on being flexible enough to allow such unorthodox practices, which are, it must be said, producing excellent results. However, speaking of time, this is a conference, and you have only five minutes to conclude your presentation. Could you possibly try to list the main points which would allow us to apply these principles in other branches?' He was right. This was fine for the employees, but it could prove fatal to my career, and so I decided to summarise the points Sherine and I had written together. 'Basing ourselves on personal observations, Sherine Khalil and I developed certain points which I would be delighted to discuss with anyone who's interested. Here are the main ones: '(a) We all have an unknown ability, which will probably remain unknown forever. And yet that ability can become our ally. Since it's impossible to measure that ability or give it an economic value, it's never taken seriously, but I'm speaking here to other human beings and I'm sure you understand what I mean, at least in theory. '(b) At my branch, employees have learned how to tap into that ability through a dance based on a rhythm which comes, I believe, from the desert regions of Asia. However, its place of origin is irrelevant, as long as people can express through their bodies what their souls are trying to say. I realise that the word “soul” might be misunderstood, so I suggest we use the word “intuition” instead. And if that word is equally hard to swallow, then let's use the term “primary emotions”, which sounds more scientific, although, in fact, it has rather less meaning than the other two words. '(c) Before going to work, instead of encouraging my employees to do keep-fit or aerobics, I get them to dance for at least an hour. This stimulates the body and the mind; they start the day demanding a certain degree of creativity from themselves and channel that accumulated energy into their work at the bank. '(d) Customers and employees live in the same world: reality is nothing but a series of electrical stimuli to the brain. What we think we “see” is a pulse of energy to a completely dark part of the brain. However, if we get on the same wavelength with other people, we can try to change that reality. In some way which I don't understand, joy is infectious, as is enthusiasm and love. Or indeed sadness, depression or hatred – things which can be picked up “intuitively” by customers and other employees. In order to improve performance, we have to create mechanisms that keep these positive stimuli alive.' 'How very esoteric,' commented a woman who managed investment funds at a branch in Canada. I slightly lost confidence. I had failed to convince anyone. Nevertheless, I pretended to ignore her remark and, using all my creativity, sought to give my paper a practical conclusion: 'The bank should earmark a fund to do research into how this infectious state of mind works, and thus noticeably increase our profits.' This seemed a reasonably satisfactory ending, and so I preferred not to use the two minutes remaining to me. When I finished the seminar, at the end of an exhausting day, the Director-General asked me to have supper with him, and he did so is front of all our other colleagues, as if he were trying to show that he supported everything I'd said. I had never before had an opportunity to dine with the DirectorGeneral, and so I tried to make the most of it. I started talking about performance, about spreadsheets, difficulties on the stock exchange and possible new markets. He interrupted me; he was more interested in knowing more of what I'd learned from Athena. In the end, to my surprise, he turned the conversation to more personal matters. 'I understood what you meant when, during your paper, you talked about time. At New Year, when I was still enjoying the holiday season, I decided to go and sit in the garden for a while. I picked up the newspaper from the mailbox, but it contained nothing of any importance, only the things that journalists had decided we should know, feel involved in and have an opinion about. 'I thought of phoning someone at work, but that would be ridiculous, since they would all be with their families. I had lunch with my wife, children and grandchildren, took a nap, and when I woke up, I made a few notes, then realised that it was still only two o'clock in the afternoon. I had another three days of not working, and, however much I love being with my family, I started to feel useless. 'The following day, taking advantage of this free time, I went to have my stomach checked out, and, fortunately, the tests revealed nothing seriously wrong. I went to the dentist, who said there was nothing wrong with my teeth either. I again had lunch with my wife, children and grandchildren, took another nap, again woke up at two in the afternoon, and realised that I had absolutely nothing on which to focus my attention. 'I felt uneasy: shouldn't I be doing something? Well, if I wanted to invent work, that wouldn't take much effort. We all have projects to develop, light bulbs to change, leaves to sweep, books to put away, computer files to organise, etc. But how about just facing up to the void? It was then that I remembered something that seemed to me of great importance: I needed to walk to the letterbox – which is less than a mile from my house in the country – and post one of the Christmas cards lying forgotten on my desk. 'And I was surprised: why did I need to send that card today. Was it really so hard just to stay where I was, doing nothing? 'A series of thoughts crossed my mind: friends who worry about things that haven't yet happened; acquaintances who manage to fill every minute of their lives with tasks that seem to me absurd; senseless conversations; long telephone calls in which nothing of any importance is ever said. I've seen my directors inventing work in order to justify their jobs; employees who feel afraid because they've been given nothing important to do that day, which might mean that they're no longer useful. My wife who torments herself because our son has got divorced, my son who torments himself because our grandson, his son, got bad marks at school, our grandson who is terrified because he's making his parents sad – even though we all know that marks aren't that important. 'I had a long, hard struggle with myself not to get up from my chair. Gradually, though, the anxiety gave way to contemplation, and I started listening to my soul – or intuition or primary emotions, or whatever you choose to believe in. Whatever you call it, that part of me had been longing to speak to me, but I had always been too busy. 'In that case, it wasn't a dance, but the complete absence of noise and movement, the silence, that brought me into contact with myself. And, believe it or not, I learned a great deal about the problems bothering me, even though all those problems had dissolved completely while I was sitting there. I didn't see God, but I had a clearer understanding of what decisions to take.' Before paying the bill, he suggested that I send the employee in question to Dubai, where the bank was opening a new branch, and where the risks were considerable. As a good manager, he knew that I had learned all I needed to learn, and now it was merely a question of providing continuity. My employee could make a useful contribution somewhere else. He didn't know this, but he was helping me to keep the promise I'd made. When I returned to London, I immediately told Athena about this invitation, and she accepted at once. She told me that she spoke fluent Arabic (I knew this already because of her father), although, since we would mainly be doing deals with foreigners, not Arabs, this would not be essential. I thanked her for her help, but she showed no curiosity about my talk at the conference, and merely asked when she should pack her bags. I still don't know whether the story of the boyfriend in Scotland Yard was a fantasy or not. If it were true, I think Athena's murderer would already have been arrested, because I don't believe anything the newspapers wrote about the crime. I can understand financial engineering, I can even allow myself the luxury of saying that dancing helps my employees to work better, but I will never comprehend how it is that the best police force in the world catches some murderers, but not others. Not that it makes much difference now. Nabil Alaihi, age unknown, Bedouin It made me very happy to know that Athena had kept a photo of me in a place of honour in her apartment, but I don't really think what I taught her had any real use. She came here to the desert, leading a three-year-old boy by the hand. She opened her bag, took out a radio-cassette and sat down outside my tent. I know that people from the city usually give my name to foreigners who want to experience some local cooking, and so I told her at once that it was too early for supper. 'I came for another reason,' she said. 'Your nephew Hamid is a client at the bank where I work and he told me that you're a wise man.' 'Hamid is a rather foolish youth who may well say that I'm a wise man, but who never follows my advice. Mohammed, the Prophet, may the blessings of God be upon him, he was a wise man.' guide.' I pointed to her car. 'You shouldn't drive alone in a place you don't know, and you shouldn't come here without a Instead of replying, she turned on the radio-cassette. Then, all I could see was this young woman dancing on the dunes and her son watching her in joyous amazement; and the sound seemed to fill the whole desert. When she finished, she asked if I had enjoyed it. I said that I had. There is a sect in our religion which uses dance as a way of getting closer to Allah blessed be His Name. (Editor's note: The sect in question is Sufism.) 'Well,' said the woman, who introduced herself as Athena, 'ever since I was a child, I've felt that I should grow closer to God, but life always took me further away from Him. Music is one way I've discovered of getting close, but it isn't enough. Whenever I dance, I see a light, and that light is now asking me to go further. But I can't continue learning on my own; I need someone to teach me.' 'Anything will do,' I told her, 'because Allah, the merciful, is always near. Lead a decent life, and that will be enough.' But the woman appeared unconvinced. I said that I was busy, that I needed to prepare supper for the few tourists who might appear. She told me that she'd wait for as long as was necessary. 'And the child?' 'Don't worry about him.' While I was making my usual preparations, I observed the woman and her son. They could have been the same age; they ran about the desert, laughed, threw sand at each other, and rolled down the dunes. The guide arrived with three German tourists, who ate and asked for beer, and I had to explain that my religion forbade me to drink or to serve alcoholic drinks. I invited the woman and her son to join us for supper, and in that unexpected female presence, one of the Germans became quite animated. He said that he was thinking of buying some land, that he had a large fortune saved up and believed in the future of the region. 'Great,' she replied. 'I believe in the region too.' 'It would be good to have supper somewhere, so that we could talk about the possibility of–' 'No,' she said, holding a card out to him, 'but if you like, you can get in touch with my bank.' When the tourists left, we sat down outside the tent. The child soon fell asleep on her lap. I fetched blankets for us all, and we sat looking up at the starry sky. Finally, she broke the silence. 'Why did Hamid say that you were a wise man?' 'Perhaps so that I'll be more patient with him. There was a time when I tried to teach him my art, but Hamid seemed more interested in earning money. He's probably convinced by now that he's wiser than I am: he has an apartment and a boat, while here I am in the middle of the desert, making meals for the occasional tourist. He doesn't understand that I'm satisfied with what I do.' 'He understands perfectly, and he always speaks of you with great respect. And what do you mean by your “art”?' dance.' 'I watched you dancing today, well, I do the same thing, except that it's the letters not my body that She looked surprised. 'My way of approaching Allah – may his name be praised – has been through calligraphy, and the search for the perfect meaning of each word. A single letter requires us to distil in it all the energy it contains, as if we were carving out its meaning. When sacred texts are written, they contain the soul of the man who served as an instrument to spread them throughout the world. And that doesn't apply only to sacred texts, but to every mark we place on paper. Because the hand that draws each line reflects the soul of the person making that line.' 'Would you teach me what you know?' 'Firstly, I don't think anyone as full of energy as you would have the patience for this. Besides, it's not part of your world, where everything is printed, without, if you'll allow me to say so, much thought being given to what is being published.' 'I'd like to try.' And so, for more than six months, that woman – whom I'd judged to be too restless and exuberant to be able to sit still for a moment – came to visit me every Friday. Her son would go to one corner of the tent, take up paper and brushes, and he, too, would devote himself to revealing in his paintings whatever the heavens determined. When I saw the immense effort it took her to keep still and to maintain the correct posture, I said: 'Don't you think you'd be better off finding something else to do?' She replied: 'No, I need this, I need to calm my soul, and I still haven't learned everything you can teach me. The light of the Vertex told me that I should continue.' I never asked her what the Vertex was, nor was I interested. The first lesson, and perhaps the most difficult, was: 'Patience!' Writing wasn't just the expression of a thought, but a way of reflecting on the meaning of each word. Together we began work on texts written by an Arab poet, because I do not feel that the Koran is suitable for someone brought up in another faith. I dictated each letter, and that way she could concentrate on what she was doing, instead of immediately wanting to know the meaning of each word or phrase or line. 'Once, someone told me that music had been created by God, and that rapid movement was necessary for people to get in touch with themselves,' said Athena on one of those afternoons we spent together. 'For years, I felt that this was true, and now I'm being forced to do the most difficult thing in the world – slow down. Why is patience so important?' 'Because it makes us pay attention.' 'But I can dance obeying only my soul, which forces me to concentrate on something greater than myself, and brings me into contact with God – if I can use that word. Dance has already helped me to change many things in my life, including my work. Isn't the soul more important?' 'Of course it is, but if your soul could communicate with your brain, you would be able to change even more things.' We continued our work together. I knew that, at some point, I would have to tell her something that she might not be ready to hear, and so I tried to make use of every minute to prepare her spirit. I explained that before the word comes the thought. And before the thought, there is the divine spark that placed it there. Everything, absolutely everything on this Earth makes sense, and even the smallest things are worthy of our consideration. 'I've educated my body so that it can manifest every sensation in my soul,' she said. 'Now you must educate only your fingers, so that they can manifest every sensation in your body. That will concentrate your body's strength.' 'Are you a teacher?' 'What is a teacher? I'll tell you: it isn't someone who teaches something, but someone who inspires the student to give of her best in order to discover what she already knows.' I sensed that, despite her youth, Athena had already experienced this. Writing reveals the personality, and I could see that she was aware of being loved, not just by her son, but by her family and possibly by a man. I saw too that she had mysterious gifts, but I tried never to let her know that I knew this, since these gifts could bring about not only an encounter with God, but also her perdition. I did not only teach her calligraphy techniques. I also tried to pass on to her the philosophy of the calligraphers. 'The brush with which you are making these lines is just an instrument. It has no consciousness; it follows the desires of the person holding it. And in that it is very like what we call “life”. Many people in this world are merely playing a role, unaware that there is an Invisible Hand guiding them. At this moment, in your hands, in the brush tracing each letter, lie all the intentions of your soul. Try to understand the importance of this.' 'I do understand, and I see that it's important to maintain a certain elegance. You tell me to sit in a particular position, to venerate the materials I'm going to use, and only to begin when I have done so.' Naturally, if she respected the brush that she used, she would realise that in order to learn to write she must cultivate serenity and elegance. And serenity comes from the heart. 'Elegance isn't a superficial thing, it's the way mankind has found to honour life and work. That's why, when you feel uncomfortable in that position, you mustn't think that it's false or artificial: it's real and true precisely because it's difficult. That position means that both the paper and the brush feel proud of the effort you're making. The paper ceases to be a flat, colourless surface and takes on the depth of the things placed on it. Elegance is the correct posture if the writing is to be perfect. It's the same with life: when all superfluous things have been discarded, we discover simplicity and concentration. The simpler and more sober the posture, the more beautiful it will be, even though, at first, it may seem uncomfortable.' Occasionally, she would talk about her work. She said she was enjoying what she was doing and that she had just received a job offer from a powerful emir. He had gone to the bank to see the manager, who was a friend of his (emirs never go to banks to withdraw money, they have staff who can do that for them), and while he was talking to Athena, he mentioned that he was looking for someone to take charge of selling land, and wondered if she would be interested. Who would want to buy land in the middle of the desert or in a far-flung port? I decided to say nothing and, looking back, I'm glad I stayed silent. Only once did she mention the man she loved, although whenever she was there when tourists arrived, one of the men would always start flirting with her. Normally Athena simply ignored them, but, one day, a man suggested that he knew her boyfriend. She turned pale and immediately shot a glance at her son, who, fortunately, wasn't listening to the conversation. 'How do you know him?' 'I'm joking,' said the man. 'I just wanted to find out if you were unattached.' She didn't say anything, but I understood from this exchange that the man in her life was not the father of her son. One day, she arrived earlier than usual. She said that she'd left her job at the bank and started selling real estate, and would now have more free time. I explained that I couldn't start her class any earlier because I had various things to do. 'I can combine two things: movement and stillness; joy and concentration.' She went over to the car to fetch her radio-cassette and, from then on, Athena would dance in the desert before the start of our class, while the little boy ran round her, laughing. When she sat down to practise calligraphy, her hand was steadier than usual. 'There are two kinds of letter,' I explained. 'The first is precise, but lacks soul. In this case, although the calligrapher may have mastered the technique, he has focused solely on the craft, which is why it hasn't evolved, but become repetitive; he hasn't grown at all, and one day he'll give up the practice of writing, because he feels it is mere routine. 'The second kind is done with great technique, but with soul as well. For that to happen, the intention of the writer must be in harmony with the word. In this case, the saddest verses cease to be clothed in tragedy and are transformed into simple facts encountered along the way.' 'What do you do with your drawings?' asked the boy in perfect Arabic. He might not understand our conversation, but he was eager to share in his mother's work. 'I sell them.' 'Can I sell my drawings?' 'You should sell your drawings. One day, you'll become rich that way and be able to help your mother.' He was pleased by my comment and went back to what he was doing, painting a colourful butterfly. 'And what shall I do with my texts?' asked Athena. 'You know the effort it took to sit in the correct position, to quieten your soul, keep your intentions clear and respect each letter of each word. Meanwhile, keep practising. After a great deal of practice, we no longer think about all the necessary movements we must make; they become part of our existence. Before reaching that stage, however, you must practise and repeat. And if that's not enough, you must practise and repeat some more. 'Look at a skilled blacksmith working steel. To the untrained eye, he's merely repeating the same hammer blows, but anyone trained in the art of calligraphy knows that each time the blacksmith lifts the hammer and brings it down, the intensity of the blow is different. The hand repeats the same gesture, but as it approaches the metal, it understands that it must touch it with more or less force. It's the same thing with repetition: it may seem the same, but it's always different. The moment will come when you no longer need to think about what you're doing. You become the letter, the ink, the paper, the word.' This moment arrived almost a year later. By then, Athena was already known in Dubai and recommended customers to dine in my tent, and through them I learned that her career was going very well: she was selling pieces of desert! One night, the emir in person arrived, preceded by a great retinue. I was terrified; I wasn't prepared for that, but he reassured me and thanked me for what I was doing for his employee. 'She's an excellent person and attributes her qualities to what she's learning from you. I'm thinking of giving her a share in the company. It might be a good idea to send my other sales staff to learn calligraphy, especially now that Athena is about to take a month's holiday.' 'It wouldn't help,' I replied. 'Calligraphy is just one of the ways which Allah – blessed be His Name – places before us. It teaches objectivity and patience, respect and elegance, but we can learn all that–' '–through dance,' said Athena, who was standing nearby. 'Or through selling land,' I added. When they had all left, and the little boy had lain down in one corner of the tent, his eyes heavy with sleep, I brought out the calligraphy materials and asked her to write something. In the middle of the word, I took the brush from her hand. It was time to say what had to be said. I suggested that we go for a little walk in the desert. 'You have learned what you needed to learn,' I said. 'Your calligraphy is getting more and more individual and spontaneous. It's no longer a mere repetition of beauty, but a personal, creative gesture. You have understood what all great painters understand: in order to forget the rules, you must know them and respect them. 'You no longer need the tools that helped you learn. You no longer need paper, ink or brush, because the path is more important than whatever made you set off along it. Once, you told me that the person who taught you to dance used to imagine the music playing in his head, and even so, he was able to repeat the necessary rhythms.' 'He was.' 'If all the words were joined together, they wouldn't make sense, or, at the very least, they'd be extremely hard to decipher. The spaces are crucial.' She nodded. 'And although you have mastered the words, you haven't yet mastered the blank spaces. When you're concentrating, your hand is perfect, but when it jumps from one word to the next, it gets lost.' 'How do you know that?' 'Am I right?' 'Absolutely. Before I focus on the next word, for a fraction of a second I lose myself. Things I don't want to think about take over.' 'And you know exactly what those things are.' Athena knew, but she said nothing until we went back to the tent and she could cradle her sleeping son in her arms. Her eyes were full of tears, although she was trying hard to control herself. 'The emir said that you were going on holiday.' She opened the car door, put the key in the ignition and started the engine. For a few moments, only the noise of the engine troubled the silence of the desert. 'I know what you mean,' she said at last. 'When I write, when I dance, I'm guided by the Hand that created everything. When I look at Viorel sleeping, I know that he knows he's the fruit of my love for his father, even though I haven't seen his father for more than a year. But I …' She fell silent again. Her silence was the blank space between the words. '… but I don't know the hand that first rocked me in the cradle. The hand that wrote me in the book of the world.' I merely nodded. 'Do you think that matters?' 'Not necessarily. But in your case, until you touch that hand, your, shall we say, calligraphy will not improve.' 'I don't see why I should bother to look for someone who never took the trouble to love me.' She closed the car door, smiled and drove off. Despite her last words, I knew what her next step would be. Samira R. Khalil, Athena's mother It was as if all her professional success, her ability to earn money, her joy at having found a new love, her contentment when she played with her son – my grandson – had all been relegated to second place. I was quite simply terrified when Sherine told me that she'd decided to go in search of her birth mother. At first, of course, I took consolation in the thought that the adoption centre would no longer exist, the paperwork would all have been lost, any officials she encountered would prove implacable, the recent collapse of the Romanian government would make travel impossible, and the womb that bore her would long since have vanished. This, however, provided only a momentary consolation: my daughter was capable of anything and would overcome seemingly impossible obstacles. Up until then, the subject had been taboo in the family. Sherine knew she was adopted, because the psychiatrist in Beirut had advised me to tell her as soon as she was old enough to understand. But she had never shown any desire to know where she had come from. Her home had been Beirut, when it was still our home. The adopted son of a friend of mine had committed suicide at the age of sixteen when he acquired a biological sister, and so we had never attempted to have more children of our own, and we did everything we could to make her feel that she was the sole reason for our joys and sadnesses, our love and our hopes. And yet, it seemed that none of this counted. Dear God, how ungrateful children can be! Knowing my daughter as I did, I realised that there was no point in arguing with her about this. My husband and I didn't sleep for a whole week, and every morning, every evening, we were bombarded with the same question: 'Whereabouts in Romania was I born?' To make matters worse, Viorel kept crying, as if he understood what was going on. I decided to consult a psychiatrist again. I asked why a young woman who had everything in life should always be so dissatisfied. 'We all want to know where we came from,' he said. 'On the philosophical level, that's the fundamental question for all human beings. In your daughter's case, I think it's perfectly reasonable that she should want to go in search of her roots. Wouldn't you be curious to know?' 'No, I wouldn't. On the contrary, I'd think it dangerous to go in search of someone who had denied and rejected me when I was still too helpless to survive on my own.' But the psychiatrist insisted: 'Rather than getting into a confrontation with her, try to help. Perhaps when she sees that it's no longer a problem for you, she'll give up. The year she spent far from her friends must have created a sense of emotional need, which she's now trying to make up for by provoking you like this. She simply wants to be sure that she's loved.' It would have been better if Sherine had gone to the psychiatrist herself, then she would have understood the reasons for her behaviour. 'Show that you're confident and don't see this as a threat. And if, in the end, she really does go ahead with it, simply give her the information she needs. As I understand it, she's always been a difficult child. Perhaps she'll emerge from this search a stronger person.' I asked if the psychiatrist had any children. He didn't, and I knew then that he wasn't the right person to advise me. That night, when we were sitting in front of the TV, Sherine returned to the subject: 'What are you watching?' 'The news.' 'What for?' 'To find out what's going on in Lebanon,' replied my husband. I saw the trap, but it was too late. Sherine immediately pounced on this opening. 'You see, you're curious to know what's going on in the country where you were born. You're settled in England, you have friends, Dad earns plenty of money, you've got security, and yet you still buy Lebanese newspapers. You channel-hop until you find a bit of news to do with Beirut. You imagine the future as if it were the past, not realising that the war will never end. What I mean is that if you're not in touch with your roots, you feel as if you'd lost touch with the world. Is it so very hard then for you to understand what I'm feeling?' 'You're our daughter.' 'And proud to be. And I'll always be your daughter. Please don't doubt my love or my gratitude for everything you've done for me. All I'm asking is to be given the chance to visit the place where I was born and perhaps ask my birth mother why she abandoned me or perhaps, when I look into her eyes, simply say nothing. If I don't at least try and do that, I'll feel like a coward and I won't ever understand the blank spaces.' 'The blank spaces?' 'I learned calligraphy while I was in Dubai. I dance whenever I can, but music only exists because the pauses exist, and sentences only exist because the blank spaces exist. When I'm doing something, I feel complete, but no one can keep active twenty-four hours a day. As soon as I stop, I feel there's something lacking. You've often said to me that I'm a naturally restless person, but I didn't choose to be that way. I'd like to sit here quietly, watching television, but I can't. My brain won't stop. Sometimes, I think I'm going mad. I need always to be dancing, writing, selling land, taking care of Viorel, or reading whatever I find to read. Do you think that's normal?' 'Perhaps it's just your temperament,' said my husband. The conversation ended there, as it always ended, with Viorel crying, Sherine retreating into silence, and with me convinced that children never acknowledge what their parents have done for them. However, over breakfast the next day, it was my husband who brought the subject up again. 