The Witch of Portobello

by Paulo Coelho

  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 Lukas 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?"

  I hovered for a second between heaven and hell, between rebellion and submission, between cold reason and destructive emotion. In the end, summoning up all my strength, I managed to control myself. I pressed the button.

  "Let's continue."

  "As I was saying, I've been receiving death threats. I've been getting anonymous phone calls. They insult me and say I'm a menace, that I'm trying to restore the reign of Satan, and that they can't allow this to happen."

  "Have you spoken to the police?"

  I deliberately omitted any reference to her boyfriend, showing that I'd never believed that story anyway.

  "Yes, I have. They've recorded the calls. They come from public pay phones, but the police told me not to worry, that they're watching my house. They've arrested one person: he's mentally ill and believes he's the reincarnation of one of the apostles, and that 'this time, he must fight so that Christ is not driven out again.' He's in a psychiatric hospital now. The police explained that he's been in the hospital before for making similar threats to other people."

  "If they're on the case, there's no need to worry. Our police are the best in the world."

  "I'm not afraid of death. If I were to die today, I would carry with me moments that few people my age have had the chance to experience. What I'm afraid of, and this is why I've asked you to record our conversation today, is that I might kill someone."

  "Kill someone?"

  "You know that there are legal proceedings under way to remove Viorel from me. I've
asked friends, but no one can do anything. We just have to await the verdict. According to them--depending on the judge, of course--these fanatics will get what they want. That's why I've bought a gun. I know what it means for a child to be removed from his mother, because I've experienced it myself. And so, when the first bailiff arrives, I'll shoot, and I'll keep shooting until the bullets run out. If they don't shoot me first, I'll use the knives in my house. If they take the knives, I'll use my teeth and my nails. But no one is going to take Viorel from me, or only over my dead body. Are you recording this?"

  "I am. But there are ways--"

  "There aren't. My father is following the case. He says that when it comes to family law, there's little that can be done. Now turn off the tape recorder."

  "Was that your testament?"

  She didn't answer. When I did nothing, she took the initiative. She went over to the sound system and put on that music from the steppes, which I now knew almost by heart. She danced as she did during the rituals, completely out of rhythm, and I knew what she was trying to do. Her tape recorder was still on, a silent witness to everything that was happening there. The afternoon sunlight was pouring in through the windows, but Athena was off in search of another light, one that had been there since the creation of the world.

  When she felt the spark from the Mother she stopped dancing, turned off the music, put her head in her hands, and didn't move for some time. Then she raised her head and looked at me.

  "You know who is here, don't you?"

  "Yes. Athena and her divine side, Hagia Sofia."

  "I've grown used to doing this. I don't think it's necessary, but it's the method I've discovered for getting in touch with her, and now it's become a tradition in my life. You know who you're talking to, don't you? To Athena. I am Hagia Sofia."

  "Yes, I know. The second time I danced at your house, I discovered that I had a spirit guide too: Philemon. But I don't talk to him very much, I don't listen to what he says. I only know that when he's present, it's as if our two souls have finally met."

  "That's right. And today Philemon and Hagia Sofia are going to talk about love."

  "Should I dance first?"

  "There's no need. Philemon will understand me, because I can see that you were touched by my dance. The man before me suffers for something which he believes he has never received--my love. But the man beyond your self understands that all the pain, anxiety, and feelings of abandonment are unnecessary and childish. I love you. Not in the way that your human side wants, but in the way that the divine spark wants. We inhabit the same tent, which was placed on our path by her. There we understand that we are not the slaves of our feelings, but their masters. We serve and are served, we open the doors of our rooms and we embrace. Perhaps we kiss too, because everything that happens very intensely on earth will have its counterpart on the invisible plane. And you know that I'm not trying to provoke you, that I'm not toying with your feelings when I say that."

  "What is love, then?"

  "The soul, blood, and body of the Great Mother. I love you as exiled souls love each other when they meet in the middle of the desert. There will never be anything physical between us, but no passion is in vain, no love is ever wasted. If the Mother awoke that love in your heart, she awoke it in mine too, although your heart perhaps accepts it more readily. The energy of love can never be lost--it is more powerful than anything and shows itself in many ways."

  "I'm not strong enough for this. Such abstractions only leave me feeling more depressed and alone than ever."

  "I'm not strong enough either. I need someone by my side too. But one day, our eyes will open, the different forms of Love will be made manifest, and then suffering will disappear from the face of the earth. It won't be long now, I think. Many of us are returning from a long journey during which we were forced to search for things that were of no interest to us. Now we realize that they were false. But this return cannot be made without pain, because we have been away for a long time and feel that we are strangers in our own land. It will take some time to find the friends who also left, and the places where our roots and our treasures lie. But this will happen."

