by Paulo Coelho
"Well, can't it?"
"Yes, it can. But it conquers at the right time after the celestial battles have ended."
"But I love him. I don't have to wait for the celestial battles to end for my love to win out."
He gazed into the distance.
"On the banks of the rivers of Babylon, we sat down and wept," he said, as if talking to himself. "On the willows there, we hung up our harps."
"How sad," I answered.
"Those are the first lines of one of the psalms. It tells of exile and of those who want to return to the promised land but cannot. And that exile is still going to last for a long time. What can I do to try to prevent the suffering of someone who wants to return to paradise before it is time to do so?"
"Nothing, Padre. Absolutely nothing."
"There he is," said the padre.
I saw him. He was about two hundred yards from me, kneeling in the snow. He was shirtless, and even from that distance, I could see that his skin was red with the cold.
His head was bowed and his hands joined in prayer. I don't know if I was influenced by the ritual I had attended the night before or by the woman who had been gathering hay, but I felt that I was looking at someone with an incredible spiritual force. Someone who was no longer of this world—who lived in communion with God and with the enlightened spirits of heaven. The brilliance of the snow seemed to strengthen this perception.
"At this moment, there are others like him," said the priest. "In constant adoration, communing with God and the Virgin. Hearing the angels, the saints, the prophecies and words of wisdom, and transmitting all of that to a small gathering of the faithful. As long as they continue in this way, there won't be a problem.
"But he is not going to remain here. He is going to travel the world, preaching the concept of the Great Mother. The church is not yet ready for that. And the world has stones at hand to hurl at those who first introduce the subject."
"And it has flowers to throw on those who come afterward."
"Yes. But that's not what will happen to him."
The priest began to approach him.
"Where are you going?"
"To bring him out of his trance. To tell him how much I like you. To say that I give my blessing to your union. I want to do that here, in this place, which for him is sacred."
I began to feel sick with an inexplicable fear.
"I have to think, Padre. I don't know if this is right."
"It's not right," he answered. "Many parents make mistakes with their children, thinking they know what's best for them. I'm not his father, and I know I'm doing the wrong thing. But I have to fulfill my destiny."
I was feeling more and more anxious.
"Let's not disturb him," I said. "Let him finish his contemplation."
"He shouldn't be here. He should be with you."
"Maybe he's communicating with the Virgin."
"He may be. But even so, we have to go to him. If I approach him with you at my side, he will know that I have told you everything. He knows what I think."
"Today is the day of the Immaculate Conception," I insisted. "A very special day for him. I saw his happiness last night at the grotto."
"The Immaculate Conception is special for all of us," the padre answered. "But now I'm the one who doesn't want to discuss religion. Let's go to him."
"Why now, Padre? Why at this moment?"
"Because I know that he is deciding his future. And he may make the wrong choice."
I turned away and began to walk down the same path we had just come up. The padre followed me.
"What are you doing? Don't you see that you're the only one who can save him? Don't you see that he loves you and would give up everything for you?"
I hurried my steps, and it was difficult for him to keep up. Yet he fought to stay at my side.
"At this very moment, he is making his decision! He may be deciding to leave you! Fight for the person you love!"
But I didn't stop. I walked as fast as I could, trying to escape the mountains, the priest, and the choices behind me. I knew that the man who was rushing along behind me was reading my thoughts and that he understood that it was useless to try to make me go back. Yet he insisted; he argued and struggled to the end.
Finally, we reached the boulder where we had rested a half hour earlier. Exhausted, I threw myself down.
I tried to relax. I wanted to run from there, to be alone, to have time to think.
The padre appeared a few minutes later, as exhausted as I was.
"Do you see these mountains surrounding us?" he started in. "They don't pray; they are already a part of God's prayers. They have found their place in the world, and here they will stay. They were here before people looked to the heavens, heard thunder, and wondered who had created all of this. We are born, we suffer, we die, and the mountains endure.
"There is some point at which we have to wonder whether all our effort is worth it. Why not try to be like those mountains—wise, ancient, and in their place? Why risk everything to transform a half-dozen people who will immediately forget what they've been taught and move on to the next adventure? Why not wait until a certain number of monkeys learn, and then the knowledge will spread, with no suffering, to all the other islands?"
"Is that what you really think, Padre?"
He was silent for a few moments.
"Are you reading my thoughts now?"
"No. But if that's the way you feel, you wouldn't have chosen the religious life."
"I've tried many times to understand my fate," he said. "But I haven't yet. I accepted that I was to be a part of God's army, and everything I've done has been in an attempt to explain to people why there is misery, pain, and injustice. I ask them to be good Christians, and they ask me, 'How can I believe in God when there is so much suffering in the world?'
"And I try to explain something that has no explanation. I try to tell them that there is a plan, a battle among the angels, and that we are all involved in the battle. I try to say that when a certain number of people have enough faith to change the scenario, all of the others—everywhere on the planet—will benefit. But they don't believe me. They do nothing."
