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Of believing, even when no one believes in me.”
She opens her eyes, places her hands on my head, and says with an authority that comes from on high, “So it is. So it will be.”
…
A COCK CROWS in the distance. That is the sign. I take her hand, and we set off back to the hotel, looking around at the city that is just beginning to wake up. She is clearly somewhat surprised by what she has said, but for me, her words of forgiveness have been the most important part of my journey so far. This is not the final step, however. I still need to know what happens after I finish reading that letter.
We arrive in time to have breakfast with the rest of the group, pack our bags, and head for the train station.
“Hilal will sleep in the empty berth in our carriage,” I say.
No one makes any comment. I can imagine what’s going through their minds, but I don’t bother explaining that it is not at all what they think.
“Korkmaz git,” says Hilal.
Given the look of surprise on everyone’s face, including that of my interpreter, the words are obviously not Russian.
“Korkmaz git,” she says again. “In Turkish that means ‘He goes and is not afraid.’ ”
Tea Leaves
EVERYONE SEEMS TO HAVE GROWN more used to being on the train. The table in the lounge is the center of the universe around which we gather every day for breakfast, lunch, and supper, and where we talk about life and our hopes for the future. Hilal is now installed in the same carriage as us; she shares our meals, uses my bathroom to take her daily shower, pra
ctices obsessively, and takes less and less part in discussions.
Today we’re talking about the shamans of Lake Baikal, our next stop. Yao explains that he would really like me to meet one of them.
“We’ll see,” I say, which translates as “I’m not really interested.”
However, I don’t think he’ll be discouraged so easily. One of the best-known principles in martial arts is that of nonresistance. Good fighters use their opponent’s energy and turn it back on them. So the more I waste my energy on words, the less convinced I will be of what I’m saying and the easier it will be to get the better of me.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation before we arrived in Novosibirsk,” my editor says. “You said that the Aleph was a point that existed outside of us, but that when people really love each other, they can locate that point wherever they want. The shamans believe that they are endowed with special powers and that only they can see such visions.”
“If we’re talking about the magical Tradition, the answer is yes, the Aleph is outside of us. If we’re talking about the human tradition, people who are in love can, at certain very special moments, experience the Whole. In real life, we tend to see ourselves as separate beings, but the Universe is only one thing, one soul. However, to invoke the Aleph, something very powerful has to happen: a huge orgasm, a terrible loss, the climax of a great conflict, a moment of ecstasy when confronted by something of rare beauty.”
“Well, there’s no shortage of conflicts,” says Hilal. “We’re surrounded by them, even in this carriage.”
Having been quiet for some time, she seems to have gone back to the beginning of the journey and to be intent on stirring up a situation that has already been resolved. She won the battle and wants to demonstrate her newly acquired power. My editor knows that these words are aimed at her.
“Conflicts are for undiscerning souls,” she replies, making a generalization that nonetheless hits its intended target. “The world is divided into those who understand me and those who don’t. In the case of the latter, I simply leave them to torment themselves trying to gain my sympathy.”
“That’s funny,” says Hilal, “I’m just the same. I’ve always been that way, and I’ve always got where I wanted to get, one example being that now I’m sleeping in a berth in this carriage.”
Yao gets up. He obviously isn’t in the mood for this kind of conversation.
My publisher looks at me. What does he expect me to do? Take sides?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” says the editor, looking straight at Hilal now. “I always thought I was prepared for everything until my son was born, and then the world seemed to fall in on me. I felt weak and insignificant and incapable of protecting him. Only children believe they’re capable of everything. They’re trusting and fearless, so they believe in their own power and get exactly what they want. When children grow up, they start to realize that they’re not as powerful as they thought and that they need other people in order to survive. Then the child begins to love and to hope his love will be requited; as life goes on, he develops an ever greater need to be loved in return, even if that means having to give up his power. We all end up where we are now: grown-ups doing everything we can to be accepted and loved.”
Yao has returned, balancing a tray bearing tea and five mugs.
“That’s why I asked about the Aleph and love,” my editor goes on. “I wasn’t talking about love between a man and a woman. Sometimes, when I watched my son sleeping, I could see everything that was happening in the world: the place he had come from, the places he would go to, the trials he would have to face to achieve what I dreamed he would achieve. He grew up, and I loved him just as much, but the Aleph disappeared.”
Yes, she had understood the Aleph. Her words are followed by a respectful silence. Hilal is completely disarmed.
“I’m lost,” she says. “It feels as if the reasons I had for getting where I am now have completely disappeared. I could get out at the next station, go back to Ekaterinburg, devote the rest of my life to the violin, and continue to understand nothing. On the day of my death, I will ask: what was I doing there?”
I touch her arm.
