The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession

  No, I can't think like that. If I behave in the way people expect me to behave, I will become their slave. It requires enormous self-control not to succumb, because our natural tendency is to want to please, even if the person to be pleased is us. If I do that, I will lose not only Esther, but Marie, my work, my future, as well as any respect I have for myself and for what I have said and written.

  When I went back in, I found that people were starting to leave. Mikhail appeared, having already changed out of his stage clothes.

  "Listen, what happened at the pizzeria..."

  "Oh, don't worry about that," I said. "Let's go for a walk by the Seine."

  Marie got the message and said that she needed an early night. I asked her to give us a lift in her taxi as far as the bridge just opposite the Eiffel Tower; that way, I could walk home afterward. I thought of asking where Mikhail lived, but felt that the question might be construed as an attempt to verify, with my own eyes, that Esther really wasn't living with him.

  On the way, Marie kept asking him what the meeting was about, and he always gave the same answer: it's a way of recovering love. He said that he had liked my story about the railway tracks.

  "That's how love got lost," he said. "When we started laying down rules for when love should or shouldn't appear."

  "When was that?" Marie asked.

  "I don't know, but I know it's possible to retrieve that Energy. I know, because when I dance, or when I hear the voice, love speaks to me."

  Marie didn't know what he meant by "hearing the voice," but, by then, we had reached the bridge. Mikhail and I got out and started walking in the cold Paris night.

  "I know you were frightened by what you saw. The biggest danger when someone has a fit is that their tongue will roll back and they'll suffocate. The owner of the restaurant knew what to do, so it's obviously happened there before. It's not that unusual. But your diagnosis is wrong. I'm not an epileptic. It happens whenever I get in touch with the Energy."

  Of course he was an epileptic, but there was no point in contradicting him. I was trying to act normally. I needed to keep the situation under control. I was surprised how easily he had agreed to this second meeting.

  "I need you. I need you to write something about the importance of love," said Mikhail.

  "Everyone knows that love is important. That's what most books are about."

  "All right, let me put my request another way. I need you to write something about the new Renaissance."

  "What's the new Renaissance?"

  "It's similar to the Italian Renaissance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when geniuses like Erasmus, Leonardo, and Michelangelo rejected the limitations of the present and the oppressive conventions of their own time and turned instead to the past. We're beginning to see a return to a magical language, to alchemy and the idea of the Mother Goddess, to people reclaiming the freedom to do what they believe in and not what the church or the government demand of them. As in fifteenth-and sixteenth-century Florence, we are discovering that the past contains the answers to the future.

  "Your story about the railway tracks, for example: In how many other areas of our lives are we obeying rules we don't understand? People read what you write--couldn't you introduce the subject somewhere?"

  "I never make deals over what I write," I replied, remembering once more that I needed to keep my self-respect. "If it's an interesting subject, if it's in my soul, if the boat called The Word carries me to that particular island, I might write about it. But none of this has anything to do with my search for Esther."

  "I know, and I'm not trying to impose any conditions, I'm just suggesting something that seems important to me."

  "Did she tell you about the Favor Bank?"

  "She did. But this isn't a matter for the Favor Bank. It's to do with a mission that I can't fulfill on my own."

  "What you do in the Armenian restaurant, is that your mission?"

  "That's just a tiny part of it. We do the same thing on Fridays with a group of beggars. And on Wednesdays we work with a group of new nomads."

  New nomads? It was best not to interrupt; the Mikhail who was talking to me now had none of the arrogance he had shown in the pizzeria, none of the charisma he had revealed on stage or the vulnerability he had revealed on that evening at the book signing. He was a normal person, a colleague with whom we always end up, late at night, talking over the world's problems.

  "I can only write about things that really touch my soul," I insist.

  "Would you like to come with us to talk to the beggars?"

  I remembered Esther's remark about the phony sadness in the eyes of those who should be the most wretched people in the world.

  "Let me think about it first."

  We were approaching the Louvre, but he paused to lean on the parapet, and we both stood there contemplating the passing boats, which dazzled us with their spotlights.

  "Look at them," I said, because I needed to talk about something, afraid that he might get bored and go home. "They only see what the spotlights show them. When they go home, they'll say they know Paris. Tomorrow, they'll go and see the Mona Lisa and claim they've visited the Louvre. But they don't know Paris and have never really been to the Louvre. All they did was go on a boat and look at a painting, one painting, instead of looking at a whole city and trying to find out what's happening in it, visiting the bars, going down streets that don't appear in any of the tourist guides, and getting lost in order to find themselves again. It's the difference between watching a porn movie and making love."

  "I admire your self-control. There you are talking about the boats on the Seine, all the while waiting for the right moment to ask the question that brought you to me. Feel free to talk openly about anything you like."

  There was no hint of aggression in his voice, and so I decided to come straight to the point.

  "Where is Esther?"

