“Good evening. We’ve come to see the turtles,” said Hans.
“Good evening. You may go onto the beach if you respect the rules: you must stay at least six feet away from the adult turtles. You must not raise your voice. And you must stay on the land side of the turtles: you aren’t allowed to walk in the area that separates them from the sea.”
“Right.”
“Have a good evening.”
We crossed the sand in silence, breathing in the warm night air heavy with subtle sea scents. We could make out large dark masses spread out across the beach: turtles, each more than a yard long and weighing about 250 pounds. They were immobile, as if asleep on the sand. The pallid light that appeared periodically, like some celestial lighthouse, made them look like disturbing prehistoric creatures. We gazed at them, speechless, for a long while. Nothing could have made us disturb their tranquillity. They were preparing to accomplish the most beautiful act in the world in a religious silence, barely ruffled by the infinitesimal lapping of the waves. We were plunged into a universe of slowness, immersed in calm, numbed by our fascination for this rare moment, feeling the muffled pulsations of our hearts resonating deep inside us.
Long minutes went by like this, none of us saying a word; then we headed for a group of people gathered a little farther on. They belonged to an association for the protection of nature, sent here for the occasion. They were watching the eggs until they hatched, because, once they were laid, they were abandoned in the sand by their mothers. They explained that they kept a register of annual births to follow the statistics from year to year. The turtles had been hunted for centuries, but the government, alerted to the growing threat of the species’ disappearance, had finally prohibited all trade in them. Since then, poaching had taken off, and the officials were doing what they could to watch the few beaches concerned during the short laying season: one or two nights a year.
The mothers themselves had been born here, on this same beach, more than 50 years ago. They had been traveling all those years, had covered tens of thousands of miles, and had come back to give life at the exact spot where they had been born half a century before. No one knew why; no scientist could explain it. That’s the way it was. And it was very moving.
These silent turtles were guardians of an age-old secret, bearers of an unknown wisdom. Why did they come back here? How had they managed to navigate across the oceans to come precisely to this spot, to the site of their birth? What was the meaning of it? So many questions would remain unanswered.
We waited for nearly three hours for the eggs to hatch and then, wide-eyed and tenderhearted, we watched the babies, barely born, heading for the sea, covering without hesitation the few yards separating them from the water. We learned that most of them would die in the next few hours, eaten by various predators, including sharks. Those that managed to reach the open sea and its depths would then have more chance of surviving. Statistically, out of the night’s births, only one would survive in the end.
“Life is a lottery,” said Claudia, angrily.
“Life is a perpetual race,” her husband replied. “Only the fastest survive. Those who dawdle, flit around, or allow themselves pleasures die. You must always forge ahead.”
I was stunned, as much by the baby turtles as by what I had just heard. It was extraordinary. In just a few words, each had summed up his vision of life. The last piece of the Dutch jigsaw puzzle was falling into place, giving meaning to all the scenes I had witnessed. I understood now why Claudia accepted the role of the housewife imposed by her husband: she had just drawn the unlucky number. When you’ve lost, you’ve lost; there’s nothing you can do. You don’t argue when you lose at the casino or the lottery. Things are as they are, and there’s no point in wanting to change them. As for Hans, I understood better his obsession with action and his inability to allow himself moments of relaxation.
I wondered if turtles had beliefs about life as well, or if, on the contrary, the absence of beliefs allowed them in the end to live more in harmony with themselves.
I watched the baby turtles heading serenely for their natural element and wondered which would survive and come back here, in 50 years, when, in its turn, it had reached the age to give life.
10
THE RETURN TO my beach went smoothly, then I had my ritual swim, wondering what my career would be like if I were a baby turtle. Being naturally hesitant, I wondered if the expression “eaten up by doubt” wouldn’t have taken on a very special meaning in this context.
After a very short night, I woke up quite early. I wanted sufficient time to gather the information that the healer had asked me to get before going to meet him, as quickly as possible.
In my guidebook, I located the nearest luxury hotel and jumped into my car. Twenty minutes later, I was driving slowly past the entrance to the Amankila, probably one of the most beautiful hotels in the world, and also one of the most intimate. I swallowed hard as I drove my cheap rental car into the hotel gardens, brutally aware of how out of place it was—and how dirty, especially after two weeks traipsing around the island’s dusty roads. I slowly drove up the drive lined with opulent flower beds, hoping to make as little noise as possible, and parked as far as I could from reception. I went up the pretty path, zigzagging through a landscaped garden of exquisite refinement. I could see two gardeners on their knees on a lawn bordered by a rock garden. Each man was equipped with a pair of scissors, and they were conscientiously cutting the grass. In this kind of place, a vulgar lawn mower was out of the question; it would have disturbed the residents’ tranquillity. I stood speechless for a moment before carrying on, trying to look natural, to imitate the nonchalance of a regular customer. It was difficult to keep up the pretense when the beauty of the sights before me almost took my breath away. A series of single-story buildings, partly without walls, built in contemporary colonial style, from precious materials, rare woods, beautiful stones, offering to the eye a gentle gradation of creams, looked onto the sea. Opposite them was a line of sublime infinity pools on three levels. The first was filled to the edge with water that flowed silently into the second below, which then flowed into the third. In a line, far off, was a spectacular view of the sea, of the same blue as the pools. They were so magnificently integrated into the landscape that it seemed like the sea itself had been painted to match them. Above, the blue immensity of the sky. A few coconut palms and other tropical trees were carefully laid out to reinforce the beauty and the perfection of the setting. I had the impression that nothing could be added or subtracted without spoiling this perfection. An absolute calm, no visible human presence. The residents no doubt preferred the intimacy of the private pools they each had in front of their suites, in elegant secluded gardens. Just a few employees, whose uniforms the color of undyed raw silk merged with the walls, made an occasional discreet, silent appearance, gliding like ghosts between the columns of the scattered buildings. I continued my way to the reception desk, finding it more and more difficult to feel at ease in this place. I was greeted by a distinguished man, in the same cream uniform, affable and smiling.
