By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept

by Paulo Coelho

  "The wise are wise only because they love. And the foolish are foolish only because they think they can understand love," he answered.

  The others at the table heard him, and in a moment an animated discussion about love was in full swing. Everyone had a strong opinion and was defending their position tooth and nail; it took more wine to calm things down. Finally someone said it was getting late and that the owner of the restaurant wanted to close.

  "We have five days of vacation," someone shouted from another table. "If the owner wants to close, it's just because you were getting too serious."

  Everyone laughed—except me.

  "Then where can we talk about serious things?" someone asked the drunk at the other table.

  "In church!" said the drunk. And this time all of us laughed.

  My friend stood up. I thought he was going to start a fight, because we were all acting like adolescents, and that's what adolescents do. Fighting is as much a part of being a teenager as the kisses, the secret embraces, the loud music, and the fast pace.

  But instead he took my hand and moved toward the door. "We should go," he said. "It's getting late."

  It was raining in Bilbao. Lovers need to know how to lose themselves and then how to find themselves again. He was able to do both well. Now he was happy, and as we returned to the hotel he sang:

  Son los locos que inventaron el amor.

  The song was right: it must have been the lunatics who invented love.

  I was still feeling the effects of the wine, but I was struggling to think clearly. I had to stay in control of the situation if I wanted to make the trip with him.

  But it will be easy to be in control because I'm not too emotional, I thought. Anyone who can conquer her heart can conquer the world.

  Con un poema y un trombó

  a develarte el corazón

  To lose my heart to you with a poem and a trombone. I wish I didn't have to control my heart. If I could surrender, even if only for a weekend, this rain falling on my face would feel different. If love were easy, I would be embracing him now, and the words of his song would be our story. If Zaragoza weren't waiting for me after the holidays, I'd want to stay drunk and be free to kiss him, caress him, say the things and hear the things that lovers say and do to each other.

  But no! I can't. I don't want to.

  Salgamos a volar, querida mia, the song says.

  Yes, let's fly away. But under my conditions.

  He still didn't know that I was going to say yes to his invitation. Why did I want to take this risk?

  Because I was drunk, because I was tired of days that were all the same.

  But this weariness will pass. I'm going to want to get back to Zaragoza, where I have chosen to live. My studies are waiting for me. The husband I'm still looking for is waiting for me—a husband who won't be as difficult to find.

  An easier life waits for me, with children and grandchildren, with a clear budget and a yearly vacation. I don't know what his fears are, but I know my own. I don't need new fears—my own are enowh.

  I was sure I could never fall in love with someone like him. I knew him too well, all his weaknesses and fears. I just couldn't admire him as the others seemed to.

  But love is much like a dam: if you allow a tiny crack to form through which only a trickle of water can pass, that trickle will quickly bring down the whole structure, and soon no one will be able to control the force of the current.

  For when those walls come down, then love takes over, and it no longer matters what is possible or impossible; it doesn't even matter whether we can keep the loved one at our side. To love is to lose control.

  No, no, I cannot allow such a crack to form. No matter how small.

  "Hey, hold up a minute!"

  He stopped singing immediately. Quick steps echoed on the damp pavement behind us.

  "Let's get out of here," he said, grabbing my arm.

  "Wait!" a man shouted. "I need to talk to you!"

  But he moved ahead even more rapidly. "This has nothing to do with us," he said. "Let's get to the hotel."

  Yet it did have to do with us—there was no one else on the street. My heart was beating fast, and the effects of the wine disappeared altogether. I remembered that Bilbao was in Basque country and that terrorist attacks were common. The man's footsteps came closer.

  "Let's go," he said, hurrying along.

  But it was too late. A man's figure, soaked from head to foot, stepped in front of us.

  "Stop, please!" the man said. "For the love of God."

  I was frightened. I looked around frantically for a means of escape, hoping that by some miracle a police car would appear. Instinctively, I clutched at his arm—but he pulled away.

  "Please!" said the man. "I heard that you were in the city. I need your help. It's my son." The man knelt on the pavement and began to weep. "Please," he said, "please!"

  My friend gasped for breath; I watched as he lowered his head and closed his eyes. For a few minutes the silence was broken only by the sound of the rain and the sobs of the man kneeling on the sidewalk.

  "Go to the hotel, Pilar," he said finally. "Get some sleep. I won't be back until dawn."

  Monday, December 6, 1993

  Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.

  "Look at the land around here!" he said. "Let's lie down on the ground and feel the planet's heart beating!"

  "But I'll get my coat dirty, and it's the only one I have with me."

  We were driving through hills of olive groves. After yesterday's rain in Bilbao, the morning sun made me sleepy. I hadn't brought sunglasses—I hadn't brought anything, since I'd expected to return to Zaragoza two days ago. I'd had to sleep in a shirt he loaned me, and I'd bought a T-shirt at a shop near the hotel in Bilbao so that at least I could wash the one I was wearing.

  "You must be sick of seeing me in the same clothes every day," I said, trying to make a joke about something trivial to see if that would make all this seem real.

