Aleph

“And what has that got to do with the act of insanity I’ve just witnessed?”

“Later on, I’ll tell you about the conversation I had a month ago with J. What matters now, though, is that this is precisely what has been happening to me: I’ve invested work, time, and effort; I tried to encourage my personal growth with love and dedication, but nothing happened. Nothing happened for years.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing happened’? Have you forgotten who you are?”

The taxi arrives. The Russian publisher opens the door for Mônica.

“I’m talking about the spiritual side of my life. I think I’m like that Chinese bamboo plant and that my fifth year has just arrived. It’s time for me to start growing again. You asked me if I’d gone mad, and I answered with a joke. But the fact is, I have been going mad. I was beginning to believe that nothing I had learned had put down any roots.”

For a fraction of a second, immediately after the arrival of my Bulgarian publishers, I had felt J.’s presence at my side and finally understood his words, although the insight itself had come to me during a moment of boredom, after leafing through a magazine on gardening. My self-imposed exile, which, on the one hand, had helped me discover important truths about myself, had another serious side effect: the vice of solitude. My universe had become limited to a few friends locally, to answering letters and e-mails, and to the illusion that the rest of my time was mine alone. I was, in short, leading a life without any of the inevitable problems that arise from living with other people, from human contact.

Is that what I’m looking for? A life without challenges? But where is the pleasure in looking for God outside of people?

I know many who have done just that. I once had a serious and at the same time comical talk with a Buddhist nun who had spent twenty years alone in a cave in Nepal. I asked her what she had achieved. “Spiritual orgasm,” she replied, to which I replied that there were far easier ways to achieve orgasm.

I could never follow that path; it’s simply not on my horizon. I cannot and could not spend the rest of my life in search of spiritual orgasms or contemplating the oak tree in my garden, waiting for wisdom to descend. J. knows this, and encouraged me to make this journey so that I would understand that my path is reflected in the eyes of others and that, if I want to find myself, I need that map.

I apologize to the Russian publishers and say that I need to finish a conversation with Mônica in Portuguese. I start by telling her a story.

“A man stumbles and falls into a deep hole. He asks a passing priest to help him out. The priest blesses him and walks on. Hours later, a doctor comes by. The man asks for help, but the doctor merely studies his injuries from afar, writes him a prescription, and tells him to buy the medicine from the nearest pharmacy. Finally, a complete stranger appears. Again, he asks for help, and the stranger jumps into the hole. ‘Now what are we going to do?’ says the man. ‘Now both of us are trapped down here.’ To which the stranger replies, ‘No, we’re not. I’m from around here, and I know how to get out.’ ”

“Meaning?” asks Mônica.

“That I need strangers like that,” I explain. “My roots are ready, but I’ll manage to grow only with the help of others. Not just you or J. or my wife but people I’ve never met. I’m sure of that. That’s why I asked for a party to be held after the book signings.”

“You’re never satisfied, are you?” Mônica says in a tone of complaint.

“That’s why you love me so much,” I say with a smile.

IN THE RESTAURANT, we speak about all kinds of things; we celebrate a few successes and try to refine certain details. I have to stop myself from interfering, because Mônica is in charge of everything to do with publishing. At one point, though, the same question is asked.

“And when will Paulo be visiting Russia?”

Mônica starts explaining that my diary has suddenly got very crowded and that I have a series of commitments starting next week. I break in.

“You know, I have long cherished a dream, which I’ve tried to realize twice before and failed. If you can help me achieve my dream, I’ll come to Russia.”

“What dream is that?”

“To cross the whole of Russia by train and end up at the Pacific Ocean. We could stop at various places along the way for signings. That way, we would be showing our respect for all those readers who could never make it to Moscow.”

My publisher’s eyes light up with joy. He had just been talking about the increasing difficulties of distribution in a country so vast that it has seven different time zones.

“A very romantic, very Chinese bamboo idea,” Mônica says with a laugh, “but not very practical. As you well know, I wouldn’t be able to go with you, because I have my son to look after now.”

The publisher, however, is enthusiastic. He orders his fifth coffee of the night, says that he’ll take care of everything, that Mônica’s assistant can stand in for her, and that she needn’t worry about a thing, it will all be fine.

I thus fill up my planner with two whole months of traveling, leaving along the way a lot of very happy but very stressed-out people who are going to have to organize everything at lightning speed; a friend and agent who is now looking at me with affection and respect; and a teacher who isn’t here but who doubtless knows that I have now made a commitment, even though I didn’t understand what he meant at the time. It’s a cold night, and I choose to walk back alone to the hotel, feeling rather frightened at what I’ve done, but happy, too, because there’s no turning back.

That is what I wanted. If I believe I will win, then victory will believe in me. No life is complete without a touch of madness, or, to use J.’s words, what I need to do is to re-conquer my kingdom. If I can understand what’s going on in the world, I can understand what’s going on inside myself.

AT THE HOTEL, there is a message from my wife, saying that she’s been trying to contact me and asking me to phone her as soon as possible. My heart starts pounding, because she rarely phones me when I’m traveling. I return her call at once. The seconds between each ring seem like an eternity.

Finally, she picks up the phone.

“Véronique has had a serious car accident, but don’t worry, she’s not in any danger,” she says nervously.

I ask if I can phone Véronique now, but she says no. She’s still in the hospital.