I put on a confident air.
“Hello, I’d like to access the Internet, please.”
“Are you a hotel resident, sir?”
Why did he ask? He knew I wasn’t. I had read in my guidebook that the hotel employed 200 people to look after 70 residents. Every day the employees learned by heart their names, which they used each time they met them. “How are you, Mr. Smith?” “Lovely day, isn’t it, Mrs. Green?” “You’re looking good today, Mr. King.”
“No, I’m at the Legian,” I lied, giving the name of another luxury hotel on the island. “I’m visiting here in the East, and I absolutely must connect to the Internet for a few minutes.”
In any case, I doubted he would turn a Westerner away.
“Please follow me, sir.”
He led me to an elegant room in which there was a computer already switched on, ready to welcome me. The room was almost as b
ig as my apartment back home, with a hushed atmosphere, thick carpet on the floor, tropical wood paneling on the walls, a glass door with tiny panels, whose carved handle must have cost as much as my plane ticket.
It took me less than a quarter of an hour, following up the different suggestions from the search engine, to get the information I wanted.
What I read confirmed what the healer had rapidly sketched for me: pharmaceutical laboratories got together volunteers affected by an illness. They gave half of them the drug they had just produced to treat the illness and gave the other half a placebo, that is to say, a perfectly neutral, inactive substance that looked like medicine. These patients didn’t know, of course, that they had been prescribed a placebo: they thought it was a drug supposed to cure their ailment. The scientists then measured the results from each of the two groups. To be able to demonstrate the effectiveness of their treatment, the patients who had taken the drug had to show results better than those from the group of people who had taken the placebo.
I discovered that the placebos had a certain impact on the illnesses, which was already extremely surprising, since they were real illnesses and the placebos were inactive substances. The only contribution was therefore psychological: the patients believed it was a drug and believed consequently that it was going to heal them. And, in certain cases, it was indeed enough to do so. What really made me sit up was the number of cases for which the belief in healing was enough to heal the patient. It was on average 30 percent! Even pains could disappear! A placebo was as effective as morphine in 54 percent of cases! Patients were in pain, they were suffering, and the taking of an ordinary sugar tablet or goodness knows what neutral ingredient stopped their pain. They just had to believe in it.
Dumbfounded, I went on checking a number of similar statistics concerning various illnesses. Then I came across the statistic that left me rooted to the spot, my fingers momentarily frozen to the keyboard: they had given patients a placebo that they were told was chemotherapy and 33 percent of them had completely lost their hair. I sat openmouthed in front of my screen. These patients had swallowed the equivalent of a lump of sugar, believing it was a drug whose well-known side effect is hair loss, and they had indeed lost their hair! But they had swallowed no more than a goddamned bit of sugar! I was stunned, astounded by this power of belief, which the healer had so insisted on. It was simply incredible. And yet, the figures were real, published by a laboratory famous for its chemotherapies. The moment after, weirdly, I felt somewhat indignant: Why weren’t these statistics revealed to the public? Why not give them to the media? That would open debates that would, in the end, bring science to look at the question. If psychological phenomena made it possible to have such an effect on the body and illnesses, why concentrate research on the manufacture of costly drugs, which always had side effects? Why not give more attention to healing sickness by the psychological route?
I went out of the room, deliberately leaving the screen on the page giving this data. With a bit of luck, the next resident to come here would be the boss of a big newspaper group … There was no harm in dreaming.
I waved casually at the receptionist as I left, naturally without trying to pay for my Internet use: it would scarcely have seemed credible, coming from someone used to this sort of place.
11
“HELLO!” I SAID to the young woman, who welcomed me as usual.
It had taken me nearly an hour and a half to get here from the Amankila. Just the sight of the campan and its garden was enough to put me at once in a state of deep well-being, on a little cloud, a bit like when you open the bottle of sunblock from last summer and its perfume takes you back in an instant to the place of your last vacation.
“Master Samtyang isn’t here today.”
“Sorry?”
I was rudely brought back to Earth. Not here? This place and he were so inseparable that I found it hard to imagine he could be taken away from it.