'A while ago, while you were in the Middle East, I looked into the possibility of going home to Beirut. I went to the street where we used to live. The house is no longer there, but, despite the foreign occupation and the constant incursions, they are slowly rebuilding the country. I felt a sense of euphoria. Perhaps it was the moment to start all over again. And it was precisely that expression, “start all over again”, that brought me back to reality. The time has passed when I could allow myself that luxury. Nowadays, I just want to go on doing what I'm doing, and I don't need any new adventures. 'I sought out the people I used to enjoy a drink with after work. Most of them have left, and those who have stayed complain all the time about a constant feeling of insecurity. I walked past some of my old haunts, and I felt like a stranger, as if nothing there belonged to me anymore. The worst of it was that my dream of one day returning gradually disappeared when I found myself back in the city where I was born. Even so, I needed to make that visit. The songs of exile are still there in my heart, but I know now that I'll never again live in Lebanon. In a way, the days I spent in Beirut helped me to a better understanding of the place where I live now, and to value each second that I spend in London.' 'What are you trying to tell me, Dad?' 'That you're right. Perhaps it really would be best to understand those blank spaces. We can look after Viorel while you're away.' He went to the bedroom and returned with the yellow file containing the adoption papers. He gave them to Sherine, kissed her and said it was time he went to work. Heron Ryan, journalist For a whole morning in 1990, all I could see from the sixth-floor window of the hotel was the main government building. A flag had just been placed on the roof, marking the exact spot where the megalomaniac dictator had fled in a helicopter only to find death a few hours later at the hands of those he had oppressed for twenty-two years. In his plan to create a capital that would rival Washington, Ceauºescu had ordered all the old houses to be razed to the ground. Indeed, Bucharest had the dubious honour of being described as the city that had suffered the worst destruction outside of a war or a natural disaster. The day I arrived, I attempted to go for a short walk with my interpreter, but in the streets I saw only poverty, bewilderment, and a sense that there was no future, no past and no present: the people were living in a kind of limbo, with little idea of what was happening in their country or in the rest of the world. When I went back ten years later and saw the whole country rising up out of the ashes, I realised human beings can overcome any difficulty, and that the Romanian people were a fine example ofjust that. But on that other grey morning, in the grey foyer of a gloomy hotel, all I was concerned about was whether my interpreter would manage to get a car and enough petrol so that I could carry out some final research for the BBC documentary I was working on. He was taking a very long time, and I was beginning to have my doubts. Would I have to go back to England having failed to achieve my goal? I'd already invested a significant amount of money in contracts with historians, in the script, in filming interviews, but before the BBC would sign the final contract, they insisted on me visiting Dracula's castle to see what state it was in. The trip was costing more than expected. I tried phoning my girlfriend, but was told I'd have to wait nearly an hour to get a line. My interpreter might arrive at any moment with the car and there was no time to lose, and so I decided not to risk waiting. I asked around to see if I could buy an English newspaper, but there were none to be had. To take my mind off my anxiety, I started looking, as discreetly as I could, at the people around me drinking tea, possibly oblivious to everything that had happened the year before – popular uprisings, the cold-blooded murder of civilians in Timiºoara, shoot-outs in the streets between the people and the dreaded secret service as the latter tried desperately to hold on to the power fast slipping from their grasp. I noticed a group of three Americans, an interesting-looking woman who was, however, glued to the fashion magazine she was reading, and some men sitting round a table, talking loudly in a language I couldn't identify. I was just about to get up yet again and go over to the entrance to see if my interpreter was anywhere to be seen, when she came in. She must have been a little more than twenty years old. She sat down, ordered some breakfast, and I noticed that she spoke English. None of the other men present appeared to notice her arrival, but the other woman interrupted her reading. Perhaps because of my anxiety or because of the place, which was beginning to depress me, I plucked up courage and went over to her. 'Excuse me, I don't usually do this. I always think breakfast is the most private meal of the day.' She smiled, told me her name, and I immediately felt wary. It had been too easy – she might be a prostitute. Her English, however, was perfect and she was very discreetly dressed. I decided not to ask any questions, and began talking at length about myself, noticing as I did so that the woman on the next table had put down her magazine and was listening to our conversation. 'I'm an independent producer working for the BBC in London, and, at the moment, I'm trying to find a way to get to Transylvania…' I noticed the light in her eyes change. '…so that I can finish the documentary I'm making about the myth of the vampire.' I waited. This subject always aroused people's curiosity, but she lost interest as soon as I mentioned the reason for my visit. 'You'll just have to take the bus,' she said. 'Although I doubt you'll find what you're looking for. If you want to know more about Dracula, read the book. The author never even visited Romania.' 'What about you, do you know Transylvania?' 'I don't know.' That was not an answer; perhaps it was because English – despite her British accent – was not her mother tongue. 'But I'm going there too,' she went on. 'On the bus, of course.' Judging by her clothes, she was not an adventuress who sets off round the world visiting exotic places. The idea that she might be a prostitute returned; perhaps she was trying to get closer to me. 'Would you like a lift?' 'I've already bought my ticket.' I insisted, thinking that her first refusal was just part of the game. She refused again, saying that she needed to make that journey alone. I asked where she was from, and there was a long pause before she replied. 'Like I said, from Transylvania.' 'That isn't quite what you said. But if that's so, perhaps you could help me with finding locations for the film and…' My unconscious mind was telling me to explore the territory a little more, because although the idea that she might be a prostitute was still buzzing around in my head, I very, very much wanted her to come with me. She politely refused my offer. The other woman joined in the conversation at this point, as if to protect the younger woman, and I felt then that I was in the way and decided to leave. My interpreter arrived shortly afterwards, out of breath, saying that he'd made all the necessary arrangements, but that (as expected) it was going to cost a lot of money. I went up to my room, grabbed my suitcase, which I'd packed earlier, got into the Russian wreck of a car, drove down the long, almost deserted avenues, and realised that I had with me my small camera, my belongings, my anxieties, a couple of bottles of mineral water, some sandwiches, and the image of someone that stubbornly refused to leave my head. In the days that followed, as I was trying to piece together a script on the historical figure of Dracula, and interviewing both locals and intellectuals on the subject of the vampire myth (with, as foreseen, little success), I gradually became aware that I was no longer merely trying to make a documentary for British television. I wanted to meet that arrogant, unfriendly, self-sufficient young woman whom I'd seen in a dining room in a hotel in Bucharest, and who would, at that moment, be somewhere nearby. I knew absolutely nothing about her apart from her name, but, like the vampire of the myth, she seemed to be sucking up all my energy. In my world, and in the world of those I lived with, this was absurd, nonsensical, unacceptable. Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda 'I don't know what you came here to do, but whatever it was, you must see it through to the end.' She looked at me, startled. 'Who are you?' I started talking about the magazine I was reading, and after a while, the man sitting with her decided to get up and leave. Now I could tell her who I was. 'If you mean what do I do for a living, I qualified as a doctor some years ago, but I don't think that's the answer you want to hear.' I paused. 'Your next step, though, will be to try to find out, through clever questioning, exactly what I'm doing here, in a country that's only just emerging from years of terrible oppression.' 'I'll be straightforward then. What did you come here to do?' I could have said: I came for the funeral of my teacher, because I felt he deserved that homage. But it would be imprudent to touch on the subject. She may have shown no interest in vampires, but the word 'teacher' would be sure to attract her attention. Since my oath will not allow me to lie, I replied with a halftruth. 'I wanted to see where a writer called Mircea Eliade lived. You've probably never heard of him, but Eliade, who spent most of his life in France, was a world authority on myths.' The young woman looked at her watch, feigning indifference. I went on: 'And I'm not talking about vampires, I'm talking about people who, let's say, are following the same path you're following.' She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but she stopped: 'Are you from the government? Or are you someone my parents engaged to follow me?' It was my turn then to feel uncertain as to whether to continue the conversation. Her response had been unnecessarily aggressive. But I could see her aura, her anxiety. She was very like me when I was her age: full of internal and external wounds that drove me to want to heal people on the physical plane and to help them find their path on the spiritual plane. I wanted to say: 'Your wounds will help you, my dear,' then pick up my magazine and leave. If I had done that, Athena's path might have been completely different, and she would still be alive and living with the man she loved. She would have brought up her son and watched him grow, get married and have lots of children. She would be rich, possibly the owner of a company selling real estate. She had all the necessary qualities to find success and happiness. She'd suffered enough to be able to use her scars to her advantage, and it was just a matter of time before she managed to control her anxiety and move on. So what kept me sitting there, trying to keep the conversation going? The answer is very simple: curiosity. I couldn't understand what that brilliant light was doing there in the cold hotel. I continued: 'Mircea Eliade wrote books with strange titles: Occultism, Witchcraft and Cultural Fashions, for example. Or The Sacred and the Profane. My teacher' (I inadvertently let the word slip, but she either wasn't listening or else pretended not to have noticed) 'loved his work. And something tells me it's a subject you're interested in too.' She glanced at her watch again. 'I'm going to Sibiu,' she said. 'My bus leaves in an hour. I'm looking for my mother, if that's what you want to know. I work as a real estate agent in the Middle East, I have a son of nearly four, I'm divorced, and my parents live in London. My adoptive parents, of course, because I was abandoned as a baby.' She was clearly at a very advanced stage of perception, and had identified with me, even though she wasn't aware of this yet. 'Yes, that's what I wanted to know.' 'Did you have to come all this way just to do research into a writer? Aren't there any libraries where you live?' 'The fact is that Eliade only lived in Romania until he graduated from university. So if I really wanted to know more about his work, I should go to Paris, London or to Chicago, where he died. However, what I'm doing isn't research in the normal sense of the word: I wanted to see the ground where he placed his feet. I wanted to feel what inspired him to write about things that affect my life and the lives of people I respect.' 'Did he write about medicine too?' I had better not answer that. I saw that she'd picked up on the word 'teacher', and assumed it must be related to my profession. The young woman got to her feet. I felt she knew what I was talking about. I could see her light shining more intensely. I only achieve this state of perception when I'm close to someone very like myself. 'Would you mind coming with me to the bus station?' she asked. Not at all. My plane didn't leave until later that night, and a whole, dull, endless day stretched out before me. At least I would have someone to talk to for a while. She went upstairs, returned with her suitcases in her hand and a series of questions in her head. She began her interrogation as soon as we left the hotel. 'I may never see you again,' she said, 'but I feel that we have something in common. Since this may be the last opportunity we have in this incarnation to talk to each other, would you mind being direct in your answers?' I nodded. 'Based on what you've read in all those books, do you believe that through dance we can enter a trance-like state that helps us to see a light? And that the light tells us nothing – only whether we're happy or sad?' A good question! 'Of course, and that happens not only through dance, but through anything that allows us to focus our attention and to separate body from spirit. Like yoga or prayer or Buddhist meditation.' 'Or calligraphy.' 'I hadn't thought of that, but it's possible. At such moments, when the body sets the soul free, the soul either rises up to heaven or descends into hell, depending on the person's state of mind. In both cases, it learns what it needs to learn: to destroy or to heal. But I'm no longer interested in individual paths; in my tradition, I need the help of … are you listening to me?' 'No.' She had stopped in the middle of the street and was staring at a little girl who appeared to have been abandoned. She went to put her hand in her bag. 'Don't do that,' I said. 'Look across the street at that woman, the one with cruel eyes. She's put the girl there purely in order to–' 'I don't care.' She took out a few coins. I grabbed her hand. 'Let's buy her something to eat. That would be more useful.' I asked the little girl to go with us to a café and bought her a sandwich. The little girl smiled and thanked me. The eyes of the woman across the street seemed to glitter with hatred, but, for the first time, the grey eyes of the young woman walking at my side looked at me with respect. 'What were you saying?' she asked. 'It doesn't matter. Do you know what happened to you a few moments ago? You went into the same trance that your dancing provokes.' 'No, you're wrong.' 'I'm right. Something touched your unconscious mind. Perhaps you saw yourself as you would have been if you hadn't been adopted – begging in the street. At that moment, your brain stopped reacting. Your spirit left you and travelled down to hell to meet the demons from your past. Because of that, you didn't notice the woman across the street – you were in a trance, a disorganised, chaotic trance that was driving you to do something which was good in theory, but, in practice, pointless. As if you were–' '–in the blank space between the letters. In the moment when a note of music ends and the next has not yet begun.' 'Exactly. And such a trance can be dangerous.' I almost said: 'It's the kind of trance provoked by fear. It paralyses the person, leaves them unable to react; the body doesn't respond, the soul is no longer there. You were terrified by everything that could have happened to you had fate not placed your parents in your path.' But she had put her suitcases down on the ground and was standing in front of me. 'Who are you? Why are you saying all this?' 'As a doctor, I'm known as Deidre O'Neill. Pleased to meet you, and what's your name?' 'Athena. Although according to my passport I'm Sherine Khalil.' 'Who gave you the name Athena?' 'No one important. But I didn't ask you for your name, I asked who you are and why you spoke to me. And why I felt the same need to talk to you. Was it just because we were the only two women in that hotel dining room? I don't think so. And you're saying things to me that make sense of my life.' She picked up her bags again, and we continued walking towards the bus station. 'I have another name too – Edda. But it wasn't chosen by chance, nor do I believe it was chance that brought us together.' Before us was the entrance to the bus station, with various people going in and out – soldiers in uniform, farmers, pretty women dressed as if they were still living in the 1950s. 'If it wasn't chance, what was it?' She had another half an hour before her bus left, and I could have said: It was the Mother. Some chosen spirits emit a special light and are drawn to each other, and you – Sherine or Athena – are one of those spirits, but you need to work very hard to use that energy to your advantage. I could have explained that she was following the classic path of the witch, who, through her individual persona, seeks contact with the upper and lower world, but always ends up destroying her own life – she serves others, gives out energy, but receives nothing in return. I could have explained that, although all paths are different, there is always a point when people come together, celebrate together, discuss their difficulties, and prepare themselves for the Rebirth of the Mother. I could have said that contact with the Divine Light is the greatest reality a human being can experience, and yet, in my tradition, that contact cannot be made alone, because we've suffered centuries of persecution, and this has taught us many things. 'Would you like to have a coffee while I wait for the bus?' No, I did not. I would only end up saying things that might, at that stage, be misinterpreted. 'Certain people have been very important in my life,' she went on. 'My landlord, for example, or the calligrapher I met in the desert near Dubai. Who knows, you might have things to say to me that I can share with them, and repay them for all they taught me.' So she had already had teachers in her life – excellent! Her spirit was ripe. All she needed was to continue her training, otherwise she would end up losing all she had achieved. But was I the right person? I asked the Mother to inspire me, to tell me what to do. I got no answer, which did not surprise me. She always behaves like that when it's up to me to take responsibility for a decision. I gave Athena my business card and asked her for hers. She gave me an address in Dubai, a country I would have been unable to find on the map. I decided to try making a joke, to test her out a little more: 'Isn't it a bit of a coincidence that three English people should meet in a hotel in Bucharest?' 'Well, from your card I see that you're Scottish. The man I met apparently works in England, but I don't know anything else about him.' She took a deep breath: 'And I'm … Romanian.' I gave an excuse and said that I had to rush back to the hotel and pack my bags. Now she knew where to find me, if it was written that we would meet again, we would. The important thing is to allow fate to intervene in our lives and to decide what is best for everyone. Vosho 'Bushalo', 65, restaurant owner These Europeans come here thinking they know everything, thinking they deserve the very best treatment, that they have the right to bombard us with questions which we're obliged to answer. On the other hand, they think that by giving us some tricksy name, like 'travellers' or 'Roma', they can put right the many wrongs they've done us in the past. Why can't they just call us gipsies and put an end to all the stories that make us look as if we were cursed in the eyes of the world? They accuse us of being the fruit of the illicit union between a woman and the Devil himself. They say that one of us forged the nails that fixed Christ to the cross, that mothers should be careful when our caravans come near, because we steal children and enslave them. And because of this there have been frequent massacres throughout history; in the Middle Ages we were hunted as witches; for centuries our testimony wasn't even accepted in the German courts. I was born before the Nazi wind swept through Europe and I saw my father marched off to a concentration camp in Poland, with a humiliating black triangle sewn to his clothes. Of the 500,000 gipsies sent for slave labour, only 5,000 survived to tell the tale. And no one, absolutely no one, wants to hear about this. Right up until last year, our culture, religion and language were banned in this godforsaken part of the world, where most of the tribes decided to settle. If you asked anyone in the city what they thought of gipsies, their immediate response would be: 'They're all thieves.' However hard we try to lead normal lives by ceasing our eternal wanderings and living in places where we're easily identifiable, the racism continues. Our children are forced to sit at the back of the class and not a week goes by without someone insulting them. Then people complain that we don't give straight answers, that we try to disguise ourselves, that we never openly admit our origins. Why would we do that? Everyone knows what a gipsy looks like, and everyone knows how to 'protect' themselves from our 'curses'. When a stuck-up, intellectual young woman appears, smiling and claiming to be part of our culture and our race, I'm immediately on my guard. She might have been sent by the Securitate, the secret police who work for that mad dictator – the Conducator, the Genius of the Carpathians, the Leader. They say he was put on trial and shot, but I don't believe it. His son may have disappeared from the scene for the moment, but he's still a powerful figure in these parts. The young woman insists; she smiles, as if she were saying something highly amusing, and tells me that her mother is a gipsy and that she'd like to find her. She knows her full name. How could she obtain such information without the help of the Securitate? It's best not to get on the wrong side of people who have government contacts. I tell her that I know nothing, that I'm just a gipsy who's decided to lead an honest life, but she won't listen: she wants to find her mother. I know who her mother is, and I know, too, that more than twenty years ago, she had a child she gave up to an orphanage and never heard from again. We had to take her mother in because a blacksmith who thought he was the master of the universe insisted on it. But who can guarantee that this intellectual young woman standing before me really is Liliana's daughter? Before trying to find out who her mother is, she should at least respect some of our customs and not turn up dressed in red, if it's not her wedding day. She ought to wear longer skirts as well, so as not to arouse men's lust. And she should be more respectful. If I speak of her now in the present tense, it's because for those who travel, time does not exist, only space. We came from far away, some say from India, others from Egypt, but the fact is that we carry the past with us as if it had all just happened. And the persecutions continue. The young woman is trying to be nice and to show that she knows about our culture, when that doesn't matter at all. After all, she should know about our traditions. 'In town I was told that you're a Rom Baro, a tribal leader. Before I came here, I learned a lot about our history–' 'Not “our”, please. It's my history, the history of my wife, my children, my tribe. You're a European. You were never stoned in the street as I was when I was five years old.' 'I think the situation is getting better.' 'The situation is always getting better, then it immediately gets worse.' But she keeps smiling. She orders a whisky. One of our women would never do that. If she'd come in here just to have a drink or looking for company, I'd treat her like any other customer. I've learned to be friendly, attentive, discreet, because my business depends on that. When my customers want to know more about the gipsies, I offer them a few curious facts, tell them to listen to the group who'll be playing later on, make a few remarks about our culture, and then they leave with the impression that they know everything about us. But this young woman isn't just another tourist: she says she belongs to our race. She again shows me the certificate she got from the government. I can believe that the government kills, steals and lies, but it wouldn't risk handing out false certificates, and so she really must be Liliana's daughter, because the certificate gives her full name and address. I learned from the television that the Genius of the Carpathians, the Father of the People, our Conducator, the one who left us to starve while he exported all our food, the one who lived in palaces and used gold-plated cutlery while the people were dying of starvation, that same man and his wretched wife used to get the Securitate to trawl the orphanages selecting babies to be trained as State assassins. They only ever took boys, though, never girls. Perhaps she really is Liliana's daughter. I look at the certificate once more and wonder whether or not I should tell her where her mother is. Liliana deserves to meet this intellectual, claiming to be 'one of us'. Liliana deserves to look this woman in the eye. I think she suffered enough when she betrayed her people, slept with a gadje (Editor's note: foreigner) and shamed her parents. Perhaps the moment has come to end her hell, for her to see that her daughter survived, got rich, and might even be able to help her out of the poverty she lives in. Perhaps this young woman will pay me for this information; perhaps it'll be of some advantage to our tribe, because we're living in confusing times. Everyone's saying that the Genius of the Carpathians is dead, and they even show photos of his execution, but, who knows, he could come back tomorrow, and it'll all turn out to have been a clever trick on his part to find out who really was on his side and who was prepared to betray him. The musicians will start playing soon, so I'd better talk business. 'I know where you can find this woman. I can take you to her.' I adopt a friendlier tone of voice. 'But I think that information is worth something.' for. 'I was prepared for that,' she says, holding out a much larger sum of money than I was going to ask 'That's not even enough for the taxi fare.' 'I'll pay you the same amount again when I reach my destination.' And I sense that, for the first time, she feels uncertain. She suddenly seems afraid of what she's about to do. I grab the money she's placed on the counter. 'I'll take you to see Liliana tomorrow.' Her hands are trembling. She orders another whisky, but suddenly a man comes into the bar, sees her, blushes scarlet and comes straight over to her. I gather that they only met yesterday, and yet here they are talking as if they were old friends. His eyes are full of desire. She's perfectly aware of this and encourages him. The man orders a bottle of wine, and the two sit down at a table, and it's as if she'd forgotten all about her mother. However, I want the other half of that money. When I serve them their drinks, I tell her I'll be at her hotel at ten o'clock in the morning. Heron Ryan, journalist Immediately after the first glass of wine, she told me, unprompted, that she had a boyfriend who worked for Scotland Yard. It was a lie, of course. She must have read the look in my eyes, and this was her way of keeping me at a distance. I told her that I had a girlfriend, which made us even. Ten minutes after the music had started, she stood up. We had said very little – she asked no questions about my research into vampires, and we exchanged only generalities: our impressions of the city, complaints about the state of the roads. But what I saw next – or, rather, what everyone in the restaurant saw – was a goddess revealing herself in all her glory, a priestess invoking angels and demons. Her eyes were closed and she seemed no longer to be conscious of who she was or where she was or why she was there; it was as if she were floating and simultaneously summoning up her past, revealing her present and predicting the future. She mingled eroticism with chastity, pornography with revelation, worship of God and nature, all at the same time. People stopped eating and started watching what was happening. She was no longer following the music, the musicians were trying to keep up with her steps, and that restaurant in the basement of an old building in the city of Sibiu was transformed into an Egyptian temple, where the worshippers of Isis used to gather for their fertility rites. The smell of roast meat and wine was transmuted into an incense that drew us all into the same trance-like state, into the same experience of leaving this world and entering an unknown dimension. The string and wind instruments had given up, only the percussion played on. Athena was dancing as if she were no longer there, with sweat running down her face, her bare feet beating on the wooden floor. A woman got up and very gently tied a scarf around her neck and breasts, because her blouse kept threatening to slip off her shoulders. Athena, however, appeared not to notice; she was inhabiting other spheres, experiencing the frontiers of worlds that almost touch ours, but never reveal themselves. The other people in the restaurant started clapping in time to the music, and Athena was dancing ever faster, feeding on that energy, and spinning round and round, balancing in the void, snatching up everything that we, poor mortals, wanted to offer to the supreme divinity. And suddenly she stopped. Everyone stopped, including the percussionists. Her eyes were still closed, but tears were now rolling down her cheeks. She raised her arms in the air and cried: 'When I die, bury me standing, because I've spent all my life on my knees!' No one said anything. She opened her eyes as if waking from a deep sleep and walked back to the table as if nothing had happened. The band started up again, and couples took to the floor in an attempt to enjoy themselves, but the atmosphere in the place had changed completely. People soon paid their bills and started to leave the restaurant. 'Is everything all right?' I asked, when I saw that she'd recovered from the physical effort of dancing. 'I feel afraid. I discovered how to reach a place I don't want to go to.' 