  "Physically, she's a long way away, in Central Asia. Spiritually, she's very close, accompanying me day and night with her smile and the memory of her enthusiastic words. She was the one who brought me here, a poor twenty-one-year-old with no future, an aberration in the eyes of the people in my village, or else a madman or some sort of shaman who had made a pact with the devil, and, in the eyes of the people in the city, a mere peasant looking for work.

  "I'll tell you my story another day, but the long and the short of it is that I knew English and started working as her interpreter. We were near the border of a country where the Americans were building a lot of military bases, preparing for the war in Afghanistan, and it was impossible to get a visa. I helped her cross the mountains illegally. During the week we spent together, she made me realize that I was not alone, that she understood me.

  "I asked her what she was doing so far from home. After a few evasive answers, she finally told me what she must have told you: that she was looking for the place where love had hidden itself away. I told her about my mission to make the energy of love circulate freely in the world again. Basically, we were both looking for the same thing.

  "Esther went to the French embassy and arranged a visa for me, as an interpreter of the Kazakh language, even though no one in my country speaks anything but Russian. I came to live here. We always met up when she returned from her missions abroad; we made two more trips together to Kazakhstan. She was fascinated by the Tengri culture, and by a nomad she had met and whom she believed held the key to everything."

  I would have liked to know what Tengri was, but the question could wait. Mikhail continued talking, and in his eyes I saw the same longing to be with Esther that I myself was feeling.

  "We started working here in Paris. It was her idea to get people together once a week. She said, 'The most important thing in all human relationships is conversation, but people don't talk anymore, they don't sit down to talk and listen. They go to the theater, the cinema, watch television, listen to the radio, read books, but they almost never talk. If we want to change the world, we have to go
back to a time when warriors would gather around a fire and tell stories.'"

  I remember Esther saying that all the really important things in our lives had arisen out of long conversations we'd had sitting at a table in some bar or walking along a street or in a park.

  "It was my idea that these meetings should be on a Thursday because that's how it is in the tradition in which I was brought up. But it was her idea to make occasional forays into the Paris streets at night. She said that beggars were the only ones who never pretend to be happy; on the contrary, they pretend to be sad.

  "She gave me your books to read. I sensed that you too--possibly unconsciously--imagined the same world as we did. I realized that I wasn't alone, even if I was the only one to hear the voice. Gradually, as more and more people started coming to the meetings, I began to believe that I really could fulfill my mission and help the energy of love to return, even if that meant going back into the past, back to the moment when that Energy left or went into hiding."

  "Why did Esther leave me?"

  Was that all I was interested in? The question irritated Mikhail slightly.

  "Out of love. Today, you used the example of the railway tracks. Well, she isn't just another track running along beside you. She doesn't follow rules, nor, I imagine, do you. I miss her too, you know."

  "So..."

  "So if you want to find her, I can tell you where she is. I've already felt the same impulse, but the voice tells me that now is not the moment, that no one should interrupt her encounter with the energy of love. I respect the voice, the voice protects us, protects me, you, Esther."

  "When will the moment be right?"

  "Perhaps tomorrow, in a year's time, or never, and, if that were the case, then we would have to respect that decision. The voice is the Energy, and that is why she only brings people together when they are both truly prepared for that moment. And yet we all try and force the situation even if it means hearing the very words we don't want to hear: 'Go away.' Anyone who fails to obey the voice and arrives earlier or later than he should, will never get the thing he wants."

  "I'd rather hear her tell me to go away than be stuck with the Zahir day and night. If she said that, she would at least cease to be an idee fixe and become a woman who now has a different life and different thoughts."

  "She would no longer be the Zahir, but it would be a great loss. If a man and a woman can make the Energy manifest, then they are helping all the men and women of the world."

  "You're frightening me. I love her, you know I do, and you say that she still loves me. I don't know what you mean by being prepared; I can't live according to other people's expectations, not even Esther's."

  "As I understand it from conversations I had with her, at some point you got lost. The world started revolving exclusively around you."

  "That's not true. She was free to forge her own path. She decided to become a war correspondent, even though I didn't want her to. She felt driven to find out why people were unhappy, even though I told her this was impossible. Does she want me to go back to being a railway track running alongside another railway track, always keeping the same stupid distance apart, just because the Romans decided that was the way it should be?"

  "On the contrary."

  Mikhail started walking again, and I followed him.

  "Do you believe that I hear a voice?"

  "To be perfectly honest, I don't know. But now that we're here, let me show you something."

  "Everyone thinks I'm just having an epileptic fit, and I let them believe that because it's easier. But the voice has been speaking to me ever since I was a child, when I first saw the Lady."

  "What lady?"

  "I'll tell you later."

  "Whenever I ask you something, you say: 'I'll tell you later.'"

