Aleph

aren’t afraid of making mistakes and who, therefore, do make mistakes. Because of that, their work often isn’t recognized, but they are precisely the kind of people who change the world and, after many mistakes, do something that will transform their own community completely.”

“Like Hilal.”

“Yes, like Hilal. But let me say one thing: what you felt for your wife, I feel for mine. I’m no saint, and I have no intention of becoming one, but, to use your image, we were two clouds, and now we are one. We were two ice cubes that the sunlight melted, and now we are the same free-flowing water.”

“And yet, when I walked past and saw the way you and Hilal were looking at each other…”

I don’t respond, and he lets the matter drop.

In the park, the boys never look at the girls standing just a few meters from them, even though the two groups are clearly fascinated by each other. The older people walk past, thinking about their childhood. Mothers smile at their children as if they were all future artists, millionaires, and presidents of the republic. The scene before us is a synthesis of human behavior.

“I’ve lived in many countries,” says Yao. “And obviously, I’ve been through some difficult times, known injustice, and fallen flat on my face when everyone expected the best from me. But those memories have no relevance to my life. The important things that stay are the moments spent listening to people singing, telling stories, enjoying life. I lost my wife twenty years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday. She’s still here, sitting on this bench with us, remembering the happy times we had together.”

Yes, she’s still here, and I would explain that to him if I could find the words.

My emotions have been very close to the surface ever since I saw the Aleph and understood what J. meant. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to solve this problem, but at least I’m aware that it exists.

“It’s always worth telling a story, even if only to your family. How many children do you have?”

“Two sons and two daughters. But they’re not interested in my stories. They say they’ve heard them all before. Are you going to write a book about your trip on the Trans-Siberian Railway?”

“No.”

Even if I wanted to, how could I describe the Aleph?

The Aleph

THE OMNIPRESENT HILAL HAS STILL NOT REAPPEARED.

After keeping my feelings to myself throughout most of the supper, saying how well the signing session went and thanking everyone for that and for the Russian music and dance put on for me at the party afterward (bands in Moscow and in other countries always tend to stick to an international repertoire), I finally ask if anyone had remembered to give her the address of the restaurant.

They stare at me in amazement. Of course they hadn’t! They all thought I was finding the girl a real pest. It was just lucky she didn’t turn up during the signing session.

“She might have given another of her violin recitals, hoping to steal the limelight again,” says my editor.

Yao is watching me from the other side of the table. He knows that I mean the exact opposite, and that I would love her to be here. But why? So that I could visit the Aleph again and go through a door that only ever brings me bad memories? I know where that door leads. I’ve been through it four times before and have never been able to find the answer I need. That isn’t what I came looking for when I began the long journey back to my kingdom.

We finish supper. The two readers’ representatives, chosen at random, take photographs and ask if I would like them to show me the city. I tell them yes, I would.

“We already have a date,” says Yao.

My publishers’ irritation, previously directed at Hilal and her insistence on being with me all the time, is now turned on my interpreter, whom they employed and who is now demanding my presence when it should be the other way around.

“I think Paulo’s tired,” says my publisher. “It’s been a long day.”

“He’s not tired. His energy levels are fine after all the loving vibes from this evening.”

My publishers are right about Yao. He does seem to want to show everyone that he occupies a privileged position in “my kingdom.” I understand his sadness at losing the woman he loved, and, when the moment comes, I’ll find the right words to say this. I’m afraid, though, that what he wants is to tell me “an amazing story that would make a fantastic book.” I’ve heard this many times before, especially from people who have lost someone they love.

I decide to try to please everyone.

“I’ll walk back to the hotel with Yao. After that, I need a bit of time alone.” This will be my first night alone since we set off.

…

THE TEMPERATURE HAS DROPPED more than we imagined, the wind is blowing, and it feels intensely cold. We walk along a crowded street, and I see that I’m not the only one wanting to head straight home. The doors of the shops are closing, the chairs are already piled up on the tables, and the neon lights are starting to go out. Even so, after a day and a half shut up in a train and knowing that we still have many, many kilometers ahead of us, I need to take every opportunity to do some physical exercise.

Yao stops next to a van selling drinks and asks for two orange juices. I don’t particularly want to drink anything, but perhaps a little vitamin C would be a good idea in this cold weather.

“Keep the cup.”

I don’t quite know why he’s telling me to do so, but I do as he says. We continue walking down what must be the main street in Ekaterinburg. At one point, we stop outside a cinema.

“Perfect. With your hood and scarf on, no one will recognize you. Let’s do a little begging.”

“Begging? Look, I haven’t done that since my hippie days, and besides, it would be an insult to people who are in real need.”

“But you are in real need. When we visited the Ipatiev House, there were moments when you simply weren’t there, when you seemed distant, trapped in the past, constrained by everything you’ve achieved and by everything you’re doing your best to cling onto. I’m worried about the girl, too, but if you really want to change, then begging will help you become more innocent, more open.”

I am worried about Hilal, but I tell him that—while I understand what he’s saying —one of my many motives for making this trip is to travel back into the past, into what lies underground, to my roots.

I’m about to tell him about the Chinese bamboo but decide against it.

“You’re the one who’s trapped by time. You refuse to accept that your wife is dead, which is why she’s still here by your side, trying to console you, when, by now, she should be moving on toward an encounter with the Divine Light. No one ever loses anyone. We are all one soul that needs to continue growing and developing in order for the world to carry on and for us all to meet once again. Sadness really doesn’t help.”

He thinks about what I’ve said, then adds, “But that can’t be the whole answer.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree. “When the time is right, I’ll explain more fully. Now, let’s go back to the hotel.”

Yao holds out his cup and starts asking for money from passersby. He suggests that I do the same.

“Some Zen Buddhist monks in Japan told me about takuhatsu, the begging pilgrimage. As well as helping the monasteries, which depend for their existence on donations, it teaches the student monk humility. It has another purpose, too, that of purifying the town in which the monk lives. This is because, according to Zen philosophy, the giver, the beggar, and the alms money itself all form part of an important chain of equilibrium. The person doing the begging does so because he’s needy, but the person doing the giving also does so out of need. The alms money serves as a link between these two needs, and the atmosphere in the town improves because everyone is able to act in a way in which he or she needed to act. You are on a pilgrimage, and it’s time to do something for the cities you visit.”

I’m so surprised, I don’t know what to say. Realizing that he might have gone too far, Yao starts putting his plastic cup back into his pocket.