'Do you want me to go with you?' She shook her head. In the days that followed, I completed my research for the documentary, sent my interpreter back to Bucharest with the hired car, and then stayed on in Sibiu simply because I wanted to meet her again. All my life I've always been guided by logic and I know that love is something that can be built rather than simply discovered, but I sensed that if I never saw her again, I would be leaving a very important part of my life in Transylvania, even though I might only realise this later on. I fought against the monotony of those endless hours; more than once, I went to the bus station to find out the times of buses to Bucharest; I spent more than my tiny budget as an independent film-maker allowed on phone-calls to the BBC and to my girlfriend. I explained that I didn't yet have all the material I needed, that there were still a few things lacking, that I might need another day or possibly a week; I said that the Romanians were being very difficult and got upset if anyone associated their beautiful Transylvania with the hideous story of Dracula. I finally managed to convince the producers, and they let me stay on longer than I really needed to. We were staying in the only hotel in the city, and one day she saw me in the foyer and seemed suddenly to remember our first encounter. This time, she invited me out, and I tried to contain my joy. Perhaps I was important in her life. saying. Later on, I learned that the words she had spoken at the end of her dance were an ancient gipsy Liliana, seamstress, age and surname unknown I speak in the present tense because for us time does not exist, only space. And because it seems like only yesterday. The one tribal custom I did not follow was that of having my man by my side when Athena was born. The midwives came to me even though they knew I had slept with a gadje, a foreigner. They loosened my hair, cut the umbilical cord, tied various knots and handed it to me. At that point, tradition demands that the child be wrapped in some item of the father's clothing; he had left a scarf which reminded me of his smell and which I sometimes pressed to my nose so as to feel him close to me, but now that perfume would vanish for ever. I wrapped the baby in the scarf and placed her on the floor so that she would receive energy from the Earth. I stayed there with her, not knowing what to feel or think; my decision had been made. The midwives told me to choose a name and not to tell anyone what it was – it could only be pronounced once the child was baptised. They gave me the consecrated oil and the amulets I must hang around her neck for the two weeks following her birth. One of them told me not to worry, the whole tribe was responsible for my child and although I would be the butt of much criticism, this would soon pass. They also advised me not to go out between dusk and dawn because the tsinvari (Editor's note: evil spirits) might attack us and take possession of us, and from then on our lives would be a tragedy. A week later, as soon as the sun rose, I went to an adoption centre in Sibiu and placed her on the doorstep, hoping that some charitable person would take her in. As I was doing so, a nurse caught me and dragged me inside. She insulted me in every way she could and said that they were used to such behaviour, but that there was always someone watching and I couldn't escape so easily from the responsibility of bringing a child into the world. 'Although, of course, what else would one expect from a gipsy! Abandoning your own child like that!' I was forced to fill in a form with all my details and, since I didn't know how to write, she said again, more than once: 'Yes, well, what can you expect from a gipsy. And don't try to trick us by giving false information. If you do, it could land you in jail.' Out of pure fear, I told them the truth. I looked at my child one last time, and all I could think was: 'Child without a name, may you find love, much love in your life.' Afterwards, I walked in the forest for hours. I remembered many nights during my pregnancy when I had both loved and hated the child herself and the man who had put her inside me. Like all women, I'd dreamed of one day meeting an enchanted prince, who would marry me, give me lots of children and shower attentions on my family. Like many women, I fell in love with a man who could give me none of those things, but with whom I shared some unforgettable moments, moments my child would never understand, for she would always be stigmatised in our tribe as a gadje and a fatherless child. I could bear that, but I didn't want her to suffer as I had suffered ever since I first realised I was pregnant. I wept and tore at my own skin, thinking that the pain of the scratches would perhaps stop me thinking about a return to ordinary life, to face the shame I had brought on the tribe. Someone would take care of the child, and I would always cherish the hope of seeing her again one day, when she had grown up. Unable to stop crying, I sat down on the ground and put my arms around the trunk of a tree. However, as soon as my tears and the blood from my wounds touched the trunk of the tree, a strange calm took hold of me. I seemed to hear a voice telling me not to worry, saying that my blood and my tears had purified the path of the child and lessened my suffering. Ever since then, whenever I despair, I remember that voice and feel calm again. That's why I wasn't surprised when I saw her arrive with our tribe's Rom Baro, who asked me for a coffee and a drink, then smiled slyly and left. The voice told me that she would come back, and now here she is, in front of me. She's pretty. She looks like her father. I don't know what feelings she has for me; perhaps she hates me because I abandoned her. I don't need to explain why I did what I did; no one would ever understand. We sit for an age without saying anything to each other, just looking – not smiling, not crying, nothing. A surge of love rises up from the depths of my soul, but I don't know if she's interested in what I feel. 'Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?' Instinct. Instinct above all else. She nods. We go into the small room in which I live, and which is living room, bedroom, kitchen and sewing workshop. She looks around, shocked, but I pretend not to notice. I go over to the stove and return with two bowls of thick meat and vegetable broth. I've prepared some strong coffee too and just as I'm about to add sugar, she speaks for the first time: 'No sugar for me, thank you. I didn't know you spoke English.' I almost say that I learned it from her father, but I bite my tongue. We eat in silence and, as time passes, everything starts to feel familiar to me; here I am with my daughter; she went off into the world and now she's back; she followed different paths from mine and has come home. I know this is an illusion, but life has given me so many moments of harsh reality that it does no harm to dream a little. 'Who's that saint?' she asks, pointing to a painting on the wall. 'St Sarah, the patron saint of gipsies. I've always wanted to visit her church in France, but I can't leave the country. I'd never get a passport or permission…' I'm about to say: And even if I did, I wouldn't have enough money, but I stop myself in time. She might think I was asking her for something. '…and besides I have too much work to do.' Silence falls again. She finishes her soup, lights a cigarette, and her eyes give nothing away, no emotion. 'Did you think you would ever see me again?' I say that I did, and that I'd heard yesterday, from the Rom Baro's wife, that she'd visited his restaurant. 'A storm is coming. Wouldn't you like to sleep a little?' 'I can't hear anything. The wind isn't blowing any harder or softer than before. I'd rather talk.' 'Believe me, I have all the time in the world. I have the rest of my life to spend by your side.' 'Don't say that.' 'But you're tired,' I go on, pretending not to have heard her remark. I can see the storm approaching. Like all storms, it brings destruction, but, at the same time, it soaks the fields, and the wisdom of the heavens falls with the rain. Like all storms, it will pass. The more violent it is, the more quickly it will pass. I have, thank God, learned to weather storms. And as if all the Holy Marys of the Sea were listening to me, the first drops of rain begin to fall on the tin roof. The young woman finishes her cigarette. I take her hand and lead her to my bed. She lies down and closes her eyes. I don't know how long she slept. I watched her without thinking anything, and the voice I'd heard once in the forest was telling me that all was well, that I needn't worry, that the ways in which fate changes people are always favourable if we only know how to decipher them. I don't know who saved her from the orphanage and brought her up and made her into the independent woman she appears to be. I offered up a prayer to that family who had allowed my daughter to survive and achieve a better life. In the middle of the prayer, I felt jealousy, despair, regret, and I stopped talking to St Sarah. Had it really been so important to bring her back? There lay everything I'd lost and could never recover. But there, too, was the physical manifestation of my love. I knew nothing and yet everything was revealed to me: I remembered the times I'd considered suicide and, later, abortion, when I'd imagined leaving that part of the world and setting off on foot to wherever my strength would take me; I remembered my blood and tears on the tree trunk, the dialogue with nature that had intensified from that moment on and has never left me since, although few people in my tribe have any inkling of this. My protector, whom I met while I was wandering in the forest, understood, but he had just died. 'The light is unstable, the wind blows it out, the lightning ignites it, it is never simply there, shining like the sun, but it is worth fighting for,' he used to say. He was the only person who accepted me and persuaded the tribe that I could once again form part of their world. He was the only one with the moral authority to ensure that I wasn't expelled. And, alas, the only one who would never meet my daughter. I wept for him, while she lay sleeping on my bed, she who must be used to all the world's comforts. Thousands of questions filled my head – who were her adoptive parents, where did she live, had she been to university, was there someone she loved, what were her plans? But I wasn't the one who had travelled the world in search of her, on the contrary. I wasn't there to ask questions, but to answer them. She opened her eyes. I wanted to touch her hair, to give her the affection I'd kept locked inside all these years, but I wasn't sure how she would react and thought it best to do nothing. 'You came here to find out why–' 'No, I don't want to know why a mother would abandon her daughter. There is no reason for anyone to do that.' Her words wound my heart, but I don't know how to respond. 'Who am I? What blood runs in my veins? Yesterday, when I found out where you were, I was absolutely terrified. Where do I start? I suppose, like all gipsies, you can read the future in the cards.' 'No, that's not true. We only do that with gadje as a way of earning a living. We never read cards or hands or try to predict the future within our own tribe. And you…' '…I'm part of the tribe. Even though the woman who brought me into the world sent me far away.' 'Yes.' 'So what am I doing here? Now that I've seen your face I can go back to London. My holidays are nearly over.' mouth: hours. 'Do you want to know about your father?' 'No, I haven't the slightest interest in him.' And suddenly, I realised that I could help her. It was as if someone else's voice came out of my 'Try to understand the blood that flows in my veins and in your heart.' That was my teacher speaking through me. She closed her eyes again and slept for nearly twelve The following day, I took her to the outskirts of Sibiu where there's a kind of museum of the different kinds of houses found in the region. For the first time, I'd had the pleasure of preparing her breakfast. She was more rested, less tense, and she asked me questions about gipsy culture, but never about me. She told me a little of her life. I learned that I was a grandmother! She didn't mention her husband or her adoptive parents. She said she sold land in a country far from there and that she would soon return to her work. I explained that I could show her how to make amulets to ward off evil, but she didn't seem interested. However, when I spoke to her about the healing properties of herbs, she asked me to teach her how to recognise them. In the park where we were walking, I tried to pass on to her all the knowledge I possessed, although I was sure she'd forget everything as soon as she returned to her home country, which by then I knew was England. 'We don't possess the Earth, the Earth possesses us. We used to travel constantly, and everything around us was ours: the plants, the water, the landscapes through which our caravans passed. Our laws were nature's laws: the strong survived, and we, the weak, the eternal exiles, learned to hide our strength and to use it only when necessary. We don't believe that God made the universe. We believe that God is the universe and that we are contained in Him, and He in us. Although…' I stopped, then decided to go on, because it was a way of paying homage to my protector. '…in my opinion, we should call “Him” “Goddess” or “Mother”. Not like the woman who gives her daughter up to an orphanage, but like the Woman in all of us, who protects us when we are in danger. She will always be with us while we perform our daily tasks with love and joy, understanding that nothing is suffering, that everything is a way of praising Creation.' Athena – now I knew her name – looked across at one of the houses in the park. 'What's that? A church?' The hours I'd spent by her side had allowed me to recover my strength. I asked if she was trying to change the subject. She thought for a moment before replying. 'No, I want to go on listening to what you have to tell me, although, according to everything I read before I came here, what you're saying isn't part of the gipsy tradition.' 'My protector taught me these things. He knew things the gipsies don't know and he made the tribe take me back. And as I learned from him, I gradually became aware of the power of the Mother, I, who had rejected the blessing of being a mother.' I pointed at a small bush. 'If one day your son has a fever, place him next to a young plant like this and shake its leaves. The fever will pass over into the plant. If ever you feel anxious, do the same thing.' 'I'd rather you told me more about your protector.' 'He taught me that in the beginning Creation was so lonely that it created someone else to talk to. Those two creatures, in an act of love, made a third person, and from then on, they multiplied by thousands and millions. You asked about the church we just saw: I don't know when it was built and I'm not interested. My temple is the park, the sky, the water in the lake and the stream that feeds it. My people are those who share my ideas and not those I'm bound to by bonds of blood. My ritual is being with those people and celebrating everything around me. When are you thinking of going home?' 'Possibly tomorrow. I don't want to inconvenience you.' Another wound to my heart, but I could say nothing. 'No, please, stay as long as you like. I only asked because I'd like to celebrate your arrival with the others. If you agree, I can do this tonight.' She says nothing, and I understand this as a 'yes'. Back home, I give her more food, and she explains that she needs to go to her hotel in Sibiu to fetch some clothes. By the time she returns, I have everything organised. We go to a hill to the south of the town; we sit around a fire that has just been lit; we play instruments, we sing, we dance, we tell stories. She watches, but doesn't take part, although the Rom Baro told me that she was a fine dancer. For the first time in many years, I feel happy, because I've had the chance to prepare a ritual for my daughter and to celebrate with her the miracle of the two of us being together, alive and healthy and immersed in the love of the Great Mother. Afterwards, she says that she'll sleep at the hotel that night. I ask her if this is goodbye, but she says it isn't. She'll come back tomorrow. For a whole week, my daughter and I share together the adoration of the Universe. One night, she brought a friend, making it quite clear that he was neither her boyfriend nor the father of her child. The man, who must have been ten years older than her, asked who we were worshipping in our rituals. I explained that worshipping someone means – according to my protector – placing that person outside our world. We are not worshipping anyone or anything; we are simply communing with Creation. 'But do you pray?' 'Myself, I pray to St Sarah, but here we are part of everything and we celebrate rather than pray.' I felt that Athena was proud of my answer, but I was really only repeating my protector's words. 'And why do this in a group, when we can all celebrate the Universe on our own?' 'Because the others are me. And I am the others.' Athena looked at me then, and I felt it was my turn to wound her heart. 'I'm leaving tomorrow,' she said. 'Before you do, come and say goodbye to your mother.' That was the first time, in all those days, I had used the word. My voice didn't tremble, my gaze was steady, and I knew that, despite everything, standing before me was the blood of my blood, the fruit of my womb. At that moment, I was behaving like a little girl who has just found out that the world isn't full of ghosts and curses, as grown-ups have taught us. It's full of love, regardless of how that love is manifested, a love that forgives our mistakes and redeems our sins. She gave me a long embrace. Then she adjusted the veil I wear to cover my hair; I may not have had a husband, but according to gipsy tradition, I had to wear a veil because I was no longer a virgin. What would tomorrow bring me, along with the departure of the being I've always both loved and feared from a distance? I was everyone, and everyone was me and my solitude. The following day, Athena arrived bearing a bunch of flowers. She tidied my room, told me that I should wear glasses because my eyes were getting worn out from all that sewing. She asked if the friends I celebrated with experienced any problems with the tribe, and I told her that they didn't, that my protector had been a very respected man, had taught us many things and had followers all over the world. I explained that he'd died shortly before she arrived. 'One day, a cat brushed against him. To us, that means death, and we were all very worried. But although there is a ritual that can lift such a curse, my protector said it was time for him to leave, that he needed to travel to those other worlds which he knew existed, to be reborn as a child, and to rest for a while in the arms of the Mother. His funeral took place in a forest nearby. It was a very simple affair, but people came from all over the world.' 'Amongst those people, was there a woman of about thirty-five, with dark hair?' 'I can't be sure, but possibly. Why do you ask' 'I met someone at a hotel in Bucharest who said that she'd come to attend the funeral of a friend. I think she said something about “her teacher”.' She asked me to tell her more about the gipsies, but there wasn't much she didn't already know, mainly because, apart from customs and traditions, we know little of our own history. I suggested that she go to France one day and take, on my behalf, a shawl to present to the image of St Sarah in the little French village of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. 'I came here because there was something missing in my life,' she said. 'I needed to fill up my blank spaces, and I thought just seeing your face would be enough. But it wasn't. I also needed to understand that…I was loved.' 'You are loved.' I said nothing else for a long time. I'd finally put into words what I'd wanted to say ever since I let her go. So that she would not become too emotional, I went on: 'I'd like to ask you something.' 'Ask me anything you like.' 'I want to ask your forgiveness.' She bit her lip. 'I've always been a very restless person. I work hard, spend too much time looking after my son, I dance like a mad thing, I learned calligraphy, I go to courses on selling, I read one book after another. But that's all a way of avoiding those moments when nothing is happening, because those blank spaces give me a feeling of absolute emptiness, in which not a single crumb of love exists. My parents have always done everything they could for me, and I do nothing but disappoint them. But here, during the time we've spent together, celebrating nature and the Great Mother, I've realised that those empty spaces were starting to get filled up. They were transformed into pauses – the moment when the man lifts his hand from the drum before bringing it down again to strike it hard. I think I can leave now. I'm not saying that I'll go in peace, because my life needs to follow the rhythm I'm accustomed to. But I won't leave feeling bitter. Do all gipsies believe in the Great Mother?' 'If you were to ask them, none of them would say “yes”. They've adopted the beliefs and customs of the places where they've settled, and the only thing that unites us in religious terms is the worship of St Sarah and making a pilgrimage, at least once in our lifetime, to visit her tomb in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Some tribes call her Kali Sarah, Black Sarah. Or the Virgin of the Gipsies, as she's known in Lourdes.' 'I have to go,' Athena said after a while. 'The friend you met the other day is leaving with me.' 'He seems like a nice man.' 'You're talking like a mother.' 'I am your mother.' 'And I'm your daughter.' She embraced me, this time with tears in her eyes. I stroked her hair as I held her in my arms, as I'd always dreamed I would, ever since the day when fate – or my fear – separated us. I asked her to take good care of herself, and she told me that she had learned a lot. 'You'll learn a lot more too because, although, nowadays, we're all trapped in houses, cities and jobs, there still flows in your blood the time of caravans and journeyings and the teachings that the Great Mother placed in our path so that we could survive. Learn, but always learn with other people by your side. Don't be alone in the search, because if you take a wrong step, you'll have no one there to help put you right.' She was still crying, still clinging to me, almost begging me to let her stay. I pleaded with my protector not to let me shed one tear, because I wanted the best for Athena, and her destiny was to go forward. Here in Transylvania, apart from my love, she would find nothing else. And although I believe that love is enough to justify a whole existence, I was quite sure that I couldn't ask her to sacrifice her future in order to stay by my side. Athena planted a kiss on my forehead and left without saying goodbye, perhaps thinking she would return one day. Every Christmas, she sent me enough money to spend the whole year without having to sew, but I never went to the bank to cash her cheques, even though everyone in the tribe thought I was behaving like a foolish woman. Six months ago, she stopped sending money. She must have realised that I need my sewing to fill up what she called the 'blank spaces'. I would love to see her again, but I know she'll never come back. She's probably a big executive now, married to the man she loves. And I probably have lots of grandchildren, which means that my blood will remain on this Earth, and my mistakes will be forgiven. Samira R. Khalil, housewife As soon as Sherine arrived home, whooping with joy and clutching a rather startled Viorel to her, I knew that everything had gone much better than I'd imagined. I felt that God had heard my prayers, and that now she no longer had anything more to learn about herself, she would finally adapt to normal life, bring up her child, remarry and forget all about the strange restlessness that left her simultaneously euphoric and depressed. 'I love you, Mum.' It was my turn to put my arms around her and hold her to me. During all the nights she'd been away, I had, I confess, been terrified by the thought that she might send someone to fetch Viorel and then they would never come back. After she'd eaten, had a bath, told us about the meeting with her birth mother, and described the Transylvanian countryside (I could barely remember it, since all I was interested in, at the time, was finding the orphanage), I asked her when she was going back to Dubai. 'Next week, but, first, I have to go to Scotland to see someone.' A man! 'A woman,' she said at once, perhaps in response to my knowing smile. 'I feel that I have a mission. While we were celebrating life and nature, I discovered things I didn't even know existed. What I thought could be found only through dance is everywhere. And it has the face of a woman. I saw in the…' I felt frightened. Her mission, I told her, was to bring up her son, do well at her job, earn more money, remarry, and respect God as we know Him. But Sherine wasn't listening. 'It was one night when we were sitting round the fire, drinking, telling funny stories and listening to music. Apart from in the restaurant, I hadn't felt the need to dance all the time I was there, as if I were storing up energy for something different. Suddenly, I felt as if everything around me were alive and pulsating, as if the Creation and I were one and the same thing. I wept with joy when the flames of the fire seemed to take on the form of a woman's face, full of compassion, smiling at me.' I shuddered. It was probably gipsy witchcraft. And at the same time, the image came back to me of the little girl at school, who said she'd seen 'a woman in white'. 'Don't get caught up in things like that, they're the Devil's work. We've always set you a good example, so why can't you lead a normal life?' I'd obviously been too hasty when I thought the journey in search of her birth mother had done her good. However, instead of reacting aggressively, as she usually did, she smiled and went on: 'What is normal? Why is Dad always laden down with work, when we have money enough to support three generations? He's an honest man and he deserves the money he earns, but he always says, with a certain pride, that he's got far too much work. Why? What for?' 'He's a man who lives a dignified, hard-working life.' 'When I lived at home, the first thing he'd ask me when he got back every evening was how my homework was going, and he'd give me a few examples illustrating how important his work was to the world. Then he'd turn on the TV, make a few comments about the political situation in Lebanon, and read some technical book before going to sleep. But he was always busy. And it was the same thing with you. I was the best-dressed girl at school; you took me to parties; you kept the house spick and span; you were always kind and loving and brought me up impeccably. But what happens now that you're getting older? What are you going to do with your life now that I've grown up and am independent?' 'We're going to travel the world and enjoy a well-earned rest.' 'But why don't you do that now, while your health is still good?' I'd asked myself the same question, but I felt that my husband needed his work, not because of the money, but out of a need to feel useful, to prove that an exile also honours his commitments. Whenever he took a holiday and stayed in town, he always found some excuse to slip into the office, to talk to his colleagues and make some decision that could easily have waited. I tried to make him go to the theatre, to the cinema, to museums, and he'd do as I asked, but I always had the feeling that it bored him. His only interest was the company, work, business. For the first time, I talked to her as if she were a friend and not my daughter, but I chose my words carefully and spoke in a way that she could understand. 'Are you saying that your father is also trying to fill in what you call the “blank spaces”?' 'The day he retires, although I really don't think that day will ever come, he'll fall into a deep depression. I'm sure of it. What to do with that hard-won freedom? Everyone will congratulate him on a brilliant career, on the legacy he leaves behind him because of the integrity with which he ran his company, but no one will have time for him any more – life flows on, and everyone is caught up in that flow. Dad will feel an exile again, but this time he won't have a country where he can seek refuge.' 'Have you got a better idea?' 'Only one: I don't want the same thing to happen to me. I'm too restless, and, please don't take this the wrong way, because I'm not blaming you and Dad at all for the example you set me, but I need to change, and change fast.' Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda She's sitting in the pitch black. The boy, of course, left the room at once – the night is the kingdom of terror, of monsters from the past, of the days when we wandered like gipsies, like my former teacher – may the Mother has mercy on his soul, and may he be loved and cherished until it is time for him to return. Athena hasn't known what to do since I switched off the light. She asks about her son, and I tell her not to worry, to leave everything to me. I go out, put the TV on, find a cartoon channel and turn off the sound; the child sits there hypnotised – problem solved. I wonder how it must have been in the past, because the women who came to perform the same ritual Athena is about to take part in would have brought their children and in those days there was no TV. What did teachers do then? Fortunately, I don't have to worry about that. What the boy is experiencing in front of the television – a gateway into a different reality – is the same state I am going to induce in Athena. Everything is at once so simple and so complicated! It's simple because all it takes is a change of attitude: I'm not going to look for happiness any more. From now on, I'm independent; I see life through my eyes and not through other people's. I'm going in search of the adventure of being alive. And it's complicated: why am I not looking for happiness when everyone has taught me that happiness is the only goal worth pursuing? Why am I going to risk taking a path that no one else is taking? After all, what is happiness? Love, they tell me. But love doesn't bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it's a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony. All right then, peace. Peace? If we look at the Mother, she's never at peace. The winter does battle with the summer, the sun and the moon never meet, the tiger chases the man, who's afraid of the dog, who chases the cat, who chases the mouse, who frightens the man. Money brings happiness. Fine. In that case, everyone who earns enough to have a high standard of living would be able to stop work. But then they're more troubled than ever, as if they were afraid of losing everything. Money attracts money, that's true. Poverty might bring unhappiness, but money won't necessarily bring happiness. I spent a lot of my life looking for happiness, now what I want is joy. Joy is like sex – it begins and ends. I want pleasure. I want to be contented, but happiness? I no longer fall into that trap. When I'm with a group of people and I want to provoke them by asking that most important of questions: 'Are you happy?', they all reply: 'Yes, I am.' Then I ask: 'But don't you want more? Don't you want to keep on growing?' And they all reply: 'Of course.' Then I say: 'So you're not happy.' And they change the subject. I must go back to the room where Athena is sitting. It's dark. She hears my footsteps; a match is struck and a candle lit. 