Hippie

“Don’t ask me why I’m telling you this now—I’ve never said this to anyone, and you know I’m telling you the truth. I love you and I’m not looking to explain my feelings.”

She turned to face him, waiting for Paulo to kiss her. There was something strange in his kiss, and he said maybe it was better they return to Europe, to the hotel—it had been a full day, full of emotions and absolute fascination.

Karla felt afraid.

Paulo was even more afraid; the truth was he was having a beautiful adventure with her—there were moments of passion, moments he never wanted her to leave his side, but all that was over.

No, he didn’t love her.

In the morning, people met for breakfast to trade experiences and recommendations. Karla tended to sit alone—when asked about Paulo, she said that he wanted to take advantage of every second to understand more about the so-called dancing dervishes, and so he would meet someone every morning who could teach him more.

“?‘The monuments, the mosques, the cisterns, the marvels of Istanbul can wait,’ he told me. ‘They’ll always be there. But I’m learning about something that could disappear from one moment to the next.’?”

The others understood perfectly. After all, as far as they could tell, the relationship between the two went no further than having split a room.

* * *

—

The night they returned from Asia, just after dinner, they made amazing love that left her soaked in sweat, satisfied, and ready to do anything for this man. But he was talking less and less.

She didn’t dare ask him the obvious question—Do you love me?—she was simply sure of it. Now she wanted to set her own needs aside and let him go meet this Frenchman he’d been talking about and learn as much as he could about Sufism; after all, it was a unique opportunity. The young man who looked like Rasputin invited her along to the Topkapi Palace Museum, but she declined. Rayan and Mirthe asked her to go with them to the bazaar—they’d been so caught up with everything else that they’d forgotten the most important thing: How did people live there? What did they eat? What did they buy? She said yes, and they agreed to meet the following day.

The driver told her it was either that day or never—the fighting in Jordan was under control, and they ought to leave the next day. He asked Karla to tell Paulo, as though she were his girlfriend, his lover, his wife.

She responded, “Of course,” whereas at other moments she would have said something like what Cain said of Abel: “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Upon hearing the driver’s word, people began to voice their displeasure. But how? Weren’t they going to stay an entire week in Istanbul? It was only the third day, and the first day didn’t even count—they’d been too tired to do anything.

“No. We were going—and we’re still going—to Nepal. We stopped here because we had no other option. And now we have to leave quickly because the conflict could rear its head again, according to the newspapers and the company I work for. Besides, there are people in Kathmandu waiting to make the return trip.”

The driver had the last word. Whoever wasn’t ready to leave at eleven the following morning would have to wait for the next bus—fifteen days later.

Karla decided to go to the bazaar with Rayan and Mirthe. Jacques and Marie joined them. They noted something different in her, a lightness, a glow, though no one dared say a thing. This girl, who’d always been sure of herself and her decisions, must have fallen for the skinny Brazilian with his goatee.

Meanwhile, she thought to herself: Hmmm, the others must have noticed that I’m feeling different. They don’t know the reason, but they’ve noticed.

What a wonderful thing it was, being able to love. She understood now why it was so important to so many people—actually, for everyone. She remembered, with a certain sorrow in her heart, how much suffering she must have sown—but there was nothing to be done, that’s love.

It’s what makes us understand our mission on Earth, our purpose in life. Whoever lives with this in mind will be followed by a shadow of goodness and protection, will find peace in difficult moments, will give everything without demanding anything in return, only the presence of the lover, the holder of light, the vessel of fertility, the torch that shines the way.

That’s how things ought to be—and the world would always be kinder to those who love; evil would be transformed into good, lies into truth, violence into peace.

Love defeats those who would oppress it with its sensitivity, quenches the thirst of those in search of the living water of affection, keeps an open door so that the light and blessed rain can enter.

It makes the time pass more slowly or quickly, but time never passes as before—at the same monotonous, unbearably monotonous pace.

The changes within her were slow because true change requires time. But something was changing.

* * *

—

Before they went out, Marie came up to Karla.

“You said something to the Irish couple about some LSD you brought, didn’t you?”

She did. It was impossible to detect, because she’d soaked one of the pages of The Lord of the Rings in an LSD solution. She’d set it out to dry back in the Netherlands, and now it was merely a passage in one of the chapters of Tolkien’s book.