By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept: A Novel of Forgiveness

by Paulo Coelho

  "I know. I've never asked before."

  "You already have my heart," I told him. "Tomorrow you may go away, but we will always remember the miracle of these few days. I think that God, in Her infinite wisdom, conceals hell in the midst of paradise--so that we will always be alert, so that we won't forget the pain as we experience the joy of compassion."

  He took my face in his hands. "You learn quickly," he said.

  I had surprised myself. But sometimes if you think you know something, you do wind up understanding it.

  "I hope you won't think I'm being difficult," I said. "I have been with many men. I've made love to some I've barely known."

  "Same here," he said.

  He was trying to sound natural, but from his touch, I could tell that he hadn't wanted to hear this from me.

  "But since this morning, I feel as if I'm rediscovering love. Don't try to understand it, because only a woman would know what I mean. And it takes time."

  He caressed my face. Then I kissed him lightly on the lips and returned to my bed.

  I wasn't sure why I did. Was I trying to bind him even closer to me, or was I trying to set him free? In any case, it had been a long day, and I was too tired to think about it.

  For me, that was a night of great peace. At one point, I seemed to be awake even though I was still sleeping. A feminine presence cradled me in Her lap; I felt as if I had known Her a long time. I felt protected and loved.

  I woke at seven, dying of the heat. I remembered having turned the heater to high in order to dry my clothes. It was still dark, and I tried to get up without making a sound so that I wouldn't disturb him.

  But as soon as I stood, I could see that he wasn't there.

  I started to panic. The Other immediately awoke and said to me, "See? You agreed, and he disappeared. Like all men do."

  My panic was increasing by the minute, but I didn't want to lose control. "I'm still here," the Other said. "You allowed the wind to change direction. You opened the door, and now love is flooding your life. If we act quickly, we'll be able to regain control."

  I had to be practical, to take precautions.

  "He's gone," said the Other. "You have to get away from this place in the middle of nowhere. Your life in Zaragoza is still intact; get back there quickly--before you lose everything you've worked so hard to gain."

  He must have had some good reason, I thought.

  "Men always have their reasons," said the Other. "But the fact is that they always wind up leaving."

  Well, then, I had to figure out how to get back to Spain. I had to keep my wits about me.

  "Let's start with the practical problem: money," the Other said.

  I didn't have a cent. I would have to go downstairs, call my parents collect, and wait for them to wire me the money for a ticket home.

  But it was a holiday, and the money wouldn't arrive until the next day. How would I eat? How would I explain to the owners of the house that they would have to wait for several days for their payment? "Better not to say anything," said the Other.

  Right, she was the experienced one. She knew how to handle situations like this. She wasn't the impassioned girl who loses control of herself. She was the woman who always knew what she wanted in life. I should simply stay on there, as if he were expected to return. And when the money arrived, I would pay the bill and leave.

  "Very good," said the Other. "You're getting back to how you were before. Don't be sad. One of these days, you'll find another man--one you can love without taking so many risks."

  I gathered my clothes from the heater. They were dry. I needed to find out which of the surrounding villages had a bank, make a phone call, take steps. If I thought carefully about all of that, there wouldn't be time for crying or regrets.

  Then I saw his note:

  I've gone to the seminary. Pack up your things, because we're going back to Spain tonight. I'll be back by late afternoon. I love you.

  I clutched the note to my breast, feeling miserable and relieved at the same time. I noticed that the Other had retreated.

  I loved him. With every minute that passed, my love was growing and transforming me. I once again had faith in the future, and little by little, I was recovering my faith in God. All because of love.

  I will not talk to my own darkness anymore, I promised myself, closing the door on the Other. A fall from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth.

  If I have to fall, may it be from a high place.

  DON'T GO OUT hungry again," said the woman.

  "I didn't realize you spoke Spanish," I answered, surprised.

  "The border isn't far from here. Tourists come to Lourdes in the summer. If I couldn't speak Spanish, I couldn't rent rooms."

  She made me some toast and coffee. I was already trying to prepare myself to make it through the day--each hour was going to seem like a year. I hoped that this snack would distract me for a while.

  "How long have you two been married?" she asked.

  "He was the first person I ever loved," I said. That was enough.

  "Do you see those peaks out there?" the woman continued. "The first love of my life died up in those mountains."

  "But you found someone else."

  "Yes, I did. And I found happiness again. Fate is strange: almost no one I know married the first love of their lives. Those who did are always telling me that they missed something important, that they didn't experience all that they might have."

  She stopped talking suddenly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  "I'm not offended."

  "I always look at that well there in the plaza. And I think to myself that before, no one knew where there was water. Then Saint Savin decided to dig and found it. If he hadn't done that, this village would be down there by the river."

  "But what does that have to do with love?" I asked.

  "That well brought many people here, with their hopes and dreams and conflicts. Someone dared to look for water, water was found, and people gathered where it flowed. I think that when we look for love courageously, it reveals itself, and we wind up attracting even more love. If one person really wants us, everyone does. But if we're alone, we become even more alone. Life is strange."