'We're surrounded by Universal Desire. It's not happiness; it's desire. And desires are never satisfied, because once they are, they cease to be desires.' 'Where's my son?' 'Your son is fine; he's watching TV. I just want you to look at the candle; don't speak, don't say anything. Just believe.' 'Believe what?' 'I asked you not to say anything. Simply believe – don't doubt anything. You're alive, and this candle is the only point in your universe. Believe in that. Let go of the idea that the path will lead you to your goal. The truth is that with each step we take, we arrive. Repeat that to yourself every morning: “I've arrived”. That way you'll find it much easier to stay in touch with each second of your day.' I paused. 'The candle flame is illuminating your world. Ask the candle: “Who am I?”' I paused again, then went on: 'I can imagine your answer. I'm so-and-so. I've had these experiences. I have a son. I work in Dubai. Now ask the candle again: “Who am I not?”' Again I waited and again I went on: 'You probably said: I'm not a contented person. I'm not a typical mother concerned only with her son and her husband, with having a house and a garden and a place to spend the summer holidays. Is that so? You can speak now.' 'Yes, it is.' 'Good, we're on the right path. You, like me, are a dissatisfied person. Your “reality” does not coincide with the “reality” of other people. And you're afraid that your son will follow the same path as you, is that correct?' 'Yes.' 'Nevertheless, you know you cannot stop. You struggle, but you can't control your doubts. Look hard at the candle. At the moment, the candle is your universe. It fixes your attention; it lights up the room around you a little. Breathe deeply, hold the air in your lungs as long as possible and then breathe out. Repeat this five times.' She obeyed. 'This exercise should have calmed your soul. Now, remember what I said: believe. Believe in your abilities; believe that you have already arrived where you wanted to arrive. At a particular moment in your life, as you told me over tea this afternoon, you said that you'd changed the behaviour of the people in the bank where you worked because you'd taught them to dance. That isn't true. You changed everything because, through dance, you changed their reality. You believed in the story of the Vertex, which, although I've never heard of it before, seems to me an interesting one. You like dancing and you believed in what you were doing. You can't believe in something you don't like, can you?' Athena shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the candle flame. 'Faith is not desire. Faith is Will. Desires are things that need to be satisfied, whereas Will is a force. Will changes the space around us, as you did with your work at the bank. But for that, you also need Desire. Please, concentrate on the candle! 'Your son left the room and went to watch TV because he's afraid of the dark. But why? We can project anything onto the darkness, and we usually project our own ghosts. That's true for children and for adults. Slowly raise your right arm.' She raised her arm. I asked her to do the same with her left arm. I looked at her breasts, far prettier than mine. 'Now slowly lower them again. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. I'm going to turn on the light. Right, that's the end of the ritual. Let's go into the living room.' adopt. She got up with some difficulty. Her legs had gone numb because of the position I'd told her to Viorel had fallen asleep. I turned off the TV, and we went into the kitchen. 'What was the point of all that?' she asked. 'Merely to remove you from everyday reality. I could have asked you to concentrate on anything, but I like the darkness and the candle flame. But you want to know what I'm up to, isn't that right?' Athena remarked that she'd travelled for nearly five hours in the train with her son on her lap, when she should have been packing her bags to go back to work. She could have sat looking at a candle in her own room without any need to come to Scotland at all. 'Yes, there was a need,' I replied. 'You needed to know that you're not alone, that other people are in contact with the same thing as you. Just knowing that allows you to believe.' 'To believe what?' 'That you're on the right path. And, as I said before, arriving with each step you take.' 'What path? I thought that by going to find my mother in Romania, I would, at last, find the peace of mind I so need, but I haven't. What path are you talking about?' 'I haven't the slightest idea. You'll only discover that when you start to teach. When you go back to Dubai, find a student.' 'Do you mean teach dance or calligraphy?' 'Those are things you know about already. You need to teach what you don't know, what the Mother wants to reveal through you.' She looked at me as if I had gone mad. 'It's true,' I said. 'Why else do you think I asked you to breathe deeply and to raise your arms? So that you'd believe that I knew more than you. But it isn't true. It was just a way of taking you out of the world you're accustomed to. I didn't ask you to thank the Mother, to say how wonderful She is or that you saw Her face shining in the flames of a fire. I asked only that absurd and pointless gesture of raising your arms and focusing your attention on a candle. That's enough – trying, whenever possible, to do something that is out of kilter with the reality around us. 'When you start creating rituals for your student to carry out, you'll be receiving guidance. That's where the apprenticeship begins, or so my protector told me. If you want to heed my words, fine, but if you don't and you carry on with your life as it is at the moment, you'll end up bumping up against a wall called “dissatisfaction”.' I rang for a taxi, and we talked a little about fashion and men, and then Athena left. I was sure she would listen to me, mainly because she was the kind of person who never refuses a challenge. 'Teach people to be different. That's all!' I shouted after her, as the taxi moved off. That is joy. Happiness would be feeling satisfied with everything she already had – a lover, a son, a job. And Athena, like me, wasn't born for that kind of life. Heron Ryan, journalist I couldn't admit I was in love, of course; I already had a girlfriend who loved me and shared with me both my troubles and my joys. The various encounters and events that had taken place in Sibiu were part of a journey, and it wasn't the first time this kind of thing had happened while I was away from home. When we step out of our normal world and leave behind us all the usual barriers and prejudices, we tend to become more adventurous. When I returned to England, the first thing I did was to tell the producers that making a documentary about the historical figure of Dracula was a nonsense, and that one book by a mad Irishman had created a truly terrible image of Transylvania, which was, in fact, one of the loveliest places on the planet. Obviously the producers were none too pleased, but at that point, I didn't care what they thought. I left television and went to work for one of the world's most prestigious newspapers. That was when I began to realise that I wanted to meet Athena again. I phoned her and we arranged to go for a walk together before she went back to Dubai. She suggested guiding me around London. We got on the first bus that stopped, without asking where it was going, then we chose a female passenger at random and decided that we would get off wherever she did. She got off at Temple and so did we. We passed a beggar who asked us for money, but we didn't give him any and walked on, listening to the insults he hurled after us, accepting that this was merely his way of communicating with us. We saw someone vandalising a telephone box, and I wanted to call the police, but Athena stopped me; perhaps that person had just broken up with the love of his life and needed to vent his feelings. Or, who knows, perhaps he had no one to talk to and couldn't stand to see others humiliating him by using that phone to discuss business deals or love. She told me to close my eyes and to describe exactly the clothes we were both wearing; to my surprise, I got nearly every detail wrong. She asked me what was on my desk at work and said that some of the papers were only there because I was too lazy to deal with them. 'Have you ever considered that those bits of paper have a life and feelings, have requests to make and stories to tell? I don't think you're giving life the attention it deserves.' I promised that I'd go through them one by one when I returned to work the following day. A foreign couple with a map asked Athena how to get to a particular tourist spot. She gave them very precise, but totally inaccurate directions. 'Everything you told them was completely wrong!' 'It doesn't matter. They'll get lost, and that's the best way to discover interesting places. Try to fill your life again with a little fantasy; above our heads is a sky about which the whole of humanity – after thousands of years spent observing it – has given various apparently reasonable explanations. Forget everything you've ever learned about the stars and they'll once more be transformed into angels, or into children, or into whatever you want to believe at that moment. It won't make you more stupid – after all, it's only a game – but it could enrich your life.' The following day, when I went back to work, I treated each sheet of paper as if it were a message addressed to me personally and not to the organisation I represent. At midday, I went to talk to the deputy editor and suggested writing an article about the Goddess worshipped by the gipsies. He thought it an excellent idea and I was commissioned to go to the celebrations in the gipsy Mecca, Saintes-Maries-de-laMer. Incredible though it may seem, Athena showed no desire to go with me. She said that her boyfriend that fictitious policeman, whom she was using to keep me at a distance – wouldn't be very happy if she went off travelling with another man. 'Didn't you promise your mother to take the saint a new shawl?' 'Yes, I did, but only if the town happened to be on my path, which it isn't. If I do ever pass by there, then I'll keep my promise.' She was returning to Dubai the following Sunday, but first she travelled up to Scotland with her son to see the woman we'd both met in Bucharest. I didn't remember anyone, but, perhaps the phantom 'woman in Scotland', like the phantom 'boyfriend', was another excuse, and I decided not to insist. But I nevertheless felt jealous, as if she were telling me that she preferred being with other people. I found my jealousy odd. And I decided that if I was asked to go to the Middle East to write an article about the property boom that someone on the business pages had mentioned, I would read up everything I could on real estate, economics, politics and oil, simply as a way of getting closer to Athena. My visit to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer produced an excellent article. According to tradition, Sarah was a gipsy who happened to be living in the small seaside town when Jesus' aunt, Mary Salome, along with other refugees, arrived there fleeing persecution by the Romans. Sarah helped them and, in the end, converted to Christianity. During the celebrations, bones from the skeletons of the two women who are buried beneath the altar are taken out of a reliquary and raised up on high to bless the multitude of gipsies who arrive in their caravans from all over Europe with their bright clothes and their music. Then the image of Sarah, decked out in splendid robes, is brought from the place near the church where it's kept – for Sarah has never been canonised by the Vatican – and carried in procession to the sea through narrow streets strewn with rose petals. Four gipsies in traditional costume place the relics in a boat full of flowers and wade into the water, re-enacting the arrival of the fugitives and their meeting with Sarah. From then on, it's all music, celebration, songs and bull-running. A historian, Antoine Locadour, helped me flesh out the article with interesting facts about the Female Divinity. I sent Athena the two pages I'd written for the newspaper's travel section. All I received in return was a friendly reply, thanking me for sending her the article, but with no other comment. At least, I'd confirmed that her address in Dubai existed. Antoine Locadour, 74, historian, ICP, France It's easy to label Sarah as just one of the many Black Virgins in the world. According to tradition, Sarah-la-Kali was of noble lineage and knew the secrets of the world. She is, I believe, one more manifestation of what people call the Great Mother, the Goddess of Creation. And it doesn't surprise me in the least that more and more people are becoming interested in pagan traditions. Why? Because God the Father is associated with the rigour and discipline of worship, whereas the Mother Goddess shows the importance of love above and beyond all the usual prohibitions and taboos. The phenomenon is hardly a new one. Whenever a religion tightens its rules, a significant number of people break away and go in search of more freedom in their search for spiritual contact. This happened during the Middle Ages when the Catholic Church did little more than impose taxes and build splendid monasteries and convents; the phenomenon known as 'witchcraft' was a reaction to this, and even though it was suppressed because of its revolutionary nature, it left behind it roots and traditions that have managed to survive over the centuries. According to pagan tradition, nature worship is more important than reverence for sacred books. The Goddess is in everything and everything is part of the Goddess. The world is merely an expression of her goodness. There are many philosophical systems – such as Taoism and Buddhism – which make no distinction between creator and creature. People no longer try to decipher the mystery of life, but choose instead to be part of it. There is no female figure in Taoism or Buddhism, but there, too, the central idea is that 'everything is one'. In the worship of the Great Mother, what we call 'sin', usually a transgression of certain arbitrary moral codes, ceases to exist. Sex and customs in general are freer because they are part of nature and cannot be considered to be the fruits of evil. The new paganism shows that man is capable of living without an institutionalised religion, while still continuing the spiritual search in order to justify his existence. If God is Mother, then we need only gather together with other people and adore Her through rituals intended to satisfy the female soul, rituals involving dance, fire, water, air, earth, songs, music, flowers and beauty. This has been a growing trend over the last few years. We may be witnessing a very important moment in the history of the world, when the Spirit finally merges with the Material, and the two are united and transformed. At the same time, I imagine that there will be a very violent reaction from organised religious institutions, which are beginning to lose their followers. There will be a rise in fundamentalism. As a historian, I'm content to collate all the data and analyse this confrontation between the freedom to worship and the duty to obey, between the God who controls the world and the Goddess who is part of the world, between people who join together in groups where celebration is a spontaneous affair and those who close ranks and learn only what they should and should not do. I'd like to be optimistic and believe that human beings have at last found their path to the spiritual world, but the signs are not very positive. As so often in the past, a new conservative backlash could once more stifle the cult of the Mother. Andrea McCain, actress It's very difficult to be impartial and to tell a story that began in admiration and ended in rancour, but I'm going to try, yes, I'm really going to try and describe the Athena I met for the first time in an apartment in Victoria Street. She'd just got back from Dubai with plenty of money and a desire to share everything she knew about the mysteries of magic. This time, she'd spent only four months in the Middle East: she sold some land for the construction of two supermarkets, earned a huge commission and decided that she'd earned enough money to support herself and her son for the next three years, and that she could always resume work later on if she wanted. Now was the time to make the most of the present, to live what remained of her youth and to teach others everything she had learned. She received me somewhat unenthusiastically: 'What do you want?' 'I work in the theatre and we're putting on a play about the female face of God. I heard from a journalist friend that you spent time in the Balkan mountains with some gipsies and would be prepared to tell me about your experiences there.' 'You mean you only came here to learn about the Mother because of a play?' 'Why did you learn about Her?' Athena stopped, looked me up and down, and smiled: 'You're right. That's my first lesson as a teacher: teach those who want to learn. The reason doesn't matter.' 'I'm sorry?' 'Nothing.' 'The origins of the theatre are sacred,' I went on. 'It began in Greece with hymns to Dionysus, the god of wine, rebirth and fertility. But it's believed that even from very remote times, people performed a ritual in which they would pretend to be someone else as a way of communing with the sacred.' 'Second lesson, thank you.' 'I don't understand. I came here to learn, not to teach.' This woman was beginning to irritate me. Perhaps she was being ironic. 'My protector–' 'Your protector?' 'I'll explain another time. My protector said that I would only learn what I need to learn if I were provoked into it. And since my return from Dubai, you're the first person to demonstrate that to me. What she said makes sense.' I explained that, in researching the play, I'd gone from one teacher to the next, but had never found their teachings to be in any way exceptional; despite this, however, I grew more and more interested in the matter as I went on. I also mentioned that these people had seemed confused and uncertain about what they wanted. 'For example?' Sex, for example. In some of the places I went to, sex was a complete no-no. In others, they not only advocated complete freedom, but even encouraged orgies. She asked for more details, and I couldn't tell if she was doing this in order to test me or because she had no idea what other people got up to. Athena spoke before I could answer her question. 'When you dance, do you feel desire? Do you feel as if you were summoning up a greater energy? When you dance, are there moments when you cease to be yourself?' I didn't know what to say. In nightclubs or at parties in friends' houses, sensuality was definitely part of how I felt when I danced. I would start by flirting and enjoying the desire in men's eyes, but as the night wore on, I seemed to get more in touch with myself, and it was no longer important to me whether I was or wasn't seducing someone. Athena continued: 'If theatre is ritual, then dance is too. Moreover, it's a very ancient way of getting close to a partner. It's as if the threads connecting us to the rest of the world were washed clean of preconceptions and fears. When you dance, you can enjoy the luxury of being you.' I started listening to her with more respect. 'Afterwards, we go back to being who we were before – frightened people trying to be more important than we actually believe we are.' That was exactly how I felt. Or is it the same for everyone? 'Do you have a boyfriend?' I remembered that in one of the places where I'd gone to learn about the Gaia tradition, a 'druid' had asked me to make love in front of him. Ridiculous and frightening – how dare these people use the spiritual search for their own more sinister ends? 'Do you have a boyfriend?' she asked again. 'I do.' Athena said nothing else. She merely put her finger to her lips, indicating that I should remain silent. And suddenly I realised that it was extremely difficult for me to remain silent in the presence of someone I'd only just met. The norm is to talk about something, anything – the weather, the traffic, the best restaurants to go to. We were sitting on the sofa in her completely white sitting room, with a CD-player and a small shelf of CDs. There were no books anywhere, and no paintings on the wall. Given that she'd travelled to the Middle East, I'd expected to find objects and souvenirs from that part of the world. But it was empty, and now there was this silence. Her grey eyes were fixed on mine, but I held firm and didn't look away. Instinct perhaps. A way of saying that I'm not frightened, but facing the challenge head-on. Except that everything – the silence and the white room, the noise of the traffic outside in the street – began to seem unreal. How long were we going to stay there, saying nothing? I started to track my own thoughts. Had I come there in search of material for my play or did I really want knowledge, wisdom, power? I couldn't put my finger on what it was that had led me to come and see…what? A witch? My adolescent dreams surfaced. Who wouldn't like to meet a real witch, learn how to perform magic, and gain the respect and fear of her friends? Who, as a young woman, hasn't been outraged by the centuries of repression suffered by women and felt that becoming a witch would be the best way of recovering her lost identity? I'd been through that phase myself; I was independent and did what I liked in the highly competitive world of the theatre, but then why was I never content? Why was I always testing out my curiosity? We must have been about the same age…or was I older? Did she, too, have a boyfriend? Athena moved closer. We were now less than an arm's length from each other and I started to feel afraid. Was she a lesbian? I didn't look away, but I made a mental note of where the door was so that I could leave whenever I wished. No one had made me go to that house to meet someone I'd never seen before in my life and sit there wasting time, not saying anything and not learning anything either. What did she want? That silence perhaps. My muscles began to grow tense. I was alone and helpless. I desperately needed to talk or to make my mind stop telling me that I was under threat. How could she possibly know who I was? We are what we say! Had she asked me anything about my life? She'd wanted to know if I had a boyfriend. I tried to say more about the theatre, but couldn't. And what about the stories I'd heard about her gipsy ancestry, her stay in Transylvania, the land of vampires? My thoughts wouldn't stop: how much would that consultation cost? I was terrified. I should have asked before. A fortune? And if I didn't pay, would she put a spell on me that would eventually destroy me? I felt an impulse to get to my feet, thank her and say that I hadn't come there just to sit in silence. If you go to a psychiatrist, you have to talk. If you go to a church, you listen to a sermon. If you go in search of magic, you find a teacher who wants to explain the world to you and who gives you a series of rituals to follow. But silence? Why did it make me feel so uncomfortable? One question after another kept forming in my mind, and I couldn't stop thinking or trying to find a reason for the two of us to be sitting there, saying nothing. Suddenly, perhaps after five or ten long minutes of total immobility, she smiled. I smiled too and relaxed. 'Try to be different. That's all.' 'That's all? Is sitting in silence being different? I imagine that, at this very moment, there are thousands of people in London who are desperate for someone to talk to, and all you can say to me is that silence makes a difference?' 'Now that you're talking and reorganising the universe, you'll end up convincing yourself that you're right and I'm wrong. But as you experienced for yourself – being silent is different.' 'It's unpleasant. It doesn't teach you anything.' She seemed indifferent to my reaction. 'What theatre are you working at?' Finally, she was taking an interest in my life! I was being restored to my human condition, with a profession and everything! I invited her to come and see the play we were putting on – it was the only way I could find to avenge myself, by showing that I was capable of things that Athena was not. That silence had left a humiliating aftertaste. She asked if she could bring her son, and I said, no, it was for adults only. 'Well, I could always leave him with my mother. I haven't been to the theatre in ages.' She didn't charge for the consultation. When I met up with the other members of the cast, I told them about my encounter with this mysterious creature. They were all mad keen to meet someone who, when she first met you, asked only that you sat in silence. Athena arrived on the appointed day. She saw the play, came to my dressing-room afterwards to say hello, but didn't say whether she'd enjoyed herself or not. My colleagues suggested that I invite her to the bar where we usually went after the performance. There, instead of keeping quiet, she started answering a question that had been left unanswered at our first meeting. 'No one, not even the Mother would ever want sex to take place purely as a celebration. Love must always be present. Didn't you say that you'd met people like that? Well, be careful.' My friends had no idea what she was talking about, but they warmed to the subject and started bombarding her with questions. Something troubled me. Her answers were very academic, as if she didn't have much experience of what she was talking about. She spoke about the game of seduction, about fertility rites, and concluded with a Greek myth, probably because I'd mentioned during our first meeting that the theatre had begun in Greece. She must have spent the whole week reading up on the subject. 'After millennia of male domination, we are returning to the cult of the Great Mother. The Greeks called her Gaia, and according to the myth, she was born out of Chaos, the void that existed before the universe. With her came Eros, the god of love, and then she gave birth to the Sea and the Sky.' 'Who was the father?' asked one of my friends. 'No one. There's a technical term, parthenogenesis, which is a process of reproduction that does not require fertilisation of the egg by a male. There's a mystical term too, one to which we're more accustomed: Immaculate Conception. 'From Gaia sprang all the gods who would later people the Elysian Fields of Greece, including our own dear Dionysus, your idol. But as man became established as the principal political power in the cities, Gaia was forgotten, and was replaced by Zeus, Ares, Apollo and company, all of whom were competent enough, but didn't have the same allure as the Mother who originated everything.' Then she questioned us about our work. The director asked if she'd like to give us some lessons. 'On what?' 'On what you know.' 'To be perfectly honest, I learned all about the origins of theatre this week. I learn everything as I need to learn it, that's what Edda told me to do.' So I was right! 'But I can share other things that life has taught me.' They all agreed. And no one asked who Edda was. Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda I said to Athena: 'You don't have to keep coming here all the time just to ask silly questions. If a group has decided to take you on as a teacher, why not use that opportunity to turn yourself into a teacher? 'Do what I always did. 'Try to feel good about yourself even when you feel like the least worthy of creatures. Reject all those negative thoughts and let the Mother take possession of your body and soul; surrender yourself to dance or to silence or to ordinary, everyday activities – like taking your son to school, preparing supper, making sure the house is tidy. Everything is worship if your mind is focused on the present moment. 'Don't try to convince anyone of anything. When you don't know something, ask or go away and find out. But when you do act, be like the silent, flowing river and open yourself to a greater energy. Believe – that's what I said at our first meeting – simply believe that you can. 'At first, you'll be confused and insecure. Then you'll start to believe that everyone thinks they're being conned. It's not true. You have the knowledge, it's simply a matter of being aware. All the minds on the planet are so easily cast down – they fear illness, invasion, attack, death. Try to restore their lost joy to them. 'Be clear. 'Re-programme yourself every minute of each day with thoughts that make you grow. When you're feeling irritated or confused, try to laugh at yourself. Laugh out loud at this woman tormented by doubts and anxieties, convinced that her problems are the most important thing in the world. Laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation, at the fact that despite being a manifestation of the Mother, you still believe God is a man who lays down the rules. Most of our problems stem from just that – from following rules. 'Concentrate. 'If you can find nothing on which to focus your mind, concentrate on your breathing. The Mother's river of light is flowing in through your nose. Listen to your heart beating, follow the thoughts you can't control, control your desire to get up at once and to do something “useful”. Sit for a few minutes each day, doing nothing, getting as much as you can out of that time. 'When you're washing up, pray. Be thankful that there are plates to be washed; that means there was food, that you fed someone, that you've lavished care on one or more people, that you cooked and laid the table. Imagine the millions of people at this moment who have absolutely nothing to wash up and no one for whom to lay the table. 'There are women who say: “I'm not going to do the washing up, let the men do it.” Fine, let the men do it if they want to, but that has nothing to do with equality. There's nothing wrong with doing simple things, although if I were to publish an article tomorrow saying everything I think, I'd be accused of working against the feminist cause. Nonsense! As if washing up or wearing a bra or having someone open or close a door could be humiliating to me as a woman. The fact is, I love it when a man opens the door for me. According to etiquette this means: “She needs me to do this because she's fragile”, but in my soul is written: “I'm being treated like a goddess. I'm a queen.” I'm not here to work for the feminist cause, because both men and women are a manifestation of the Mother, the Divine Unity. No one can be greater than that. 