The Witch of Portobello. Paulo Coelho
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.’
Luka’s 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