"They are like the mountains," I said. "The mountains are beautiful. Anyone who beholds them has to think about the grandness of creation. They are living proof of the love that God feels for us, but their fate is merely to give testimony. They are not like the rivers, which move and transform what is around them."
"Yes. But why not be like the mountains?"
"Maybe because the fate of mountains is terrible," I answered. "They are destined to look out at the same scene forever."
The padre said nothing.
"I was studying to become a mountain," I continued. "I had put everything in its proper place. I was going to take a job with the state, marry, and teach the religion of my parents to my children, even though I no longer accepted it. But now I have decided to leave all that behind me in order to be with the man I love. And it's a good thing I decided not to be a mountain—I wouldn't have lasted very long."
"You say some very wise things."
"I'm surprising myself. Before, all I could talk about was my childhood."
I stood and started back down the trail. The padre seemed to respect my silence and did not try to speak to me until we reached the road.
I took his hands and kissed them. "I'm going to say good-bye. But I want you to know that I understand you and your love for him."
The padre smiled and gave me his blessing. "And I understand your love for him, too," he said.
I spent the rest of the day walking through the valley. I played in the snow, visited a village near Saint-Savin, had a sandwich, and watched some boys playing soccer.
At the church in the village, I lit a candle. I closed my eyes and repeated the invocations I had learned the previous night. Then, concentrating on a crucifix that hung behind the altar, I began to speak in tongues. Bit by bit, the gift took over. It was easi
er than I had thought.
Perhaps this all seems silly—murmuring things, saying words that have no meaning, that don't help us in our reasoning. But when we do this, the Holy Spirit is conversing with our souls, saying things the soul needs to hear.
When I felt that I was sufficiently purified, I closed my eyes and prayed.
Our Lady, give me back my faith. May I also serve as an instrument of your work. Give me the opportunity to learn through my love, because love has never kept anyone away from their dreams.
May I be a companion and ally of the man I love. May we accomplish everything we have to accomplish together.
When I returned to Saint-Savin, night had almost fallen. The car was parked in front of the house where we were staying.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"Walking and praying," I answered.
He embraced me.
"At first, I was afraid you had gone away. You are the most precious thing I have on this earth."
"And you are for me," I answered.
It was late when we stopped in a small village near San Martin de Unx. Crossing the Pyrenees had taken longer than we'd thought because of the rain and snow of the previous day.
"We need to find someplace that's open," he said, climbing out of the car. "I'm hungry."
I didn't move.
"Come on," he insisted, opening my door.
"I want to ask you a questiona question I haven't asked since we found each other again."
He became serious, and I laughed at his concern.
"Is it an important question?"
"Very important," I answered, trying to look serious. "It's the following: where are we going?"
We both laughed.
"To Zaragoza," he said, relieved.
I jumped out of the car, and we went looking for a restaurant that was open. It was going to be almost impossible at that hour of the night.
No, it's not impossible. The Other is no longer with me. Miracles do happen, I said to myself. "When do you have to be in Barcelona?" I asked him. He'd told me he had another conference there.
He didn't answer, and his expression turned serious. I shouldn't ask such questions, I thought. He may think I'm trying to control his life.
We walked along without speaking. In the village plaza, there was an illuminated sign: Mesón el Sol.
"It's open—let's have something to eat" was all he said.
The red peppers with anchovies were arranged on the plate in the shape of a star. On the side, some manchego cheese, in slices that were almost transparent. In the center of the table, a lighted candle and a half-full bottle of Rioja wine.
"This was a medieval wine cellar," our waiter told us.
There was no one in the place at that time of night. He went off to make a telephone call. When he came back to the table, I wanted to ask him whom he had called—but this time I controlled myself.
"We're open until two-thirty in the morning," the man said, "So if you like, we can bring you some more ham, cheese, and wine, and you can go out in the plaza. The wine will keep you warm."
"We won't be here that long," he answered. "We have to get to Zaragoza before dawn."
The man returned to the bar, and we refilled our glasses. I felt the same sense of lightness I had experienced in Bilbao the smooth inebriation that helps us to say and hear things that are difficult.
''You're tired of driving, and we've been drinking," I said. "Wouldn't it be better to stay the night? I saw an inn as we were driving."
He nodded in agreement.
"Look at this table," he said. "The Japanese call it shibumi, the true sophistication of simple things. Instead, people fill their bank accounts with money and travel to expensive places in order to feel they're sophisticated."
I had some more wine.
The inn. Another night at his side.
"It's strange to hear a seminarian speak of sophistication," I said, trying to focus on something else.
"I learned about it at the seminary. The closer we get to God through our faith, the simpler He becomes. And the simpler He becomes, the greater is His presence.
