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"I'm not interested in what I know about; it just makes me sad. You said there was another history."
"The other history is exactly the opposite: sacred prostitution."
She had suddenly emerged from her somnolent state and was listening to him intently. Sacred prostitution? Earning money from sex and yet still able to approach God?
"The Greek historian, Herodotus, wrote of Babylonia: 'They have a strange custom here, by which every woman born in Sumeria is obliged, at least once in her lifetime, to go to the temple of the goddess Ishtar and give her body to a stranger, as a symbol of hospitality and for a symbolic price.'"
She would ask him about that goddess later; perhaps she would help her to recover something she had lost, although just what that was she did not know.
"The influence of the goddess Ishtar spread throughout the Middle East, as far as Sardinia, Sicily and the Mediterranean ports. Later, during the Roman Empire, another goddess, Vesta, demanded total virginity or total surrender. In order to keep the sacred fire burning, the women serving her temple were responsible for initiating young men and kings on the path of sexuality--they sang erotic hymns, entered trance-like states and gave their ecstasy to the universe in a kind of communion with the divinity."
Ralf Hart showed her a photocopy of some ancient lyrics, with a translation in German at the foot of the page. He read slowly, translating each line as he went:
"When I am sitting at the door of a tavern,
I, Ishtar, the goddess,
Am prostitute, mother, wife, divinity.
I am what people call life,
Although you call it death.
I am what people call Law,
Although you call it Delinquency.
I am what you seek
And what you find.
I am what you scattered
And the pieces you now gather up."
Maria was sobbing softly, and Ralf Hart laughed; his vital energy was returning, his "light" was beginning to shine again. It was best to continue the history, to show her the drawings, to make her feel loved.
"No one knows why sacred prostitution disappeared, since it had lasted not centuries, perhaps, but for at least two millennia. Maybe it was disease or because society changed its rules when it changed religions. Anyway, it no longer exists, and will never exist again; nowadays, men control the world, and the term serves only to create a stigma, and any woman who steps out of line is automatically dubbed a prostitute."
"Could you come to the Copacabana tomorrow?"
Ralf didn't understand why she was asking this, but he agreed at once.
From Maria's diary, after the night she walked barefoot in the Jardin Anglais in Geneva:
I don't care whether it was once sacred or not, I HATE WHAT I DO. It's destroying my soul, making me lose touch with myself, teaching me that pain is a reward, that money buys everything and justifies everything.
No one around me is happy; the clients know they are paying for something that should be free, and that's depressing. The women know that they have to sell something which they would like to give out of pleasure and affection, and that is destructive. I've struggled long and hard before writing this, before accepting how unhappy and dissatisfied I am--I needed and I still need to hold out for a few more weeks.
But I cannot simply do nothing, pretend that everything is normal, that it's just a stage, a phase of my life. I want to forget it, I need to love--that's all, I need to love.
Life is too short, or too long, for me to allow myself the luxury of living it so badly.
It isn't his house. It isn't her house. It isn't Brazil or Switzerland. It's a hotel, which could be anywhere in the world, furnished, like all hotel rooms, in a way that tries to create a familiar atmosphere, but which only makes it seem all the more impersonal.
It isn't the hotel with the lovely view of the lake and the memory of pain, suffering and ecstasy; it looks out onto the road to Santiago, a route of pilgrimage not penance, a place where people meet in the cafes along the road, discover each other's "light," talk, become friends, fall in love. It's raining, and at this time of night, no one is walking there, although they have for years, decades, centuries--perhaps the road needs to breathe, to rest from the many steps that trudge along it every day.
Turn out the light. Close the curtains.
