writing, while she knelt on the grass and painted. A year later, when we went back for the first canvases, the results were quite extraordinary and totally original. The first painting we ‘unearthed’ was the one of the rose. Nowadays, even though we have a house in the Pyrenees, she continues to inter and disinter her paintings wherever she happens to be. Something that was born out of necessity has become her main creative method. When I look at this river, I remember that rose and feel an almost palpable, physical love for her, as if she were here.”
The wind isn’t blowing quite as hard now, and the sun warms us a little. The light surrounding us could not be more perfect.
“I understand and respect what you’re saying,” she says. “But in the restaurant, when you were talking about the past, you said something about love being stronger than the individual.”
“Yes, but love is made up of choices.”
“In Novosibirsk, you made me forgive you, and I did. Now I’m asking you for a favor: tell me that you love me.”
I take her hand. We are both gazing at the river.
“Silence is also an answer,” she says.
I put my arms around her, so that her head is resting on my shoulder.
“I love you,” I tell her. “I love you because all the loves in the world are like different rivers flowing into the same lake, where they meet and are transformed into a single love that becomes rain and blesses the earth.
“I love you like a river that creates the right conditions for trees and bushes and flowers to flourish along its banks. I love you like a river that gives water to the thirsty and takes people where they want to go.
“I love you like a river that understands that it must learn to flow differently over waterfalls and to rest in the shallows. I love you because we are all born in the same place, at the same source, which keeps us provided with a constant supply of water. And so, when we feel weak, all we have to do is wait a little. The spring returns, and the winter snows melt and fill us with new energy.
“I love you like a river that begins as a solitary trickle in the mountains and gradually grows and joins other rivers until, after a certain point, it can flow around any obstacle in order to get where it wants.
“I receive your love, and I give you mine. Not the love of a man for a woman, not the love of a father for a child, not the love of God for his creatures, but a love with no name and no explanation, like a river that cannot explain why it follows a particular course but simply flows onward. A love that asks for nothing and gives nothing in return; it is simply there. I will never be yours, and you will never be mine; nevertheless, I can honestly say: I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Maybe it’s the afternoon, maybe it’s the light, but at that moment, the Universe seems finally to be in perfect harmony. We stay where we are, feeling not the slightest desire to go back to the hotel, where Yao will doubtless be waiting for me.
The Eagle of Baikal
ANY MOMENT NOW, it will be dark. There are six of us standing near a small boat moored at the lakeshore: Hilal, Yao, the shaman, I, and two older women. They are all speaking in Russian. The shaman is shaking his head. Yao appears to be arguing with him, but the shaman turns away and walks over to the boat.
Now Yao and Hilal are arguing. He seems concerned, but I think he’s rather enjoying the situation. We have been practicing the Path of Peace together, and I can interpret his body language now. He is pretending an irritation that he doesn’t actually feel.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Apparently, I can’t go with you,” Hilal says. “I have to stay with these two women whom I’ve never seen in my life and spend the whole night here in the cold, because there’s no one to take me back to the hotel.”
“You will experience with them whatever we experience on the island,” Yao explains. “But we cannot break with tradition. I warned you before, but he insisted on bringing you. We have to leave now, because we cannot miss the moment, or what you call the Aleph, what I call qi, and for which the shamans doubtless have their own word. It won’t take long. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Come on,” I say, taking Yao by the arm but first turning to Hilal with a smile.
“You wouldn’t have wanted to stay at the hotel, knowing that you might miss out on some new experience. I don’t know whether it will be good or bad, but it’s better than having supper alone.”
“And you, I suppose, think that fine words of love are enough to feed a heart? I know you love your wife, and I understand that, but couldn’t you at least give me some reward for all the Universes I’m placing at your door?”
I turn away. Another idiotic conversation.
THE SHAMAN STARTS THE ENGINE and takes the rudder. We are heading for what looks like a rock about two hundred meters from the shore. I reckon it will take us only a few minutes to get there.
“Now that there’s no turning back, why were you so insistent that I should meet this shaman? It’s the only favor you’ve asked of me on the entire trip, even though you’ve given me so much. I don’t just mean the aikido practice. You’ve helped keep harmony on the train, you’ve translated my words as if they were yours, and yesterday you demonstrated the importance of going into battle simply out of respect for your opponent.”
Yao shakes his head and looks rather uncomfortable, as if he is entirely responsible for the safety of the little boat.
“I just thought, given your interests, that you’d like to meet him.”
This is not a good reply. If I had wanted to meet the shaman, I would have asked. Finally, he looks at me and nods.
“I asked you because I made a promise to come back on my next trip here. I could have come on my own, but I signed a contract with your publishers guaranteeing that I would always be by your side. They wouldn’t like it if I left you alone.”
“I don’t always need people around me, and my publishers wouldn’t have been bothered if you had left me in Irkutsk.”
Night is falling faster than I’d expected. Yao changes the subject.
“The man steering the boat has the ability to speak to my wife. I know he’s not lying, because there are certain things no one else could possibly know. More than that, he saved my daughter. He did what no doctor in the finest hospitals of Moscow, Beijing, Shanghai, or London could do. And he asked for nothing in return, only that I come to see him again. It’s just that this time I’m with you. Maybe I’ll finally learn to understand the things that my brain refuses to accept.”
We are getting closer to the rock now. We should be there in less than a minute.
“That is a good answer. Thank you for trusting me. I am in one of the most beautiful places in the world on an exquisite evening, listening to the waves lapping against the boat. Going to meet this man is just one of the many blessings I have received on this trip.”
Except for the day when he spoke to me of his grief at losing his wife, Yao has never shown any emotion. Now he takes my hand and presses it to his chest. The boat runs ashore on a narrow strip of pebbles, which serves as an anchor.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
WE CLIMB UP TO THE TOP of the rock in time to catch a last glimpse of red sky on the horizon. There is nothing but scrub around us, and to the east stand three or four bare trees that have not yet put out their leaves. On one of them are the remains of offerings and the carcass of an animal hanging from a branch. I feel great respect for the old shaman’s wisdom, but he won’t show me anything new, because I have already walked many paths and know that they all lead to the same place. Nevertheless, I can see that he is serious in his intentions, and while he prepares the ritual, I try to remember all I have learned about the role of the shaman in the history of civilization.
