AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Do you remember that clairvoyant?” she asks.
Of course I do! He made a prediction about me as well. We hang up, and I immediately phone Mônica’s room. I ask if, by any chance, I’ve arranged a visit to Turkey.
“Can’t you even remember which invitations you accepted?”
“No,” I say. I was in a strange state of euphoria when I started saying yes to all those publishers.
“But you do remember the commitments you’ve taken on, don’t you? There’s still time to cancel, if you want to.”
I tell her that I’m perfectly happy with the commitments; that’s not the problem. It’s too late to start explaining about the clairvoyant, the predictions, and Véronique’s accident. I ask Mônica again if I have arranged a visit to Turkey.
“No,” she says. “The Turkish publishers are staying in a different hotel. Otherwise…”
We both laugh.
I can sleep easy.
The Stranger’s Lantern
ALMOST TWO MONTHS of traveling, of pilgrimage. My joy in life has returned, but I lie awake all night, wondering if that sense of joy will stay with me when I return home. Am I doing what I need to do to make the Chinese bamboo grow? I’ve been to six countries, met my readers, had fun, temporarily driven away the depression that was threatening to engulf me, but someth
ing tells me that I still haven’t re-conquered my kingdom. The trip so far hasn’t really been any different from other similar journeys made in previous years.
All that remains now is Russia. And then what will I do? Continue making commitments in order to keep moving, or stop and see what the results have been?
I still haven’t reached a decision. I know only that a life without cause is a life without effect. And I can’t allow that to happen to me. If necessary, I’ll spend the rest of the year traveling.
I’m in the African city of Tunis, in Tunisia. The talk is about to begin, and—thank heavens—the room is packed. I’m going to be introduced by two local intellectuals. In the short meeting we held beforehand, one of them showed me a text that would take just two minutes to deliver and the other a veritable thesis on my work that would take at least half an hour.
The coordinator very tactfully explains to the latter that since the event is supposed to last, at most, fifty minutes, there won’t be time for him to read his piece. I imagine how hard he must have worked on that essay, but the coordinator is right. The purpose of my visit to Tunis is to meet my readers. There is a brief discussion, after which the author of the essay says that he no longer wishes to take part, and he leaves.
The talk begins. The introductions and acknowledgments take only five minutes; the rest of the time is free for open dialogue. I tell the audience that I haven’t come here to explain anything and that, ideally, the event should be more of a conversation than a presentation.
A young woman asks about the signs I speak of in my books. What form do they take? I explain that signs are an extremely personal language that we develop throughout our lives, by trial and error, until we begin to understand that God is guiding us. Someone else asks if a sign had brought me all the way to Tunisia. Without going into any detail, I say that it had.
The conversation continues, time passes quickly, and I need to wrap things up. For the last question, I choose, at random, out of the six hundred people there, a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache.
“I don’t want to ask a question,” he says. “I just want to say a name.”
The name he pronounces is that of Barbazan-Debat, a chapel in the middle of nowhere, thousands of kilometers from here, the same chapel where, one day, I placed a plaque in gratitude for a miracle, and which I had visited before setting out on this pilgrimage in order to pray for Our Lady’s protection.
I don’t know how to respond. The following words were written by one of the other people onstage with me.
In the room, the Universe seemed suddenly to have stopped moving. So many things happened; I saw your tears and the tears of your dear wife, when that anonymous reader pronounced the name of that distant chapel.
You could no longer speak. Your smiling face grew serious. Your eyes filled with shy tears that trembled on your lashes, as if wishing to apologize for appearing there uninvited.
Even I had a lump in my throat, although I didn’t know why. I looked for my wife and daughter in the audience, because I always look to them whenever I feel myself to be on the brink of something unknown. They were there, but they were sitting as silently as everyone else, their eyes fixed on you, trying to support you with their gaze, as if a gaze could ever support anyone.
Then I looked to Christina for help, trying to understand what was going on, how to bring to an end that seemingly interminable silence. And I saw that she was silently crying, too, as if you were both notes from the same symphony and as if your tears were touching, even though you were sitting far apart.
For several long seconds, nothing existed, there was no room, no audience, nothing. You and your wife had set off for a place where we could not follow; all that remained was the joy of living, expressed in silence and emotion.
Words are tears that have been written down. Tears are words that need to be shed. Without them, joy loses all its brilliance and sadness has no end. Thank you, then, for your tears.
I should have said to the young woman who asked the first question about signs that this was a sign, confirming that I was where I should be, in the right place, at the right time, even though I didn’t understand what had brought me there.
I suspect there was no need, though. She would probably have understood anyway.[1]