'I'd love to see you giving classes on what you're learning. That's the main aim of life – revelation! You make yourself into a channel; you listen to yourself and are surprised at how capable you are. Remember your job at the bank? Perhaps you never properly understood that what happened there was a result of the energy flowing out your body, your eyes, your hands. 'You'll say it was the dance. 'The dance was simply a ritual. What is a ritual? It means transforming something monotonous into something different, rhythmic, capable of channelling the Unity. That's why I say again: be different even when you're washing up. Move your hands so that they never repeat the same gesture twice, even though they maintain the rhythm. 'If you find it helpful, try to visualise images – flowers, birds, trees in a forest. Don't imagine single objects, like the candle you focused on when you came here for the first time. Try to think of something collective. And do you know what you'll find? That you didn't choose your thought. 'I'll give you an example: imagine a flock of birds flying. How many birds did you see? Eleven, nineteen, five? You have a vague idea, but you don't know the exact number. So where did that thought come from? Someone put it there. Someone who knows the exact number of birds, trees, stones, flowers. Someone who, in that fraction of a second, took charge of you and showed you Her power. 'You are what you believe yourself to be. 'Don't be like those people who believe in “positive thinking” and tell themselves that they're loved and strong and capable. You don't need to do that, because you know it already. And when you doubt it which happens, I think, quite often at this stage of evolution – do as I suggested. Instead of trying to prove that you're better than you think, just laugh. Laugh at your worries and insecurities. View your anxieties with humour. It will be difficult at first, but you'll gradually get used to it. 'Now go back and meet all those people who think you know everything. Convince yourself that they're right, because we all know everything: it's merely a question of believing. 'Believe. 'As I said to you in Bucharest, the very first time we met, groups are very important because they force us to progress. If you're alone, all you can do is laugh at yourself, but if you're with others, you'll laugh and then immediately act. Groups challenge us. Groups allow us to choose our affinities. Groups create a collective energy, and ecstasy comes more easily because everyone infects everyone else. 'Groups can also destroy us of course, but that's part of life and the human condition – living with other people. And anyone who's failed to develop an instinct for survival has understood nothing of what the Mother is saying. 'You're lucky. A group has just asked you to teach them something, and that will make you a teacher.' Heron Ryan, journalist Before the first meeting with the actors, Athena came to my house. Ever since I published the article on St Sarah, she'd been convinced that I understood her world, which wasn't true at all. I simply wanted to attract her attention. I was trying to come round to the idea that there might be an invisible reality capable of interfering in our lives, but the only reason I did so was because of a love I didn't want to believe I felt, but which was continuing to grow in a subtle, devastating way. I was content with my universe and didn't want to change it at all, even though I was being propelled in that direction. 'I'm afraid,' she said as soon as she arrived. 'But I must go ahead and do what they're asking of me. I need to believe.' 'You've had a lot of experiences in life. You learned from the gipsies, from the dervishes in the desert, from–' 'Well, that's not quite true. Besides, what does learning mean: accumulating knowledge or transforming your life?' I suggested we go out that night for supper and to dance a little. She agreed to supper, but rejected the dancing. 'Answer me,' she said, looking round my apartment. 'Is learning just putting things on a shelf or is it discarding whatever is no longer useful and then continuing on your way feeling lighter?' On the shelves were all the books I'd invested so much money and time in buying, reading and annotating. There were my personality, my education, my true teachers. 'How many books have you got? Over a thousand, I'd say. But most of them you'll probably never open again. You hang on to them because you don't believe.' 'I don't believe?' 'No, you don't believe, full stop. Anyone who believes, will go and read up about theatre as I did when Andrea asked me about it, but, after that, it's a question of letting the Mother speak through you and making discoveries as she speaks. And as you make those discoveries, you'll manage to fill in the blank spaces that all those writers left there on purpose to provoke the reader's imagination. And when you fill in the spaces, you'll start to believe in your own abilities. 'How many people would love to read those books, but don't have the money to buy them? Meanwhile, you sit here surrounded by all this stagnant energy, purely to impress the friends who visit you. Or is it that you don't feel you've learned anything from them and need to consult them again?' I thought she was being rather hard on me, and that intrigued me. 'So you don't think I need this library?' 'I think you need to read, but why hang on to all these books? Would it be asking too much if we were to leave here right now, and before going to the restaurant, distribute most of them to whoever we happened to pass in the street?' 'They wouldn't all fit in my car.' 'We could hire a truck.' 'But then we wouldn't get to the restaurant in time for supper. Besides, you came here because you were feeling insecure, not in order to tell me what I should do with my books. Without them I'd feel naked.' 'Ignorant, you mean.' 'Uncultivated would be the right word.' 'So your culture isn't in your heart, it's on your bookshelves.' Enough was enough. I picked up the phone to reserve a table and told the restaurant that we'd be there in fifteen minutes. Athena was trying to avoid the problem that had brought her here. Her deep insecurity was making her go on the attack, rather than looking at herself. She needed a man by her side and, who knows, was perhaps sounding me out to see how far I'd go, using her feminine wiles to discover just what I'd be prepared to do for her. Simply 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 ofyour 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 naïve 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 ofApollo 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 François 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, twentyfive 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 midstream. '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 saying–' '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.' She wasn't saying that because of Athena? But she was Athena! 'And you,' she pointed to me. 'Come over here. Kneel down before me.' Afraid of what Andrea might do and embarrassed to have everyone's eyes on me, I nevertheless did as she asked. 'Bow your head. Let me touch the nape of your neck.' I felt the pressure of her fingers, but nothing else. We remained like that for nearly a minute, and then she told me to get up and go back to my seat. 'You won't need to take sleeping pills any more. From now on, sleep will return.' I glanced at Andrea. I thought she might say something, but she looked as amazed as I did. One of the actresses, possibly the youngest, raised her hand. 'I'd like to say something, but I need to know who I'm speaking to.' 'Hagia Sofia.' 'I'd like to know if…' She glanced round, ashamed, but the director nodded, asking her to continue. '…if my mother is all right.' 'She's by your side. Yesterday, when you left the house, she made you forget your handbag. You went back to find it and discovered that you'd locked yourself out and couldn't get in. You wasted a whole hour looking for a locksmith, when you could have kept the appointment you'd made, met the man who was waiting for you and got the job you wanted. But if everything had happened as you planned that morning, in six months' time you would have died in a car accident. Forgetting your handbag yesterday changed your life.' The girl began to weep. 'Does anyone else want to ask anything?' Another hand went up. It was the director. 'Does he love me?' So it was true. The story about the girl's mother had stirred up a whirlwind of emotions in the room. 'You're asking the wrong question. What you need to know is, are you in a position to give him the love he needs. And whatever happens or doesn't happen will be equally gratifying. Knowing that you are capable of love is enough. If it isn't him, it will be someone else. You've discovered a wellspring, simply allow it to flow and it will fill your world. Don't try to keep a safe distance so as to see what happens. Don't wait to be certain before you take a step. What you give, you will receive, although it might sometimes come from the place you least expect.' Those words applied to me too. Then Athena – or whoever she was – turned to Andrea. 'You!' My blood froze. 'You must be prepared to lose the universe you created.' 'What do you mean by “universe”?' 'What you think you already have. You've imprisoned your world, but you know that you must liberate it. I know you understand what I mean, even though you don't want to hear it.' 'I understand.' I was sure they were talking about me. Was this all a set-up by Athena? 'It's finished,' she said. 'Bring the child to me.' Viorel didn't want to go; he was frightened by his mother's transformation. But Andrea took him gently by the hand and led him to her. Athena – or Hagia Sofia, or Sherine, or whoever she was – did just as she had done with me, and pressed the back of the boy's neck with her fingers. 'Don't be frightened by the things you see, my child. Don't try to push them away because they'll go away anyway. Enjoy the company of the angels while you can. You're frightened now, but you're not as frightened as you might be because you know there are lots of people in the room. You stopped laughing and dancing when you saw me embracing your mother and asking to speak through her mouth. But you know I wouldn't be doing this if she hadn't given me her permission. I've always appeared before in the form of light, and I still am that light, but today I decided to speak.' The little boy put his arms around her. 'You can go now. Leave me alone with him.' One by one, we left the apartment, leaving the mother with her child. In the taxi home, I tried to talk to Andrea, but she said that we could talk about anything but what had just happened. I said nothing. My soul filled with sadness. Losing Andrea was very hard. On the other hand, I felt an immense peace. The evening's events had wrought changes in us all, and that meant I wouldn't need to go through the pain of sitting down with a woman I loved very much and telling her that I was in love with someone else. In this case, I chose silence. I got home, turned on the TV, and Andrea went to have a bath. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, the room was full of light. It was morning, and I'd slept for ten hours. Beside me was a note, in which Andrea said that she hadn't wanted to wake me, that she'd gone straight to the theatre, but had left me some coffee. The note was a romantic one, decorated in lipstick and a small cutout heart. She had no intention of 'letting go of her universe'. She was going to fight. And my life would become a nightmare. That evening, she phoned, and her voice betrayed no particular emotion. She told me that the elderly actor had gone to see his doctor, who had examined him and found that he had an enlarged prostate. The next step was a blood test, where they had detected a significantly raised level of a type of protein called PSA. They took a sample for a biopsy, but the clinical picture indicated that there was a high chance he had a malignant tumour. 'The doctor said he was lucky, because even if their worst fears were proved right, they can still operate and there's a ninety-nine per cent chance of a cure.' Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda What do you mean, Hagia Sofia! It was her, Athena, but by touching the deepest part of the river that flows through her soul, she had come into contact with the Mother. All she did was to see what was happening in another reality. The young actress's mother, now that she's dead, lives in a place outside of time and so was able to change the course of events, whereas we human beings can only know about the present. But that's no small thing: discovering a dormant illness before it gets worse, touching nervous systems and unblocking energies is within the reach of all of us. Of course, many died at the stake, others were exiled and many ended up hiding or suppressing the spark of the Great Mother in their souls. I never brought Athena into contact with the Power. She decided to do this, because the Mother had already given her various signs: she was a light while she danced, she changed into letters while she was learning calligraphy, she appeared to her in a fire and in a mirror. What my student didn't know was how to live with Her, until, that is, she did something that provoked this whole chain of events. Athena, who was always telling everyone to be different, was basically just like all other mortals. She had her own rhythm, a kind of cruise control. Was she more curious than most? Possibly. Had she managed to overcome her sense of being a victim? Definitely. Did she feel a need to share what she was learning with others, be they bank employees or actors? In some cases the answer was 'Yes', but in others, I had to encourage her, because we are not meant for solitude, and we only know ourselves when we see ourselves in the eyes of others. But that was as far as my interference went. Maybe the Mother wanted to appear that night, and perhaps she whispered something in her ear: 'Go against everything you've learned so far. You, who are a mistress of rhythm, allow the rhythm to pass through your body, but don't obey it.' That was why Athena suggested the exercise. Her unconscious was already prepared to receive the Mother, but Athena herself was still dancing in time to the music and so any external elements were unable to manifest themselves. The same thing used to happen with me. The best way to meditate and enter into contact with the light was by knitting, something my mother had taught me when I was a child. I knew how to count the stitches, manipulate the needles and create beautiful things through repetition and harmony. One day, my protector asked me to knit in a completely irrational way! I found this really distressing, because I'd learned how to knit with affection, patience and dedication. Nevertheless, he insisted on me knitting really badly. I knitted like this for two hours, thinking all the time that it was utterly ridiculous, absurd. My head ached, but I had to resist letting the needles guide my hands. Anyone can do things badly, so why was he asking this of me? Because he knew about my obsession with geometry and with perfection. And suddenly, it happened: I stopped moving the needles and felt a great emptiness, which was filled by a warm, loving, companionable presence. Everything around me was different, and I felt like saying things that I would never normally dare to say. I didn't lose consciousness; I knew I was still me, but, paradoxically, I wasn't the person I was used to being with. So I can 'see' what happened, even though I wasn't there. Athena's soul following the sound of the music while her body went in a totally contrary direction. After a time, her soul disconnected from her body, a space opened, and the Mother could finally enter. Or, rather, a spark from the Mother appeared. Ancient, but apparently very young. Wise, but not omnipotent. Special, but not in the least arrogant. Her perceptions changed, and she began to see the same things she used to see when she was a child – the parallel universes that people this world. At such moments, we can see not only the physical body, but people's emotions too. They say cats have this same power, and I believe them. A kind of blanket lies between the physical and the spiritual world, a blanket that changes in colour, intensity and light; it's what mystics call 'aura'. From then on, everything is easy. The aura tells you what's going on. If I had been there, she would have seen a violet colour with a few yellow splodges around my body. That means that I still have a long road ahead of me and that my mission on this Earth has not yet been accomplished. Mixed up with human auras are transparent forms, which people usually call 'ghosts'. That was the case with the young woman's mother, and only in such case can someone's fate be altered. I'm almost certain that the young actress, even before she asked, knew that her mother was beside her, and the only real surprise to her was the story about the handbag. Confronted by that rhythmless dance, everyone was really intimidated. Why? Because we're used to doing things 'as they should be done'. No one likes to make the wrong moves, especially when we're aware that we're doing so. Even Athena. It can't have been easy for her to suggest doing something that went against everything she loved. I'm glad that the Mother won the battle at that point. A man has been saved from cancer, another has accepted his sexuality, and a third has stopped taking sleeping pills. And all because Athena broke the rhythm, slamming on the brakes when the car was travelling at top speed and thus throwing everything into disarray. To go back to my knitting: I used that method of knitting badly for quite some time, until I managed to provoke the presence without any artificial means, now that I knew it and was used to it. The same thing happened with Athena. Once we know where the Doors of Perception are, it's really easy to open and close them, when we get used to our own 'strange' behaviour. And it must be said that I knitted much faster and better after that, just as Athena danced with much more soul and rhythm once she had dared to break down those barriers. Andrea McCain, actress The story spread like wild fire. On the following Monday, when the theatre was closed, Athena's apartment was packed. We had all brought friends. She did as she had on the previous evening; she made us dance without rhythm, as if she needed that collective energy in order to get in touch with Hagia Sofia. The boy was there again, and I decided to watch him. When he sat down on the sofa, the music stopped and the trance began. As did the questions. The first three questions were, as you can imagine, about love – will he stay with me, does she love me, is he cheating on me. Athena said nothing. The fourth person to receive no answer asked again, more loudly this time: 'So is he cheating on me or not?' 'I am Hagia Sofia, universal wisdom. I came into the world accompanied only by Love. I am the beginning of everything, and before I existed there was chaos. Therefore, if any of you wish to control the forces that prevailed in chaos, do not ask Hagia Sofia. For me, love fills everything. It cannot be desired because it is an end in itself. It cannot betray because it has nothing to do with possession. It cannot be held prisoner because it is a river and will overflow its banks. Anyone who tries to imprison love will cut off the spring that feeds it, and the trapped water will grow stagnant and rank.' Hagia looked around the group, most of whom were there for the first time, and she began to point out what she saw: the threat of disease, problems at work, frictions between parents and children, sexuality, potentialities that existed but were not being explored. I remember her turning to one woman in her thirties and saying: 'Your father told you how things should be and how a woman should behave. You have always fought against your dreams, and “I want” has never even shown its face. It was always drowned out by “I must” or “I hope” or “I need”, but you're a wonderful singer. One year's experience could make a huge difference to your work.' 'But I have a husband and a child.' 'Athena has a child too. Your husband will be upset at first, but he'll come to accept it eventually. And you don't need to be Hagia Sofia to know that.' said.' 'Maybe I'm too old.' 'You're refusing to accept who you are, but that is not my problem. I have said what needed to be Gradually, everyone in that small room – unable to sit down because there wasn't enough space, sweating profusely even though the winter was nearly over, feeling ridiculous for having come to such an event – was called upon to receive Hagia Sofia's advice. I was the last. 'Stay behind afterwards if you want to stop being two and to be one instead.' This time, I didn't have her son on my lap. He watched everything that happened, and it seemed that the conversation they'd had after the first session had been enough for him to lose his fear. I nodded. Unlike the previous session, when people had simply left when she'd asked to talk to her son alone, this time Hagia Sofia gave a sermon before ending the ritual. 'You are not here to receive definite answers. My mission is to provoke you. In the past, both governors and governed went to oracles who would foretell the future. The future, however, is unreliable because it is guided by decisions made in the here and now. Keep the bicycle moving, because if you stop pedalling, you will fall off. 'For those of you who came to meet Hagia Sofia wanting her merely to confirm what you hoped to be true, please, do not come back. Or else start dancing and make those around you dance too. Fate will be implacable with those who want to live in a universe that is dead and gone. The new world belongs to the Mother, who came with Love to separate the heavens from the waters. Anyone who believes they have failed will always fail. Anyone who has decided that they cannot behave any differently will be destroyed by routine. Anyone who has decided to block all changes will be transformed into dust. Cursed be those who do not dance and who prevent others from dancing!' Her eyes glanced fire. 'You can go.' Everyone left, and I could see the look of confusion on most of their faces. They had come in search of comfort and had found only provocation. They had arrived wanting to be told how love can be controlled and had heard that the all-devouring flame will always burn everything. They wanted to be sure that their decisions were the right ones, that their husbands, wives and bosses were pleased with them, but, instead, they were given only words of doubt. Some people, though, were smiling. They had understood the importance of the dance and from that night on would doubtless allow their bodies and souls to drift – even though, as always happens, they would have to pay a price. Only the boy, Hagia Sofia, Heron and myself were left in the room. 'I asked you to stay here alone.' Without a word, Heron picked up his coat and left. Hagia Sofia was looking at me. And, little by little, I watched her change back into Athena. The only way of describing that change is to compare it with the change that takes place in an angry child: we can see the anger in the child's eyes, but once distracted and once the anger has gone, the child is no longer the same child who, only moments before, was crying. The 'being', if it can be called that, seemed to have vanished into the air as soon as its instrument lost concentration. And now I was standing before an apparently exhausted woman. 'Make me some tea.' She was giving me an order! And she was no longer universal wisdom, but merely someone my boyfriend was interested in or infatuated with. Where would this relationship take us? But making a cup of tea wouldn't destroy my self-esteem. I went into the kitchen, boiled some water, added a few camomile leaves and returned to the living room. The child was asleep on her lap. 'You don't like me,' she said. I made no reply. 'I don't like you either,' she went on. 'You're pretty and elegant, a fine actress, and have a degree of culture and education which I, despite my family's wishes, do not. But you're also insecure, arrogant and suspicious. As Hagia Sofia said, you are two, when you could be one.' 'I didn't know you remembered what you said during the trance, because in that case, you are two people as well: Athena and Hagia Sofia.' 'I may have two names, but I am only one – or else all the people in the world. And that is precisely what I want to talk about. Because I am one and everyone, the spark that emerges when I go into a trance gives me very precise instructions. I remain semi-conscious throughout, of course, but I'm saying things that come from some unknown part of myself, as if I were suckling on the breast of the Mother, drinking the milk that flows through all our souls and carries knowledge around the Earth. Last week, which was the first time I entered into contact with this new form, I received what seemed to me to be an absurd message: that I should teach you.' She paused. 'Obviously, this struck me as quite mad, because I don't like you at all.' She paused again, for longer this time. 'Today, though, the source repeated the same message, and so I'm giving you that choice.' 'Why do you call it Hagia Sofia?' 'That was my idea. It's the name of a really beautiful mosque I saw in a book. You could, if you like, be my student. That's what brought you here on that first day. This whole new stage in my life, including the discovery of Hagia Sofia inside me, only happened because one day you came through that door and said: “I work in the theatre and we're putting on a play about the female face of God. I heard from a journalist friend that you've spent time in the Balkan mountains with some gipsies and would be prepared to tell me about your experiences there.”' 'Are you going to teach me everything you know?' 'No, everything I don't know. I'll learn through being in contact with you, as I said the first time we met, and as I say again now. Once I've learned what I need to learn, we'll go our separate ways.' 'Can you teach someone you dislike?' 'I can love and respect someone I dislike. On the two occasions when I went into a trance, I saw your aura, and it was the most highly developed aura I've ever seen. You could make a difference in this world, if you accept my proposal.' 'Will you teach me to see auras?' 'Until it happened to me the first time, I myself didn't know I was capable of doing so. If you're on the right path, you'll learn too.' I realised then that I, too, was capable of loving someone I disliked. I said 'Yes'. 'Then let us transform that acceptance into a ritual. A ritual throws us into an unknown world, but we know that we cannot treat the things of that world lightly. It isn't enough to say “yes”, you must put your life at risk, and without giving it much thought either. If you're the woman I think you are, you won't say: “I need to think about it.” You'll say–' 'I'm ready. Let's move on to the ritual. Where did you learn the ritual, by the way?' 'I'm going to learn it now. I no longer need to remove myself from my normal rhythm in order to enter into contact with the spark from the Mother, because, once that spark is installed inside you, it's easy to find again. I know which door I need to open, even though it's concealed amongst many other entrances and exits. All I need is a little silence.' Silence again! We sat there, our eyes wide and staring, as if we were about to begin a fight to the death. Rituals! Before I even rang the bell of Athena's apartment for the first time, I had already taken part in various rituals, only to feel used and diminished afterwards, standing outside a door I could see, but not open. Rituals! All Athena did was drink a little of the tea I prepared for her. 'The ritual is over. I asked you to do something for me. You did, and I accepted it. Now it is your turn to ask me something.' I immediately thought of Heron, but it wasn't the right moment to talk about him. 'Take your clothes off.' She didn't ask me why. She looked at the child, checked that he was asleep, and immediately began to remove her sweater. 'No, really, you don't have to,' I said. 'I don't know why I asked that.' But she continued to undress, first her blouse, then her jeans, then her bra. I noticed her breasts, which were the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Finally, she removed her knickers. And there she was, offering me her nakedness. 'Bless me,' said Athena. Bless my 'teacher'? But I'd already taken the first step and couldn't stop now, so I dipped my fingers in the cup and sprinkled a little tea over her body. 'Just as this plant was transformed into tea, just as the water mingled with the plant, I bless you and ask the Great Mother that the spring from which this water came will never cease flowing, and that the earth from which this plant came will always be fertile and generous.' I was surprised at my own words. They had come neither from inside me nor outside. It was as if I'd always known them and had done this countless times before. 'You have been blessed. You can get dressed now.' But she didn't move, she merely smiled. What did she want? If Hagia Sofia was capable of seeing auras, she would know that I hadn't the slightest desire to have sex with another woman. 'One moment.' She picked up the boy, carried him to his room and returned at once. 'You take your clothes off too.' Who was asking this? Hagia Sofia, who spoke of my potential and for whom I was the perfect disciple? Or Athena, whom I hardly knew, and who seemed capable of anything – a woman whom life had taught to go beyond her limits and to satisfy any curiosity? We had started a kind of confrontation from which there was no retreat. I got undressed with the same nonchalance, the same smile and the same look in my eyes. She took my hand and we sat down on the sofa. During the next half hour, both Athena and Hagia Sofia were present; they wanted to know what my next steps would be. As they asked me this question, I saw that everything really was written there before me, and that the doors had only been closed before because I hadn't realised that I was the one person in the world with the authority to open them. Heron Ryan, journalist The deputy editor hands me a video and we go into the projection room to watch it. The video was made on the morning of 26 April 1986 and shows normal life in a normal town. A man is sitting drinking a cup of coffee. A mother is taking her baby for a walk. People in a hurry are going to work. A few people are waiting at a bus stop. A man on a bench in a square is reading a newspaper. But there's a problem with the video. There are various horizontal lines on the screen, as if the tracking button needed to be adjusted. I get up to do this, but the deputy editor stops me. 'That's just the way it is. Keep watching.' Images of the small provincial town continue to appear, showing nothing of interest apart from these scenes from ordinary everyday life. 'It's possible that some people may know that there's been an accident two kilometres from there,' says my boss. 