Paulo Coelho - Aleph

I’m not in the past, I’m in the present. I am the little boy I was then. I will always be that little boy; we will all be the children, grown-ups, and old people we were and will become. I am not remembering , I am reliving that time.

I can’t go on. I cover my face with my hands and weep while she plays ever more intensely, ever more exquisitely, transporting me back to the many people I am and was. I am not crying for my dead mother, because she is here now, playing for me. I am not crying for the child who, puzzled by a strange turn of phrase, is trying to build a golden castle that keeps disappearing. That child is here as well, listening to Chopin; having listened to it often, he knows how lovely the music is and would happily hear it again and again. I am crying because there is no other way to show what I feel: I am alive . I am alive in every pore and every cell of my body. I am alive. I was never born and never died.

I may have my moments of sadness or confusion, but above me is the great I who understands everything and laughs at my suffering. I am crying for what is ephemeral and eternal, because I know that words are much poorer than music, and so I will never be able to describe this moment. I let Chopin, Beethoven, and Wagner lead me into that past that is also the present, for their music is far more powerful than any golden ring.

I cry while Hilal plays, and she plays until I grow tired of crying.

SHE WALKS OVER TO THE LIGHT SWITCH. The shattered bulb short-circuits. The room remains in darkness. She goes to the bedside table and switches on the lamp.

“Now you can turn around.”

When my eyes get used to the brightness, I see that she is completely naked, her arms spread wide, her bow and violin in her hands.

“Today you said that you loved me like a river. I want to tell you now that I love you like the music of Chopin. Simple and profound, as blue as the lake, capable of—”

“The music speaks for itself. There’s no need to say anything.”

“I’m afraid, very afraid. What was it I saw, exactly?”

I describe in detail everything that happened in the dungeon, my own cowardice and the girl who looked then exactly as she does now, except that her hands were bound with lengths of rope, a far cry from the strings on her bow or violin. She listens in silence, her arms still spread wide, absorbing my every word. We are both standing in the middle of the room. Her body is as white as that of the fifteen-year-old girl now being led to a pyre built near the city of Córdoba. I will not be able to save her, and I know that she will vanish into the flames along with her friends. This happened once and is happening over and over again, and will continue to happen as long as the world exists. I mention to her that the girl had pubic hair, whereas she has shaved hers off, something I hate, as if all men were looking for a child to have sex with. I ask her not to do that again, and she promises she won’t.

I show her the patches of eczema on my skin, which seem angrier and more visible than usual. I explain that they are the marks from that same place and past. I ask if she remembers what she said, or what the other girls said, while they were being led to the pyre.

She shakes her head and asks, “Do you desire me?”

“Yes, I do. We’re here alone in this unique place on the planet. You are standing naked before me. I desire you very much.”

“I’m afraid of my fear. I’m asking myself for forgiveness not for being here but because I have always been selfish in my pain. Instead of forgiving, I sought vengeance. Not because I was the stronger party but because I always felt myself to be the weaker one. Whenever I hurt other people, I was only hurting myself even more. I humiliated others in order to feel humiliated; I attacked others in order to feel that my own feelings were being violated.

“I know I’m not the only person to have been through what I described that night at the embassy, being abused by a neighbor and friend of the family. I said then that it wasn’t a rare experience, and I’m sure that at least one of the women there had been sexually abused as a child. But not everyone behaves as I have. I’m simply not at peace with myself.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words, then goes on.

“I can’t get over what everyone else seems perfectly able to get over. You are in search of your treasure, and I am part of it. Nevertheless, I feel like a stranger in my own skin. The only reason I don’t throw myself into your arms, kiss you, and make love with you now is that I lack the courage and am afraid of losing you. While you were setting out in search of your kingdom, I was beginning to find myself, until at a certain point on the journey I couldn’t go any further. That was when I started to get more aggressive. I feel rejected, useless, and there’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

I sit down on the one chair in the room and ask her to sit on my lap. Her body is damp with sweat because of the excessive heat. She keeps ahold of her violin and bow.

“I’m afraid of lots of things,” I say, “and always will be. I’m not going to try and explain anything, but there is something you could do right now.”

“I don’t want to go on telling myself that one day it will pass. It won’t. I have to learn to live with my demons.”

“Wait. I didn’t make this journey in order to save the world, far less to save you, but according to the magical Tradition, it’s possible to transfer pain. It won’t disappear instantly, but it will gradually disappear as you transfer it to another place. You’ve been doing this unconsciously all your life. Now I suggest you do it consciously.”

“Don’t you want to make love with me?”

“Very much. At this moment, even though the room is boiling hot, I’m generating even more heat at the spot where your body is in contact with my legs. I’m no Superman. That’s why I’m asking you to transfer both your pain and my desire. I want you to get up, go to your room, and play your violin until you’re exhausted. We’re the only guests in the hotel, so no one is going to complain about the noise. Pour all your feelings into your music, and do the same again tomorrow. Whenever you play, tell yourself that the thing that hurt you so much has become a gift. You’re wrong when you say that other people have recovered from the trauma; they’ve simply hidden it away in a place they never go to. In your case, though, God has shown you the way. The power of regeneration is in your hands.”

“I love you as I love Chopin. I always wanted to be a pianist, but the violin was all my parents could afford at the time.”

“And I love you like a river.”

She gets up and starts to play. The heavens hear the music, and the angels come down to join me in listening to the naked woman who sometimes stands still and sometimes sways her body in time to the music. I desired her and made love with her without ever touching her or having an orgasm. Not because I’m the most faithful man in the world but because that was the way in which our bodies met—with the angels watching over us.

For the third time that night—the first was when my spirit flew with the eagle of Baikal, the second when I heard that childhood tune—time had stopped. I was entirely there, with no past or future, experiencing the music with her, that unexpected prayer, and feeling grateful that I had set off in search of my kingdom. I lay down on the bed, and she continued to play. I fell asleep to the sound of her violin.

I WOKE AT FIRST LIGHT, went to her room, and saw her face. For the first time, she looked like an ordinary twenty-one-year-old woman. I woke her gently and asked her to get dressed because Yao was waiting for us to have breakfast. We had to get back to Irkutsk. The train would be leaving in a few hours.