The Zahir

We were in a kind of bunker, which looked like a relic from the Second World War. A man, with his wife and his granddaughter, welcomed us and showed us a simple, but spotlessly clean room.

Dos went on:

"And don't forget to choose a name."

"I don't think that's necessary," said Mikhail.

"Of course it is," insisted Dos. "I was with his wife recently. I know how she thinks, I know what she has learned, I know what she expects."

Dos's voice was simultaneously firm and gentle. Yes, I would choose a name, I would do exactly as he suggested; I would continue to discard my personal history and, instead, embark on my personal legend--even if only out of sheer tiredness.

I was exhausted. The previous night I had slept for two hours at most: my body had still not adjusted to the enormous time difference. I had arrived in Almaty at about eleven o'clock at night local time, when in France it was only six o'clock in the evening. Mikhail had left me at the hotel and I had dozed for a bit, then woken up in the small hours. I had looked out at the lights below and thought how in Paris it would just be time to go out to supper. I was hungry and asked room service if they could send me up something to eat: "Of course we can, sir, but you really must try to sleep; if you don't, your body will stay stuck on its European timetable."

For me, the worst possible torture is not being able to sleep. I ate a sandwich and decided to go for a walk. I asked the receptionist my usual question: "Is it dangerous to go walking at this hour?" He told me it wasn't, and so I set off down the empty streets, narrow alleyways, broad avenues; it was a city like any other, with its neon signs, the occasional passing police car, a beggar here, a prostitute there. I had to keep repeating out loud: "I'm in Kazakhstan!" If I didn't, I would end up thinking I was merely in some unfamiliar quarter of Paris.

"I'm in Kazakhstan!" I said to the deserted city, and a voice replied:

"Of course you are."

I jumped. A man was sitting close by, on a bench in a square at dead of night, with his backpack by his side. He got up and introduced himself as Jan, from Holland, adding:

"And I know why you're here."

Was he a friend of Mikhail's? Or was I being followed by the secret police?

"Why am I here, then?"

"Like me, you've traveled from Istanbul, following the Silk Road."

I gave a sigh of relief, and decided to continue the conversation.

"On foot? As I understand it, that means crossing the whole of Asia."

"It's something I needed to do. I was dissatisfied with my life. I've got money, a wife, children, I own a hosiery factory in Rotterdam. For a time, I knew what I was fighting for--my family's stability. Now I'm not so sure. Everything that once made me happy just bores me, leaves me cold. For the sake of my marriage, the love of my children, and my enthusiasm for my work, I decided to take two months off just for myself, and to take a long look at my life. And it's working."

"I've been doing the same thing these last few months. Are there a lot of pilgrims like you?"

"Lots of them. Loads. It can be dangerous, because the political situation in some of these countries is very tricky indeed, and they hate Westerners. But we get by. I think that, as a pilgrim, you'll always be treated with respect, as long as you can prove you're not a spy. But I gather from what you say that you have different reasons for being here. What brings you to Almaty?"

"The same thing as you. I came to reach the end of a particular road. Couldn't you sleep either?"

"I've just woken up. The earlier I set out, the more chance I have of getting to the next town; if not, I'll have to spend the night in the freezing cold steppes, with that constant wind blowing."

"Have a good journey, then."

"No, stay a while. I need to talk, to share my experiences. Most of the other pilgrims don't speak English."

And he started telling me about his life, while I tried to remember what I knew about the Silk Road, the old commercial route that connected Europe with the countries of the East. The traditional route started in Beirut, passed through Antioch and went all the way to the shores of the Yangtse in China; but in Central Asia it became a kind of web, with roads heading off in all directions, which allowed for the establishment of trading posts, which, in time, became towns, which were later destroyed in battles between rival tribes, rebuilt by the inhabitants, destroyed, and rebuilt again. Although almost everything passed along that route--gold, strange animals, ivory, seeds, political ideas, refugees from civil wars, armed bandits, private armies to protect the caravans--silk was the rarest and most coveted item. It was thanks to one of these branch roads that Buddhism traveled from China to India.

"I left Antioch with about two hundred dollars in my pocket," said the Dutchman, having described mountains, landscapes, exotic tribes, and endless problems in various countries with police patrols. "I needed to find out if I was capable of becoming myself again. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do."

"I was forced to beg, to ask for money. To my surprise, people are much more generous than I had imagined."

Beg? I studied his backpack and his clothes to see if I could spot the symbol of the tribe--Mikhail's tribe--but I couldn't find it.

"Have you ever been to an Armenian restaurant in Paris?"