  "Have you ever heard of the book called the I Ching?" I asked her.

  "No, I haven't."

  "It says that a city can be moved but not a well. It's around the well that lovers find each other, satisfy their thirst, build their homes, and raise their children. But if one of them decides to leave, the well cannot go with them. Love remains there, abandoned--even though it is filled with the same pure water as before."

  "You speak like a mature woman who has already suffered a great deal, my dear," she said.

  "No, I've always been frightened. I've never dug a well. But I'm trying to do that now, and I don't want to forget what the risks are."

  I felt something in the pocket of my bag pressing at me. When I realized what it was, my heart went cold. I quickly finished my coffee.

  The key. I had the key.

  "There was a woman in this city who died and left everything to the seminary at Tarbes," I said. "Do you know where her house is?"

  The woman opened the door and showed me. It was one of the medieval houses on the plaza. The back of the house looked out over the valley toward the mountains in the distance.

  "Two priests went through the house about two months ago," she said. "And..." She stopped, looking at me doubtfully. "And one of them looked a lot like your husband."

  "It was," I answered. The woman stood in her doorway, puzzled, as I quickly left. I felt a burst of energy, happy that I had allowed the child in me to pull a prank.

  I soon stood in front of the house, not knowing what to do. The mist was everywhere, and I felt as if I were in a gray dream where strange figures might appear and take me away to places even more peculiar.

  I toyed nervously with the key.

  With the mist as thick as it w
as, it would be impossible to see the mountains from the window. The house would be dark; there would be no sun shining through the curtains. The house would seem sad without him at my side.

  I looked at my watch. Nine in the morning.

  I had to do something--something that would make the time pass, that would help me wait.

  Wait. This was the first lesson I had learned about love. The day drags along, you make thousands of plans, you imagine every possible conversation, you promise to change your behavior in certain ways--and you feel more and more anxious until your loved one arrives. But by then, you don't know what to say. The hours of waiting have been transformed into tension, the tension has become fear, and the fear makes you embarrassed about showing affection.

  I didn't know whether I should go in. I remembered our conversation of the previous day--the house was the symbol of a dream.

  But I couldn't spend the whole day just standing there. I gathered up my courage, grasped the key firmly, and walked to the door.

  PILAR!"

  The voice, with a strong French accent, came from the midst of the fog. I was more surprised than frightened. I thought it might be the owner of the house where we had rented the room--although I didn't recall having told him my name.

  "Pilar!" I heard again, nearer this time.

  I looked back at the plaza shrouded in mist. A figure was approaching, walking hurriedly. Perhaps the ghosts that I had imagined in the fog were becoming a reality.

  "Wait," the figure said. "I want to talk to you."

  When he had come closer, I could see that it was a priest. He looked like a caricature of the country padre: short, on the heavy side, with sparse white hair on a nearly bald head.

  "Hola," he said, holding out his hand and smiling.

  I answered him, a bit astonished.

  "Too bad the fog is hiding everything," he said, looking toward the house. "Since Saint-Savin is in the mountains, the view from this house is beautiful; you can see the valley down below and the snow-covered peaks. But you probably already knew that."

  I decided that this must be the superior from the monastery.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked. "And how do you know my name?"

  "Do you want to go in?" he said, trying to change the subject.

  "No! I'd like you to answer my questions."

  Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he sat down on the curb. I sat down next to him. The fog was growing thicker by the minute. The church was already hidden from sight, and it was only sixty feet away from us.

  All I could see was the well. I remembered what the young woman in Madrid had said.

  "She is present," I said.

  "Who?"

  "The Goddess," I answered. "She is this mist."

  "So, he must have talked to you about that," he laughed. "Well, I prefer to refer to Her as the Virgin Mary. That's what I'm used to."

  "What are you doing here? How do you know my name?" I repeated.

  "I came here because I wanted to see you two. A member of the Charismatic group last night told me you were both staying in Saint-Savin. And it's a small place."

  "He went to the seminary."

  The padre's smile disappeared, and he shook his head. "Too bad," he said, as if speaking to himself.

  "You mean, too bad he went to the seminary?"

  "No, he's not there. I've just come from the seminary."

  For a moment, I couldn't say anything. I thought back to the feeling I'd had when I woke up: the money, the arrangements I needed to make, the call to my parents, the ticket. But I'd made a vow, and I wasn't going to break it.

  A priest was sitting beside me. As a child, I used to tell everything to our priest.

  "I'm exhausted," I said, breaking the silence. "Less than a week ago, I finally learned who I am and what I want in life. Now I feel like I've been caught in a storm that's tossing me around, and I can't seem to do anything about it."

  "Resist your doubts," the padre said. "It's important."

  His advice surprised me.

  "Don't be frightened," he continued, as if he knew what I was feeling. "I know that the church is in need of new priests, and he would be an excellent one. But the price he would have to pay would be very high."

  "Where is he? Did he leave me here to return to Spain?"

  "To Spain? There's nothing for him to do in Spain," said the priest. "His home is at the monastery, only a few kilometers from here. He's not there. But I know where we can find him."

