Aleph

“Especially for someone who’s a spalla,” says Hilal.

She noticed the confusion her use of the word “Aleph” caused and is delighted to confuse the publisher still further with yet another mysterious term.

The tension grows, until Yao intervenes.

“You’re a spalla already? Congratulations!”

Then, turning to the rest of the group, he adds, “As you all know, spalla is the first violin in an orchestra, the last player to come onto the stage before the conductor enters, and who is always seated in the first row on the left. He or she is responsible for making sure all the other instruments are in tune. Actually, I know an interesting story on the subject, which took place when I was in Novosibirsk, our next stop. Would you like to hear it?”

Everyone agrees, as if they had, indeed, always known the meaning of the word “spalla.”

Yao’s story turns out not to be particularly interesting, but confrontation between Hilal and my editor is averted. After a tedious dissertation on the marvels of Novosibirsk, everyone has calmed down and people are considering going back to their compartments and trying to rest for a little, while I once again regret ever having had the idea of crossing a whole continent by train.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten to put up today’s thought,” says Yao.

On a yellow Post-it, he writes, “Dreamers can never be tamed,” and sticks it on the mirror next to the previous day’s “thought.”

“There’s a TV reporter waiting at one of the next stations, and he’d like to interview you,” says my publisher.

I say “Fine,” glad of any distraction, anything to help pass the time.

“Write about insomnia,” says my publisher. “You never know, it might help you sleep.”

“I want to interview you, too,” says Hilal, and I see that she has fully recovered from her lethargy.

“Make an appointment with my publisher,” I tell her.

I go and lie down in my compartment, then, as usual, spend the next two hours tossing and turning. My biological clock is completely out of kilter. Like any insomniac, I assure myself optimistically that I can use the time to reflect on interesting matters, but that, of course, proves to be totally impossible.

S

uddenly, I can hear music. At first I think that my perception of the spiritual world has somehow effortlessly returned, but realize that as well as the music, I can also hear the sound of the wheels on the track and the objects joggling about on my table.

The music is real. And it’s coming from the bathroom. I go and open the door.

Hilal is standing with one foot in the shower and one foot out, balancing as best she can and playing her violin. She smiles when she sees me, because I’m naked, apart from my underpants. However, the situation seems to me so natural and so familiar that I make no effort to go and put on my trousers.

“How did you get in here?”

She continues to play but indicates with a movement of her head the door into the next compartment, with which I share the bathroom. She says, “I woke up this morning knowing that it’s up to me to help you get back in touch with the energy of the Universe. God passed through my soul and told me that if you succeed in doing that, then so will I. And He asked me to come in here and play you to sleep.”

I’ve never mentioned losing touch with that energy, and I’m moved by her concern. The two of us struggle to keep our balance in the constantly rocking carriage; her bow touches the strings, the strings give out a sound, the sound fills the space, and the space becomes transformed into musical time and is filled with peace and the Divine Light that comes from everything dynamic and alive, and all thanks to her violin.

Hilal’s soul is in every note, in every chord. The Aleph had revealed to me a little about the woman standing before me. I can’t remember every detail of our joint story, but I know that she and I have met before. I only hope she never learns in what circumstances that meeting took place. At this precise moment, she is enfolding me in the energy of love, as she may have done in the past. And long may she continue to do so, because love is the only thing that will save us, independent of any mistakes we may make. Love is always stronger.

I begin to dress her in the clothes she was wearing when I met her the last time we were alone together, before other men arrived in the city and changed the whole story: embroidered waistcoat, white lace blouse, an ankle-length skirt in black velvet threaded with gold. I listen to her talking about her conversations with the birds, and what the birds have to say to mankind, even though men are incapable of hearing and understanding. At that moment, I am her friend, her confessor, her…

I stop. I don’t want to open that door unless it is absolutely necessary. I have been through it four times already, and it has never got me anywhere. Yes, I remember all eight of the women who were there, and I know that one day I will hear the answer that is lacking, but up until now, this has never prevented me from moving on in my current life. The first time it happened, I felt really frightened, but then I realized that forgiveness works only if you accept it.

And that is what I did.

There is a moment in the Bible, during the Last Supper, when Jesus predicts that one of his disciples will deny him and one will betray him. He considers both crimes to be equally grave. Judas betrays him and, eaten away by guilt, hangs himself. Peter denies him, not just once but three times. He had time to think about what he was doing, but he persisted in his error. However, instead of punishing himself for this, he makes a strength of his weakness and becomes the first great preacher of the message taught to him by the man whom he had denied in his hour of need.

The message of love was greater than the sin. Judas failed to understand this, but Peter used it as a working tool.

I don’t want to open that door, because it’s like a dam holding back the ocean. Just one small hole would be enough for the pressure of the water to destroy everything and flood what should not be flooded. I’m on a train, and the only thing that exists is a Turkish woman called Hilal, who is first violin in an orchestra and is now standing in my bathroom, playing her music. I’m beginning to feel sleepy; the remedy is taking effect. My head droops, my eyes are closing. Hilal stops playing and asks me to go and lie down. I obey.

She sits in the chair and continues to play. Suddenly, I am not in the train, nor in the garden, where I saw her in that white lace blouse; I’m traveling down a long, deep tunnel that will carry me into nothingness, into heavy, dreamless sleep. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is the phrase that Yao stuck on the mirror that morning.