energy of love, as she may have done in the past. And long may she continue to do so, because love is the only thing that will save us, independent of any mistakes we may make. Love is always stronger.
I begin to dress her in the clothes she was wearing when I met her the last time we were alone together, before other men arrived in the city and changed the whole story: embroidered waistcoat, white lace blouse, an ankle-length skirt in black velvet threaded with gold. I listen to her talking about her conversations with the birds, and what the birds have to say to mankind, even though men are incapable of hearing and understanding. At that moment, I am her friend, her confessor, her…
I stop. I don’t want to open that door unless it is absolutely necessary. I have been through it four times already, and it has never got me anywhere. Yes, I remember all eight of the women who were there, and I know that one day I will hear the answer that is lacking, but up until now, this has never prevented me from moving on in my current life. The first time it happened, I felt really frightened, but then I realized that forgiveness works only if you accept it.
And that is what I did.
There is a moment in the Bible, during the Last Supper, when Jesus predicts that one of his disciples will deny him and one will betray him. He considers both crimes to be equally grave. Judas betrays him and, eaten away by guilt, hangs himself. Peter denies him, not just once but three times. He had time to think about what he was doing, but he persisted in his error. However, instead of punishing himself for this, he makes a strength of his weakness and becomes the first great preacher of the message taught to him by the man whom he had denied in his hour of need.
The message of love was greater than the sin. Judas failed to understand this, but Peter used it as a working tool.
I don’t want to open that door, because it’s like a dam holding back the ocean. Just one small hole would be enough for the pressure of the water to destroy everything and flood what should not be flooded. I’m on a train, and the only thing that exists is a Turkish woman called Hilal, who is first violin in an orchestra and is now standing in my bathroom, playing her music. I’m beginning to feel sleepy; the remedy is taking effect. My head droops, my eyes are closing. Hilal stops playing and asks me to go and lie down. I obey.
She sits in the chair and continues to play. Suddenly, I am not in the train, nor in the garden, where I saw her in that white lace blouse; I’m traveling down a long, deep tunnel that will carry me into nothingness, into heavy, dreamless sleep. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is the phrase that Yao stuck on the mirror that morning.
YAO IS CALLING ME.
“The reporter is here.”
It’s still daylight, and the train is standing in a station. I get up, my head spinning, open the door a crack, and find my publisher waiting outside.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“All day, I think. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.”
I tell him that I need a bit of time to take a shower and wake up properly so that I don’t say things I’ll regret later.
“Don’t worry,” Yao says. “The train will be here for the next hour.”
It’s lucky that we’re stationary: having a shower when the train is in motion is a difficult and dangerous task. I could easily slip and hurt myself and end the journey in the most ridiculous way possible—on crutches. Whenever I get into the shower, I feel rather as if I were surfing. Today, though, it’s easy.
Fifteen minutes later, I emerge, have a coffee with the others, and am introduced to the reporter. I ask him how long he needs for the interview.
“We can arrange a time. I thought I could travel with you until the next station and—”
“Ten minutes will do. Then you can get off right here. I don’t want to put you to any unnecessary trouble.”
“But you’re not—”
“No, really, I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I say again. I should never have agreed to do this interview; I obviously wasn’t thinking straight when I said yes. My objective on this journey is quite different.
The reporter looks at my publisher, who turns away and stares fixedly out the window. Yao asks if the table is a good place for them to film.
“I’d prefer the space between the carriages, next to the train doors,” says the cameraman.
Hilal glances at me. That’s where the Aleph is.
“Fine,” I say. “Set up your camera. But, just out of curiosity, why choose such a small, noisy space when we could stay here?”
The reporter and the cameraman, however, are already heading for the end of the carriage, so we follow them.
“Why this tiny space?” I ask again, while they’re setting up the equipment.
“To give the viewer a sense of reality. This is where everything happens. People leave their compartments, and, because the corridor is so narrow, they come here to talk instead. Smokers meet up here. For someone else it might provide somewhere to hold a secret rendezvous. All the carriages have these vestibules.”
At the moment, the space is occupied by me, the cameraman, the publisher, Yao, Hilal, and a cook who has come to watch.
“Could we have a little privacy?” I ask.
A television interview is the least private thing in the world, but the publisher and the cook leave. Hilal and Yao stay where they are.
“Could you move a little to the left?” the cameraman asks.
No, I can’t. That’s where the Aleph is, created by the many people who have stood there in the past. Even though Hilal is keeping a safe distance, and even knowing that we would plunge back into that one point only if we were standing close together, I feel that it’s best not to take any risks.
The camera is running.
“Before we begin, you mentioned that interviews and publicity were not the main purpose of this journey. Could you explain why you decided to travel on the Trans-Siberian Railway?”
“Because I wanted to. It was a dream of mine as an adolescent. That’s all.”
“As I understand it, a train like this isn’t exactly the most comfortable mode of transport.”
I go into automatic pilot and start answering his questions without really thinking. The questions keep coming, about the experience itself, my expectations, my meetings with my readers. I reply patiently, respectfully, but all the time I’m longing for it to be over. I reckon that the stipulated ten minutes must have elapsed by now, but he keeps asking questions. I make a discreet gesture with my hand, indicating that he should wind up the interview. He looks slightly put out but continues talking nonetheless.
“Are you traveling alone?”
A warning light starts flashing. It would seem that the rumor has already started to spread. I realize that this is the only reason for this unexpected interview.
“No, of course not. You saw how many people there were around the table in there.”
“But apparently the first violinist from the conservatory in Ekaterinburg—”
Like any good reporter, he has left the most difficult question for last. However, this is far from being the first interview I’ve ever done, and I interrupt him, saying, “Yes, she happened to be traveling on the same train, and when I found out, I invited her to join us whenever she liked. I love music. She’s a very talented young woman, and now and then we have the pleasure of hearing her play. Would you like to interview her? I’m sure she’d be happy to answer your questions.”
“Yes, if there’s time.”
He isn’t here to talk about music, but he decides not to press the point and changes the subject.
“What does God mean to you?”
