Пауло Коэльо - Hippie

That’s what he wanted to know. But he waited for the oldish young man to continue his story.

“With heroin, it’s completely different: you’re in control of everything—your body, your mind, your art. An immense, indescribable happiness washes over the entire universe. Christ on earth. Krishna in your veins. Buddha smiling down on you from heaven. No hallucinations, this is reality, true reality. Do you believe me?”

Paulo didn’t. But he didn’t say anything, merely nodded.

“The next day, there’s no hangover, just the feeling that you’ve been to paradise and come back to this crappy world. Then you go to work and it hits you that everything is a lie, people trying to justify their lives, look important, creating obstacles because it gives them a sense of authority, of power. You can’t stand all the hypocrisy anymore and decide to go back to paradise, but paradise is expensive, the gate is narrow. Whoever visits discovers that life is beautiful, that the sun can in fact be divided into rays, it’s no longer that boring, round ball you can’t even look at. The next day, you go back to work on a train full of people with empty looks, emptier than the looks of the people here. Everybody thinking about getting home, making dinner, turning on the television, escaping reality—man, reality is this white powder, not the television!”

The longer the oldish young man spoke, the more Paulo felt like trying it at least one time, just this once. The figure before him knew this.

“With hashish, I know there’s a world there that I don’t belong to. The same with LSD. But heroin, man, heroin’s my thing. It’s what makes life worth living, no matter what the people outside say. There’s just one problem…”

Finally—a problem. Paulo needed to hear about this problem right away, because he was a few inches from the tip of a needle and his first experience with heroin.

“The problem is your body builds up a tolerance. At first, I was spending five dollars a day; today it takes twenty dollars to get to paradise. I already sold everything I had—my next step is to beg on the streets; after begging I’ll have to steal, because the devil doesn’t like people who’ve been to paradise. I know what’s going to happen, because it’s happened to everyone you see here today. But I don’t care.”

How strange. Everyone had a different idea about which side the gate to paradise was to be found on.

“I think the five minutes are up.”

“Yep, you explained things pretty well, and I’m grateful.”

“When you write about this, don’t be like the others, who live their lives judging what they don’t understand. Be true. Use your imagination to fill in the gaps.”

The conversation had come to a close, but Paulo stayed where he was. The oldish young man didn’t seem to mind—he stuffed the money in his pocket and thought that if Paulo had paid, he had the right to watch.

He put some white powder on the bent spoon and positioned his lighter beneath it. Little by little, the powder began to turn to liquid and boil. The man asked Paulo to help him put the strap around his arm until his vein protruded beneath the skin.

“Some don’t have anywhere else to put it, they inject themselves in the foot, in the back of the hand, but—thank God—I still have a long road ahead of me.”

He filled the syringe with the liquid from the spoon and, exactly like he’d said at the beginning of his story, stuck the needle in several times, anticipating the moment when he would open the so-called gate. Finally, he injected the liquid, and his eyes lost their anxious look, they turned angelic, and then five or ten minutes later they lost their glimmer and honed in on some spot off in space where, if he was to be believed, Buddha, Krishna, and Jesus must have been floating around.

Paulo got up, and skipping over bodies sprawled across dirty mattresses, making as little noise as possible, he headed for the exit, but the security guard with the shaved head blocked his exit.

“You just got here. Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah, I don’t have the money for this.”

“Liar. Someone saw you giving a few bucks to Ted [that must have been the name of the oldish young man he’d spoken with]. You come here searching for clients?”

“Not at all. I just spoke with one person, later you can ask him what we talked about.”

Paulo made to leave again, but the giant’s body blocked his way. He was starting to worry, though he knew that nothing bad could happen; Karla had told him that outside, through the windows, the police kept an eye on the place.

“A friend of mine would like to talk to you,” the giant said, pointing to a door in the back of the large room, making it clear with his tone of voice that it was best that Paulo obey. Perhaps Karla had made up the story about the police to keep him from worrying.

Seeing he didn’t have much choice, he walked toward the door. Before he had arrived, the door opened, revealing a man with Elvis Presley–style hair and sideburns, in understated dress. In a friendly voice, the man asked Paulo to come in and offered him a chair.

The office looked nothing like what Paulo was used to seeing in the movies: scantily clad women, champagne, men with dark sunglasses carrying high-caliber weapons. On the contrary, the office was nondescript—painted white, with some cheap reproductions on the wall and nothing atop the desk except for a telephone. Right behind the desk—an old but carefully preserved piece of furniture—was a huge photo.

“The Belém Tower,” Paulo said in Portuguese, without realizing he’d just spoken in his native language.

“Exatamente,” the man responded, also in Portuguese. “From that point, we set off to conquer the world. Can I offer you a drink?”

No thanks. His heart still hadn’t returned to normal.

“Okay, well, I imagine you’re a busy person,” the man continued, using an expression which was entirely out of context but which suggested a certain kindness. “We noticed that you came in, left, spoke only with a single one of our clients, and you don’t look like an undercover cop, but a person who, after quite the effort, has managed to make it to this city and enjoy everything it has to offer.”

Paulo said nothing.

“Nor did you show any interest in the excellent product we offer here. Would you mind showing me your passport?”

Of course he minded, but he wasn’t about to refuse. He stuck his hand into the elastic belt around his waist, removed the passport, and held it out in front of the man. He immediately regretted this—what if the man took it?

But the mysterious figure merely flipped through its pages, smiled, and gave it back.

“Ah, only a few countries—terrific. Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, Italy. Not to mention Holland, of course. I imagine you must have passed border security without any trouble.”

None at all.

“Where are you headed now?”

“England.”

It was the only thing that had occurred to him, though he had no intention of giving that man his complete itinerary.

“I’d like to make you an offer. I need to move some product—I imagine you might guess what it is—to Düsseldorf, Germany. It’s only five pounds, which you could easily fit underneath your shirt. We’d buy you a larger sweater, of course; everyone uses a sweater and jacket in the winter. By the way, pretty soon this jacket of yours isn’t going to do you much good against the weather—fall is coming.”

Paulo simply waited to hear the man’s proposal.

“We’ll pay you five thousand dollars—half in Amsterdam and the other half when you deliver the product to our supplier in Germany. You only need to cross one border, nothing more. Without a doubt, this will make for a much more comfortable trip to England. Border officials there tend to be rather strict; they generally ask to see how much money a ‘tourist’ is carrying.”