'It's possible that they know there have been thirty deaths – a large number, but not enough to change the routine of the town's inhabitants.' Now the film shows school buses parking. They will stay there for many days. The images are getting worse and worse. 'It isn't the tracking, it's radiation. The video was made by the KGB. On the night of the twentysixth of April, at twenty-three minutes past one in the morning, the worst ever man-made disaster occurred at Chernobyl, in the Ukraine. When a nuclear reactor exploded, the people in the area were exposed to ninety times more radiation than that given out by the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The whole region should have been evacuated at once, but no one said anything – after all, the government doesn't make mistakes. Only a week later, on page thirty-two of the local newspaper, a five-line article appeared, mentioning the deaths of workers, but giving no further explanation. Meanwhile, Workers' Day was celebrated throughout the Soviet Union, and in Kiev, the Ukrainian capital, people paraded down the street unaware of the invisible death in the air.' And he concludes: 'I want you to go and see what Chernobyl is like now. You've just been promoted to special correspondent. You'll get a twenty per cent increase in your salary and be able to suggest the kind of article you think we should be publishing.' I should be jumping for joy, but instead I'm gripped by a feeling of intense sadness, which I have to hide. It's impossible to argue with him, to say that there are two women in my life at the moment, that I don't want to leave London, that my life and my mental equilibrium are at stake. I ask when I should leave. As soon as possible, he says, because there are rumours that other countries are significantly increasing their production of nuclear energy. I manage to negotiate an honourable way out, saying that, first, I need to talk to experts and really get to grips with the subject, and that I'll set off once I've collected the necessary material. He agrees, shakes my hand and congratulates me. I don't have time to talk to Andrea, because when I get home, she's still at the theatre. I fall asleep at once and again wake up to find a note saying that she's gone to work and that the coffee is on the table. I go to the office, try to ingratiate myself with the boss who has 'improved my life', and phone various experts on radiation and energy. I discover that, in total, 9 million people worldwide were directly affected by the disaster, including 3 to 4 million children. The initial 30 deaths became, according to the expert John Gofmans, 475,000 cases of fatal cancers and an equal number of non-fatal cancers. A total of 2,000 towns and villages were simply wiped off the map. According to the Health Ministry in Belarus, the incidence of cancer of the thyroid will increase considerably between 2005 and 2010, as a consequence of continuing high levels of radioactivity. Another specialist explains that as well as the 9 million people directly exposed to radiation, more than 65 million in many countries round the world were indirectly affected by consuming contaminated foodstuffs. It's a serious matter, which deserves to be treated with respect. At the end of the day, I go back to the deputy editor and suggest that I travel to Chernobyl for the actual anniversary of the accident, and meanwhile do more research, talk to more experts and find out how the British government responded to the tragedy. He agrees. I phone Athena. After all, she claims to be going out with someone from Scotland Yard and now is the time to ask her a favour, given that Chernobyl is no longer classified as secret and the Soviet Union no longer exists. She promises that she'll talk to her 'boyfriend', but says she can't guarantee she'll get the answers I want. She also says that she's leaving for Scotland the following day, and will only be back in time for the next group meeting. 'What group?' The group, she says. So that's become a regular thing, has it? What I want to know is when we can meet to talk and clear up various loose ends. But she's already hung up. I go home, watch the news, have supper alone and, later, go out again to pick Andrea up from the theatre. I get there in time to see the end of the play and, to my surprise, the person on stage seems totally unlike the person I've been living with for nearly two years; there's something magical about her every gesture; monologues and dialogues are spoken with an unaccustomed intensity. I am seeing a stranger, a woman I would like to have by my side, then I realise that she is by my side and is in no way a stranger to me. 'How did your chat with Athena go?' I ask on the way home. 'Fine. How was work?' She was the one to change the subject. I tell her about my promotion and about Chernobyl, but she doesn't seem interested. I start to think that I'm losing the love I have without having yet won the love I hope to win. However, as soon as we reach our apartment, she suggests we take a bath together and, before I know it, we're in bed. First, she puts on that percussion music at full volume (she explains that she managed to get hold of a copy) and tells me not to worry about the neighbours – people worry too much about them, she says, and never live their own lives. What happens from then on is something that goes beyond my understanding. Has this woman making positively savage love with me finally discovered her sexuality, and was this taught to her or provoked in her by that other woman? While she was clinging to me with a violence I've never known before, she kept saying: 'Today I'm your man, and you're my woman.' We carried on like this for almost an hour, and I experienced things I'd never dared experience before. At certain moments, I felt ashamed, wanted to ask her to stop, but she seemed to be in complete control of the situation and so I surrendered, because I had no choice. In fact, I felt really curious. I was exhausted afterwards, but Andrea seemed re-energised. 'Before you go to sleep, I want you to know something,' she said. 'If you go forward, sex will offer you the chance to make love with gods and goddesses. That's what you experienced today. I want you to go to sleep knowing that I awoke the Mother that was in you.' I wanted to ask if she'd learned this from Athena, but my courage failed. 'Tell me that you liked being a woman for a night.' 'I did. I don't know if I would always like it, but it was something that simultaneously frightened me and gave me great joy.' 'Tell me that you've always wanted to experience what you've just experienced.' It's one thing to allow oneself to be carried away by the situation, but quite another to comment coolly on the matter. I said nothing, although I was sure that she knew my answer. 'Well,' Andrea went on, 'all of this was inside me and I had no idea. As was the person behind the mask that fell away while I was on stage today. Did you notice anything different?' 'Of course. You were radiating a special light.' 'Charisma – the divine force that manifests itself in men and women. The supernatural power we don't need to show to anyone because everyone can see it, even usually insensitive people. But it only happens when we're naked, when we die to the world and are reborn to ourselves. Last night, I died. Tonight, when I walked on stage and saw that I was doing exactly what I had chosen to do, I was reborn from my ashes. I was always trying to be who I am, but could never manage it. I was always trying to impress other people, have intelligent conversations, please my parents and, at the same time, I used every available means to do the things I would really like to do. I've always forged my path with blood, tears and will power, but last night, I realised that I was going about it the wrong way. My dream doesn't require that of me, I have only to surrender myself to it and, if I find I'm suffering, grit my teeth, because the suffering will pass.' 'Why are you telling me this?' 'Let me finish. In that journey where suffering seemed to be the only rule, I struggled for things for which there was no point struggling. Like love, for example. People either feel it or they don't, and there isn't a force in the world that can make them feel it. We can pretend that we love each other. We can get used to each other. We can live a whole lifetime of friendship and complicity, we can bring up children, have sex every night, reach orgasm, and still feel that there's a terrible emptiness about it all, that something important is missing. In the name of all I've learned about relationships between men and women, I've been trying to fight against things that weren't really worth the struggle. And that includes you. 'Today, while we were making love, while I was giving all I have, and I could see that you, too, were giving of your best, I realised that your best no longer interests me. I will sleep beside you tonight, but tomorrow I'll leave. The theatre is my ritual, and there I can express and develop whatever I want to express and develop.' I started to regret everything – going to Transylvania and meeting a woman who might be destroying my life, arranging that first meeting of the 'group', confessing my love in that restaurant. At that moment, I hated Athena. 'I know what you're thinking,' said Andrea. 'That your friend Athena has brainwashed me, but that isn't true.' 'I'm a man, even though tonight in bed I behaved like a woman. I'm a species in danger of extinction because I don't see many men around. Few people would risk what I have risked.' 'I'm sure you're right, and that's why I admire you, but aren't you going to ask me who I am, what I want and what I desire?' I asked. 'I want everything. I want savagery and tenderness. I want to upset the neighbours and placate them too. I don't want a woman in my bed, I want men, real men, like you, for example. Whether they love me or are merely using me, it doesn't matter. My love is greater than that. I want to love freely, and I want to allow the people around me to do the same. 'What I talked about to Athena were the simple ways of awakening repressed energy, like making love, for example, or walking down the street saying: “I'm here and now”. Nothing very special, no secret ritual. The only thing that made our meeting slightly different was that we were both naked. From now on, she and I will meet every Monday, and if I have any comments to make, I will do so after that session. I have no desire to be her friend. Just as, when she feels the need to share something, she goes up to Scotland to talk with that Edda woman, who, it seems, you know as well, although you've never mentioned her.' 'I can't even remember meeting her!' I sensed that Andrea was gradually calming down. I prepared two cups of coffee and we drank them together. She recovered her smile and asked about my promotion. She said she was worried about those Monday meetings, because she'd learned only that morning that friends of friends were inviting other people, and Athena's apartment was a very small place. I made an enormous effort to pretend that everything that had happened that evening was just a fit of nerves or premenstrual tension or jealousy on her part. I put my arms around her and she snuggled into my shoulder. And despite my own exhaustion, I waited until she fell asleep. That night, I dreamed of nothing. I had no feelings of foreboding. And the following morning, when I woke up, I saw that her clothes were gone, the key was on the table, and there was no letter of farewell. Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda People read a lot of stories about witches, fairies, paranormals and children possessed by evil spirits. They go to films showing rituals featuring pentagrams, swords and invocations. That's fine; people need to give free rein to their imagination and to go through certain stages. Anyone who gets through those stages without being deceived will eventually get in touch with the Tradition. The real Tradition is this: the teacher never tells the disciple what he or she should do. They are merely travelling companions, sharing the same uncomfortable feeling of 'estrangement' when confronted by ever-changing perceptions, broadening horizons, closing doors, rivers that sometimes seem to block their path and which, in fact, should never be crossed, but followed. There is only one difference between teacher and disciple: the former is slightly less afraid than the latter. Then, when they sit down at a table or in front of a fire to talk, the more experienced person might say: 'Why don't you do that?' But he or she never says: 'Go there and you'll arrive where I did', because every path and every destination are unique to the individual. The true teacher gives the disciple the courage to throw his or her world off balance, even though the disciple is afraid of things already encountered and more afraid still of what might be around the next corner. I was a young, enthusiastic doctor who, filled by a desire to help my fellow human beings, travelled to the interior of Romania on an exchange programme run by the British government. I set off with my luggage full of medicines and my head full of preconceptions. I had clear ideas about how people should behave, about what we need to be happy, about the dreams we should keep alive inside us, about how human relations should evolve. I arrived in Bucharest during that crazed, bloody dictatorship and went to Transylvania to assist with a mass vaccination programme for the local population. I didn't realise that I was merely one more piece on a very complicated chessboard, where invisible hands were manipulating my idealism, and that ulterior motives lay behind everything I believed was being done for humanitarian purposes: stabilising the government run by the dictator's son, allowing Britain to sell arms in a market dominated by the Soviets. All my good intentions collapsed when I saw that there was barely enough vaccine to go round; that there were other diseases sweeping the region; that however often I wrote asking for more resources, they never came. I was told not to concern myself with anything beyond what I'd been asked to do. I felt powerless and angry. I'd seen poverty from close to and would have been able to do something about it if only someone would give me some money, but they weren't interested in results. Our government just wanted a few articles in the press, so that they could say to their political parties or to their electorate that they'd despatched groups to various places in the world on a humanitarian mission. Their intentions were good – apart from selling arms, of course. I was in despair. What kind of world was this? One night, I set off into the icy forest, cursing God, who was unfair to everything and everyone. I was sitting beneath an oak tree when my protector approached me. He said I could die of cold, and I replied that I was a doctor and knew the body's limits, and that as soon as I felt I was getting near those limits, I would go back to the camp. I asked him what he was doing there. 'I'm speaking to a woman who can hear me, in a world in which all the men have gone deaf.' I thought he meant me, but the woman he was referring to was the forest itself. When I saw this man wandering about amongst the trees, making gestures and saying things I couldn't understand, a kind of peace settled on my heart. I was not, after all, the only person in the world left talking to myself. When I got up to return to the camp, he came over to me again. 'I know who you are,' he said. 'People in the village say that you're a very decent person, always good-humoured and prepared to help others, but I see something else: rage and frustration.' He might have been a government spy, but I decided to tell him everything I was feeling, even though I ran the risk of being arrested. We walked together to the field hospital where I was working; I took him to the dormitory, which was empty at the time (my colleagues were all having fun at the annual festival being held in the town), and I asked if he'd like a drink. He produced a bottle from his pocket. 'Palinka,' he said, meaning the traditional drink of Romania, with an incredibly high alcohol content. 'On me.' We drank together, and I didn't even notice that I was getting steadily drunk. I only realised the state I was in when I tried to go to the toilet, tripped over something and fell flat. 'Don't move,' said the man. 'Look at what is there before your eyes.' A line of ants. 'They all think they're very wise. They have memory, intelligence, organisational powers, a spirit of sacrifice. They look for food in summer, store it away for the winter, and now they are setting forth again, in this icy spring, to work. If the world were destroyed by an atomic bomb tomorrow, the ants would survive.' 'How do you know all this?' 'I studied biology.' 'Why the hell don't you work to improve the living conditions of your own people? What are you doing in the middle of the forest, talking to the trees?' 'In the first place, I wasn't alone; apart from the trees, you were listening to me too. But to answer your question, I left biology to work as a blacksmith.' I struggled to my feet. My head was still spinning, but I was thinking clearly enough to understand the poor man's situation. Despite a university education, he had been unable to find work. I told him that the same thing happened in my country too. 'No, that's not what I meant. I left biology because I wanted to work as a blacksmith. Even as a child, I was fascinated by those men hammering steel, making a strange kind of music, sending out sparks all around, plunging the red-hot metal into water and creating clouds of steam. I was unhappy as a biologist, because my dream was to make rigid metal take on soft shapes. Then, one day, a protector appeared.' 'A protector?' 'Let's say that, on seeing those ants doing exactly what they're programmed to do, you were to exclaim: “How fantastic!” The guards are genetically prepared to sacrifice themselves for the queen, the workers carry leaves ten times their own weight, the engineers make tunnels that can resist storms and floods. They enter into mortal combat with their enemies, they suffer for the community, and they never ask: “Why are we doing this?” People try to imitate the perfect society of the ants, and, as a biologist, I was playing my part, until someone came along with this question: “Are you happy doing what you're doing?” “Of course I am,” I said. “I'm being useful to my own people.” “And that's enough?” 'I didn't know whether it was enough or not, but I said that he seemed to me to be both arrogant and egotistical. He replied: “Possibly. But all you will achieve is to repeat what has been done since man was man – keeping things organised.” '“But the world has progressed,” I said. He asked if I knew any history. Of course I did. He asked another question: “Thousands of years ago, weren't we capable of building enormous structures like the pyramids? Weren't we capable of worshipping gods, weaving, making fire, finding lovers and wives, sending written messages? Of course we were. But although we've succeeded in replacing slaves with wage slaves, all the advances we've made have been in the field of science. Human beings are still asking the same questions as their ancestors. In short, they haven't evolved at all.” At that point, I understood that the person asking me these questions was someone sent from heaven, an angel, a protector.' 'Why do you call him a protector?' 'Because he told me that there were two traditions, one that makes us repeat the same thing for centuries at a time, and another that opens the door into the unknown. However, the second tradition is difficult, uncomfortable and dangerous, and if it attracted too many followers, it would end up destroying the society which, following the example of the ants, took so long to build. And so the second tradition went underground and has only managed to survive over so many centuries because its followers created a secret language of signs.' 'Did you ask more questions?' 'Of course I did, because, although I'd denied it, he knew I was dissatisfied with what I was doing. My protector said: “I'm afraid of taking steps that are not on the map, but by taking those steps despite my fears, I have a much more interesting life.” I asked more about the Tradition, and he said something like: “As long as God is merely man, we'll always have enough food to eat and somewhere to live. When the Mother finally regains her freedom, we might have to sleep rough and live on love, or we might be able to balance emotion and work.” The man, who, it turned out, was my protector, asked: “If you weren't a biologist, what would you be?” I said: “A blacksmith, but they don't earn enough money.” And he replied: “Well, when you grow tired of being what you're not, go and have fun and celebrate life, hammering metal into shape. In time, you'll discover that it will give you more than pleasure, it will give you meaning.” “How do I follow this tradition you spoke of?” I asked. “As I said, through symbols,” he replied. “Start doing what you want to do, and everything else will be revealed to you. Believe that God is the Mother and looks after her children and never lets anything bad happen to them. I did that and I survived. I discovered that there were other people who did the same, but who are considered to be mad, irresponsible, superstitious. Since time immemorial, they've sought their inspiration in nature. We build pyramids, but we also develop symbols.” 'Having said that, he left, and I never saw him again. I only know, from that moment on, symbols did begin to appear because my eyes had been opened by that conversation. Hard though it was, one evening, I told my family that, although I had everything a man could dream of having, I was unhappy, and that I had, in fact, been born to be a blacksmith. My wife protested, saying: “You were born a gipsy and had to face endless humiliations to get where you are, and yet you want to go back?” My son, however, was thrilled, because he, too, liked to watch the blacksmiths in our village and hated the laboratories in the big cities. 'I started dividing my time between biological research and working as a blacksmith's apprentice. I was always tired, but I was much happier. One day, I left my job and set up my own blacksmith's business, which went completely wrong from the start. Just when I was starting to believe in life, things got markedly worse. One day, I was working away and I saw that there before me was a symbol. 'The unworked steel arrives in my workshop and I have to transform it into parts for cars, agricultural machinery, kitchen utensils. Do you know how that's done? First, I heat the metal until it's redhot, then I beat it mercilessly with my heaviest hammer until the metal takes on the form I need. Then I plunge it into a bucket of cold water and the whole workshop is filled with the roar of steam, while the metal sizzles and crackles in response to the sudden change in temperature. I have to keep repeating that process until the object I'm making is perfect: once is not enough.' The blacksmith paused for a long time, lit a cigarette, then went on: 'Sometimes the steel I get simply can't withstand such treatment. The heat, the hammer blows, the cold water cause it to crack. And I know that I'll never be able to make it into a good ploughshare or an engine shaft. Then I throw it on the pile of scrap metal at the entrance to my forge.' Another long pause, then the blacksmith concluded: 'I know that God is putting me through the fire of afflictions. I've accepted the blows that life has dealt me, and sometimes I feel as cold and indifferent as the water that inflicts such pain on the steel. But my one prayer is this: “Please, God, my Mother, don't give up until I've taken on the shape that You wish for me. Do this by whatever means You think best, for as long as You like, but never ever throw me on the scrap heap of souls.”' I may have been drunk when I finished my conversation with that man, but I knew that my life had changed. There was a tradition behind everything we learn, and I needed to go in search of people who, consciously or unconsciously, were able to make manifest the female side of God. Instead of cursing my government and all the political shenanigans, I decided to do what I really wanted to do: to heal people. I wasn't interested in anything else. Since I didn't have the necessary resources, I approached the local men and women, and they guided me to the world of medicinal herbs. I discovered that there was a popular tradition that went back hundreds of years and was passed from generation to generation through experience rather than through technical knowledge. With their help, I was able to do far more than I would otherwise have been able to do, because I wasn't there merely to fulfil a university task or to help my government to sell arms or, unwittingly, to spread party political propaganda. I was there because healing people made me happy. This brought me closer to nature, to the oral tradition and to plants. Back in Britain, I decided to talk to other doctors and I asked them: 'Do you always know exactly which medicines to prescribe or are you sometimes guided by intuition?' Almost all of them, once they had dropped their guard, admitted that they were often guided by a voice and that when they ignored the advice of the voice, they ended up giving the wrong treatment. Obviously they make use of all the available technology, but they know that there is a corner, a dark corner, where lies the real meaning of the cure, and the best decision to make. My protector threw my world off balance – even though he was only a gipsy blacksmith. I used to go at least once a year to his village and we would talk about how, when we dare to see things differently, life opens up to our eyes. On one of those visits, I met other disciples of his, and together we discussed our fears and our conquests. My protector said: 'I, too, get scared, but it's at such moments that I discover a wisdom that is beyond me, and I go forward.' Now I earn a lot of money working as a GP in Edinburgh, and I would earn even more if I went to work in London, but I prefer to make the most of life and to take time out. I do what I like: I combine the healing processes of the ancients, the Arcane Tradition, with the most modern techniques of present-day medicine, the Hippocratic Tradition. I'm writing a paper on the subject, and many people in the 'scientific' community, when they see my text published in a specialist journal, will dare to take the steps which, deep down, they've always wanted to take. I don't believe that the mind is the source of all ills; there are real diseases too. I think antibiotics and antivirals were great advances for humanity. I don't believe that a patient of mine with appendicitis can be cured by meditation alone; what he needs is some good, emergency surgery. So I take each step with courage and fear, combining technique and inspiration. And I'm careful who I say these things to, because I might get dubbed a witchdoctor, and then many lives I could have saved would be lost. When I'm not sure, I ask the Great Mother for help. She has never yet failed to answer me. But she has always counselled me to be discreet. She probably gave the same advice to Athena on more than one occasion, but Athena was too fascinated by the world she was just starting to discover and she didn't listen. A London newspaper, 24 August 1991 THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO London (© Jeremy Lutton): 'That's another reason why I don't believe in God, I mean, look at the behaviour of people who do believe!' This was the reaction of Robert Wilson, one of the traders in Portobello Road. This road, known around the world for its antique shops and its Saturday flea market, was transformed last night into a battlefield, requiring the intervention of at least fifty police officers from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea to restore order. By the end of the fracas, five people had been injured, although none seriously. The reason behind this pitched battle, which lasted nearly two hours, was a demonstration organised by the Rev. Ian Buck to protest about what he called 'the Satanic cult at the heart of England'. According to Rev. Buck, a group of suspicious individuals have been keeping the neighbourhood awake every Monday night for the last six months, Monday being their chosen night for invoking the Devil. The ceremonies are led by a Lebanese woman, Sherine H. Khalil, who calls herself Athena, after the goddess of wisdom. About two hundred people began meeting in a former East India Company warehouse, but the numbers increased over time and, in recent weeks, an equally large crowd has been gathering outside, hoping to gain entry and take part in the ceremony. When his various verbal complaints, petitions and letters to the local newspapers achieved nothing, the Rev. Buck decided to mobilise the community, calling on his parishioners to gather outside the warehouse by 1900 hours yesterday to stop the 'devil-worshippers' getting in. 'As soon as we received the first complaint, we sent someone to inspect the place, but no drugs were found nor evidence of any other kind of illicit activity,' said an official who preferred not to be identified because an inquiry has just been set up to investigate what happened. 'They aren't contravening the noise nuisance laws because they turn off the music at ten o'clock prompt, so there's really nothing more we can do. Britain, after all, allows freedom of worship.' The Rev. Buck has another version of events. 'The fact is that this witch of Portobello, this mistress of charlatanism, has contacts with people high up in the government, which explains why the police – paid for by taxpayers' money to maintain order and decency – refuse to do anything. We're living in an age in which everything is allowed, and democracy is being devoured and destroyed by that limitless freedom.' The vicar says that he was suspicious of the group right from the start. They had rented a crumbling old building and spent whole days trying to renovate it, 'which is clear evidence that they belong to some sect and have undergone some kind of brainwashing, because no one in today's world works for free'. When asked if his parishioners ever did any charitable work in the community, the Rev. Buck replied: 'Yes, but we do it in the name of Jesus.' Yesterday evening, when she arrived at the warehouse to meet her waiting followers, Sherine Khalil, her son, and some of her friends were prevented from entering by the Rev. Buck's parishioners who were carrying placards and using megaphones to call on the rest of the neighbourhood to join them. This verbal aggression immediately degenerated into fighting, and soon it was impossible to control either side. 