  "I'm glad you're here."

  He hadn't mentioned love again since he had given me the medal, but he had been in a good mood; he seemed to be eighteen again. Now he walked along beside me bathed in the clear morning light.

  "What do you have to do over there?" I asked, pointing toward the peaks of the Pyrenees on the horizon.

  "Beyond those mountains lies France," he answered with a smile.

  "I know—I studied geography, too, you know. I'm just curious about why we have to go there."

  He paused, smiling to himself. "So you can take a look at a house you might be interested in."

  "If you're thinking about becoming a real estate agent, forget it. I don't have any money."

  It didn't matter to me whether we visited a village in Navarra or went all the way to France. I just didn't want to spend the holidays in Zaragoza.

  You see? I heard my brain say to my heart. You're happy that you've accepted his invitation. You've changed—you just haven't recognized it yet.

  No, I hadn't changed at all. I was just relaxing a little.

  "Look at the stones on the ground."

  They were rounded, with no sharp edges. They looked like pebbles from the sea. But the sea had never been here in the fields of Navarra.

  "The feet of laborers, pilgrims, and explorers smoothed these stones," he said. "The stones were changed—and the travelers were too."

  "Has traveling taught you all the things you know?"

  "No. I learned from the miracles of revelation."

  I didn't understand, but I didn't pursue it. For now, I was content to bask in the beauty of the sun, the fields, and the mountains.

  "Where are we going now?" I asked.

  "Nowhere. Let's just enjoy the morning, the sun, and the countryside. We have a long trip ahead of us." He hesitated for a moment and then asked, "Do you still have the medal?"

  "Sure, I've kept it," I said, and began to walk faster. I didn't want to talk about the
medal—I didn't want to talk about anything that might ruin the happiness and freedom of our morning together.

  A village appeared. Like most medieval cities, it was situated atop a mountain peak; even from a distance, I could see the tower of a church and the ruins of a castle.

  "Let's drive to that village," I suggested.

  Although he seemed reluctant, he agreed. I could see a chapel along the road, and I wanted to stop and go in. I didn't pray anymore, but the silence of churches always attracted me.

  Don't feel guilty, I was saying to myself. If he's in love, that's his problem. He had asked about the medal. I knew that he was hoping we'd get back to our conversation at the cafe. But I was afraid of hearing something I didn't want to hear. I won't get into it, I won't bring up the subject.

  But what if he really did love me? What if he thought that we could transform this love into something deeper?

  Ridiculous, I thought to myself. There's nothing deeper than love. In fairy tales, the princesses kiss the frogs, and the frogs become princes. In real life, the princesses kiss princes, and the princes turn into frogs.

  After driving for another half hour, we reached the chapel. An old man was seated on the steps. He was the first person we'd seen since our drive began.

  It was the end of fall, and, in keeping with tradition, the fields had been returned once more to the Lord, who would fertilize the land with his blessings and allow human beings to harvest his sustenance by the sweat of their brows.

  "Hello," he said to the man.

  "How are you?"

  "What is the name of this village?"

  "San Martín de Unx."

  "Unx?" I said. "It sounds like the name of a gnome."

  The old man didn't understand the joke. Disappointed, I walked toward the entrance to the chapel.

  "You can't go in," warned the old man. "It closed at noon. If you like, you can come back at four this afternoon."

  The door was open and I could look inside, although it was so bright out that I couldn't see clearly.

  "Just for a minute?" I asked. "I'd like to say a prayer."

  "I'm very sorry. It's already closed."

  He was listening to my conversation with the old man but didn't say anything.

  "All right, then, let's leave," I said. "There's no point in arguing."

  He continued to look at me, his gaze empty, distant. "Don't you want to see the chapel?" he asked.

  I could see he didn't approve of my decision. He thinks I'm weak, cowardly, unable to fight for what I want. Even without a kiss, the princess is transformed into a frog.

  "Remember yesterday?" I said. "You ended our conversation in the bar because you didn't want to argue with me. Now when I do the same thing, you criticize me."

  The old man watched our discussion impassively. He was probably happy that something was actually happening, there in a place where all the mornings, all the afternoons, and all the nights were the same.

  "The door to the church is open," he said, speaking to the old man. "If you want some money, we can give you some. But she wants to see the church."

  "It's too late."

  "Fine. We'll go in anyway." He took my arm and we went in.

  My heart was pounding. The old man could get nasty, call the police, ruin the trip.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because you wanted to see the chapel."

  I was so nervous I couldn't even focus on what was inside. The argument—and my attitude—had ruined our perfect morning.

  I listened carefully for any sounds from outside. The old man might call the village police, I thought. Trespassers in the chapel! Thieves! They're breaking the law! The old man had said the chapel was closed, that visiting hours were over. He's a poor old man, unable to keep us from going in. And the police will he tough on us because we offended a feeble old man.

  I stayed inside the chapel just long enough to show that I'd really wanted to see it. As soon as enough time had passed for an imaginary Ave Maria, I said, "Let's go."