  His words brought back some of my joy and courage--at least he hadn't gone away.

  But the priest was no longer smiling. "Don't let that encourage you," he went on, again reading my mind. "It would be better if he had gone back to Spain."

  He stood and asked me to go with him. We could see only a few yards in front of us, but he seemed to know where he was going. We left Saint-Savin by the same road along which, two nights before--or could it have been five years before?--I had heard the story of Bernadette.

  "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "To find him," he answered.

  "Padre, you've confused me," I said, as we walked along together. "You seemed sad when you said he wasn't at the seminary."

  "Tell me what you know about the religious life, my child."

  "Very little. Only that the priests take a vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience." I wondered whether I should go on and decided that I would. "And that they judge the sins of others, even though they may commit the same sins themselves. That they know all there is to know about marriage and love, but they never marry. That they threaten us with the fires of hell for mistakes that they themselves make. And they present God to us as a vengeful being who blames man for the death of His only Son."

  The padre laughed. "You've had an excellent Catholic education," he said. "But I'm not asking you about Catholicism. I'm asking about the spiritual life."

  I didn't respond for a moment. "I'm not sure. There are people who leave everything behind and go in search of God."

  "And do they find Him?"

  "Well, you would know the answer to that, Padre, I have no idea."

  The padre noticed that I was beginning to gasp with exertion, and he slowed his pace.

  "You had that wrong," he said. "A person who goes in search of God is wasting his time. He can walk a thousand roads and join many religions and sects--but he'll never find God that way.

  "God is here, right now, at our side. We can see Him in this mist, in the ground we're walking on, even in my shoes. His angels keep watch while we sleep and help us in our work. In order to find God, you have only to look around.

  "But meeting Him is not easy. The more God asks us to participate in His mysteries, the more disoriented we become, because He asks us constantly to follow our dreams and our hearts. And that's difficult to do when we're used to living in a different way.

  "Finally we discover, to our surprise, that God wants us to be happy, because He is the father."

  "And the mother," I said.

  The fog was beginning to clear. I could see a small farmhouse where a woman was gathering hay.

  "Yes, and the mother," he said. "In order to have a spiritual life, you need not enter a seminary, or fast, or abstain, or take a vow of chastity. All you have to do is have faith and accept God. From then on, each of us becomes a part of His path. We become a vehicle for His miracles."

  "He has already told me about you," I interrupted, "and he has taught me these ideas."

  "I hope that you accept God's gifts," he answered. "Because it hasn't always been that way, as history teaches us. Osiris was drawn and quartered in Egypt. The Greek gods battled because of the mortals on earth. The Aztecs expelled Quetzalcoatl. The Viking gods witnessed the burning of Valhalla because of a woman. Jesus was crucified. Why?"

  I didn't have an answer.

  "Because God came to earth to demonstrate His power to us. We are a part of His dream, and He wants His dream to be a happy one. Thus, if we acknow
ledge that God created us for happiness, then we have to assume that everything that leads to sadness and defeat is our own doing. That's the reason we always kill God, whether on the cross, by fire, through exile, or simply in our hearts."

  "But those who understand Him..."

  "They are the ones who transform the world--while making great sacrifices."

  The woman carrying the hay saw the priest and came running in our direction. "Padre, thank you!" she said, kissing his hands. "The young man cured my husband!"

  "It was the Virgin who cured your husband," he said. "The lad is only an instrument."

  "It was he. Come in, please."

  I recalled the previous night. When we arrived at the cathedral, a man had told me I was with a man who performed miracles.

  "We're in a hurry," the padre said.

  "No! No, we're not," I said, in my halting French. "I'm cold, and I'd like some coffee."

  The woman took me by the hand, and we entered the house. It was simple but comfortable: stone walls, wood floors, and bare rafters. Seated in front of the fireplace was a man of about sixty. As soon as he saw the padre, he stood to kiss his hand.

  "Don't get up," said the priest. "You still need to convalesce a bit."

  "I've already gained twenty-five pounds," he answered. "But I'm still not able to be of much help to my wife."

  "Not to worry. Before long, you'll be better than ever."

  "Where is the young man?" the husband asked.

  "I saw him heading toward where he always goes," the wife said. "Only today, he went by car."

  The padre eyed me but didn't say anything.

  "Give us your blessing, Pere," the woman asked. "His power..."

  "The Virgin's power," the priest corrected.

  "The Virgin Mother's power is also your power, Pere. It was you who brought it here."

  This time, he didn't look my way.

  "Pray for my husband, Pere," the woman insisted.

  The priest took a deep breath. "Stand in front of me," he said to the man.

  The old man did as he was told. The padre closed his eyes and said an Ave Maria. Then he invoked the Holy Spirit, asking that it be present and help the man.

  He suddenly began to speak rapidly. It sounded like a prayer of exorcism, although I couldn't understand what he was saying. His hands touched the man's shoulders and then slid down his arms to his fingertips. He repeated this gesture several times.

  The fire began to crackle loudly in the fireplace. This may have been a coincidence, yet it seemed that the priest was entering into territory I knew nothing about--and that he was affecting the very elements.