by Paulo Coelho
"Have you got some physical problem?"
"No, I'm just not interested."
This wasn't possible.
"Pay the bill and let's go for a walk. I think a lot of people feel the same, but no one ever says so. It's good to talk to someone so honest."
They set off along the road to Santiago, which first climbed and then descended down to the river, then to the lake, then on to the mountains, to end in some distant place in Spain. They passed people going back to work after lunch, mothers with their prams, tourists taking photographs of the splendid fountain in the middle of the lake, Muslim women in their headscarves, boys and girls out jogging, all of them pilgrims in search of that mythological city, Santiago de Compostela, which might not even exist, which might be a legend in which people need to believe in order to give meaning to their lives. Along this road walked by so many people, over so many years, went that man with long hair, carrying a heavy bag full of brushes, paints, canvas and pencils, and that woman, slightly younger, with her bag full of books about farm management. It did not occur to either of them to ask why they were making that pilgrimage together, it was the most natural thing in the world; he knew everything about her, although she knew nothing about him.
Which is why she decided to ask--now that her policy was always to ask. At first, he reacted shyly, but she knew how to wheedle information out of men, and he ended up telling her that he had been married twice (a record for a twenty-nine-year-old!), had travelled widely, met kings and queens and famous actors, been to unforgettable parties. He had been born in Geneva, but had lived in Madrid, Amsterdam, New York, and in a city in the south of France, called Tarbes, which wasn't on any of the usual tourist circuits, but which he loved because it was so close to the mountains and because its inhabitants were so warmhearted. He had been discovered as an artist when he was only twenty, when an important art dealer happened to visit a Japanese restaurant in Geneva decorated with his work. He had earned a lot of money, he was young and healthy, he could do anything, go anywhere, meet anyone he liked, he had known all the pleasures a man could know, he did what he most enjoyed doing, and yet, despite everything, fame, money, women, travel, he was unhappy, and had only one joy in his life--his work.
"Were you very hurt by women?" she asked, realizing at once what an idiotic question it was, straight out of some manual entitled Everything Women Should Know If They Want to Get Their Man.
"No, they never hurt me. I was very happy in both my marriages. I was unfaithful and so were they, just like any other normal couple. Then, after a while, I simply lost interest in sex. I still felt love, still needed company, but sex...but, why are we talking about sex?"
"Because, as you yourself said, I'm a prostitute."
"My life isn't very interesting really. I'm an artist who found success very young, which is rare, and even rarer in the world of painting. I could paint anything now and it would be worth a fortune, which, of course, infuriates the critics because they think they are the only ones who know about 'art.' Other people think I've got all the answers, and the less I say, the more intelligent they think I am."
He went on talking about his life, how every week he was invited to something somewhere in the world. He had an agent who lived in Barcelona--did she know where that was? Yes, Maria knew, it was in Spain. This agent dealt with everything to do with money, invitations, exhibitions, but never pressured him to do anything he didn't want to do, now that, after years of work, there was a steady demand for his paintings.
"Do you find my story interesting?" he asked, and his voice betrayed a touch of insecurity.
"It's certainly an unusual one. Lots of people would like to be in your shoes."
Ralf wanted to know about Maria.
"Well, there are three of me, really, depending on who I'm with. There's the Innocent Girl, who gazes admiringly at the man, pretending to be impressed by his tales of power and glory. Then there's the Femme Fatale, who pounces on the most insecure and, by doing so, takes control of the situation and relieves them of responsibility, because then they don't have to worry about anything. And, finally, there's the Understanding Mother, who looks after those in need of advice and who listens with an all-comprehending air to stories that go in one ear and out the other. Which of the three would you like to meet?"
"You."
Maria told him everything, because she needed to--it was the first time she had done so since she left Brazil. She realized that, despite her somewhat unconventional job, nothing very exciting had happened apart from that week in Rio and her first month in Switzerland. Otherwise, it had been home, work, home, work--and nothing else.
When she finished speaking, they were sitting in another bar, this time on the other side of the city, far from the road to Santiago, each of them thinking about what fate had reserved for the other.
"Did I leave anything out?" she asked.
"How to say 'goodbye.'"
Yes, it had not been an afternoon like any other. She felt tense and anxious, for she had opened a door which she didn't know how to close.
"When can I see the whole painting?"
Ralf gave her the card of his agent in Barcelona.
"Phone her in about six months' time, if you're still in Europe. The Faces of Geneva, famous people and anonymous people. It will be exhibited for the first time in a gallery in Berlin. Then it will tour Europe."
Maria remembered her calendar, the ninety days that remained, and the dangers posed by any relationship, any bond. She thought:
"What is more important in life? Living or pretending to live? Should I take a risk and say that this has been the loveliest afternoon I've spent in all the time I've been here? Should I thank him for listening to me without criticism and without comment? Or should I simply don the armor of the woman with willpower, with the 'special light,' and leave without saying anything?"
