by Paulo Coelho
I felt Sherine’s arms holding me tighter. She was crying again, but her tears were different this time. I was doing my best to control my feelings.
“And do you know what I felt at that moment? I felt that she was talking to me and saying: ‘Listen, Samira, that’s what I thought too. I suffered for years because my son wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I used to worry about his safety, I didn’t like the friends he chose, and he showed no respect for laws, customs, religion, or his elders.’ Need I go on?”
“Yes, I’d like to hear the rest of the story.”
“The Virgin concluded by saying, ‘But my son didn’t listen to me. And now I’m very glad that he didn’t.’”
I gently removed myself from her embrace and got up.
“You two need to eat.”
I went to the kitchen, prepared some onion soup and a dish of tabbouleh, warmed up some unleavened bread, put it all on the table, and we had lunch together. We talked about trivial things, which, at such moments, always help to bring us together and justify our pleasure at being there, quietly, even if, outside, a storm is uprooting trees and sowing destruction. Of course, at the end of that afternoon, my daughter and my grandson would walk out of the door to confront the winds, the thunder, and the lightning all over again, but that was their choice.
“Mum, you said that you’d do anything for me, didn’t you?”
It was true. I would lay down my life if necessary.
“Don’t you think I should be prepared to do anything for Viorel too?”
“I think that’s a mother’s instinct, but instinct aside, it’s the greatest proof of love there is.”
She continued eating.
“You know that your father is happy to help with this case being brought against you, if you want him to, that is.”
“Of course I do. This is my family we’re talking about.”
I thought twice, three times, but couldn’t hold back my words. “Can I give you some advice? I know you have some influential friends—that journalist, for example. Why don’t you ask him to write about your story and tell him your version of events? The press are giving a lot of coverage to that vicar, and people will end up thinking he’s right.”
“So, as well as accepting what I do, you also want to help me?”
“Yes, Sherine. Even though I may not understand you, even though I sometimes suffer as the Virgin must have suffered all her life, even if you’re not Jesus Christ with an all-important message for the world, I’m on your side and I want to see you win.”
HERON RYAN, JOURNALIST
Athena arrived while I was frantically making notes for what I imagined would be the ideal interview on the events in Portobello and the rebirth of the Goddess. It was a very, very delicate affair.
What I saw at the warehouse was a woman saying, “You can do it, let the Great Mother teach you—trust in love, and miracles will happen.” And the crowd agreed, but that wouldn’t last long, because we were living in an age in which slavery was the only path to happiness. Free will demands immense responsibility; it’s hard work, it brings with it anguish and suffering.
“I need you to write something about me,” she said.
I told her that we should wait a little—after all, the whole affair could fade from view the following week—but that, meanwhile, I’d prepared a few questions about Female Energy.
“At the moment, all the fuss and the fighting is only of interest to people in the immediate area and to the tabloids. No respectable newspaper has published a single line about it. London is full of these little local disturbances, and getting into the broadsheets really isn’t advisable. It would be best if the group didn’t meet for two or three weeks. However, I think that the business about the Goddess, if treated with the seriousness it deserves, could make a lot of people ask themselves some really important questions.”
“Over supper that time, you said that you loved me. And now you’re not only telling me you don’t want to help me, you’re also asking me to give up the things I believe in.”
How to interpret those words? Was she finally accepting the love I’d offered her that night, and which accompanied me every minute of my life? According to the Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran, it was more important to give than to receive, but while these were wise words, I was part of what is known as “humanity,” with my frailties, my moments of indecision, my desire simply to live in peace, to be the slave of my feelings and to surrender myself without asking any questions, without even knowing if my love was reciprocated. All she had to do was to let me love her; I was sure that Hagia Sofia would agree with me. Athena had been passing through my life now for nearly two years, and I was afraid she might simply continue on her way and disappear over the horizon, without my having even been able to accompany her on part of that journey.
“Are you talking about love?”
“I’m asking for your help.”
What to do? Control myself, stay cool, not precipitate things and end up destroying them? Or take the step I needed to take, embrace her and protect her from all dangers?
My head kept telling me to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing. I love you,” but instead I said, “I want to help. Please trust me. I’d do anything in the world for you, including saying no if I thought that was the right thing to do, even though you might not understand my reasoning.”
I told her that the deputy editor on my newspaper had proposed a series of articles about the reawakening of the Goddess, which would include an interview with her. At first it had seemed to me an excellent idea, but now I saw that it would be best to wait a little. I said, “You either carry your mission forward or you defend yourself. You’re aware, I know, that what you’re doing is more important than how you’re seen by other people. Do you agree?”
“I’m thinking of my son. Every day now he gets into some fight or argument at school.”
“That will pass. In a week, it’ll be forgotten. That will be the moment to act, not in order to defend yourself against idiotic attacks, but to set out, confidently and wisely, the true breadth of your work. And if you have any doubts about my feelings and are determined to continue, then I’ll come with you to the next meeting. And we’ll see what happens.”