  "Don't be frightened, Pilar. Don't just fall into playing a role."

  I didn't want my problem with the old man to become a problem with him, so I tried to stay calm. "I don't know what you mean by 'playing a role.'"

  "Some people always have to be doing battle with someone, sometimes even with themselves, battling with their own lives. So they begin to create a kind of play in their head, and they write the script based on their frustrations."

  "I know a lot of people like that. I know just what you mean."

  "But the worst part is that they cannot present the play by themselves," he continued. "So they begin to invite other actors to join in.

  "That's what that fellow outside was doing. He wanted revenge for something, and he chose us to play a part. If we had accepted his restrictions, we'd be regretting it. We would have been defeated. We would have agreed to participate in his miserable life and in his frustrations.

  "The man's aggression was easy to see, so it was easy for us to refuse the role he wanted us to play. But other people also 'invite' us to behave like victims, when they complain about the unfairness of life, for example, and ask us to agree, to offer advice, to participate."

  He looked into my eyes. "Be careful. When you join in that game, you always wind up losing."

  He was right. But I still wasn't happy about being inside the chapel. "OK, but I've already said my prayer. I've done what I wanted to do. Let's go."

  The contrast between the darkness inside the chapel and the strong sunlight blinded me for a few moments. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that the old man was no longer there.

  "Let's have some lunch," he said, walking in the direction of the village.

  I drank two glasses of wine at lunch. I'd never done that in my life.

  He was speaking to the waiter, who told him that there were several Roman ruins in the area. I was trying to listen to their conversation, but I was having trouble stifling my bad mood.

  The princess had turned into a frog. So what? Who do I have to prove anything to? I wasn't looking for anything—not for a man and certainly not for love.

  I knew it, I said to myself. 1 knew he was going to turn my world upside down. My brain warned me, but my heart didn't want to take its advice.

  I've paid a considerable price for the little I have gained. I've been forced to deny myself many things I've wanted, to abandon so many roads that were open to me. I've sacrificed my dreams in the name of a larger dream—a peaceful soul. I didn't want to give up that peace.

  "You're tense," he said, breaking off his conversation with the waiter.

  "Yes, I am. I think that old man went for the police. I think this is a small place, and they know where we are. I think this boldness of yours about having lunch here could wind up ruining our holiday."

  He twirled his glass of water. Surely he knew that this was not the problem—that I was actually ashamed. Why do we always do this? Why do we notice the speck in our eye but not the mountains, the fields, the olive groves?

  "Listen, that's not going to happen," he said. "The old man has gone home and has already forgotten the whole thing. Trust me."

  That's not why I'm so tense, you idiot.

  "Listen to your heart more," he went on.

  "That's just it! I am listening to it," I said. "And I feel that we should leave. I'm not enjoying this place."

  "You shouldn't drink during the day. It doesn't help anything."

  Up to that point, I'd controlled myself. Now it was time to say what I thought.

  "You think you know everything," I said, "that you know all about magic moments, the inner child… I don't know what you're doing here with me."

  He laughed. "I admire you. And I admire the battle you're waging with your heart."

  "What battle?"

  "Never mind," he said.

  But I knew what he was talking about.

  "Don't kid yourself," I said. "We can talk about it if you like. You're mistaken a
bout my feelings."

  He stopped fooling with his glass and looked at me. "No, I'm not mistaken. I know you don't love me."

  This confused me even more.

  "But I'm going to fight for your love," he continued. "There are some things in life that are worth fighting for to the end."

  I was speechless.

  "You are worth it," he said.

  I turned away, trying to pretend that I was interested in the restaurant's decor. I had been feeling like a frog, and suddenly I was a princess again.

  I want to believe what you're saying, I thought to myself. It won't change anything, but at least I won't feel so weak, so incapable.

  "I apologize for my outburst," I said.

  He smiled, signaled to the waiter, and paid the check.

  On the way back to the car, I became confused again. Maybe it was the sun—but no, it was autumn, and the sun was weak. Perhaps the old man—but he disappeared a while ago.

  All this was so new to me. Life takes us by surprise and orders us to move toward the unknown—even when we don't want to and when we think we don't need to.

  I tried to concentrate on the scenery, but I couldn't focus on the olive groves, the village atop the mountain, the chapel with the old man at the gate. All of it was so unfamiliar.

  I remembered how much I'd drunk the day before and the song he had sung:

  Las tardecitas de Buenos Aires tienen este no sé…

  ¿Qué sé yo?

  Viste, salí de tu casa, por Arenales…

  Why sing of the nights of Buenos Aires, when we were in Bilbao? I didn't live on a street called Arenales. What had gotten into him?

  "What was that song you were singing yesterday?" I asked.

  "Balada para un loco" he said. "Why do you ask about it now?"

  "I don't know."

  But I had a reason: I knew he'd sung the song as a kind of snare. He'd made me memorize the words, just as I would memorize course work for an examination. He could have sung a song I was familiar with—but he'd chosen one I'd never heard before.