Hippie

“We’ve been together so little time, what makes you say I’m depressed?”

“Because this little time amounts to forty-eight hours at your side. I’ve had the chance to observe you during the book launch Tuesday, and yesterday at dinner. Have you, by chance, ever loved anyone?”

“Many people.”

It was a lie.

“What does it mean to love?”

The question frightened her so much she came up with everything she could think of to answer it. Casting her fear aside, she responded in a measured voice.

“It’s to allow everything. To not spend your time thinking about the sunrise or enchanted forests, to not swim against the current, to allow yourself to be filled with joy. That, for me, is what it means to love.”

“Go on.”

“It’s to maintain your freedom, but in such a way that the person at your side never feels trapped by this. It’s a calm, serene thing, I’d even say it’s solitary in some way. Love for love’s sake, for no other reason—such as marriage, children, money, that sort of thing.”

“Fine words. But as long as we’re together, I suggest you think about what I’ve told you. Let’s not ruin our stay in such a special city by my making you question yourself and your making me work.”

OK, you’re right. But why tell me I suffer from depression or anxiety? Why so little interest in the things I have to say?

“Why would I be depressed?”

“One possible answer is that you’ve never truly loved. But at this point such an answer isn’t good enough—I know plenty of depressed people who come to me because they’ve loved too much, so to speak—they’ve given themselves up entirely. To be honest, I think—I shouldn’t be saying this—that your depression has some physical origin. A lack of a certain substance in your body. Could be serotonin, dopamine, but in your case it certainly isn’t noradrenaline.”

So depression was a chemical problem?

“Of course not. There are a million factors, but do you think we could get dressed and go walk along the Seine?”

“Of course. But before we do, finish your thought: What factors?”

“You said that one can love in solitude; there’s no doubt about that, but only those who’ve dedicated their lives to God or their neighbors. Saints. Visionaries. Revolutionaries. In this case, I’m talking about a more human love, which can only be felt when we’re near the person we love. A love that makes us suffer terribly when we can’t express it, or when we’re noticed by the object of our affections. I’m certain you’re depressed because you’re never truly present; your eyes shift from one side to the other, there’s no light behind them, just weariness. On the night of the book launch, I saw you were making a superhuman effort to speak with the others there—everyone must seem dull, inferior, all the same.”

He got up from the bed.

“That’s enough for me. I’m going to take a shower, or do you want to go first?”

“Go ahead. I’m going to pack my suitcase. Don’t rush, I need a few minutes alone after everything I just heard. Actually, I need a half hour alone.”

He chuckled, as if to say, “What did I tell you?” But he went into the bathroom. Five minutes later, Karla had packed her suitcase and put o

n her clothes. She opened and closed the door without making any noise. She walked past the reception desk, greeting all those people looking at her with a certain air of surprise, but the luxurious suite wasn’t in her name, so no one asked her anything.

She went up to the concierge and asked what time the next flight to Holland left. Which city? Doesn’t matter, I’m from there and know my way around. Two-fifteen in the afternoon, KLM. “Would you like us to buy the ticket and charge it to the room?”

She paused for a second; maybe she ought to get back at the man who’d read her soul without permission and who, besides, could have been wrong about everything.

But she didn’t. “No, thanks, I have the money here.” Karla never traveled anywhere depending on the men who every now and then decided to keep her company.

* * *

—

She took another look at the red bridge and remembered everything she’d read about depression—and everything she hadn’t read because she’d begun to really get scared—and she decided that, from the moment she crossed that bridge, she would be a new woman. She’d allow herself to fall for the wrong person, some guy who lived on the other side of the world, to miss him when he was gone or do everything to remain at his side, or sit meditating and recalling his face in whatever cave in Nepal she chose to live in, but she couldn’t continue living that life—the life of someone who has it all and can’t ever enjoy any of it.

Paulo stood before a door without a sign or any other indicator on it, in the middle of a narrow street lined with houses that looked abandoned. After considerable effort and many questions, he’d manage to locate a Sufi center, though he wasn’t sure he’d find any dancing dervishes. He’d managed to get there by going to the bazaar—where he’d waited for Karla but never found her; then he began to mimic the sacred dance while repeating the word “dervish.” Several people laughed, others thought he was crazy—they all kept their distance to avoid being hit by his outstretched arms.

He kept his composure; in several stores he saw the same hat he’d seen the dervishes wearing—some kind of red, cone-shaped beanie, generally associated with the Turks. He bought one, placed it on his head, and continued walking through aisle after aisle, mimicking the dance—this time with the hat—and asking where he could find a place where people did such things. This time, no one laughed or scurried past, they merely gave him a serious look and said something in Turkish. But Paulo wasn’t about to give up.