'They say they're fighting in the name of Jesus, but what they really want is for people to continue to ignore the teachings of Christ, according to which “we are all gods”,' said the well-known actress Andrea McCain, one of Sherine Khalil or Athena's followers. Ms McCain received a cut above her right eye, which was treated at once, and she left the area before your reporter could find out more about her links with the sect. Once order was restored, Mrs Khalil was anxious to reassure her 5-year-old son, but she did tell us that all that takes place in the warehouse is some collective dancing, followed by the invocation of a being known as Hagia Sofia, of whom people are free to ask questions. The celebration ends with a kind of sermon and a group prayer to the Great Mother. The officer charged with investigating the original complaints confirmed this. As far as we could ascertain, the group has no name and is not registered as a charity. According to the lawyer Sheldon Williams, this is not necessary: 'We live in a free country, and people can gather together in an enclosed space for non-profit-making activities, as long as these do not break any laws such as incitement to racism or the consumption of narcotics.' Mrs Khalil emphatically rejected any suggestion that she should stop the meetings because of the disturbances. 'We gather together to offer mutual encouragement,' she said, 'because it's very hard to face social pressures alone. I demand that your newspaper denounce the religious discrimination to which we've been subjected over the centuries. Whenever we do something that is not in accord with State-instituted and Stateapproved religions, there is always an attempt to crush us, as happened today. Before, we would have faced martyrdom, prison, being burned at the stake or sent into exile, but now we are in a position to respond, and force will be answered with force, just as compassion will be repaid with compassion.' When faced with the Rev. Buck's accusations, she accused him of 'manipulating his parishioners and using intolerance and lies as an excuse for violence'. According to the sociologist Arthaud Lenox, phenomena like this will become increasingly common in the future, possibly involving more serious clashes between established religions. 'Now that the Marxist utopia has shown itself incapable of channelling society's ideals, the world is ripe for a religious revival, born of civilisation's natural fear of significant dates. However, I believe that when the year 2000 does arrive and the world survives intact, common sense will prevail and religions will revert to being a refuge for the weak, who are always in search of guidance.' This view is contested by Dom Evaristo Piazza, the Vatican's auxiliary bishop in the United Kingdom: 'What we are seeing is not the spiritual awakening that we all long for, but a wave of what Americans call New Ageism, a kind of breeding ground in which everything is permitted, where dogmas are not respected, and the most absurd ideas from the past return to lay waste to the human mind. Unscrupulous people like this young woman are trying to instil their false ideas in weak, suggestible minds, with the one aim of making money and gaining personal power.' The German historian Franz Herbert, currently working at the Goethe Institute in London, has a different idea: 'The established religions no longer ask fundamental questions about our identity and our reason for living. Instead, they concentrate purely on a series of dogmas and rules concerned only with fitting in with a particular social and political organisation. People in search of real spirituality are, therefore, setting off in new directions, and that inevitably means a return to the past and to primitive religions, before those religions were contaminated by the structures of power.' At the police station where the incident was recorded, Sergeant William Morton stated that should Sherine Khalil's group decide to hold their meeting on the following Monday and feel that they are under threat, then they must apply in writing for police protection and thus avoid a repetition of last night's events. (With additional information from Andrew Fish. Photos by Mark Guillhem) Heron Ryan, journalist I read the report on the plane, when I was flying back from the Ukraine, feeling full of doubts. I still hadn't managed to ascertain whether the Chernobyl disaster had been as big as it was said to have been, or whether it had been used by the major oil producers to inhibit the use of other sources of energy. Anyway, I was horrified by what I read in the article. The photos showed broken windows, a furious Rev. Buck, and – there lay the danger – a beautiful woman with fiery eyes and her son in her arms. I saw at once what could happen, both good and bad. I went straight from the airport to Portobello, convinced that both my predictions would become reality. On the positive side, the following Monday's meeting was one of the most successful events in the area's history: many local people came, some curious to see the 'being' mentioned in the article, others bearing placards defending freedom of religion and freedom of speech. The venue would only hold two hundred people and so the rest of the crowd were all crammed together on the pavement outside, hoping for at least a glimpse of the woman who appeared to be the priestess of the oppressed. When she arrived, she was received with applause, handwritten notes and requests for help; some people threw flowers, and one lady of uncertain age asked her to keep on fighting for women's freedom and for the right to worship the Mother. The parishioners from the week before must have been intimidated by the crowd and so failed to turn up, despite the threats they had made during the previous days. There were no aggressive comments, and the ceremony passed off as normal, with dancing, the appearance of Hagia Sofia (by then, I knew that she was simply another facet of Athena herself), and a final celebration (this had been added recently, when the group moved to the warehouse lent by one of its original members), and that was that. During her sermon, Athena spoke as if possessed by someone else: 'We all have a duty to love and to allow love to manifest itself in the way it thinks best. We cannot and must not be frightened when the powers of darkness want to make themselves heard, those same powers that introduced the word “sin” merely to control our hearts and minds. Jesus Christ, whom we all know, turned to the woman taken in adultery and said: “Has no man condemned thee? Neither do I condemn thee.” He healed people on the Sabbath, he allowed a prostitute to wash his feet, he promised a thief that he would enjoy the delights of Paradise, he ate forbidden foods, and he said that we should concern ourselves only with today, because the lilies in the field toil not neither do they spin, but are arrayed in glory. 'What is sin? It is a sin to prevent Love from showing itself. And the Mother is love. We are entering a new world in which we can choose to follow our own steps, not those that society forces us to take. If necessary, we will confront the forces of darkness again, as we did last week. But no one will silence our voice or our heart.' I was witnessing the transformation of a woman into an icon. She spoke with great conviction, with dignity and with faith in what she was saying. I hoped that things really were like that, that we truly were entering a new world, and that I would live to see it. She left the warehouse to as much acclaim as she had entered it, and when she saw me in the crowd, she called me over and said that she'd missed me. She was happy and confident, sure that she was doing the right thing. This was the positive side of the newspaper article, and things might have ended there. I wanted my analysis of events to be wrong, but three days later, my prediction was confirmed. The negative side emerged in full force. Employing the services of one of the most highly regarded and conservative law practices in Britain, whose senior partners – unlike Athena – really did have contacts in all spheres of government, and basing his case on published statements made by Athena, the Rev. Buck called a news conference to say that he was suing for defamation, calumny and moral damages. The deputy editor called me in. He knew I was friendly with the central figure in that scandal and suggested that we publish an exclusive interview. My first reaction was of disgust: how could I use my friendship to sell newspapers? However, after we had talked further, I started to think that it might be a good idea. She would have the chance to put her side of the story; indeed, she could use the interview to promote all the things for which she was now openly fighting. I left the deputy editor's office with the plan we had drawn up together: a series of articles on new trends in society and on radical changes that were taking place in the search for religious belief. In one of those articles, I would publish Athena's point of view. That same afternoon, I went to her house, taking advantage of the fact that the invitation had come from her when we met outside the warehouse. The neighbours told me that, the day before, court officials had attempted to serve a summons on her, but failed. I phoned later on, without success. I tried again as night was falling, but no one answered. From then on, I phoned every half an hour, growing more anxious with each call. Ever since Hagia Sofia had cured my insomnia, tiredness drove me to bed at eleven o'clock, but this time anxiety kept me awake. I found her mother's number in the phone book, but it was late, and if Athena wasn't there, then I would only cause the whole family to worry. What to do? I turned on the TV to see if anything had happened – nothing special, London continued as before, with its marvels and its perils. I decided to try one last time. The phone rang three times, and someone answered. I recognised Andrea's voice at once. 'What do you want?' she asked. 'Athena asked me to get in touch. Is everything all right?' 'Everything's all right and not all right, depending on your way of looking at things. But I think you might be able to help.' 'Where is she?' She hung up without saying any more. Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda Athena stayed in a hotel near my house. News from London regarding local events, especially minor conflicts in the suburbs, never reaches Scotland. We're not much interested in how the English sort out their little problems. We have our own flag, our own football team, and soon we will have our own parliament. I let Athena rest for a whole day. The following morning, instead of going into the little temple and performing the rituals I know, I decided to take her and her son to a wood near Edinburgh. There, while the boy played and ran about among the trees, she told me in detail what was going on. When she'd finished, I said: 'It's daylight, the sky is cloudy, and human beings believe that beyond the clouds lives an allpowerful God, guiding the fate of men. Meanwhile, look at your son, look at your feet, listen to the sounds around you: down here is the Mother, so much closer, bringing joy to children and energy to those who walk over Her body. Why do people prefer to believe in something far away and forget what is there before their eyes, a true manifestation of the miracle?' 'I know the answer. Because up there someone is guiding us and giving his orders, hidden behind the clouds, unquestionable in his wisdom. Down here, we have physical contact with a magical reality, and the freedom to choose where our steps will go.' 'Exactly. But do you think that is what people want? Do they want the freedom to choose their own steps?' 'Yes, I think they do. The earth I'm standing on now has laid out many strange paths for me, from a village in Transylvania to a city in the Middle East, from there to another city on an island, and then to the desert and back to Transylvania. From a suburban bank to a real estate company in the Persian Gulf. From a dance group to a bedouin. And whenever my feet drove me onwards, I said “Yes” instead of saying “No”.' 'What did you gain from all that?' 'Today I can see people's auras. I can awaken the Mother in my soul. My life now has meaning, and I know what I'm fighting for. But why do you ask? You, too, gained the most important power of all – the gift of healing. Andrea can now prophesy and converse with spirits. I've followed her spiritual development every step of the way.' 'What else have you gained?' 'The joy of being alive. I know that I'm here, and that everything is a miracle, a revelation.' The little boy fell over and grazed his knee. Instinctively, Athena ran to him, wiped the wound clean, told him not to worry, and the boy continued running about in the forest. I used that as a signal. 'What just happened to your little boy, happened to me. And it's happening to you too, isn't it?' 'Yes, but I don't think I stumbled and fell. I think I'm being tested again, and that my next step will be revealed to me.' At such moments, a teacher must say nothing, only bless the disciple. Because, however much the teacher may want to save her disciple from suffering, the paths are mapped out and the disciple's feet are eager to follow them. I suggested we go back to the wood that night, just the two of us. She asked where she could leave her son, and I said that I would take care of that. I had a neighbour who owed me a favour and who would be delighted to look after Viorel. As evening fell, we returned to that same place, and on the way, we spoke of things that had nothing to do with the ritual we were about to perform. Athena had seen me using a new kind of depilatory wax and was intrigued to know what advantages it had over the old methods. We talked animatedly about vanity, fashion, the cheapest places to buy clothes, female behaviour, feminism, hairstyles. At one point she said something along the lines of: 'But if the soul is ageless, I don't know why we should be so worried about all this', then realised that it was all right just to relax and talk about superficial subjects. More than that, such conversations were really fun, and how we look is something that's still very important in women's lives (it is in men's lives too, but in a different way, and they're not as open about it as we are). As we approached the place I'd chosen – or, rather, which the wood was choosing for me – I started to feel the presence of the Mother. In my case, this presence manifests itself in a certain, mysterious inner joy that always touches me and almost moves me to tears. It was the moment to stop and change the subject. 'Collect some wood for kindling,' I said. 'But it's dark.' 'There's enough light from the full moon even if it's obscured by clouds. Train your eyes: they were made to see more than you think.' She began doing as I asked, occasionally cursing because she'd scratched herself on a thorn. Almost half an hour passed, and during that time, we didn't talk. I felt the excitement of knowing that the Mother was close by, the euphoria of being there with that woman who still seemed little more than a child and who trusted me and was keeping me company in that search which sometimes seemed too mad for the human mind. Athena was still at the stage of answering questions, just as she'd responded to mine that afternoon. I had been like that once, until I allowed myself to be transported completely into the kingdom of mystery, where it was simply a matter of contemplating, celebrating, worshipping, praising and allowing the gift to manifest itself. I was watching Athena collecting firewood and I saw the girl I once was, in search of veiled secrets and secret powers. Life had taught me something completely different: the powers were not secret and the secrets had been revealed a long time ago. When I saw that she had gathered enough firewood, I indicated that she should stop. I myself looked for some larger branches and put them on top of the kindling. So it was in life. In order for the more substantial pieces of wood to catch fire, the kindling must burn first. In order for us to liberate the energy of our strength, our weakness must first have a chance to reveal itself. In order for us to understand the powers we carry within us and the secrets that have already been revealed, it was first necessary to allow the surface – expectations, fears, appearances – to be burned away. We were entering the peace now settling upon the forest, with the gentle wind, the moonlight behind the clouds, the noises of the animals that sally forth at night to hunt, thus fulfilling the cycle of birth and death of the Mother, and without ever being criticised for following their instincts and their nature. I lit the fire. Neither of us felt like saying anything. For what seemed like an eternity, we merely contemplated the dance of the fire, knowing that hundreds of thousands of people, all over the world, would also be sitting by their fireside, regardless of whether they had modern heating systems in their house or not; they did this because they were sitting before a symbol. It took a great effort to emerge from that trance, which, although it meant nothing specific to me, and did not make me see gods, auras or ghosts, nonetheless left me in the state of grace I needed to be in. I focused once more on the present, on the young woman by my side, on the ritual I needed to perform. 'How is your student?' I asked. 'Difficult, but if she wasn't, I might not learn what I need to learn.' 'And what powers is she developing?' 'She speaks with beings in the parallel world.' 'As you converse with Hagia Sofia?' 'No, as you well know, Hagia Sofia is the Mother manifesting herself in me. She speaks with invisible beings.' I knew this, but I wanted to be sure. Athena was more silent than usual. I don't know if she had discussed the events in London with Andrea, but that didn't matter. I got up, opened the bag I had with me, took out a handful of specially chosen herbs and threw them into the flames. 'The wood has started to speak,' said Athena, as if this were something perfectly normal, and that was good, it meant that miracles were now becoming part of her life. 'What is it saying?' 'Nothing at the moment, only noises.' Minutes later, she heard a song coming from the fire. 'Oh, it's wonderful!' There spoke the little girl, not the wife or mother. 'Stay just as you are. Don't try to concentrate or follow my steps or understand what I'm saying. Relax and feel good. That is sometimes all we can hope for from life.' I knelt down, picked up a red-hot piece of wood and drew a circle around her, leaving a small opening through which I could enter. I could hear the same music as Athena, and I danced around her, invoking the union of the male fire with the earth, which received it now with arms and legs spread wide, the fire that purified everything, transforming into energy the strength contained in the firewood, in those branches, in those beings, both human and invisible. I danced for as long as the melody from the fire lasted, and I made protective gestures to the child who was sitting, smiling, inside the circle. When the flames had burned down, I took a little ash and sprinkled it on Athena's head. Then with my feet I erased the circle I'd drawn around her. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I felt very loved, wanted, protected.' 'In difficult moments, remember that feeling.' 'Now that I've found my path, there will be no more difficult moments. After all, I have a mission to fulfil, don't I?' 'Yes, we all have a mission to fulfil.' She started to feel uncertain. 'And what about the difficult moments?' she asked. 'That isn't an intelligent thing to ask. Remember what you said just now: you are loved, wanted, protected.' 'I'll do my best.' Her eyes filled with tears. Athena had understood my answer. Samira R. Khalil, housewife My own grandson! What has my grandson got to do with all this? What kind of world are we living in? Are we still in the Middle Ages, engaging in witch-hunts? away. I ran to him. He had a bloody nose, but he didn't seem to care about my distress and pushed me 'I know how to defend myself, and I did.' I may never have produced a child in my own womb, but I know the hearts of children. I was far more worried about Athena than I was about Viorel. This was just one of many fights he would have to face in his life, and there was a flicker of pride in his swollen eyes. 'Some children at school said that Mum was a devil-worshipper!' Sherine arrived shortly afterwards, soon enough to see the boy's bloodied face and to kick up a fuss. She wanted to go straight to the school and talk to the head teacher, but first I put my arms around her. I let her cry out all her tears and all her frustrations, and the best thing I could do then was to keep silent and try to convey my love for her through that silence. When she had calmed down a little, I explained carefully that she could come back home and live with us, that we would take care of everything. When her father read about the case being brought against her, he had immediately spoken to some lawyers. We would do everything we could to get her out of this situation regardless of comments from the neighbours, ironic looks from acquaintances, and the false solidarity of friends. Nothing in the world was more important than my daughter's happiness, even though I'd never understood why she always had to choose the most difficult and painful of paths. But a mother doesn't have to understand anything, she simply has to love and protect. And feel proud. Knowing that we could give her almost everything, she nevertheless set off early in search of her independence. She'd had her stumbles and her failures, but she insisted on facing any storms alone. She went looking for her mother, aware of the risks she was running, and in the end, that encounter brought her closer to us. I knew she had never once heeded my advice – get a degree, get married, put up with the problems of living with someone without complaint, don't try to go beyond the limits set by society. And what had been the result? By following my daughter's story, I became a better person. Obviously I didn't understand about the Mother Goddess or Athena's need always to surround herself with strangers, or her inability to be contented with all that she'd achieved after so much work. But deep down, even though it may be rather late in the day for such ideas, I wish I could have been like her. I was about to get up and prepare something to eat, but she stopped me. 'I want to stay here for a while with your arms around me. That's all I need. Viorel go and watch TV. I want to talk to your grandmother.' The boy obeyed. 'I must have caused you a lot of suffering.' 'Not at all. On the contrary, you and your son are the source of all our joy and our reason for living.' 'But I haven't exactly–' 'I'm glad it's been the way it has. I can say it now: there were moments when I hated you, when I bitterly regretted not having followed the advice of that nurse and adopted another baby. Then I'd ask myself: “How can a mother hate her own daughter?” I took tranquillizers, played bridge with my friends, went on shopping sprees, and all to make up for the love I'd given you and which I felt I wasn't getting back. 'A few months ago, when you decided to give up yet another job that was bringing you both money and prestige, I was in despair. I went to the local church. I wanted to make a promise to the Virgin and beg her to bring you back to reality, to force you to change your life and make the most of the chances you were throwing away. I was ready to do anything in exchange for that. 'I stood looking at the Virgin and Child. And I said: “You're a mother and you know what's happening. Ask anything of me, but save my child, because I think she's bent on self-destruction.”' I felt Sherine's arms holding me tighter. She was crying again, but her tears were different this time. I was doing my best to control my feelings. 'And do you know what I felt at that moment? I felt that she was talking to me and saying: “Listen, Samira, that's what I thought too. I suffered for years because my son wouldn't listen to anything I said. I used to worry about his safety, I didn't like the friends he chose, and he showed no respect for laws, customs, religion, or his elders.” Need I go on?' 'Yes, I'd like to hear the rest of the story.' 'The Virgin concluded by saying: “But my son didn't listen to me. And now I'm very glad that he didn't.”' I gently removed myself from her embrace and got up. 'You two need to eat.' I went to the kitchen, prepared some onion soup and a dish of tabbouleh, warmed up some unleavened bread, put it all on the table, and we had lunch together. We talked about trivial things, which, at such moments, always help to bring us together and justify our pleasure at being there, quietly, even if, outside, a storm is uprooting trees and sowing destruction. Of course, at the end of that afternoon, my daughter and my grandson would walk out of the door to confront the winds, the thunder and the lightning all over again, but that was their choice. 'Mum, you said that you'd do anything for me, didn't you?' It was true. I would lay down my life if necessary. 'Don't you think I should be prepared to do anything for Viorel too?' 'I think that's a mother's instinct, but instinct aside, it's the greatest proof of love there is.' She continued eating. 'You know that your father is happy to help with this case being brought against you, if you want him to, that is.' 'Of course I do. This is my family we're talking about.' I thought twice, three times, but couldn't hold back my words: 'Can I give you some advice? I know you have some influential friends, that journalist, for example. Why don't you ask him to write about your story and tell him your version of events? The press are giving a lot of coverage to that vicar, and people will end up thinking he's right.' 'So, as well as accepting what I do, you also want to help me?' 'Yes, Sherine. Even though I may not understand you, even though I sometimes suffer as the Virgin must have suffered all her life, even if you're not Jesus Christ with an all-important message for the world, I'm on your side and I want to see you win.' Heron Ryan, journalist Athena arrived while I was frantically making notes for what I imagined would be the ideal interview on the events in Portobello and the rebirth of the Goddess. It was a very, very delicate affair. What I saw at the warehouse was a woman saying: 'You can do it, let the Great Mother teach you trust in love and miracles will happen.' And the crowd agreed, but that wouldn't last long, because we were living in an age in which slavery was the only path to happiness. Free will demands immense responsibility; it's hard work, it brings with it anguish and suffering. 'I need you to write something about me,' she said. I told her that we should wait a little – after all, the whole affair could fade from view the following week – but that, meanwhile, I'd prepared a few questions about Female Energy. 'At the moment, all the fuss and the fighting is only of interest to people in the immediate area and to the tabloids. No respectable newspaper has published a single line about it. London is full of these little local disturbances, and getting into the broadsheets really isn't advisable. It would be best if the group didn't meet for two or three weeks. However, I think that the business about the Goddess, if treated with the seriousness it deserves, could make a lot of people ask themselves some really important questions.' 'Over supper that time, you said that you loved me. And now you're not only telling me you don't want to help me, you're asking me to give up the things I believe in.' How to interpret those words? Was she finally accepting the love I'd offered her that night, and which accompanied me every minute of my life? According to the Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran, it was more important to give than to receive, but while these were wise words, I was part of what is known as 'humanity', with my frailties, my moments of indecision, my desire simply to live in peace, to be the slave of my feelings and to surrender myself without asking any questions, without even knowing if my love was reciprocated. All she had to do was to let me love her; I was sure that Hagia Sofia would agree with me. Athena had been passing through my life now for nearly two years, and I was afraid she might simply continue on her way and disappear over the horizon, without my having even been able to accompany her on part of that journey. 'Are you talking about love?' 'I'm asking for your help.' What to do? Control myself, stay cool, not precipitate things and end up destroying them? Or take the step I needed to take, embrace her and protect her from all dangers? My head kept telling me to say: 'Don't you worry about a thing. I love you', but instead I said: 'I want to help. Please trust me. I'd do anything in the world for you, including saying “No” if I thought that was the right thing to do, even though you might not understand my reasoning.' I told her that the deputy editor on my newspaper had proposed a series of articles about the reawakening of the Goddess, which would include an interview with her. At first, it had seemed to me an excellent idea, but now I saw that it would be best to wait a little. I said: 'You either carry your mission forward or you defend yourself. You're aware, I know, that what you're doing is more important than how you're seen by other people. Do you agree?' 'I'm thinking of my son. Every day now he gets into some fight or argument at school.' 'That will pass. In a week, it'll be forgotten. That will be the moment to act, not in order to defend yourself against idiotic attacks, but to set out, confidently and wisely, the true breadth of your work. And if you have any doubts about my feelings and are determined to continue, then I'll come with you to the next meeting. And we'll see what happens.' The following Monday I went with her to the meeting. I was not now just another person in the crowd; I could see things as she was seeing them. People crowded into the warehouse; there were flowers and applause, young women calling her 'the priestess of the Goddess', a few smartly dressed ladies begging for a private audience because of some illness in the family. The crowd started pushing us and blocking the entrance. We had never imagined that we might need some form of security, and I was frightened. I took her arm, picked up Viorel, and we went in. Inside the packed room, a very angry Andrea was waiting for us. 'I think you should tell them that you're not performing any miracles today!' she shouted at Athena. 'You're allowing yourself to be seduced by vanity! Why doesn't Hagia Sofia tell all these people to go away?' 'Because she can diagnose illnesses,' replied Athena defiantly. 