  "The voice is telling me something now. I know that you're anxious and frightened. In the pizzeria, when I felt that warm wind and saw the lights, I knew that these were symptoms of my connection with the Power. I knew it was there to help us both. If you think that all the things I've been telling you are just the ravings of a young epileptic who wants to manipulate the feelings of a famous writer, I'll bring you a map tomorrow showing you where Esther is living, and you can go and find her. But the voice is telling us something."

  "Are you going to say what exactly, or will you tell me later?"

  "I'll tell you in a moment. I haven't yet properly understood the message."

  "But you promise to give me the address and the map."

  "I promise. In the name of the divine energy of love, I promise. Now what was it you wanted to show me?"

  I pointed to a golden statue of a young woman riding a horse.

  "This. She used to hear voices. As long as people respected what she said, everything was fine. When they started to doubt her, the wind of victory changed direction."

  Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, the heroine of the Hundred Years War, who, at the age of seventeen, was made commander of the French troops because she heard voices and the voices told her the best strategy for defeating the English. Two years later, she was condemned to be burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft. I had used part of the interrogation, dated February 24, 1431, in one of my books.

  She was questioned by Maitre Jean Beaupere. Asked how long it had been since she had heard the voice, she replied:

  "I heard it three times, yesterday and today. In the morning, at Vespers, and again when the Ave Maria rang in the evening..."

  Asked if the voice was in the room, she replied that she did not know, but that she had been woken by the voice. It wasn't in the room, but it was in the castle.

  She asked the voice what she should do, and the voice asked her to get out of bed and place the palms of her hands together.

  Then she said to the bishop who was questioning her:

  "You say you are my judge. Take care what you are doing; for in truth I am sent by God, and you place yourself in great danger. My voices have entrusted to me certain things to tell to the King, not to you. The voice comes to me from God. I have far greater fear of doing wrong in saying to you things that would displease it than I have of answering you."

  Mikhail looked at me: "Are you suggesting..."

  "That you're the reincarnation of Joan of Arc? No, I don't think so. She died when she was barely nineteen, and you're twenty-five. She took command of the French troops and, according to what you've told me, you can't even take command of your own life."

  We sat down on the wall by the Seine.

  "I believe in signs," I said. "I believe in fate. I believe that every single day people are offered the chance to make the best possible decision about everything they do. I believe that I failed and that, at some point, I lost my connection with the woman I loved. And now, all I need is to put an end to that cycle. That's why I want the map, so that I can go to her."

  He looked at me and he was once more the person who appeared on stage and went into a trancelike state. I feared another epileptic fit--in the middle of the night, here, in an almost deserted place.

  "The vision gave me power. That power is almost visible, palpable. I can manage it, but I can't control it."

  "It's getting a bit late for this kind of conversation. I'm tired, and so are you. Will you give me that map and the address?"

  "The voice...Yes, I'll give you the map tomorrow afternoon. What's your address?"

  I gave him my address and was surprised to realize that he didn't know where Esther and I had lived.

  "Do you think I slept with your wife?"

  "I would never even ask. It's none of my business."

  "But you did ask when we were in the pizzeria."

  I had forgotten. Of course it was my business, but I was no longer interested in his answer.

  Mikhail's eyes changed. I felt in my pocket for something to place in his mouth should he have a fit, but he seemed calm and in control.

  "I can hear the voice now. Tomorrow I will bring you the map, detailed direct
ions, and times of flights. I believe that she is waiting for you. I believe that the world would be happier if just two people, even two, were happier. Yet the voice is telling me that we will not see each other tomorrow."

  "I'm having lunch with an actor over from the States, and I can't possibly cancel, but I'll be home during the rest of the afternoon."

  "That's not what the voice is telling me."

  "Is the voice forbidding you to help me find Esther?"

  "No, I don't think so. It was the voice that encouraged me to go to the book signing. From then on, I knew more or less how things would turn out because I had read A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew."

  "Right, then," and I was terrified he might change his mind, "let's stick to our arrangement. I'll be at home from two o'clock onward."

  "But the voice says the moment is not right."

  "You promised."

  "All right."

  He held out his hand and said that he would come to my apartment late tomorrow afternoon. His last words to me that night were:

  "The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right."

  As I walked back home, the only voice I could hear was Esther's, speaking of love. And as I remembered that conversation, I realized that she had been talking about our marriage.

  When I was fifteen, I was desperate to find out about sex. But it was a sin, it was forbidden. I couldn't understand why it was a sin, could you? Can you tell me why all religions, all over the world, even the most primitive of religions and cultures, consider that sex is something that should be forbidden?"

  "How did we get onto this subject? All right, why is sex something to be forbidden?"

  "Because of food."

  "Food?"

  "Thousands of years ago, tribes were constantly on the move; men could make love with as many women as they wanted and, of course, have children by them. However, the larger the tribe, the greater chance there was of it disappearing. Tribes fought among themselves for food, killing first the children and then the women, because they were the weakest. Only the strongest survived, but they were all men. And without women, men cannot continue to perpetuate the species.