Aleph. Paulo Coelho

      9,288

      The Trans-Siberian railway is one of the longest railways in the world. You can start your journey at any station in Europe, but the Russian section is 9,288 kilometres long, connecting hundreds of small and large cities, traversing 76 per cent of the country and passing through seven different time zones. When I enter the train station in Moscow, at eleven o’clock at night, day has already dawned in Vladivostok, our final destination.

      Until the end of the nineteenth century, few travellers ventured into Siberia, which holds the record for the lowest temperature ever registered in a permanently inhabited place: –72.2°C in the town of Oymyakon. The rivers that linked the region to the rest of the world used to be the main means of transport, but they were frozen for eight months of the year. The population of Central Asia lived in almost complete isolation, although it was the source of most of the then Russian Empire’s natural wealth. For strategic and political reasons, Alexander II approved the construction of the railway, the cost of which was exceeded only by Imperial Russia’s military budget during the whole of the First World War.

      During the civil war that erupted immediately after the Communist Revolution of 1917, the railway became the focus of fighting. Forces loyal to the deposed emperor, notably the Czech Legion, used armoured carriages, which acted as tanks on rails, and were thus able to repel attacks by the Red Army with relative ease, as long as they were kept supplied with munitions and provisions from the East. That was when the saboteurs were sent into action, blowing up bridges and cutting communications. The pro-Imperial forces were driven to the outer reaches of the Russian continent and many crossed Alaska and into Canada, from where they dispersed to other countries.

      When I entered the station at Moscow, the price of a ticket from Europe to the Pacific Ocean in a compartment shared with three other people could cost anything between 30 and 60 euros.

      My first photo was of the departures board showing our train due to leave at 23.15! My heart was beating fast, as if I were a child again, watching my toy train chugging round the room and letting my mind travel to distant places, as distant as the one in which I found myself now.

      My conversation with J. in Saint Martin just over three months before felt as if it had happened in a previous incarnation. What idiotic questions I had asked! What was the meaning of life? Why can I make no progress? Why is the spiritual world moving further and further away? The answer couldn’t have been simpler: because I wasn’t really living!

      How good it was to go back to being a child, feeling my blood flowing in my veins and my eyes shining, thrilling to the sight of the crowded platform, the smell of oil and food, the squeal of brakes as a train came into the station, the shrill sounds of luggage vans and whistles.

      To live is to experience things, not sit around pondering the meaning of life. Obviously, not everyone needs to cross Asia or follow the Road to Santiago. I knew an abbot in Austria, who rarely left his monastery in Melk, and yet he understood the world far better than many travellers I have met. I have a friend who experienced great spiritual revelations just from watching his children sleeping. When my wife starts work on a new painting, she enters a kind of trance and speaks to her guardian angel.

      But I am a born pilgrim. Even when I’m feeling really lazy or I’m missing home, I need take only one step to be carried away by the excitement of the journey. In Yaroslavl station, making my way over to platform 5, I realise that I will never reach my goal by staying in the same place all the time. I can only speak to my soul when the two of us are off exploring deserts or cities or mountains or roads.

      We are in the last carriage, which will be coupled and decoupled at various stations along the way. I can’t see the engine from where I am, only the giant steel snake of the train and various other passengers – Mongols, Tatars, Russians, Chinese – some sitting on huge trunks, and all waiting for the doors to open. People come over to talk to me, but I move away. I don’t want to think about anything else, apart from the fact that I’m here, now, ready for yet another departure, a new challenge.

      This moment of childish ecstasy must have lasted at most five minutes, but I took in every detail, every sound, every smell. I won’t be able to remember anything afterwards, but that doesn’t matter: time is not a cassette tape that can be wound and rewound.

       Don’t think about what you’ll tell people afterwards. The time is here and now. Make the most of it.

      I approach the rest of the group and realise that they’re all as excited as I am. I’m introduced to the translator who will be travelling with me. His name is Yao. He was born in China, but went to Brazil as a refugee during the civil war in his country. He then studied in Japan and is now a retired language teacher from the University of Moscow. He must be about seventy. He is tall and the only one in the group who is impeccably dressed in suit and tie.

      ‘My name means “very distant”,’ he says to break the ice.

      ‘My name means “little rock”,’ I tell him, smiling. In fact I have had the same smile on my face since last night, when I could barely sleep for thinking about today’s adventure. I couldn’t be in a better mood.

      The omnipresent Hilal is standing near the carriage I’ll be travelling in, even though her compartment must be far from mine. I wasn’t surprised to see her there. I assumed she would be. I blow her a kiss and she responds with a smile. At some point on the journey, I’m sure we’ll enjoy an interesting conversation or two.

      I stand very still, intent on every detail around me, like a navigator about to set sail in search of the Mare Ignotum. My translator respects my silence, but I realise that something is wrong, because my publisher seems preoccupied. I ask Yao what’s going on.

      He explains that the person representing me in Russia has not arrived. I remember the conversation with my friend the night before, but what does it matter? If she hasn’t turned up, that’s her problem.

      I notice Hilal say something to my editor. She receives a brusque reply, but doesn’t lose her cool, just as she didn’t when I told her we couldn’t meet. I am getting to like the fact that she is here more and more; I like her determination, her poise. The two women are arguing now.

      I again ask the translator to explain what’s going on, and he says that my editor has asked Hilal to go back to her own carriage. Fat chance, I think to myself; that young woman will do exactly what she wants. I amuse myself by observing the only things I can understand: intonation and body language. When I think the moment is right, I go over to them, still smiling.

      ‘Come on, let’s not start off on a negative vibe. We’re all happy and excited, setting off on a journey none of us has ever made before.’

      ‘But she wants—’

      ‘Just leave her alone. She can go to her own compartment later on.’

      My editor does not insist.

      The doors open with a noise that echoes down the platform, and people start to move. Who are these people climbing into the carriages? What does this journey mean to each passenger? A reunion