Paulo Coelho - The Zahir - A Novel of Obsession

A young woman with shining eyes starts telling me the story. To begin with there was the city wall. The wall remained, but one part of it was used to build a chapel. Many years passed, and the chapel became a church. Another century passed, and the church became a Gothic cathedral. The cathedral had had its moments of glory, there had been structural problems, for a time it had been abandoned, then restoration work had distorted the whole shape of the building, but each generation thought it had solved the problem and would rework the original plans. Thus, in the centuries that followed, they raised a wall here, took down a beam there, added a buttress over there, created or bricked up stained-glass windows.

And the cathedral withstood it all.

I walk through the skeleton of the cathedral, studying the restoration work currently being carried out: this time the architects guarantee that they have found the perfect solution. Everywhere there are metal supports, scaffolding, grand theories about what to do next and some criticism about what was done in the past.

And suddenly, in the middle of the central nave, I realise something very important: the cathedral is me, it is all of us. We are all growing and changing shape, we notice certain weaknesses that need to be corrected, we don’t always choose the best solution, but we carry on regardless, trying to remain upright and decent, in order to do honour not to the walls or the doors or the windows, but to the empty space inside, the space where we worship and venerate what is dearest and most important to us.

Yes, we are all cathedrals, there is no doubt about it; but what lies in the empty space of my inner cathedral?

Esther, the Zahir.

She fills everything. She is the only reason I am alive. I look around, I prepare myself for the talk I am to give, and I understand why I braved the snow, the traffic jams and the ice on the roads: in order to be reminded that every day I need to rebuild myself and to accept – for the first time in my entire existence – that I love another human being more than I love myself.

On the way back to Paris – in far more favourable weather conditions – I am in a kind of trance: I do not think, I merely concentrate on the traffic. When I get home, I ask the maid not to let anyone in, and ask her if she can sleep over for the next few nights and make me breakfast, lunch and supper. I stamp on the small apparatus that connects me to the Internet, destroying it completely. I unplug the telephone. I put my mobile in a box and send it to my publisher, saying that he should only give it back to me when I come round personally to pick it up.

For a week, I walk by the Seine each morning and, when I get back, I lock myself in my study. As if I were listening to the voice of an angel, I write a book, or, rather, a letter, a long letter to the woman of my dreams, to the woman I love and will always love. This book might one day reach her hands and even if it doesn’t, I am now a man at peace with his spirit. I no longer wrestle with my wounded pride, I no longer look for Esther on every corner, in every bar and cinema, at every supper, I no longer look for her in Marie or in the newspapers.

On the contrary, I am pleased that she exists; she has shown me that I am capable of a love of which I myself knew nothing, and this leaves me in a state of grace.

I accept the Zahir, and will let it lead me into a state of either holiness or madness.

A Time to Rend and a Timeto Sew – the title is from a verse in Ecclesiastes – was published at the end of April. By the second week of May, it was already number one in the bestseller lists.

The literary supplements, which have never been kind to me, redoubled their attacks. I cut out some of the key phrases and stuck them in a notebook along with reviews from previous years; they said basically the same thing, merely changing the title of the book:

‘…once again, despite the troubled times we live in, the author offers us an escape from reality with a story about love…’ (as if people could live without love)

‘…short sentences, superficial style…’ (as if long sentences equalled profundity)

‘…the author has discovered the secret of success – marketing…’ (as if I had been born in a country with a long literary tradition and had had millions to invest in my first book)

‘…it will sell as well as all his other books, which just proves how unprepared human beings are not to face up to the encircling tragedy…’ (as if they knew what it meant to be prepared).

Some reviews, however, were different, adding that I was profiting from last year’s scandal in order to make even more money. As always, these negative reviews only served to sell more of my books: my faithful readers bought the book anyway, and those who had forgotten about the whole sorry business were reminded of it again and so also bought copies, because they wanted to hear my version of Esther’s disappearance (since the book was not about that, but was, rather, a hymn to love, they must have been sorely disappointed and would doubtless have decided that the critics were spot on). The rights were immediately sold to all the countries where my books were usually published.

Marie, who read the typescript before I sent it to the publisher, showed herself to be the woman I had hoped she was: instead of being jealous, or saying that I shouldn’t bare my soul like that, she encouraged me to go ahead with it and was thrilled when it was a success. At the time, she was reading the teachings of a little-known mystic, whom she quoted in all our conversations.

‘When people praise us,we should always keep a close eye on how we behave.’

‘The critics never praise me.’

‘I mean your readers: you’ve received more letters than ever. You’ll end up believing that you’re better than you are, and allow yourself to slip into a false sense of security, which could be very dangerous.’

‘Ever since my visit to the cathedral in Vitória, I do think I’m better than I thought I was, but that has nothing to do with readers’ letters. Absurd though it may seem, I discovered love.’

‘Great. What I like about the book is the fact that, at no point, do you blame your ex-wife. And you don’t blame yourself either.’

‘I’ve learned not to waste my time doing that.’

‘Good. The universe takes care of correcting our mistakes.’

‘Do you think Esther’s disappearance was some kind of “correction”, then?’

‘I don’t believe in the curative powers of suffering and tragedy; they happen because they’re part of life and shouldn’t be seen as a punishment. Generally speaking, the universe tells us when we’re wrong by taking away what is most important to us: our friends. And that, I think I’m right in saying, is what was happening with you.’

‘I learned something recently: our true friends are those who are with us when the good things happen. They cheer us on and are pleased by our triumphs. False friends only appear at difficult times, with their sad, supportive faces, when, in fact, our suffering is serving to console them for their miserable lives. When things were bad last year, various people I had never even seen before turned up to “console” me. I hate that.’

‘I’ve had the same thing happen to me.’

‘But I’m very grateful that you came into my life, Marie.’

‘Don’t be too grateful too soon, our relationship isn’t strong enough. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of moving to Paris or asking you to come and live in Milan: it wouldn’t make any difference to either of us in terms of work. You always work at home and I always work away. Would you like to change the subject now or shall we continue discussing it as a possibility?’