The following Monday I went with her to the meeting. I was not now just another person in the crowd; I could see things as she was seeing them.
People crowded into the warehouse; there were flowers and applause, young women calling her “the priestess of the Goddess,” a few smartly dressed ladies begging for a private audience because of some illness in the family. The crowd started pushing us and blocking the entrance. We had never imagined that we might need some form of security, and I was frightened. I took her arm, picked up Viorel, and we went in.
Inside the packed room, a very angry Andrea was waiting for us.
“I think you should tell them that you’re not performing any miracles today!” she shouted at Athena. “You’re allowing yourself to be seduced by vanity! Why doesn’t Hagia Sofia tell all these people to go away?”
“Because she can diagnose illnesses,” replied Athena defiantly. “And the more people who benefit from that, the better.”
She was about to say more, but the crowd was applauding and she stepped up onto the improvised stage. She turned on the small sound system she’d brought from home, gave instructions for people to dance against the rhythm of the music, and the ritual began. At a certain point, Viorel went and sat down in a corner—that was the moment for Hagia Sofia to appear. Athena did as I’d seen her do many times before: she abruptly turned off the music, clutched her head in her hands, and the people waited in silence, as if obeying an invisible command.
The ritual followed its unvarying path: there were questions about love, which were rejected, although she agreed to comment on anxieties, illnesses, and other personal problems. From where I was, I could see that some people had tears in their eyes, others behaved as if they were standing before a saint. Then
came the moment for the closing sermon, before the group celebration of the Mother.
Since I knew what would happen next, I started thinking about the best way to get out of there with the minimum of fuss. I hoped that she would take Andrea’s advice and tell them not to go looking for miracles there. I went over to where Viorel was sitting, so that we could leave the place as soon as his mother had finished speaking.
And that was when I heard the voice of Hagia Sofia.
“Today, before we close, we’re going to talk about diet. Forget all about slimming regimes.”
Diet? Forget about slimming regimes?
“We have survived for all these millennia because we have been able to eat. And now that seems to have become a curse. Why? What is it that makes us, at forty years old, want to have the same body we had when we were young? Is it possible to stop time? Of course not. And why should we be thin?”
I heard a kind of murmuring in the crowd. They were probably expecting a more spiritual message.
“We don’t need to be thin. We buy books, we go to gyms, we expend a lot of brain power on trying to hold back time, when we should be celebrating the miracle of being here in this world. Instead of thinking about how to live better, we’re obsessed with weight.
“Forget all about that. You can read all the books you want, do all the exercise you want, punish yourself as much as you want, but you will still have only two choices—either stop living or get fat.
“Eat in moderation, but take pleasure in eating: it isn’t what enters a person’s mouth that’s evil, but what leaves it. Remember that for millennia we have struggled in order to keep from starving. Whose idea was it that we had to be thin all our lives? I’ll tell you: the vampires of the soul, those who are so afraid of the future that they think it’s possible to stop the wheel of time. Hagia Sofia can guarantee that it’s not possible. Use the energy and effort you put into dieting to nourish yourself with spiritual bread. Know that the Great Mother gives generously and wisely. Respect that and you will get no fatter than passing time demands. Instead of artificially burning those calories, try to transform them into the energy required to fight for your dreams. No one ever stayed slim for very long just because of a diet.”
There was complete silence. Athena began the closing ceremony, and we all celebrated the presence of the Mother. I clasped Viorel in my arms, promising myself that next time I would bring a few friends along to provide a little improvised security. We left to the same shouts and applause as when we had arrived.
A shopkeeper grabbed my arm. “This is absurd! If one of my windows gets smashed, I’ll sue you!”
Athena was laughing and giving autographs. Viorel seemed happy. I just hoped that no journalist was there that night. When we finally managed to extricate ourselves from the crowd, we hailed a taxi.
I asked if they would like to go somewhere to eat. “Of course,” said Athena, “that’s just what I’ve been talking about.”
ANTOINE LOCADOUR, HISTORIAN
In this long series of mistakes that came to be known as “the Witch of Portobello affair,” what surprises me most is the ingenuousness of Heron Ryan, an international journalist of many years experience. When we spoke, he was horrified by the tabloid headlines:
“The Goddess Diet!” screamed one.
“Get Thin While You Eat, Says Witch of Portobello!” roared another from its front page.
As well as touching on the sensitive topic of religion, Athena had gone further: she had talked about diet, a subject of national interest, more important even than wars, strikes, or natural disasters. We may not all believe in God, but we all want to get thin.
Reporters interviewed local shopkeepers, who all swore blind that, in the days preceding the mass meetings, they’d seen red and black candles being lit during rituals involving only a handful of people. It may have been nothing but cheap sensationalism, but Ryan should have foreseen that, with a court case in progress, the accuser would take every opportunity to bring to the judges’ attention what he considered to be not only a calumny, but also an attack on all the values that kept society going.
