Aleph (5 page)

“I’ve no idea; I’m not a scholar,” he says.

I ask him to find out. He takes his cell phone and starts ringing various people. Christina and I go to a bar and order two strong black coffees. We’re both tired, but we’ll be having a seafood supper later and have to resist the temptation to have a snack now.

“I just had a déjà vu moment,” I tell her.

“Everyone has them from time to time. You don’t have to be a magus to have one,” jokes Christina.

Of course not, but déjà vu is more than just that fleeting moment of surprise, instantly forgotten because we never bother with things that make no sense. It shows that time doesn’t pass. It’s a leap into something we have already experienced and that is being repeated.

Samil has vanished.

“While he was telling us about the palace, I was drawn back into the past for a millisecond. I’m sure this happened when he was talking about how any crime was not only the responsibility of the murderer but of all those who created the conditions in which the crime could occur. The first time I met J., in 1982, he talked about my connection with his father. He never mentioned the subject again, and I forgot about it, too. But a few moments ago, I saw his father. And I understand now what he meant.”

“In the life you told me about?”

“Yes, during the Spanish Inquisition.”

“That’s all over. Why torment yourself over something that’s ancient history now?”

“I’m not tormenting myself. I learned long ago that in order to heal my wounds, I must have the courage to face up to them. I also learned to forgive myself and correct my mistakes. However, ever since I started out on this journey, I’ve had a sense of being confronted by a vast jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of which are only just beginning to be revealed, pieces of love, hate, sacrifice, forgiveness, joy, and grief. That’s why I’m here with you. I feel much better now, as if I really were going in search of my soul, of my kingdom, rather than sitting around complaining that I can’t assimilate everything I’ve learned. I can’t do that because I don’t understand it all properly, but when I do, the truth will set me free.”

S
AMIL IS BACK
, carrying a book. He sits down with us, consults his notes, and respectfully turns the pages of the book, murmuring words in Arabic.

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

I can see that he’s excited.

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

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

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

“Exactly!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Routine.

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

“Yes,” I said.

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

I’ve never forgotten those words.

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