by Paulo Coelho
“One day, Savin came down from his cave, arrived at Ahab’s house and asked to spend the night there. Ahab laughed: ‘You do know that I’m a murderer who has already slit a number of throats, and that your life is worth nothing to me?’
“‘Yes, I know that,’ Savin replied, ‘but I’m tired of living in a cave and I’d like to spend at least one night here with you.’
“Ahab knew the saint’s reputation, which was as great as his own, and this made him uneasy, for he did not like having to share his glory with someone so weak. Thus he determined to kill him that very night, to prove to everyone that he was the one true master of the place.
“They chatted for a while. Ahab was impressed by what the saint had to say, but he was a suspicious man who no longer believed in the existence of Good. He showed Savin where he could sleep and then continued menacingly sharpening his knife. After watching him for a few minutes, Savin closed his eyes and went to sleep.
“Ahab spent all night sharpening his knife. Next day, when Savin awoke, he found Ahab in tears at his side.
“‘You weren’t afraid of me and you didn’t judge me. For the first time ever, someone spent a night by my side trusting that I could be a good man, one ready to offer hospitality to those in need. Because you believed I was capable of behaving decently, I did.”
“From that moment on, Ahab abandoned his life of crime and set about transforming the region. That was when Viscos ceased being merely a frontier post, inhabited by outcasts, and became an important trading center on the border between two countries.”
“Exactly.”
Chantal burst into tears, grateful to her grandmother for having reminded her of that story. Her people were good, and she could trust them. While she attempted to go back to sleep, she even toyed with the idea of telling them the stranger’s story, if only to see his shocked face as he was driven out of Viscos by its inhabitants.
The next day, she was surprised to see him emerge from the restaurant at the rear of the hotel, go over to the bar-cum-reception-cum-souvenir shop and stand around chatting to the people he met there, just like any other tourist, pretending to be interested in utterly pointless things, such as their methods of shearing sheep or of smoke-curing meat. The people of Viscos always believed that every stranger would be fascinated by their natural, healthy way of life, and they would repeat and expand upon the benefits of life away from modern civilization, even though, deep in their hearts, every single one of them would have loved to live far from there, among cars that pollute the atmosphere and in neighborhoods where it was too dangerous to walk, for the simple reason that big cities hold an enormous fascination for country people.
Yet every time a visitor appeared, they would demonstrate by their words—and only by their words—the joys of living in a lost paradise, trying to persuade themselves what a miracle it was to have been born there and forgetting that, so far, not one hotel guest had decided to leave it all behind and come and live in Viscos.
There was a lively atmosphere in the bar that night, until the stranger made one rather unfortunate comment:
“The children here are so well behaved. There’s not a squeak out of them in the mornings, not like other places I’ve visited.”
After an awkward silence—for there were no children in Viscos—someone asked him what he thought of the local dish he had just eaten, and the conversation resumed its normal rhythm, revolving, as usual, around the wonders of the countryside and the problems of life in the big city.
As time passed, Chantal became increasingly nervous, afraid that he might ask her to tell everyone about their meeting in the forest. But the stranger never even glanced at her, and he spoke to her only once, when he ordered—and paid cash for—a round of drinks for everyone present.
As soon as the customers left and the stranger went up to his room, she took off her apron, lit a cigarette from a packet someone had left behind on the table, and told the hotel landlady she would do the clearing up the next morning, since she was worn out after a sleepless night. The landlady agreed, and Chantal put on her coat and went out into the cold night air.
Her room was only two minutes’ walk away, and as she let the rain pour down her face, she was thinking that perhaps everything that had happened was just some kind of crazy fantasy, the stranger’s macabre way of attracting her attention.
Then she remembered the gold: she had seen it with her own eyes.
Maybe it wasn’t gold. But she was too tired to think and—as soon as she got to her room—she took off her clothes and snuggled down under the covers.
On the second night, Chantal found herself in the presence of Good and Evil. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to wake up less than an hour later. Outside, all was silence; there was no wind banging the metal blinds, not even the sounds made by night creatures; there was nothing, absolutely nothing to indicate that she was still in the world of the living.
She went to the window and looked out at the deserted street, where a fine rain was falling, the mist barely lit by the feeble light of the hotel sign, all of which only made the village seem even more sinister. She was all too familiar with the silence of this remote place, which signified not peace and tranquility, but a total absence of new things to say.
She looked at the mountains, which lay hidden by low clouds, but she knew that somewhere up there was buried a gold bar or, rather, a yellow object, shaped like a brick, that the stranger had left behind there. He had shown her its exact location, virtually begging her to dig up the bar and keep it for herself.
