The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession. Paulo Coelho
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 verse in Ecclesiastes – was published at the end of April. By the second week of May, it was already number one in 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 equalled 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 not 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 neighbour 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 sport. 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 hit 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