"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 seewhat "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 Cordoba, 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 timein 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 withsharp 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 lifehas 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?"