Paulo Coelho - The Valkyries

“We were able to have dinner together only twice during my stay here in Rio,” J. began, “and this is our third. It’s in observance of the saying ‘Anything that occurs once can never occur again. But, should it happen twice, it will surely happen a third time.’”

J. was trying to avoid the subject, but Paulo persevered. He knew now that his master had liked the book’s dedication, because he had overheard a conversation between J. and the receptionist at the hotel. And later, one of J.’s friends had referred to Paulo as “the book’s author.”

He must have told a number of people about it—there was, after all, only one copy of the original. Vanity of vanities, he said to himself. He thanked God for having given him a master so human.

“I want to ask you about the task,” Paulo said once again. “I don’t want to ask ‘how’ or ‘where,’ because I know you won’t tell me.”

“Well, that’s one thing you’ve learned in all this time,” J. laughed.

“In one of our conversations,” Paulo continued, “you told me about a man named Gene, who was able to do what you are now asking of me. I’m going to look for him.”

“Did I give you his address?”

“You mentioned that he lived in the United States, in the California desert. It shouldn’t be too hard to get there.”

“No, it isn’t.”

As they spoke, Paulo became aware that the voice on the public address system was continually announcing flight departures. He began to feel tense, fearing there wouldn’t be enough time to complete their conversation.

“Even though I don’t want to know ‘how’ or ‘where,’ you taught me that there is a question we should always ask as we undertake something. I’m asking you that question now: Why? Why must I do this?”

“Because people always kill the things they love,” J. replied.

As Paulo pondered the mystery of this answer, once again he heard a departure announced.

“That’s my plane,” J. said. “I have to go.”

“But I don’t understand your answer to my question.”

Asking Paulo to pay the bill, J. quickly wrote something on a paper napkin.

Placing the napkin on the table in front of his disciple, J. said, “During the last century, a man wrote about what I’ve just said to you. But it’s been true for many generations.”

Paulo picked up the napkin. For a fraction of a second, he thought it might contain a magic formula. But it was a verse from a poem.

And each man kills the thing he loves,

By all let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword.

The waiter came with the change, but Paulo didn’t notice. He couldn’t stop looking at those terrible words.

“And so, the task,” J. said after a long silence. “It’s needed to break that curse.”

“One way or another,” Paulo said slowly, “I have wound up destroying what I’ve loved. I’ve seen my dreams fall apart just when I seemed about to achieve them. I always thought that was just the way life was. My life and everyone else’s.”

“The curse can be broken,” J. repeated, “if you complete the task.”

They walked through the noisy airport in silence. J. was thinking about the books that his disciple had written. He thought about Chris, Paulo’s wife. He knew that Paulo was being drawn toward the magical initiation that appears at one time or another in everyone’s life.

He knew that Paulo was on the brink of seeing one of his greatest dreams realized.

And this meant danger, because J.’s disciple was like all human beings: He was going to find that he did not necessarily deserve all that he had received.

But he didn’t tell Paulo any of this.

“The women of your country are beautiful,” J. said with a smile, as they arrived at the passport control line. “I hope I can come back.”

But Paulo spoke seriously.

“So that’s what the task is for,” he said, as his master handed over his passport for stamping. “To break the curse.”

And J. answered, just as seriously. “It’s for love. For victory. And for the glory of God.”

THEY HAD BEEN DRIVING FOR almost six hours. For the hundredth time, he asked the woman at his side if they were on the right road.

For the hundredth time, she looked at the map. Yes, they were going the right way, even though their surroundings were green, and a river ran nearby, and there were trees along the road.

“I think we should stop at a gas station and check,” she said.

They drove on without speaking, listening to old songs on the radio. Chris knew that it wasn’t necessary to stop at a gas station, because they were on the right road—even if the scenery around them was completely different from what they had expected. But she knew her husband well. Paulo was nervous and uncertain, thinking that she was misreading the map. He would feel better if they stopped and asked.

“What are we doing here?”

“I have a task to perform,” he answered.

“Strange task,” she said.

Very strange, he thought. To speak to his guardian angel.

“Okay,” she said after a while, “you’re here to speak to your guardian angel. Meanwhile, how about talking a bit with me?”

But he said nothing, concentrating on the road, thinking again that she had made a mistake about the route. No point in insisting, she thought. She was hoping they would come upon a gas station soon.

They had headed out on their journey straight from Los Angeles International Airport. She was afraid that Paulo was tired, and might fall asleep at the wheel. They didn’t seem to be anywhere near their destination.

I should have married an engineer, she said to herself.

She had never gotten used to his life—taking off suddenly, looking for sacred pathways, swords, conversing with angels, doing everything possible to move further along the path to magic.

He has always wanted to leave everything behind.

She remembered their first date. They had slept together, and within a week she had moved her art work table into his apartment. Their friends said that Paulo was a sorcerer, and one night Chris had telephoned the minister of the Protestant church she attended, asking him to say a prayer for her.

But during that first year, he had said not one word about magic. He was working at a recording studio, and that seemed to be all he was concerned about.

The following year, life was the same. He quit his job and went to work at another studio.

During their third year together, he quit his job again (a mania for leaving everything behind!) and decided to write scripts for TV. She found it strange, the way he changed jobs every year—but he was writing, earning money, and they were living well.

Then, at the end of their third year together, he decided—once again—to quit his job. He gave no explanation, saying only that he was fed up with what he was doing, that it didn’t make sense to keep quitting his jobs, changing one for another. He needed to discover what it was that he wanted. They had put some money aside, and had decided to do some traveling.

In a car, Chris thought, just like we’re doing now.

Chris had met J. for the first time in Amsterdam, when they were having coffee at a cafe in the Brower Hotel, looking out at the Singel canal. Paulo had turned pale when he saw the tall, white-haired man dressed in a business suit. Despite his anxiety, he finally worked up the courage to approach the older man’s table.

That night, when Paulo and Chris were alone again, he drank an entire bottle of wine. He wasn’t a good drinker, and became drunk. Only then did he reveal what she already knew: that for seven years he had dedicated himself to learning magic. Then, for some reason—which he never explained, although she asked about it a number of times—he had given it all up.