'And the more people who benefit from that, the better.' She was about to say more, but the crowd was applauding and she stepped up onto the improvised stage. She turned on the small sound system she'd brought from home, gave instructions for people to dance against the rhythm of the music, and the ritual began. At a certain point, Viorel went and sat down in a corner – that was the moment for Hagia Sofia to appear. Athena did as I'd seen her do many times before: she abruptly turned off the music, clutched her head in her hands, and the people waited in silence as if obeying an invisible command. The ritual followed its unvarying path: there were questions about love, which were rejected, although she agreed to comment on anxieties, illnesses and other personal problems. From where I was, I could see that some people had tears in their eyes, others behaved as if they were standing before a saint. Then came the moment for the closing sermon, before the group celebration of the Mother. Since I knew what would happen next, I started thinking about the best way to get out of there with the minimum of fuss. I hoped that she would take Andrea's advice and tell them not to go looking for miracles there. I went over to where Viorel was sitting, so that we could leave the place as soon as his mother had finished speaking. And that was when I heard the voice of Hagia Sofia. 'Today, before we close, we're going to talk about diet. Forget all about slimming regimes.' Diet? Forget about slimming regimes? 'We have survived for all these millennia because we have been able to eat. And now that seems to have become a curse. Why? What is it that makes us, at forty years old, want to have the same body we had when we were young? Is it possible to stop time? Of course not. And why should we be thin?' I heard a kind of murmuring in the crowd. They were probably expecting a more spiritual message. 'We don't need to be thin. We buy books, we go to gyms, we expend a lot of brain power on trying to hold back time, when we should be celebrating the miracle of being here in this world. Instead of thinking about how to live better, we're obsessed with weight. 'Forget all about that. You can read all the books you want, do all the exercise you want, punish yourself as much as you want, but you will still have only two choices – either stop living or get fat. 'Eat in moderation, but take pleasure in eating: it isn't what enters a person's mouth that's evil, but what leaves it. Remember that for millennia we have struggled in order to keep from starving. Whose idea was it that we had to be thin all our lives? I'll tell you: the vampires of the soul, those who are so afraid of the future that they think it's possible to stop the wheel of time. Hagia Sofia can guarantee that it's not possible. Use the energy and effort you put into dieting to nourish yourself with spiritual bread. Know that the Great Mother gives generously and wisely. Respect that and you will get no fatter than passing time demands. Instead of artificially burning those calories, try to transform them into the energy required to fight for your dreams. No one ever stayed slim for very long just because of a diet.' There was complete silence. Athena began the closing ceremony, and we all celebrated the presence of the Mother. I clasped Viorel in my arms, promising myself that next time I would bring a few friends along to provide a little improvised security. We left to the same shouts and applause as when we had arrived. A shopkeeper grabbed my arm: 'This is absurd! If one of my windows gets smashed, I'll sue you!' Athena was laughing and giving autographs. Viorel seemed happy. I just hoped that no journalist was there that night. When we finally managed to extricate ourselves from the crowd, we hailed a taxi. I asked if they would like to go somewhere to eat. 'Of course,' said Athena, 'that's just what I've been talking about.' Antoine Locadour, historian In this long series of mistakes that came to be known as 'The Witch of Portobello affair', what surprises me most is the ingenuousness of Heron Ryan, an international journalist of many years' experience. When we spoke, he was horrified by the tabloid headlines: 'The Goddess Diet!' screamed one. 'Get thin while you eat says Witch of Portobello!' roared another from its front page. As well as touching on the sensitive topic of religion, Athena had gone further: she had talked about diet, a subject of national interest, more important even than wars, strikes or natural disasters. We may not all believe in God, but we all want to get thin. Reporters interviewed local shopkeepers, who all swore blind that, in the days preceding the mass meetings, they'd seen red and black candles being lit during rituals involving only a handful of people. It may have been nothing but cheap sensationalism, but Ryan should have foreseen that, with a court case in progress, the accuser would take every opportunity to bring to the judges' attention what he considered to be not only a calumny, but an attack on all the values that kept society going. That same week, one of the most prestigious British newspapers published in its editorial column an article by the Rev. Ian Buck, Minister at the Evangelical Church in Kensington. It said, amongst other things: 'As a good Christian, I have a duty to turn the other cheek when I am wrongly attacked or when my honour is impugned. However, we must not forget that while Jesus may have turned the other cheek, he also used a whip to drive out those wanting to make the Lord's House into a den of thieves. That is what we are seeing at the moment in Portobello Road: unscrupulous people who pass themselves off as savers of souls, giving false hope and promising cures for all ills, even declaring that you can stay thin and elegant if you follow their teachings. 'For this reason, I have no alternative but to go to the courts to prevent this situation continuing. The movement's followers swear that they are capable of awakening hitherto unknown gifts and they deny the existence of an All-Powerful God, replacing him with pagan divinities such as Venus and Aphrodite. For them, everything is permitted, as long as it is done with “love”. But what is love? An immoral force which justifies any end? Or a commitment to society's true values, such as the family and tradition?' At the next meeting, foreseeing a repetition of the pitched battle of August, the police brought in half a dozen officers to avoid any confrontations. Athena arrived accompanied by a bodyguard improvised by Ryan, and this time there was not only applause, there was booing and cursing too. One woman, seeing that Athena was accompanied by a child of five, brought a charge two days later under the Children Act 1989, alleging that the mother was inflicting irreversible damage on her child and that custody should be given to the father. One of the tabloids managed to track down Lukás Jessen-Petersen, who refused to give an interview. He threatened the reporter, saying that if he so much as mentioned Viorel in his articles, he wouldn't be responsible for his actions. The following day, the tabloid carried the headline: 'Witch of Portobello's ex would kill for son'. That same afternoon, two more charges under the Children Act 1989 were brought before the courts, calling for the child to be taken into care. There was no meeting after that. Groups of people – for and against –gathered outside the door, and uniformed officers were on hand to keep the peace, but Athena did not appear. The same thing happened the following week, only this time, there were fewer crowds and fewer police. The third week, there was only the occasional bunch of flowers to be seen and someone handing out photos of Athena to passers-by. The subject disappeared from the front pages of the London dailies. And when the Rev. Ian Buck announced his decision to withdraw all charges of defamation and calumny, 'in the Christian spirit we should show to those who repent of their actions', no major paper was interested in publishing his statement, which turned up instead on the readers' pages of some local rag. As far as I know, it never became national news, but was restricted to the pages that dealt only with London news. I visited Brighton a month after the meetings ended, and when I tried to bring the subject up with my friends there, none of them had the faintest idea what I was talking about. Ryan could have cleared up the whole business, and what his newspaper said would have been picked up by the rest of the media. To my surprise, though, he never published a line about Sherine Khalil. In my view, the crime – given its nature – had nothing to do with what happened in Portobello. It was all just a macabre coincidence. Heron Ryan, journalist Athena asked me to turn on the tape-recorder. She had brought another one with her, of a type I'd never seen before – very sophisticated and very small. 'Firstly, I wish to state that I've been receiving death threats. Secondly, I want you to promise that, even if I die, you will wait five years before you allow anyone else to listen to this tape. In the future, people will be able to tell what is true and what is false. Say you agree; that way you will be entering a legally binding agreement.' 'I agree, but I think–' 'Don't think anything. Should I be found dead, this will be my testament, on condition that it won't be published now.' I turned off the tape-recorder. 'You have nothing to fear. I have friends in government, people who owe me favours, who need or will need me. We can–' 'Have I mentioned before that my boyfriend works for Scotland Yard?' Not that again. If he really did exist, why wasn't he there when we needed him, when both Athena and Viorel could have been attacked by the mob? Questions crowded into my mind: Was she trying to test me? What was going through that woman's mind? Was she unbalanced, fickle, one hour wanting to be by my side, the next talking about this nonexistent man? 'Turn on the tape-recorder,' she said. I felt terrible. I was beginning to think that she'd been using me all along. I would like to have been able to say: 'Go away. Get out of my life. Ever since I first met you, everything has been a hell. All I want is for you to come here, put your arms around me and kiss me and say you want to stay with me forever, but that never happens.' 'Is there anything wrong?' She knew there was something wrong. Or, rather, she couldn't possibly not have known what I was feeling, because I had never concealed my love for her, even though I'd only spoken openly of it once. But I would cancel any appointment to see her; I was always there when she needed me; I was trying to build some kind of relationship with her son, in the belief that he would one day call me 'Dad'. I never asked her to stop what she was doing; I accepted her way of life, her decisions; I suffered in silence when she suffered; I was glad when she triumphed; I was proud of her determination. 'Why did you turn off the tape-recorder?' I hovered for a second between heaven and hell, between rebellion and submission, between cold reason and destructive emotion. In the end, summoning up all my strength, I managed to control myself. I pressed the button. 'Let's continue.' 'As I was saying, I've been receiving death threats. I've been getting anonymous phone calls. They insult me and say I'm a menace, that I'm trying to restore the reign of Satan, and that they can't allow this to happen.' 'Have you spoken to the police?' I deliberately omitted any reference to her boyfriend, showing that I'd never believed that story anyway. 'Yes, I have. They've recorded the calls. They come from public phone boxes, but the police told me not to worry, that they're watching my house. They've arrested one person: he's mentally ill and believes he's the reincarnation of one of the apostles, and that “this time, he must fight so that Christ is not driven out again”. He's in a psychiatric hospital now. The police explained that he's been in hospital before for making similar threats to other people.' 'If they're on the case, there's no need to worry. Our police are the best in the world.' 'I'm not afraid of death. If I were to die today, I would carry with me moments that few people my age have had the chance to experience. What I'm afraid of, and this is why I've asked you to record our conversation today, is that I might kill someone.' 'Kill someone?' 'You know that there are legal proceedings underway to remove Viorel from me. I've asked friends, but no one can do anything. We just have to await the verdict. According to them – depending on the judge, of course – these fanatics will get what they want. That's why I've bought a gun. I know what it means for a child to be removed from his mother, because I've experienced it myself. And so, when the first bailiff arrives, I'll shoot, and I'll keep shooting until the bullets run out. If they don't shoot me first, I'll use the knives in my house. If they take the knives, I'll use my teeth and my nails. But no one is going to take Viorel from me, or only over my dead body. Are you recording this?' 'I am. But there are ways–' 'There aren't. My father is following the case. He says that when it comes to family law, there's little that can be done. Now turn off the tape-recorder.' 'Was that your testament?' She didn't answer. When I did nothing, she took the initiative. She went over to the sound system and put on that music from the steppes, which I now knew almost by heart. She danced as she did during the rituals, completely out of rhythm, and I knew what she was trying to do. Her tape-recorder was still on, a silent witness to everything that was happening there. The afternoon sunlight was pouring in through the windows, but Athena was off in search of another light, one that had been there since the creation of the world. When she felt the spark from the Mother she stopped dancing, turned off the music, put her head in her hands and didn't move for some time. Then she raised her head and looked at me. 'You know who is here, don't you?' 'Yes. Athena and her divine side, Hagia Sofia.' 'I've grown used to doing this. I don't think it's necessary, but it's the method I've discovered for getting in touch with her, and now it's become a tradition in my life. You know who you're talking to, don't you? To Athena. I am Hagia Sofia.' 'Yes, I know. The second time I danced at your house, I discovered that I had a spirit guide too: Philemon. But I don't talk to him very much, I don't listen to what he says. I only know that when he's present, it's as if our two souls have finally met.' 'That's right. And today Philemon and Hagia Sofia are going to talk about love.' 'Should I dance first?' 'There's no need. Philemon will understand me, because I can see that you were touched by my dance. The man before me suffers for something which he believes he has never received – my love. But the man beyond your self understands that all the pain, anxiety and feelings of abandonment are unnecessary and childish. I love you. Not in the way that your human side wants, but in the way that the divine spark wants. We inhabit the same tent, which was placed on our path by Her. There we understand that we are not the slaves of our feelings, but their masters. We serve and are served, we open the doors of our rooms and we embrace. Perhaps we kiss too, because everything that happens very intensely on Earth will have its counterpart on the invisible plane. And you know that I'm not trying to provoke you, that I'm not toying with your feelings when I say that.' 'What is love, then?' 'The soul, blood and body of the Great Mother. I love you as exiled souls love each other when they meet in the middle of the desert. There will never be anything physical between us, but no passion is in vain, no love is ever wasted. If the Mother awoke that love in your heart, she awoke it in mine too, although your heart perhaps accepts it more readily. The energy of love can never be lost – it is more powerful than anything and shows itself in many ways.' 'I'm not strong enough for this. Such abstractions only leave me feeling more depressed and alone than ever.' 'I'm not strong enough either. I need someone by my side too. But one day, our eyes will open, the different forms of Love will be made manifest, and then suffering will disappear from the face of the Earth. It won't be long now, I think. Many of us are returning from a long journey during which we were forced to search for things that were of no interest to us. Now we realise that they were false. But this return cannot be made without pain, because we have been away for a long time and feel that we are strangers in our own land. It will take some time to find the friends who also left, and the places where our roots and our treasures lie. But this will happen.' For some reason, what she said touched me. And that drove me on. 'I want to continue talking about love,' I said. 'We are talking. That has always been the aim of everything I've looked for in my life – allowing love to manifest itself in me without barriers, letting it fill up my blank spaces, making me dance, smile, justify my life, protect my son, get in touch with the heavens, with men and women, with all those who were placed on my path. I tried to control my feelings, saying such things as “he deserves my love” or “he doesn't”. Until, that is, I understood my fate, when I saw that I might lose the most important thing in my life.' 'Your son.' 'Exactly. He is the most complete manifestation of love. When the possibility arose that he might be taken away from me, then I found myself and realised that I could never have anything or lose anything. I understood this after crying for many hours. It was only after intense suffering that the part of me I call Hagia Sofia said: “What nonsense! Love always stays, even though, sooner or later, your son will leave.”' I was beginning to understand. 'Love is not a habit, a commitment, or a debt. It isn't what romantic songs tell us it is – love simply is. That is the testament of Athena or Sherine or Hagia Sofia – love is. No definitions. Love and don't ask too many questions. Just love.' 'That's difficult.' 'Are you recording?' 'You asked me to turn the machine off.' 'Well, turn it on again.' I did as she asked. Athena went on: 'It's difficult for me too. That's why I'm not going back home. I'm going into hiding. The police might protect me from madmen, but not from human justice. I had a mission to fulfil and it took me so far that I even risked the custody of my son. Not that I regret it. I fulfilled my destiny.' 'What was your mission?' 'You know what it was. You were there from the start. Preparing the way for the Mother. Continuing a tradition that has been suppressed for centuries, but which is now beginning to experience a resurgence.' 'Perhaps…' I stopped, but she didn't say a word until I'd finished my sentence. '…perhaps you came too early, and people aren't yet ready.' Athena laughed. 'Of course they're not. That's why there were all those confrontations, all that aggression and obscurantism. Because the forces of darkness are dying, and they are thrown back on such things as a last resort. They seem very strong, as animals do before they die, but afterwards, they're too exhausted to get to their feet. I sowed the seed in many hearts, and each one will reveal the Renaissance in its own way, but one of those hearts will follow the full Tradition – Andrea.' Andrea. Who hated her, who blamed her for the collapse of our relationship, who said to anyone who would listen that Athena had been taken over by egotism and vanity, and had destroyed something that had been very hard to create. Athena got to her feet and picked up her bag – Hagia Sofia was still with her. 'I can see your aura. It's being healed of some needless suffering.' 'You know, of course, that Andrea doesn't like you.' 'Naturally. But we've been speaking for nearly half an hour about love. Liking has nothing to do with it. Andrea is perfectly capable of fulfilling her mission. She has more experience and more charisma than I do. She learned from my mistakes; she knows that she must be prudent because in an age in which the wild beast of obscurantism is dying, there's bound to be conflict. Andrea may hate me as a person, and that may be why she's developed her gifts so quickly – to prove that she was more able than me. When hatred makes a person grow, it's transformed into one of the many ways of loving.' She picked up her tape-recorder, put it in her bag and left. At the end of that week, the court gave its verdict: various witnesses were heard, and Sherine Khalil, known as Athena, was given the right to keep custody of her child. Moreover, the head teacher at the boy's school was officially warned that any kind of discrimination against the boy would be punishable by law. I knew there was no point in ringing the apartment where she used to live. She'd left the key with Andrea, taken her sound system, some clothes, and said that she would be gone for some time. I waited for the telephone call to invite me to celebrate that victory together. With each day that passed, my love for Athena ceased being a source of suffering and became a lake ofjoy and serenity. I no longer felt so alone. At some point in space, our souls – and the souls of all those returning exiles – were joyfully celebrating their reunion. The first week passed, and I assumed she was trying to recover from the recent tensions. A month later, I assumed she must have gone back to Dubai and taken up her old job; I telephoned and was told that they'd heard nothing more from her, but if I knew where she was, could I please give her a message: the door was always open, and she was greatly missed. I decided to write a series of articles on the reawakening of the Mother, which provoked a number of offensive letters accusing me of 'promoting paganism', but which were otherwise a great success with our readership. Two months later, when I was just about to have lunch, a colleague at work phoned me. The body of Sherine Khalil, the Witch of Portobello, had been found in Hampstead. She had been brutally murdered. [text2] Now that I've finished transcribing all the taped interviews, I'm going to give her the transcript. She's probably gone for a walk in the Snowdonia National Park as she does every afternoon. It's her birthday – or, rather, the date that her parents chose for her birthday when they adopted her – and this is my present to her. Viorel, who will be coming to the celebration with his grandparents, has also prepared a surprise for her. He's recorded hisfirst composition in afriend's studio and he's going to play it during supper. She'll ask me afterwards: 'Why didyou do this?' And I'll say: 'Because I needed to understandyou. ' During all the years we've been together, I've only heard what I thought were legends about her, but now I know that the legends are true. Whenever I suggested going with her, be it to the Monday evening celebrations at her apartment, to Romania, or to get-togethers with friends, she always asked me not to. She wanted to be free, andpeople, she said, findpolicemen intimidating. Faced by someone like me, even the innocentfeel guilty. However, I went to the Portobello warehouse twice without her knowledge. Again without her knowledge, I arrangedfor various colleagues to be around to protect her when she arrived and left, and at least one person, later identified as a militant member of some sect, was arrestedfor carrying a knife. He said he'd been told by spirits to acquire a little bloodfrom the Witch ofPortobello, who was a manifestation of the Great Mother. The blood, he said, was needed to consecrate certain offerings. He didn't intend to kill her; he merely wanted a little blood on a handkerchief. The investigation showed that there really was no intention to murder, but nevertheless, he was charged and sentenced to six months in prison. It wasn't my idea to make it look as if she'd been murdered. Athena wanted to disappear and asked me if that would be possible. I explained that, if the courts decided that the State should have custody of her child, I couldn't go against the law, but when the judge found in herfavour, we were free to carry out her plan. Athena wasfully aware that once the meetings at the warehouse became the focus of local gossip, her mission would be ruinedfor good. There was no point standing up in front of the crowd and denying that she was a queen, a witch, a divine manifestation, because people choose to follow the powerful and they give power to whomever they wish. And that would go against everything she preached –freedom to choose, to consecrate your own bread, to awaken your particular gifts, with no help from guides or shepherds. Nor was there any point in disappearing. People would interpret such a gesture as a retreat into the wilderness, an ascent into the heavens, a secret pilgrimage to meet teachers in the Himalayas, and they would always be awaiting her return. Legends andpossibly a cult could grow up around her. We started to notice this when she stopped going to Portobello. My informants said that, contrary to everyone's expectations, her cult was growing with frightening speed: other similar groups were being created, people turned up claiming to be the 'heirs' ofHagia Sofia, the newspaper photograph of her holding Viorel was being sold on the black market, depicting her as a victim, a martyr to intolerance. Occultists started talking about an 'Order ofAthena', through which – upon payment – one could be put in touch with the founder. All that remained was 'death', but the death had to take place in completely normal circumstances, like the death of any other person murdered in a big city. This obliged us to take certain precautions: (a) The crime could not in any way be associated with martyrdom for religious reasons, because, if it was, we would only aggravate the very situation we were trying to avoid. (b) The victim would have to be so badly disfigured as to be unrecognisable. (c) The murderer could not be arrested. (d) We would need a corpse. In a city like London, dead, disfigured, burned bodies turn up every day, but normally we find the culprit. So we had to wait nearly two months until the Hampstead murder. We found a murderer too, who was also conveniently dead – he hadfled to Portugal and committed suicide by blowing his brains out. Justice had been done, and all I needed was a little cooperation from my closestfriends. One hand washes the other: they sometimes asked me to do things that were not entirely orthodox, and as long as no major law was broken, there was – shall we say – a certain degree offlexibility in interpreting the facts. That is what happened. As soon as the body wasfound, I and a colleague of many years' standing were given the case and, almost simultaneously, we got news that the Portuguese police hadfound the body of a suicide in Guimarães, along with a note confessing to a murder whose detailsfitted the case we were dealing with, and giving instructionsfor all his money to be donated to charitable institutions. It had been a crime ofpassion – love often ends like that. In the note he left behind, the dead man said that he'd brought the woman from one of the ex-Soviet republics and done everything he could to help her. He was prepared to marry her so that she would have the same rights as a British citizen, and then he'dfound a letter she was about to send to some German man, who had invited her to spend afew days at his castle. In the letter, she said she couldn't wait to leave and asked the German to send her a plane ticket at once so that they could meet again as soon as possible. They had met in a London café and had only exchanged two letters. We had the perfect scenario. Myfriend hesitated – no one likes to have an unsolved crime on theirfiles – but when I said that I'd take the blame for this, he agreed. I went to the place where Athena was in hiding – a delightful house in Oxford. I used a syringe to take some of her blood. I cut off a lock of her hair and singed it slightly. Back at the scene of the crime, I scattered this 'evidence' around. I knew that since no one knew the identity of her real mother andfather, no DNA identification would be possible, and so all I needed was to cross myfingers and hope the murder didn't get too much coverage in the press. A few journalists turned up. I told them the story of the murderer's suicide, mentioning only the country, not the town. I said that no motive had been foundfor the crime, but that we had completely discounted any idea that it was a revenge killing or that there had been some religious motive. As I understood it (after all, the police can make mistakes too), the victim had been raped. She hadpresumably recognised her attacker, who had then killed and mutilated her. If the German ever wrote again, his letters would have been sent back marked 'Return to sender'. Athena's photograph had appeared only once in the newspapers, during the first demonstration in Portobello, and so the chances of her being recognised were minimal. Apartfrom me, only three people know this story – her parents and her son. They all attended the burial of 'her' remains and the gravestone bears her name. Her son goes to see her every weekend and is doing brilliantly at school. Of course, Athena may one day tire of this isolated life and decide to return to London. Nevertheless, people have very short memories, and apartfrom her closestfriends, no one will remember her. By then, Andrea will be the catalyst and – to be fair – she is better able than Athena to continue the mission. As well as having all the necessary gifts, she's an actress and knows how deal with the public. I understand that Andrea's work is spreading, although without attracting unwanted attention. I hear about people in key positions in society who are in contact with her and, when necessary, when the right critical mass is reached, they will put an end to the hypocrisy of the Rev. Ian Bucks of this world. And that's what Athena wants, notfame for herself, as many (including Andrea) thought, but that the mission should be completed. At the start of my investigations, ofwhich this transcript is the result, I thought I was reconstructing her life so that she would see how brave and important she had been. But as the conversations went on, I gradually discovered my own hidden side, even though I don't much believe in these things. And I reached the conclusion that the real reason behind all this work was a desire to answer a question to which I'd never known the answer: why did Athena love me, when we're so different and when we don't even share the same world view? I remember when I kissed herfor the first time, in a bar near Victoria Station. She was workingfor a bank at the time, and I was a detective at Scotland Yard. After we'd been out together afew times, she invited me to go and dance at her landlord's apartment, but I never did – it's not really my style. And instead ofgetting annoyed, she said that she respected my decision. When I re-read the statements made by herfriends, Ifeel really proud, because Athena doesn't seem to have respected anyone else's decisions. Months later, before she set off to Dubai, I told her that I loved her. She said that she felt the same way, but added that we must be prepared to spend long periods apart. Each of us would work in a different country, but true love could withstand such a separation. That was the only time I dared to ask her: 'Why do you love me?' She replied: 'I don't know and I don't care. ' Now, as Iput the finishing touches to these pages, I believe I may have found the answer in her last conversation with the journalist. Love simply is. 25 February 2006 19:47:00 Revised version completed on St Expeditus' Day, 2006 for more e-books, visit www.intexblogger.com


Type:Social
Page 47 of 115