The Zahir

"Did we sleep together? That's none of your business. I found in Esther the partner I was looking for, the person who helped me set out on the mission I was entrusted with, the angel who opened the doors, the roads, the paths that will allow us--if our Lady is willing--to restore the energy of love to the earth. We share the same mission. And just to put your mind at rest: I have a girlfriend, the blonde girl who was on stage with me last night. Her name's Lucrecia; she's Italian."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes, in the name of the Divine Energy, I am."

He took a scrap of dark fabric out of his pocket.

"Do you see this? The cloth is actually green; it looks black because it's caked with dried blood. A soldier somewhere in the world asked her before he died to remove his shirt, then cut it into tiny pieces and distribute those pieces to anyone capable of understanding the message of his death. Do you have a piece?"

"No, Esther has never even mentioned it to me."

"Whenever she meets someone whom she feels should receive the message, she also gives them a little of the soldier's blood."

"And what is the message?"

"If she didn't give you a piece of the shirt, I don't think I can tell you; not, of course, that she swore me to secrecy."

"Do you know anyone else who has a piece of that cloth?"

"All the people who appear with me at the restaurant do. We're only there because Esther brought us together."

I needed to tread carefully, to build up a relationship, to make a deposit in the Favor Bank. I mustn't frighten him or seem overeager; I should ask him about himself and his work, about his country, of which he had spoken with such pride; I needed to find out if what he was telling me was true or if he had some ulterior motive; I needed to be absolutely sure that he was still in touch with Esther or if he had lost track of her as well. He may have come from a remote country, where the values are different, but I knew that the Favor Bank operated everywhere: it was an institution that knew no frontiers.

On the one hand, I wanted to believe everything he was saying. On the other, my heart had suffered and bled enough during the thousand and one nights I had lain awake, waiting for the sound of the key in the door, for Esther to come in and lie down beside me, without saying a word. I had promised myself that if this ever happened, I would ask her no questions. I would just kiss her and say, "Sleep well, my love," and we would wake the next day, hand in hand, as if this whole nightmare had never happened.

Roberto arrived with the pizzas. He seemed to be endowed with some kind of sixth sense that told him when I needed time to think.

I looked at Mikhail again. Keep calm; if you don't get your pulse rate under control, you'll have a heart attack. I drank a whole glass of wine and noticed that he had done the same.

Why was he so nervous?

"Oh, I believe what you say. But we've got plenty of time to talk."

"You're going to ask me to take you to her."

He had spoiled my game. I would have to start again.

"Yes, I am. I'm going to try to persuade you. I'm going to do everything in my power to do just that. I'm in no hurry though; we've got a whole pizza to eat first. Besides, I want to know more about you."

I noticed that he was trying to keep his hands from trembling.

"I'm a person with a mission. I haven't yet managed to fulfill it, but I think I still have time to do so."

"Perhaps I can help you."

"Oh, you can. Anyone can; you just have to help spread the energy of love throughout the world."

"I can do more than that."

I didn't want to go any further; I didn't want it to look as if I were trying to buy his loyalty. Careful. I had to be very careful. He could be telling the truth, but he could also be lying, trying to take advantage of my suffering.

"I only know of one kind of loving energy," I went on. "The one I feel for the woman who left, or, rather, went away and who is waiting for me. If I could see her again, I would be a happy man. And the world would be a better place because one soul would be content."

He glanced up at the ceiling and back down at the table, and I allowed the silence to last as long as possible.

"I can hear a voice," he said at last, unable to look at me.

The great advantage of writing about spirituality is that I know I'm bound to keep encountering people with some kind of gift. Some of those gifts are real, others are fraudulent, some of those people are trying to use me, others are merely testing me out. I have seen so many amazing things that I no longer have the slightest doubt that miracles can happen, that everything is possible, and that people are beginning to relearn the inner powers they long ago forgot.