“And like all sensitive people,” continues the teacher, fix

ing me with her gentle, placatory eyes, “she is a little, shall we say, unstable.”

“Unstable!” says Hilal loudly. “That’s a polite way of saying mad!”

The teacher turns affectionately toward her and then back to me, expecting me to say something. I say nothing.

“I know that you can help her. I understand that you heard her playing the violin in Moscow, and that she was applauded there. That gives you some idea of just how talented she is, because people in Moscow are very discerning when it comes to music. Hilal is very disciplined and works harder than most. She’s already played with large orchestras here in Russia and has traveled abroad with one of them. Suddenly, though, something seems to have happened, and she can’t make any more progress.”

I believe in this woman’s tender concern for Hilal. I think she really does want to help Hilal and all of us. But those words—“Suddenly, though, something seems to have happened, and she can’t make any more progress”—echo in my heart. I am here for that same reason.

The man in the suit and tie does not speak. He must be there to provide moral support for the talented young violinist and the lovely woman with the gentle eyes. Yao pretends to be concentrating on his tea.

“But what can I do?”

“You know what you can do. She’s not a child anymore, but her parents are worried about her. She can’t just abandon her professional career in the middle of rehearsals to follow an illusion.”

She pauses, realizing that she has not said quite the right thing.

“What I mean is, she can travel to the Pacific coast whenever she likes, but not now, when we’re rehearsing for a concert.”

I agree. It doesn’t matter what I say. Hilal will do exactly as she wants. I wonder if she brought these two people here to put me to the test, to find out if she really is welcome or if she should stop the journey now.

“Thank you very much for coming to see me. I respect your concern and your commitment to music,” I say, getting up. “But I wasn’t the one who invited Hilal along on the journey. I didn’t pay for her ticket. I don’t even really know her.”

Hilal’s eyes say Liar, but I go on.

“So if she’s on the train heading to Novosibirsk tomorrow, that’s not my responsibility. As far as I’m concerned, she can stay here, and if you can convince her to do so, I and many other people on the train will be most grateful.”

Yao and Hilal burst out laughing.

The pretty woman thanks me and says that she understands my situation completely and will talk to Hilal further and explain a little more about the realities of life. We all say good-bye, and the man in the suit and tie shakes my hand, smiles. For some reason, I have the distinct impression that he would love for Hilal to continue her journey. She must be a problem for the whole orchestra.

YAO THANKS ME for a very special evening and goes up to his room. Hilal doesn’t move.

“I’m going to bed,” I say. “You heard the conversation. I really don’t know why you went back to the conservatory. Was it to ask permission to continue the journey or to make your colleagues jealous by telling them that you were traveling with us?”

“I went there to find out if I really exist. After what happened on the train, I’m not sure of anything anymore. What was that?”

I know what she means. I remember my first experience of the Aleph, which happened completely by chance in the Dachau concentration camp in Germany, in 1982. I felt completely disoriented for days afterward, and if my wife hadn’t told me otherwise, I would have assumed that I’d suffered some kind of stroke.

“What happened, exactly?” I ask.

“My heart started pounding furiously, and I felt as if I were no longer in this world. I was in a state of total panic and thought I might die at any moment. Everything around me seemed strange, and if you hadn’t grabbed me by the arm, I don’t think I would have been able to move. I had a sense that very important things were appearing before my eyes, but I couldn’t understand any of them.”

I feel like telling her: “Get used to it.”

“The Aleph,” I say.

“Yes, at some point during that seemingly endless trance, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before, I heard you say that word.”

Simply recalling what happened has filled her with fear again. It’s time to seize the moment.

“Do you think you should continue the journey?”

“Oh, yes, more than ever. Terror has always fascinated me. You remember the story I told at the embassy—”

I ask her to go to the bar and order some coffee—I send her on her own because we’re the only customers left, and the barman must be itching to turn off the lights. She has a little trouble persuading him but returns at last with two cups of Turkish coffee. Like most Brazilians, I never worry about drinking strong black coffee late at night; whether or not I have a good night’s sleep depends on other things.

Tags: Paulo Coelho Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net