While they were walking along the road to Santiago and while she was listening to herself telling him about her life, she had been a happy woman. She could content herself with that; it was enough of a gift from life.
"I'll come and see you," said Ralf Hart.
"No, don't. I'll be going back to Brazil soon. We have nothing more to give each other."
"I'll come and see you as a client."
"That would be humiliating for me."
"I'll come and see you so that you can save me."
He had made that comment early on, about his lack of interest in sex. She wanted to tell him that she felt the same, but she stopped herself--she had said "no" too many times; it would be best to say nothing.
How pathetic. There she was with the little boy again, only he wasn't asking her for a pencil now, just a little company. She looked at her own past, and, for the first time, she forgave herself: it hadn't been her fault, but the fault of that insecure little boy, who had given up after the first attempt. They were children and that's how children are--neither she nor the boy had been in the wrong, and that gave her a great sense of relief, made her feel better; she hadn't betrayed the first opportunity that life had presented her with. We all do the same thing: it's part of the initiation of every human being in search of his or her other half; these things happen.
Now, though, the situation was different. However convincing her reasons (I'm going back to Brazil, I work in a nightclub, we hardly know each other, I'm not interested in sex, I don't want anything to do with love, I need to learn how to manage a farm, I don't understand painting, we live in different worlds), life had thrown down a challenge. She wasn't a child any more, she had to choose.
She preferred to say nothing. She shook his hand, as was the custom there, and went home. If he was the man she wanted him to be, he would not be intimidated by her silence.
Extract from Maria's diary, written that same day:
Today, while we were walking around the lake, along that strange road to Santiago, the man who was with me--a painter, with a life entirely different from mine--threw a pebble into the water.
Small circles appeared where the pebble fell, which grew and grew until they touched a duck that happened to be passing and which had nothing to do with the pebble. Instead of being afraid of that unexpected wave, he decided to play with it.
Some hours before that scene, I went into a cafe, heard a voice, and it was as if God had thrown a pebble into that place. The waves of energy touched both me and a man sitting in a corner painting a portrait. He felt the vibrations of that pebble, and so did I. So what now?
The painter knows when he has found a model. The musician knows when his instrument is well tuned. Here, in my diary, I am aware that there are certain phrases which are not written by me, but by a woman full of "light"; I am that woman though I refuse to accept it.
I could carry on like this, but I could also, like the duck on the lake, have fun and take pleasure in that sudden ripple that set the water rocking.
There is a name for that pebble: passion. It can be used to describe the beauty of an earth-shaking meeting between two people, but it isn't just that. It's there in the excitement of the unexpected, in the desire to do something with real fervor, in the certainty that one is going to realize a dream. Passion sends us signals that guide us through our lives, and it's up to me to interpret those signs.
I would like to believe that I'm in love. With someone I don't know and who didn't figure in my plans at all. All these months of self-control, of denying love, have had exactly the opposite result: I have let myself be swept away by the first person to treat me a little differently.
It's just as well I don't have his phone number, that I don't know where he lives; that way I can lose him without having to blame myself for another missed opportunity.
And if that is what happens, if I have already lost him, I will at least have gained one very happy day in my life. Considering the way the world is, one happy day is almost a miracle.
When she arrived at the Copacabana that night, he was there, waiting for her. He was the only customer. Milan, who had been following her life with some interest, saw that she had lost the battle.
"Would you like a drink?" the man asked.
"I have to work. I can't risk losing my job."
"I'm here as a customer. I'm making a professional proposition."
This man, who had seemed so sure of himself that afternoon in the cafe, who wielded a paintbrush with such skill, met important people, had an agent in Barcelona and doubtless earned a lot of money, was now revealing his fragility; he had entered a world he should not have entered; he was no longer in a romantic cafe on the road to Santiago. The charm of the afternoon vanished.
"So, would you like a drink?"
"I will another time. I have clients waiting for me tonight."
Milan overheard these last words; he was wrong, she had not allowed herself to be caught in the trap of promises of love. He nevertheless wondered, at the end of a rather slack night, why she had preferred the company of an old man, a dull accountant and an insurance salesman...
Oh, well, it was her problem. As long as she paid her commission, it wasn't up to him to decide who she should or shouldn't go to bed with.
From Maria's diary, after that night with the old man, the accountant and the insurance salesman:
What does this painter want of me? Doesn't he realize that we are from different countries, cultures and sexes? Does he think I know more about pleasure than he does and wants to learn something from me?
Why didn't he say anything else to me, apart from "I'm here as a customer"? It would have been so easy for him to say: "I missed you" or "I really enjoyed the afternoon we spent together." I would respond in the same way (I'm a professional), but he should understand my insecurities, because I'm a woman, I'm fragile, and when I'm in that place, I'm a different person.
He's a man. He's an artist. He should know that the great aim of every human being is to understand the meaning of total love. Love is not to be found in someone else, but in ourselves; we simply awaken it. But in order to do that, we need the other person. The universe only makes sense when we have someone to share our feelings with.
