Aleph

“No,” I say, “it’s a really good idea!”

For the next ten minutes, we stand there, on opposite pavements, shifting from foot to foot to stave off the cold, our cups held out to the people who pass. At first, I say nothing, but I gradually lose my inhibitions and start asking for help as a poor lost stranger.

I’ve never felt awkward about asking. I’ve known lots of people who care about others and are extremely generous when it comes to giving and who feel real pleasure when someone asks them for advice or help. And that’s fine; it’s a good thing to help your neighbor. On the other hand, I know very few people capable of receiving, even when the gift is given with love and generosity. It’s as if the act of receiving made them feel inferior, as if depending on someone else was undignified. They think, If someone is giving us something, that’s because we’re incapable of getting it for ourselves. Or else, The person giving me this now will one day ask for it back with interest. Or, even worse, I don’t deserve to be treated well.

But those ten minutes remind me of the person I was; they educate me, free me. In the end, when I cross the street to join Yao, I have the equivalent of eleven dollars in my plastic cup. Yao has about the same amount. And contrary to what he thought, it had been a really enjoyable return to the past, reliving something I hadn’t experienced in ages and thus renewing not only the city but myself.

“What shall we do with the money?” I ask.

My view of him is beginning to shift again. He knows some things, and I know others, and there’s no reason why we can’t continue this mutual learning experience.

“In theory, it’s ours, because it was given to us, but it’s best to keep it somewhere separate and spend it on something you think is important.”

I put the coins in my left pocket, intending to do exactly that. We walk quickly back to the hotel, because the time we’ve spent outside has burned up all the calories we consumed at supper.

WHEN WE REACH THE LOBBY, the omnipresent Hilal is waiting for us. And a very pretty woman and a gentleman in a suit and tie stand next to her.

“Hello,” I say to Hilal. “I understand that you’ve gone back home, but it’s been a pleasure to have traveled this first leg of the journey with you. Are these your parents?”

The man does not react, but the pretty woman laughs.

“If only we were! She’s a prodigy, this girl. It’s a shame she can’t spend more time on her vocation, though. The world is missing out on a great artist!”

Hilal appears not to have heard this remark. She turns to me and says, “ ‘Hello’? Is that all you’ve got to say to me after what happened on the train?”

The woman looks shocked. I can imagine what she’s thinking: What exactly happened on the train? And don’t I realize that I’m old enough to be Hilal’s father?

Yao says that it’s time he went up to his room. The man in the suit and tie remains impassive, possibly because he doesn’t understand English.

“Nothing happened on the train, at least not the kind of thing you’re imagining. And as for you, Hilal, what were you expecting me to say? That I missed you? I spent all day worrying about you.”

The woman translates this for the man in the suit and tie, and everyone smiles, including Hilal. She has understood from my response that I really had missed her, since I had said so quite spontaneously.

I ask Yao to stay a little longer because I don’t know where this conversation is going to lead. We sit down and order some tea. The woman introduces herself as a violin teacher and explains that the gentleman with them is the director of the local conservatory.

“I think Hilal’s wasting her talents,” says the teacher. “She’s so unsure of herself. I’ve told her this over and over, and I’ll say it again now. She has no confidence in what she does; she thinks no one recognizes her worth, that people dislike the things she plays. But it isn’t true.”

Hilal unsure of herself? I have rarely met anyone more determined.

“And like all sensitive people,” continues the teacher, fixing me with her gentle, placatory eyes, “she is a little, shall we say, unstable.”

“Unstable!” says Hilal loudly. “That’s a polite way of saying mad!”

The teacher turns affectionately toward her and then back to me, expecting me to say something. I say nothing.

“I know that you can help her. I understand that you heard her playing the violin in Moscow, and that she was applauded there. That gives you some idea of just how talented she is, because people in Moscow are very discerning when it comes to music. Hilal is very disciplined and works harder than most. She’s already played with large orchestras here in Russia and has traveled abroad with one of them. Suddenly, though, something seems to have happened, and she can’t make any more progress.”

I believe in this woman’s tender concern for Hilal. I think she really does want to help Hilal and all of us. But those words—“Suddenly, though, something seems to have happened, and she can’t make any more progress”— echo in my heart. I am here for that same reason.

The man in the suit and tie does not speak. He must be there to provide moral support for the talented young violinist and the lovely woman with the gentle eyes. Yao pretends to be concentrating on his tea.

“But what can I do?”

“You know what you can do. She’s not a child anymore, but her parents are worried about her. She can’t just abandon her professional career in the middle of rehearsals to follow an illusion.”

She pauses, realizing that she has not said quite the right thing.

“What I mean is, she can travel to the Pacific coast whenever she likes, but not now, when we’re rehearsing for a concert.”

I agree. It doesn’t matter what I say. Hilal will do exactly as she wants. I wonder if she brought these two people here to put me to the test, to find out if she really is welcome or if she should stop the journey now.

“Thank you very much for coming to see me. I respect your concern and your commitment to music,” I say, getting up. “But I wasn’t the one who invited Hilal along on the journey. I didn’t pay for her ticket. I don’t even really know her.”

Hilal’s eyes say Liar, but I go on.

“So if she’s on the train heading to Novosibirsk tomorrow, that’s not my responsibility. As far as I’m concerned, she can stay here, and if you can convince her to do so, I and many other people on the train will be most grateful.”

Yao and Hilal burst out laughing.

The pretty woman thanks me and says that she understands my situation completely and will talk to Hilal further and explain a little more about the realities of life. We all say good-bye, and the man in the suit and tie shakes my hand, smiles. For some reason, I have the distinct impression that he would love for Hilal to continue her journey. She must be a problem for the whole orchestra.

YAO THANKS ME for a very special evening and goes up to his room. Hilal doesn’t move.

“I’m going to bed,” I say. “You heard the conversation. I really don’t know why you went back to the conservatory. Was it to ask permission to continue the journey or to make your colleagues jealous by telling them that you were traveling with us?”

“I went there to find out if I really exist. After what happened on the train, I’m not sure of anything anymore. What was that?”

I know what she means. I remember my first experience of the Aleph, which happened completely by chance in the Dachau concentration camp in Germany, in 1982. I felt completely disoriented for days afterward, and if my wife hadn’t told me otherwise, I would have assumed that I’d suffered some kind of stroke.

“What happened, exactly?” I ask.

“My heart started pounding furiously, and I felt as if I were no longer in this world. I was in a state of total panic and thought I might die at any moment. Everything around me seemed strange, and if you hadn’t grabbed me by the arm, I don’t think I would have been able to move. I had a sense that very important things were appearing before my eyes, but I couldn’t understand any of them.”

I feel like telling her: “Get used to it.”