She went back to bed, tossed and turned for a while, then got up again and went to the bathroom where she examined her naked body in the mirror, spent a few moments worrying that soon she would lose her looks, then returned to bed. She regretted not having picked up the packet of cigarettes left behind on the table, but she knew that its owner was bound to come back for it, and she did not want to incur people’s mistrust. That was what Viscos was like: a half-empty cigarette packet had its owner, the button lost off a jacket had to be kept until someone came asking for it, every penny in change had to be handed over, there was never any rounding up the bill. It was a wretched place, in which everything was predictable, organized and reliable.
Realizing that she wasn’t going to be able to get to sleep, she again attempted to pray and to think of her grandmother, but her thoughts had become fixed on a single scene: the open hole, the earth-smeared metal, the branch in her hand, as though it were the staff of a pilgrim about to set off. She dozed and woke up again several times, but the silence outside continued, and the same scene kept endlessly repeating itself inside her head.
As soon as she noticed the first light of dawn coming in through the window, she dressed and went out.
Although she lived in a place where people normally rose with the sun, it was too early even for that. She walked down the empty street, glancing repeatedly behind her to be sure that the stranger wasn’t following her; the mist was so thick, however, that visibility was down to a few yards. She paused from time to time, listening for footsteps, but all she could hear was her own heart beating wildly.
She plunged into the undergrowth, made for the Y-shaped rock—which had always made her nervous because it looked as if it might topple over at any moment—picked up the same branch she had left there the day before, dug at the exact spot the stranger had indicated, stuck her hand into the hole and pulled out the brick-shaped gold bar. She thought she heard something: a silence reigned in the heart of the forest, as though there was a strange presence abroad, frightening the animals and preventing the leaves from stirring.
She was surprised by the weight of the metal in her hands. She wiped it clean, studied the marks on it: two seals and a series of engraved numbers, which she tried in vain to decipher.
How much would it be worth? She couldn’t tell with any degree of accuracy, but—as the stranger had said—it would be enough for her not to have to worry about earning another penny
for the rest of her life. She was holding her dream in her hands, the thing she had always longed for, and which a miracle had set before her. Here was the opportunity to free herself from all those identical days and nights in Viscos and from the endless going back and forth to the hotel where she had worked since she was eighteen, from the yearly visits of all those friends whose families had sent them away to study and make something of themselves, from all the absences she had long since grown used to, from the men who arrived promising her the world and left the next day without even a goodbye, from all the farewells and non-farewells to which she had long become accustomed. That moment there in the forest was the most important moment of her entire life.
Life had always been so unfair to her: she didn’t know who her father was; her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her with a terrible burden of guilt to bear; her grandmother, a countrywoman, had eked out a living as a dressmaker, saving every penny she could so that her granddaughter could at least learn to read and write. Chantal had had so many dreams: she thought she could overcome all obstacles, find a husband, get a job in the big city, be discovered by a talent scout who happened to be visiting that out-of-the-way place in the hope of finding peace, get a career in the theater, write a bestseller, have photographers calling out to her to pose for them, walk along life’s red carpets.
Every day was another day spent waiting. Every night was a night when she might meet someone who would recognize her true worth. Every man she took to her bed was the hope of leaving Viscos the following morning, never again to see those three streets, those stone houses with their slate roofs, the church with its cemetery beside it, the hotel selling local handicrafts that took months to make and were sold for the same price as mass-produced goods.
Occasionally it crossed her mind that the Celts, the ancient inhabitants of her region, might have hidden an amazing cache of treasure there, which one day she would find. Of all her dreams, that had been the most absurd, the most unlikely.
Yet here she was now with a gold bar in her hands, the treasure she had never believed in, her definitive freedom.
She was seized by panic: the one lucky moment in her life could vanish that very afternoon. What if the stranger changed his mind? What if he decided to go in search of another village where he might find another woman more willing to help him in his plans? Why not stand up, go back to her room, put her few possessions into a bag and simply leave?
She imagined herself going down the steep hill, trying to hitch a ride out of the village while the stranger set out on his morning walk and found that his gold had been stolen. She would continue on her way to the nearest town and he would go back to the hotel to call the police.
Chantal would thank the driver who had given her a lift, and then head straight for the bus station and buy a ticket to some faraway place; at that moment, two policemen would approach her, asking her politely to open her suitcase. As soon as they saw its contents, their politeness would vanish: she was the woman they were looking for, following a report filed only three hours earlier.
In the police station, Chantal would have two options: to tell the truth, which no one would believe, or to explain that she had noticed the disturbed soil, had decided to investigate and had found the gold. Once, she had shared her bed with a treasure hunter also intent on unearthing something left by the Celts. He claimed the law of the land was clear: he had the right to keep whatever he found, although any items of historical interest had to be registered with the relevant government department. But the gold bar had no historical value at all, it was brand new, with all its stamps, seals and numbers.
The police would question the man. He would have no way of proving that she had entered his room and stolen his property. It would be his word against hers, but he might prove more influential, have friends in high places, and it would all go his way. Chantal could, of course, always ask the police to examine the gold bar; then they would see that she was telling the truth, for the metal would still bear traces of earth.
