Aleph

Then, turning to me, he says, “You know the pain I’m going through at the moment. The woman I love has died, and I, too, could inhale and exhale for the rest of my life, but I’m never going to be truly happy again. My wounds are open and bleeding, too. I understand exactly what this young woman is saying. I know you’re making this journey for entirely personal reasons, but don’t leave her alone like this. If you believe in the words you write, allow the people around you to grow with you.”

“Okay, fine,” I say to her. “He’s right, I don’t own the train, but I just want you to know that I’m going to be surrounded by people most of the time, so there won’t be many opportunities to talk.”

My friend starts the engine again and drives for another fifteen minutes in silence. We reach a leafy square. She tells him where to park, jumps out, and says good-bye. I get out of the car and accompany her to the door of the house where she’s staying with friends.

She kisses me briefly on the lips.

“Your friend is mistaken, but if I were to look too happy, he might take his money back,” she says, smiling. “My suffering is nothing compared to his. Besides, I’ve never been as happy as I am now, because I followed the signs, I was patient, and I know that this is going to change everything.”

She turns and goes into the building.

Only then, as I walk back to the car, looking at my friend who has got out to smoke a cigarette and is smiling because he saw that quick kiss, only then, as I listen to the wind in the trees restored to life by the force of the spring, am I aware that I’m in a city I don’t know very well but which I love. Only then, as I feel for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, thinking that tomorrow I’ll be setting off on a long-dreamed-of adventure, only then…

…only then do I remember the warning given by the clairvoyant I met at Véronique’s house. He’d said something about Turkey, but quite what I can’t remember.

9,288

THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY is one of the longest railways in the world. You can start your journey at any station in Europe, but the Russian section is 9,288 kilometers long, connecting hundreds of small and large cities, traversing seventy-six percent of the country and passing through seven different time zones. When I enter the train station in Moscow, at eleven o’clock at night, day has already dawned in Vladivostok, our final destination.

Until the end of the nineteenth century, few travelers ventured into Siberia, which holds the record for the lowest temperature ever in a permanently inhabited location: –72.2°C in the town of Oymyakon. The rivers that linked the region to the rest of the

world used to be the main means of transport, but they were frozen for eight months of the year. The population of Central Asia lived in almost complete isolation, although it was the source of most of the then Russian Empire’s natural wealth. For strategic and political reasons, Alexander III approved the construction of the railway, the cost of which was exceeded only by Imperial Russia’s military budget during the whole of the First World War.

During the civil war that erupted immediately after the Communist Revolution of 1917, the railway became the focus of fighting. Forces loyal to the deposed tsar—notably, the Czech Legion—used armored carriages, which acted as tanks on rails and were thus able to repel attacks by the Red Army with relative ease as long as they were kept supplied with munitions and provisions from the East. That was when the saboteurs were sent into action, blowing up bridges and cutting communications. The pro-Imperial forces were driven to the outer reaches of the Russian continent, and many crossed over into Canada, from where they dispersed to other countries.

When I entered the station at Moscow, the price of a ticket from Europe to the Pacific Ocean in a compartment shared with three other people could cost anything between thirty and sixty euros.

MY FIRST PHOTO was of the departures board showing that our train was due to leave at 23:15! My heart was beating fast, as if I were a child again, watching my toy train chugging around the room and letting my mind travel to distant places, as distant as the one in which I found myself now.

My conversation with J. in Saint Martin just over three months before felt as if it had happened in a previous incarnation. What idiotic questions I had asked! What was the meaning of life? Why can I make no progress? Why is the spiritual world moving farther and farther away? The answer couldn’t have been simpler: because I wasn’t really living!

How good it was to go back to being a child, feeling my blood flowing in my veins and my eyes shining, thrilling to the sight of the crowded platform, the smell of oil and food, the squeal of brakes as a train came into the station, the shrill sounds of luggage vans and whistles.

To live is to experience things, not sit around pondering the meaning of life. Obviously, not everyone needs to cross Asia or follow the Road to Santiago. I knew an abbot in Austria who rarely left his monastery in Melk, and yet he understood the world far better than many travelers I have met. I have a friend who experienced great spiritual revelations just from watching his children sleeping. When my wife starts work on a new painting, she enters a kind of trance and speaks to her guardian angel.

But I am a born pilgrim. Even when I’m feeling really lazy or I’m missing home, I need take only one step to be carried away by the excitement of the journey. In Yaroslavl station, making my way over to platform five, I realize that I will never reach my goal by staying in the same place all the time. I can speak to my soul only when the two of us are off exploring deserts or cities or mountains or roads.

We are in the last carriage, which will be coupled and decoupled at various stations along the way. I can’t see the engine from where I am, only the giant steel snake of the train and various other passengers—Mongols, Tatars, Russians, Chinese—some of whom are sitting on huge trunks, and all of whom are waiting for the doors to open. People come over to talk to me, but I move away. I don’t want to think about anything else, apart from the fact that I’m here now, ready for yet another departure and a new challenge.

THIS MOMENT OF CHILDISH ECSTASY must have lasted at most five minutes, but I took in every detail, every sound, every smell. I won’t be able to remember anything afterward, but that doesn’t matter; time is not a cassette tape that can be wound and rewound.

“Don’t think about what you’ll tell people afterward. The time is here and now. Make the most of it.”

I approach the rest of the group and realize that they’re all as excited as I am. I’m introduced to the translator who will be traveling with me. His name is Yao. He was born in China but went to Brazil as a refugee during the civil war in his country. He then studied in Japan and is now a retired language teacher from the University of Moscow. He must be about seventy. He is tall and the only one in the group who is impeccably dressed in a suit and tie.

“My name means ‘very distant,’ ” he says, to break the ice.

“My name means ‘little rock,’ ” I tell him, smiling. In fact, I have had the same smile on my face since last night, when I could barely sleep for thinking about today’s adventure. I couldn’t be in a better mood.

The omnipresent Hilal is standing near the carriage I’ll be traveling in, even though her compartment must be far from mine. I wasn’t surprised to see her there. I assumed she would be. I blow her a kiss, and she responds with a smile. At some point on the journey, I’m sure we’ll enjoy an interesting conversation or two.

I stand very still, intent on every detail around me like a navigator about to set sail in search of the Mare Ignotum. My translator respects my silence, but I realize that something is wrong, because my publisher seems preoccupied. I ask Yao what’s going on.

He explains that the person representing me in Russia has not arrived. I remember the conversation with my friend the night before, but what does it matter? If she hasn’t turned up, that’s her problem.

I notice Hilal say something to my editor. She receives a brusque reply but doesn’t lose her cool, just as she didn’t when I told her we couldn’t meet. I am getting to like the fact that she is here more and more; I like her determination, her poise. The two women are arguing now.

I again ask the translator to explain what’s going on, and he says that my editor has asked Hilal to go back to her own carriage. Fat chance, I think to myself. That young woman will do exactly what she wants to. I amuse myself by observing the only things I can understand: intonation and body language. When I think the moment is right, I go over to them, still smiling.