He says he's tired of sex. So am I, and yet neither of us really knows what that means. We are allowing one of the most important things in life to die--he should have saved me, I should have saved him, but he left me no choice.
She was terrified. She was beginning to realize that after long months of self-control, the pressure, the earthquake, the volcano of her soul was showing signs that it was about to erupt, and the moment that this happened, she would have no way of controlling her feelings. Who was this wretched painter, who might well be lying about his life and with whom she had spent only a few hours, who had not touched her or tried to seduce her--could there be anything worse?
Why were alarm bells ringing in her heart? Because she sensed that the same thing was happening to him, but no, she must be wrong. Ralf Hart just wanted to find a woman capable of awakening in him the fire that had almost burned out; he wanted to make her into some kind of personal sex goddess, with her "special light" (he was being honest about that), who would take him by the hand and show him the road back to life. He couldn't imagine that Maria felt the same indifference, that she had her own problems (even after so many men, she had still never achieved orgasm when having ordinary penetrative sex), that she had been making plans that very morning and was organizing a triumphant return to her homeland.
Why was she thinking about him? Why was she thinking about someone who, at that very moment, might be painting another woman, saying that she had a "special light," that she could be his sex goddess?
"I'm thinking about him because I was able to talk to him."
How ridiculous! Did she think about the librarian? No. Did she think about Nyah, the Filipino girl, the only one of all the women who worked at the Copacabana with whom she could share some of her feelings? No, she didn't. And they were people with whom she had often talked and with whom she felt comfortable.
She tried to divert her attention to thoughts of how hot it was, or to the supermarket she hadn't managed to get to yesterday. She wrote a long letter to her father, full of details about the piece of land she would like to buy--that would make her family happy. She did not give a date for her return, but she hinted that it would be soon. She slept, woke up, slept again and woke again. She realized that the book about farming was fine for Swiss farmers, but completely useless for Brazilians--they were two entirely different worlds.
As the afternoon wore on, she noticed that the earthquake, the volcano, the pressure was diminishing. She felt more relaxed; this kind of sudden passion had happened before and had always subsided by the next day--good, her universe continued unchanged. She had a family who loved her, a man who was waiting for her and who now wrote to her frequently, telling her that the draper's shop was expanding. Even if she decided to get on a plane that night, she had enough money to buy a small farm. She had got through the worst part, the language barrier, the loneliness, the first night in the restaurant with that Arab man, the way in which she had persuaded her soul not to complain about what she was doing with her body. She knew what her dream was and she was prepared to do anything to achieve it. And that dream did not, by the way, include men, at least not men who didn't speak her mother tongue or live in her hometown.
When the earthquake had subsided, Maria realized she was partly to blame. Why had she not said to him: "I'm lonely, I'm as miserable as you are, yesterday you saw my 'light,' and it was the first nice, honest thing a man has said to me since I got here."
On the radio they were playing an old song: "my loves die even before they're born." Yes, that was what happened with her, that was her fate.
From Maria's diary, two days after everything had returned to normal:
Passion makes a person stop eating, sleeping, working, feeling at peace. A lot of people are frightened because, when it appears, it demolishes all the old things it finds in its path.
No one wants their life thrown into c
haos. That is why a lot of people keep that threat under control, and are somehow capable of sustaining a house or a structure that is already rotten. They are the engineers of the superseded.
Other people think exactly the opposite: they surrender themselves without a second thought, hoping to find in passion the solutions to all their problems. They make the other person responsible for their happiness and blame them for their possible unhappiness. They are either euphoric because something marvelous has happened or depressed because something unexpected has just ruined everything.
Keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it--which of these two attitudes is the least destructive?
I don't know.
On the third day, as if risen from the dead, Ralf Hart returned, almost too late, for Maria was already talking to another customer. When she saw him, though, she politely told the other man that she didn't want to dance, that she was waiting for someone else.
Only then did she realize that she had spent the last three days waiting for him. And at that moment, she accepted everything that fate had placed in her path.
She didn't get angry with herself; she was happy, she could allow herself that luxury, because one day she would leave this city; she knew this love was impossible, and yet, expecting nothing, she could nevertheless have everything she still hoped for from that particular stage in her life.
Ralf asked her if she would like a drink, and Maria asked for a fruit juice cocktail. The owner of the bar, pretending that he was washing glasses, stared uncomprehendingly at her: what had made her change her mind? He hoped they wouldn't just sit there drinking, and felt relieved when Ralf asked her to dance. They were following the ritual; there was no reason to feel worried.
Maria felt Ralf's hand on her waist, his cheek pressed to hers, and the music--thank God--was too loud for them to talk. One fruit juice cocktail wasn't enough to give her courage, and the few words they had exchanged had been very formal. Now it was just a question of time: would they go to a hotel? Would they make love? It shouldn't be difficult, since he had already said that he wasn't interested in sex--it would just be a matter of going through the motions. On the other hand, that lack of interest would help to kill off any vestige of potential passion--she didn't know now why she had put herself through such torment after their first meeting.