“When will he be back? I’ll wait for him.”
“He told me to give you this,” she said, holding out a beige sheet of paper folded in four.
He had left a message for me? If he wanted to explain his absence, why hadn’t he simply given a verbal message to the young woman so that she could pass it on to me? I unfolded the piece of paper and read it straight through, forgetting she was there:
Before our next meeting:
—Write down everything that is stopping you from achieving your dream of a happy life.
—Climb Mount Skouwo.
Samtyang
Climb Mount Skouwo? But that meant at least a four- or five-hour climb! And in this heat! Why not Annapurna?!
She watched me, smiling, not at all concerned by my worries.
“And did he say anything more when he gave you the message?” I asked.
“Nothing special. He just said to give it to you, adding that you would understand.”
I understood above all that he wasn’t here to meet me, when I only had three days left before my departure. I felt extremely frustrated.
“Do you know if he will be here tomorrow?”
“No doubt,” she replied in a tone that meant she had no idea.
“If you see him, make sure you tell him that I’ll be here tomorrow morning, and that I’m really counting on him. I absolutely must see him.”
I took my leave and returned reluctantly to my car.
Unenthusiastically, I set off in the direction of Mount Skouwo, in the north of the island. I mustn’t delay if I wanted to climb it and get back down before night.
After a few miles, I saw a child walking by the roadside. He was eight or nine, I think—I’ve never been good at judging children’s ages. As soon as he saw my car, he stopped and stuck out his thumb. I had no reason not to give him a lift. He got in, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
“What’s your name?”
“Ketut.”
Not surprising: there are only four Balinese first names, in the most common caste at any rate. When you meet a stranger, there is one chance in four that he’s called Ketut.
“No school today?”
“No, not today.”
“Are you going to your parents’?”
“My parents are both dead.”
I shut up, annoyed at my gaffe, then I saw that he had kept his smile.
“They died in a car accident last week,” he added, still smiling.
I was unsettled, even if I knew that the Balinese really don’t have the same relationship to death that we do. Their belief in reincarnation makes them give it a very different meaning from ours. For them, death wasn’t especially sad. I watched the child smile, and, for the first time, told myself that I would have liked to be Balinese and belong to a culture that would have produced such positive beliefs in me. For a long moment, I wondered what would be different about my life if I perceived my own death differently.
I dropped the child off at the next village and continued my journey.
Not a cloud to ease the heat of the sun. Climbing Mount Skouwo looked as though it was going to be painful. I really began to wonder if I was going to find the strength to do it. I didn’t really feel like it, and in any case, I didn’t see how it was meant to help me. Why had he given me this task? For what purpose? What was the link with our conversations, with my quest for a happy life? None. So, what was the point? And I had another task, a more relevant one. It would be better to concentrate on that.
The nearer I got to Mount Skouwo, the more I was looking for reasons not to climb it. I mustn’t lie to myself, the healer had explained. Well, the truth was that I didn’t at all want to do the climb. I didn’t need to justify it with pseudorational arguments. I would tell the healer the truth tomorrow. And if I was supposed to discover something on the mountain, he would tell me what, and that would suffice. I am capable of understanding when things are explained to me.
At once I felt relieved by my decision, as though a weight had been taken off. I turned off at the next i
ntersection and headed due east. Direction: my beach!
I arrived at the end of the afternoon. I parked and met Claudia as I walked to my bungalow.
“Hi, Claudia. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s nice today. We’ll pay for it tomorrow,” she said as she walked off.
The harmless sentences that I had always accepted without thinking tickled my ears now. Claudia’s world was rather sad, so good things were dodgy. Perhaps she thought she didn’t deserve them, and when one came along, she expected to pay the price sooner or later.
I armed myself with a notebook and a pencil, and sat on the sand, leaning against the trunk of a palm tree, taking advantage of its light shade. The beach was deserted; just one little fishing boat, out at sea, betrayed a human presence between me and the infinity of the horizon.
I began by noting all that had come to mind, the evening before, at the restaurant. I felt I was writing my happiness will. If I happened to die, my heirs could read the life I would have liked to have.
What was stopping me from leading that desired life? It was difficult to give an overall answer. I had to get down to details. I reviewed one by one the points I had mentioned, and unfortunately it was easy to find the reasons that made it impossible to carry out my dreams, follow my plans, achieve my ideas, and, finally, reach happiness.
I spent nearly an hour writing, and I felt quite melancholic as I watched night falling over the sea afterward. Like everyone, I’d had moments of happiness, but I had the feeling that I wasn’t made for living fully happy. Happiness was perhaps reserved for certain people, for a few elect that didn’t include me.
The time for my night swim arrived, and I swam in silence for a very long time.
12
GETTING UP EARLY was becoming a habit. I absolutely wanted to see the healer that day, and I was slightly apprehensive because of his absence the day before. I got ready quickly and jumped into my car without forgetting the notes I had taken. I did a little speeding and entertained myself with the thought that running over a pedestrian or two would give them a chance of being reincarnated sooner than planned.
The Man Who Wanted to Be Happy Page 5
