MY WIFE AND I are walking along, hand in hand, through the bazaar in Tunis, fifteen kilometers from the ruins of Carthage, which, centuries before, had defied the might of Rome. We are discussing the great Carthaginian warrior Hannibal. Since Carthage and Rome were separated by only a few hundred kilometers of sea, the Romans were expecting a sea battle. Instead, Hannibal took his vast army and crossed the desert and the Strait of Gibraltar, marched through Spain and France, climbed the Alps with soldiers and elephants, and attacked the Romans from the north, scoring one of the most resounding military victories ever recorded.
He overcame all the enemies in his path, and yet—for reasons we still do not understand—he stopped short of conquering Rome and failed to attack at the right moment. As a result of his indecision, Carthage was wiped from the map by the Roman legions.
“Hannibal stopped and was defeated,” I say, thinking out loud. “I’m glad that I’m able to go on, even though the beginning was difficult. I’m starting to get used to the journey now.”
My wife pretends not to have heard, because she realizes that I’m trying to convince myself of something. We’re on our way to a cafe to meet one of my readers, Samil, chosen at random at the post-talk party. I ask him to avoid all the usual monuments and tourist sights and show us where the real life of the city goes on.
He takes us to a beautiful building where, in 1754, a man killed his own brother. The brothers’ father resolved to build this palace as a school, as a way of keeping alive the memory of his murdered son. I say that surely the son who had committed the murder would also be remembered.
“It’s not quite like that,” says Samil. “In our culture, the criminal shares his guilt with everyone who allowed him to commit the crime. When a man is murdered, the person who sold him the weapon is also responsible before God. The only way in which the father could correct what he perceived as his own mistake was to transform the tragedy into something useful to others.”
Suddenly, everything vanishes—the palace, the street, the city, Africa. I take a gigantic leap into the dark and enter a tunnel that emerges into a damp dungeon. I’m standing before J. in one of my many previous lives, two hundred years before the crime committed in that house. He fixes me with stern, admonitory eyes.
I return just as quickly to the present. It all happened in a fraction of a second. I’m back at the palace, with Samil, my wife, and the hubbub of the street in Tunis. But why that dip into the past? Why do the roots of the Chinese bamboo insist on poisoning the plant? That life was lived and the price paid.
“You committed just one cowardly deed, while I acted unfairly many times. But that discovery freed me,” J. had said in Saint Martin; he, who had never encouraged me to go back into the past, who was vehemently opposed to the books, manuals, and exercises that taught such things.
“Instead of resorting to vengeance, which would be merely a one-time punishment, he created a school in which wisdom and learning were passed on for more than two centuries,” Samil says.
I haven’t missed a single word Samil has said, and yet I also made that gigantic leap back in time.
“That’s it.”
“What is?” asks my wife.
“I’m walking. I’m beginning to understand. It’s all making sense.”
I feel euphoric. Samil is confused.
“What does Islam have to say about reincarnation?” I ask.
Samil looks at me, surprised.
“I’ve no idea; I’m not a scholar,” he says.
I ask him to find out. He takes his cell phone and starts ringing various people. Christina and I go to a bar and order two strong black coffees. We’re both tired, but we’ll be having a seafood supper later and have to resist the temptation to have a snack now.
“I just had a deja vu moment,” I tell her.
“Everyone has them from time to time. You don’t have to be a magus to have one,” jokes Christina.
Of course not, but deja vu is more than just that fleeting moment of surprise, instantly forgotten because we never bother with things that make no sense. It shows that time doesn’t pass. It’s a leap into something we have already experienced and that is being repeated.
Samil has vanished.
“While he was telling us about the palace, I was drawn back into the past for a millisecond. I’m sure this happened when he was talking about how any crime was not only the responsibility of the murderer but of all those who created the conditions in which the crime could occur. The first time I met J., in 1982, he talked about my connection with his father. He never mentioned the subject again, and I forgot about it, too. But a few moments ago, I saw his father. And I understand now what he meant.”
“In the life you told me about?”
“Yes, during the Spanish Inquisition.”
“That’s all over. Why torment yourself over something that’s ancient history now?”
“I’m not tormenting myself. I learned long ago that in order to heal my wounds, I must have the courage to face up to them. I also learned to forgive myself and correct my mistakes. However, ever since I started out on this journey, I’ve had a sense of being confronted by a vast jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of which are only just beginning to be revealed, pieces of love, hate, sacrifice, forgiveness, joy, and grief. That’s why I’m here with you. I feel much better now, as if I really were going in search of my soul, of my kingdom, rather than sitting around complaining that I can’t assimilate everything I’ve learned. I can’t do that because I don’t understand it all properly, but when I do, the truth will set me free.”
SAMIL IS BACK, carrying a book. He sits down with us, consults his notes, and respectfully turns the pages of the book, murmuring words in Arabic.
“I spoke to three scholars,” he says at last. “Two of them said that after death, the just go to Paradise. The third one, though, told me to consult some verses from the Koran.”
I can see that he’s excited.
“Here’s the first one, 2:28:
He leafs feverishly through the sacred book. He translates the second verse, 2:154.
“Exactly!”
“There are other verses, but, to be honest, I don’t feel very comfortable talking about this right now. I’d rather tell you about Tunis.”
“You’ve told us quite enough. People never leave; we are always here in our past and future lives. It appears in the Bible, too, you know. I remember a passage in which Jesus refers to John the Baptist as the incarnation of Elias:
He starts telling us some of the legends that surround the founding of the city, and I understand that it’s time to get up and continue our walk.
ABOVE ONE OF THE GATES in the ancient city wall is a lantern, and Samil explains its significance to us.
“This is the origin of one of the most famous Arabic proverbs: ‘The light falls only on the stranger.’ ”
The proverb, he says, is very apt for the situation we’re in now. Samil wants to be a writer and is fighting to gain recognition in his own country, whereas I, a Brazilian author, am already known here.
I tell him that we have a similar saying: “No one is a prophet in his own land.” We always tend to value what comes from afar, never recognizing the beauty around us.
“Although sometimes,” I go on, “we need to be strangers to ourselves. Then the hidden light in our souls will illuminate what we need to see.”
My wife appears not to be following the conversation, but at one point, she turns to me and says, “There’s something about that lantern, I can’t quite explain what it is, but it’s something to do with your situation now. As