By now, the news would have reached Viscos, and its inhabitants—out of envy or jealousy—would start spreading rumors about the girl, saying that there were numerous reports that she often used to go to bed with the hotel guests; perhaps the robbery had taken place while the man was asleep.
It would all end badly: the gold bar would be confiscated until the courts had resolved the matter; she would get another lift back to Viscos, where she would be humiliated, ruined, the target of gossip that would take more than a generation to die down. Later on, she would discover that lawsuits never got anywhere, that lawyers cost much more than she could possibly afford, and she would end up abandoning the case.
The net result: no gold and no reputation.
There was another possible version: the stranger might be telling the truth. If Chantal stole the gold and simply left, wouldn’t she be saving the village from a much deeper disgrace?
However, even before leaving home and setting off for the mountain, she had known she would be incapable of taking such a step. Why, at precisely the moment that could change her life forever, was she so afraid? After all, didn’t she sleep with whomever she pleased and didn’t she sometimes ingratiate herself with visitors just to get a bigger tip? Didn’t she lie occasionally? Didn’t she envy her former friends who now only came back to the village to visit their families at New Year?
She clutched the gold to her, got to her feet, feeling weak and desperate, then crouched down again, replaced it in the hole and covered it with earth. She couldn’t go through with it; this inability, however, had nothing to do with honesty or dishonesty, but with the sheer terror she was feeling. She had just realized there were two things that prevent us from achieving our dreams: believing them to be impossible or seeing those dreams made possible by some sudden turn of the wheel of fortune, when you least expected it. For at that moment, all our fears suddenly surface: the fear of setting off along a road heading who knows where, the fear of a life full of new challenges, the fear of losing forever everything that is familiar.
People want to change everything and, at the same time, want it all to remain the same. Chantal did not immediately understand why, but that was what was happening to her. Perhaps she was too bound to Viscos, too accustomed to defeat, and any chance of victory was too heavy a burden to bear.
She was convinced that the stranger must now be tired of her silence and that shortly—perhaps that very afternoon—he would decide to choose someone else. But she was too cowardly to change her fate.
The hands that had touched the gold should now be washing the dirty dishes, wielding the sponge and the dishcloth. Chantal turned her back on the treasure and returned to the village, where the hotel landlady was waiting for her, looking vaguely irritated, since Chantal had promised to clean the bar before the one hotel guest was up.
Chantal’s fears proved unfounded: the stranger did not leave. She saw him in the bar that night, more seductive than ever, telling tales that might not have been entirely true, but which, at least in his imagination, he had lived intensely. Once again their eyes only met impersonally, when he offered to pay for the regulars’ drinks.
Chantal was exhausted. She was praying that they would all leave early, but the stranger seemed particularly inspired, recounting story after story, which his listeners lapped up, with the interest and the hateful respect—or, rather, craven submissiveness—that country people show in the presence of those who come from the big cities, judging them to be more cultivated, educated, intelligent and modern.
“Fools,” she said to herself. “They don’t understand how important they are. They don’t understand that whenever someone lifts a forkful of food to their mouth, anywhere in the world, it’s thanks to people like the inhabitants of Viscos, who toil from dawn to dusk, working the land with the sweat of their weary bodies, and caring for their livestock with indescribable patience. They are far more necessary to the world than all those city people, yet they behave as if they w
ere inferior beings, uptight and talentless—and they believe it too.”
The stranger, however, seemed determined to show that his culture was worth more than all the labors of the men and women in the bar. He pointed to a print hanging on the wall:
“Do you know what that is? It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world: The Last Supper, painted by Leonardo da Vinci.”
“It can’t be as famous as all that,” said the hotel landlady. “It was very cheap.”
“That’s only a reproduction: the original is in a church a long, long way from here. But there’s a story about this picture you might like to hear.”
Everyone nodded, though once again Chantal felt ashamed to be there, listening to a man showing off his pointless knowledge, just to prove that he knew more than anyone else.
“When he was creating this picture, Leonardo da Vinci encountered a serious problem: he had to depict Good—in the person of Jesus—and Evil—in the figure of Judas, the friend who resolves to betray him during the meal. He stopped work on the painting until he could find his ideal models.
“One day, when he was listening to a choir, he saw in one of the boys the perfect image of Christ. He invited him to his studio and made sketches and studies of his face.
“Three years went by. The Last Supper was almost complete, but Leonardo had still not found the perfect model for Judas. The cardinal responsible for the church started to put pressure on him to finish the mural.
“After many days spent vainly searching, the artist came across a prematurely aged youth, in rags and lying drunk in the gutter. With some difficulty, he persuaded his assistants to bring the fellow directly to the church, since there was no time left to make preliminary sketches.
“The beggar was taken there, not quite understanding what was going on. He was propped up by Leonardo’s assistants, while Leonardo copied the lines of impiety, sin and egotism so clearly etched on his features.