"Christ learned about his mission while he was cutting wood and making chairs, beds, and cabinets. He came as a carpenter to show us that—no matter what we do—everything can lead us to the experience of God's love."
He stopped suddenly.
"But I don't want to talk about that," he said. "I want to talk about the other kind of love."
He reached out to caress my face. The wine made things easier for him. And for me.
"Why did you stop so suddenly? Why don't you want to talk about God and the Virgin and the spiritual world?"
"I want to talk about the other kind of love," he said again. "The love that a man and a woman share, and in which there are also miracles."
I took his hands. He might know of the great mysteries of the Goddess, but he didn't know any more than I did about love—even though he had traveled much more than I had.
We held hands for a long time. I could see in his eyes the deep fears that true love tests us with. I could see that he was remembering the rejection of the night before, as well as the long time we had been separated, and his years in the monastery, searching for a world where such anxieties didn't intrude.
I could see in his eyes the thousands of times that he had imagined this moment and the scenes he had constructed about us. I wanted to say that yes, he was welcome, that my heart had won the battle. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him and how badly I wanted him at that moment.
But I was silent. I witnessed, as if in a dream, his inner conflict. I could see that he was wondering whether I'd reject him again, that he was thinking about his fear of losing me, and about the hard words he had heard at other, similar times—because we all have such experiences, and they leave scars.
His eyes gleamed. He was ready to surmount any barrier.
I took one of my hands from his and placed my glass of wine at the edge of the table.
"It's going to fall," he said.
"Exactly. I want you to tip it over the edge."
"Break the glass?"
Yes, break the glass. A simple gesture, but one that brings up fears we can't really understand. What's wrong with breaking an inexpensive glass, when everyone has done so unintentionally at some time in their life?
"Break the glass?" he repeated. "Why?"
"Well, I could give you lots of reasons," I answered. "But actually, just to break it."
"For you?
"No, of course not."
He eyed the glass on the edge of the table—worried that it might fall.
It's a rite of passage, I wanted to say. It's something prohibited. Glasses are not purposely broken. In a restaurant or in our home, we're careful not to place glasses by the edge of a table. Our universe requires that we avoid letting glasses fall to the floor.
But when we break them by accident, we realize that it's not very serious. The waiter says, "It's nothing," and when has anyone been charged for a broken glass? Breaking glasses is part of life and does no damage to us, to the restaurant, or to anyone else.
I bumped the table. The glass shook but didn't fall.
"Careful!" he said, instinctively.
"Break the glass," I insisted.
Break the glass, I thought to myself, because it's a symbolic gesture. Try to understand that I have broken things within myself that were much more important than a glass, and I'm happy I did. Resolve your own internal battle, and break the glass.
Our parents taught us to be careful with glasses and with our bodies. They taught us that the passions of childhood are impossible, that we should not flee from priests, that people cannot perform miracles, and that no one leaves on a journey without knowing where they are going.
Break the glass, please—and free us from all these damned rules, from needing to find an explanation for every thing, from doing only what others approve of.
"Break the glass," I said a
gain.
He stared at me. Then, slowly, he slid his hand along the tablecloth to the glass. And with a sudden movement, he pushed it to the floor.
The sound of the breaking glass caught the waiter's attention. Rather than apologize for having broken the glass, he looked at me, smiling—and I smiled back.
"Doesn't matter," shouted the waiter.
But he wasn't listening. He had stood, seized my hair in his hands, and was kissing me.
I clutched at his hair, too, and squeezed him with all my strength, biting his lips and feeling his tongue move in my mouth. This was the kiss I had waited for so long—a kiss born by the rivers of our childhood, when we didn't yet know what love meant. A kiss that had been suspended in the air as we grew, that had traveled the world in the souvenir of a medal, and that had remained hidden behind piles of books. A kiss that had been lost so many times and now was found. In the moment of that kiss were years of searching, disillusionment, and impossible dreams.
I kissed him hard. The few people there in the bar must have been thinking that all they were seeing was just a kiss. They didn't know that this kiss stood for my whole life and his life, as well. The life of anyone who has waited, dreamed, and searched for their true path.
The moment of that kiss contained every happy moment I had ever lived.
He took off my clothes and entered me with strength, with fear, and with great desire. I ran my hands over his face, heard his moans, and thanked God that he was there inside me, making me feel as if it were the first time.
We made love all night long—our lovemaking blended with our sleeping and dreaming. I felt him inside me and embraced him to make sure that this was really happening, to make sure that he wouldn't disappear, like the knights who had once inhabited this old castle-hotel. The silent walls of stone seemed to be telling stories of damsels in distress, of fallen tears and endless days at the window, looking to the horizon, looking for a sign of hope.
But I would never go through that, I promised myself. I would never lose him. He would always be with me—because I had heard the tongues of the Holy Spirit as I looked at a crucifix behind an altar, and they had said that I would not be committing a sin.