That same week, one of the most prestigious British newspapers published in its editorial column an article by the Reverend Ian Buck, minister at the Evangelical Church in Kensington. It said, among other things:
As a good Christian, I have a duty to turn the other cheek when I am wrongly attacked or when my honor is impugned. However, we must not forget that while Jesus may have turned the other cheek, he also used a whip to drive out those wanting to make the Lord’s House into a den of thieves. That is what we are seeing at the moment in Portobello Road: unscrupulous people who pass themselves off as savers of souls, giving false hope and promising cures for all ills, even declaring that you can stay thin and elegant if you follow their teachings.
For this reason, I have no alternative but to go to the courts to prevent this situation continuing. The movement’s followers swear that they are capable of awakening hitherto unknown gifts and they deny the existence of an All-Powerful God, replacing him with pagan divinities such as Venus and Aphrodite. For them, everything is permitted, as long as it is done with “love.” But what is love? An immoral force that justifies any end? Or a commitment to society’s true values, such as the family and tradition?
At the next meeting, foreseeing a repetition of the pitched battle of August, the police brought in half a dozen officers to avoid any confrontations. Athena arrived accompanied by a bodyguard improvised by Ryan, and this time there was not only applause but also booing and cursing too. One woman, seeing that Athena was accompanied by a child, brought a charge two days later under the Children Act 1989, alleging that the mother was inflicting irreversible damage on her child and that custody should be given to the father.
One of the tabloids managed to track down Lukás Jessen-Petersen, who refused to give an interview. He threatened the reporter, saying that if he so much as mentioned Viorel in his articles, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
The following day, the tabloid carried the headline: “Witch of Portobello’s Ex Would Kill for Son.”
That same afternoon, two more charges under the Children Act 1989 were brought before the courts, calling for the child to be taken into care.
There was no meeting after that. Groups of people—for and against—gathered outside the door, and uniformed officers were on hand to keep the peace, but Athena did not appear. The same thing happened the following week, only this time, there were fewer crowds and fewer police.
The third week, there was only the occasional bunch of flowers to be seen and someone handing out photos of Athena to passers-by.
The subject disappeared from the front pages of the London dailies. And when the Reverend Ian Buck announced his decision to withdraw all charges of defamation and calumny, “in the Christian spirit we should show to those who repent of their actions,” no major paper was interested in publishing his statement, which turned up instead on the readers’ pages of some local rag.
As far as I know, it never became national news but was restricted to the pages that dealt only with London news. I visited Brighton a month after the meetings ended, and when I tried to bring the subject up with my friends there, none of them had the faintest idea what I was talking about.
Ryan could have cleared up the whole business, and what his newspaper said would have been picked up by the rest of the media. To my surprise, though, he never published a line about Sherine Khalil.
In my view, the crime—given its nature—had nothing to do with what happened in Portobello. It was all just a macabre coincidence.
HERON RYAN, JOURNALIST
Athena asked me to turn on the tape recorder. She had brought another one with her, of a type I’d never seen before—very sophisticated and very small.
“First, I wish to state that I’ve been receiving death threats. Second, I want you to promise that, even if I die, you will wait five years before you allow anyone else
to listen to this tape. In the future, people will be able to tell what is true and what is false. Say you agree; that way you will be entering a legally binding agreement.”
“I agree, but I think—”
“Don’t think anything. Should I be found dead, this will be my testament, on condition that it won’t be published now.”
I turned off the tape recorder.
“You have nothing to fear. I have friends in government, people who owe me favors, who need or will need me. We can—”
“Have I mentioned before that my boyfriend works for Scotland Yard?”
Not that again. If he really did exist, why wasn’t he there when we needed him, when both Athena and Viorel could have been attacked by the mob?
Questions crowded into my mind: Was she trying to test me? What was going through that woman’s mind? Was she unbalanced, fickle, one hour wanting to be by my side, the next talking about this nonexistent man?
“Turn on the tape recorder,” she said.
I felt terrible. I was beginning to think that she’d been using me all along. I would like to have been able to say: “Go away. Get out of my life. Ever since I first met you, everything has been a hell. All I want is for you to come here, put your arms around me and kiss me, and say you want to stay with me forever, but that never happens.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
She knew there was something wrong. Or, rather, she couldn’t possibly not have known what I was feeling, because I had never concealed my love for her, even though I’d only spoken openly of it once. But I would cancel any appointment to see her; I was always there when she needed me; I was trying to build some kind of relationship with her son, in the belief that he would one day call me Dad. I never asked her to stop what she was doing; I accepted her way of life, her decisions; I suffered in silence when she suffered; I was glad when she triumphed; I was proud of her determination.
“Why did you turn off the tape recorder?”
