motivated by envy. No one will say a word, only those who owe them nothing.
“Shall I declare the proceedings closed?”
The Inquisitor, despite being more learned and more devout than I, seems to be asking for my help. After all, she did tell everyone here that she loved me.
“Only speak a word and my servant will be healed,” the centurion said to Jesus. Just one word and my servant will be saved.
My lips do not open.
The Inquisitor does not show it, but I know that he despises me. He turns to the rest of the group.
“The Church, represented here by myself, her humble defender, awaits confirmation of the death penalty.”
The men gather in a corner, and I can hear the Devil shouting ever louder in my ears, trying to confuse me as he had earlier that day. However, I left no irreversible marks on the bodies of the four other girls. I have seen some brothers pull the lever as far as it will go, so that the prisoners die with all their organs destroyed, blood gushing from their mouths, their bodies a whole thirty centimeters longer.
The men return with a piece of paper signed by all. The verdict is the same as it was for the other four girls: death by burning.
The Inquisitor thanks everyone and leaves without addressing another word to me. The men who administer justice and the law leave, too, some already discussing the latest piece of local gossip, others with their heads bowed. I go over to the fire, pick up one of the red-hot coals, and place it under my habit against my skin. I smell scorched flesh, my hands burn and my body contracts in pain, but I do not move.
“Lord,” I say, when the pain recedes, “may these marks remain forever on my body, so that I may never forget who I was today.”
Neutralizing Energy Without Moving a Muscle
A HEAVILY MADE-UP WOMAN in traditional dress—and who is somewhat, not to say grossly, overweight—is singing regional songs. I hope everyone is having a good time; this is a great party, and I am feeling more euphoric with every kilometer of railway track we cover.
There was a moment this afternoon when the person I used to be slumped into depression, but I soon recovered. Why feel guilty if Hilal has forgiven me? Going back into the past and reopening old wounds is neither easy nor particularly important. The only justification is that the knowledge acquired might help me to gain a better understanding of the present.
Ever since the last book signing, I’ve been trying to find the right words to lead Hilal toward the truth. The trouble with words is that they give us the illusory sense that we are making ourselves understood as well as understanding what others are saying. However, when we turn around and come face-to-face with our destiny, we discover that words are not enough. I know so many people who are brilliant speakers but who are quite incapable of practicing what they preach. Besides, it’s one thing to describe a situation and quite another to experience it. I realized a long time ago that a warrior in search of his dream must take his inspiration from what he actually does and not from what he imagines himself doing. There’s no point in my telling Hilal what we went through together, because the kind of words I would have to use to describe it would be dead before they even left my mouth.
Experiencing what happened in that dungeon, the torture and death by burning, wouldn’t help her at all; on the contrary, it could cause her terrible harm. We still have a few days ahead of us, and I will try to find the best way to help her understand our relationship without her necessarily going through all that suffering again.
I could choose to keep her in ignorance and not say anything, but for no logical reason I can put my finger on, I sense that the truth will also free her from many of the things she’s experiencing in this incarnation. It was no coincidence that when I noticed that my life was no longer flowing like a river down to the sea, I decided to go off traveling. I did so because everything around me was threatening to stagnate. Nor was it a coincidence that she should say she was feeling the same.
Therefore, God will have to work with me and show me a way to tell her the truth. Each day, everyone in the carriage is experiencing a new stage in their lives. My editor seems more human and less defensive. Yao, who is standing beside me now, smoking a cigarette and watching the people on the dance floor, is surely glad to have refreshed his own knowledge by showing me things I had forgotten. He and I again spent the morning practicing aikido at a gym he managed to find here in Irkutsk, and afterward he said, “We should always be prepared for attacks by the enemy and be capable of looking into the eyes of death so that death may light our path.”
Ueshiba has a lot of sayings intended to guide the steps of those who devote themselves to the Path of Peace. However, the one Yao chose bears directly on what I went through last night as Hilal slept in my arms, for seeing her death had illuminated my path.
Yao seems to have a way of plunging into a parallel world and keeping pace with what is happening to me. He is the person I’ve talked to most (I’ve had some extraordinary experiences with Hilal, but she speaks less and less), and yet I still couldn’t say that I really know him. I’m not sure that it helped very much my telling him that our loved ones do not disappear but merely pass into a different dimension. He still seems to have his thoughts fixed on his wife, and the only thing I can do now is put him in touch with an excellent medium who lives in London. There he will find all the answers he needs and all the signs that will confirm what I told him about the eternity of time.
I may have made a spontaneous decision to cross Asia by train, but I’m sure that we each now have our own reasons for being here in Irkutsk. Such things happen only when all the people involved have met somewhere in the past and are traveling together toward freedom.
Hilal is dancing with a young man her own age. She has had a little too much to drink and is in an ebullient mood. More than once, she has come over to tell me how much she regrets not bringing her violin. It really is a shame. The people here deserve to experience the charm and the spell cast by that great first violinist from one of Russia’s most respected conservatories.
THE FAT SINGER LEAVES THE STAGE, the band continues to play, and the audience starts jumping up and down, shouting, “Kalashnikov! Kalashnikov!” If Goran Bregovic’s music wasn’t so well known, anyone passing by outside would be convinced that this was some celebration party for terrorists.
Hilal and her friend are holding each other close, one step away from a kiss. My traveling companions are doubtless concerned that I’ll be upset by this. But I think it’s great. If only she
“I can cure those marks on your body, you know,” Yao says, while we’re watching the people dancing. “The Chinese have a remedy for it.”
I know this isn’t possible.
“Oh, it’s not that bad. It comes and goes at ever more unpredictable intervals, but there’s no cure for nummular eczema.”
“In Chinese culture, we say that it occurs only in soldiers who were burned in battle during some previous incarnation.”
I smile. Yao looks at me and smiles back. I don’t know if he realizes what he’s saying. The marks date from that day in the dungeon. I remember seeing the same lesions on the hand of the French writer I had been in another past life. It’s called nummular eczema because the lesions are the same shape and size as a small Roman coin, or
The music stops. It’s time we went to supper. I go over to Hilal and invite her partner to join us. He must be one of the readers chosen as guests for the night. Hilal looks at me in surprise.
“But you’ve already invited other people.”
“There’s always room for one more,” I say.
“Not always. Not everything in life is a long train with tickets available to all.”
The young man doesn’t quite understand this remark but clearly senses that something odd is going on. He explains that he has promised to have supper with his family. I decide to have a little fun.