  For some reason, what she said touched me. And that drove me on.

  "I want to continue talking about love," I said.

  "We are talking. That has always been the aim of everything I've looked for in my life--allowing Love to manifest itself in me without barriers, letting it fill up my blank spaces, making me dance, smile, justify my life, protect my son, get in touch with the heavens, with men and women, with all those who were placed on my path. I tried to control my feelings, saying such things as 'he deserves my love' or 'he doesn't.' Until, that is, I understood my fate, when I saw that I might lose the most important thing in my life."

  "Your son."

  "Exactly. He is the most complete manifestation of Love. When the possibility arose that he might be taken away from me, then I found myself and realized that I could never have anything or lose anything. I understood this after crying for many hours. It was only after intense suffering that the part of me I call Hagia Sofia said: 'What nonsense! Love always stays, even though, sooner or later, your son will leave.'"

  I was beginning to understand.

  "Love is not a habit, a commitment, or a debt. It isn't what romantic songs tell us it is--love simply is. That is the testament of Athena or Sherine or Hagia Sofia--love is. No definitions. Love and don't ask too many questions. Just love."

  "That's difficult."

  "Are you recording?"

  "You asked me to turn the machine off."

  "Well, turn it on again."

  I did as she asked. Athena went on.

  "It's difficult for me too. That's why I'm not going back home. I'm going into hiding. The police might protect me from madmen, but not from human justice. I had a mission to fulfill and it took me so far that I even risked the custody of my son. Not that I regret it. I fulfilled my destiny."

  "What was your mission?"

  "You know what it was. You were there from the start. Preparing the way for the Mother. Continuing a Tradition that has been suppressed for centuries, but which is now beginning to experience a resurgence."

  "Perhaps..."

  I stopped, but she didn't say a word until I'd finished my sentence.

  "...perhaps you came too early, and people aren't yet ready."

  Athena laughed.

  "Of course they're not. That's why there were all those confrontations, all that aggression and obscurantism. Because the forces of darkness are dying, and they are thrown back on such things as a last resort. They seem very strong, as animals do before they die, but afterward, they're too exhausted to get to their feet. I sowed the seed in many hearts, and each one will reveal the Renaissance in its own way, but one of those hearts will follow the full Tradition--Andrea."

  Andrea.

  Who hated her, who blamed her for the collapse of our relationship, who said to anyone who would listen that Athena had been taken over by egotism and vanity, and had destroyed something that had been very hard to create.

  Athena got to her feet and picked up her bag--Hagia Sofia was still with her.

  "I can see your aura. It's being healed of some needless suffering."

  "You know, of course, that Andrea doesn't like you."

  "Naturally. But we've been speaking for nearly half an hour about love. Liking has nothing to do with it. Andrea is perfectly capable of fulfilling her mission. She has more experience and more charisma than I do. She learned from my mistakes; she knows that she must be prudent because in an age in which the wild beast of obscurantism is dying, there's bound to be conflict. Andrea may hate me as a person, and that may be why she's developed her gifts so quickly--to prove that she was more able than me. When hatred makes a person grow, it's transformed into one of the many ways of loving."

  She picked up her tape recorder, put it in her bag, and left.

  At the end of that week, the court gave its verdi
ct: various witnesses were heard, and Sherine Khalil, known as Athena, was given the right to keep custody of her child.

  Moreover, the head teacher at the boy's school was officially warned that any kind of discrimination against the boy would be punishable by law.

  I knew there was no point in ringing the apartment where she used to live. She'd left the key with Andrea, taken her sound system, some clothes, and said that she would be gone for some time.

  I waited for the telephone call to invite me to celebrate that victory together. With each day that passed, my love for Athena ceased being a source of suffering and became a lake of joy and serenity. I no longer felt so alone. At some point in space, our souls--and the souls of all those returning exiles--were joyfully celebrating their reunion.

  The first week passed, and I assumed she was trying to recover from the recent tensions. A month later, I assumed she must have gone back to Dubai and taken up her old job; I telephoned and was told that they'd heard nothing more from her, but if I knew where she was, could I please give her a message: the door was always open, and she was greatly missed.

  I decided to write a series of articles on the reawakening of the Mother, which provoked a number of offensive letters accusing me of "promoting paganism," but which were otherwise a great success with our readership.

  Two months later, when I was just about to have lunch, a colleague at work phoned me. The body of Sherine Khalil, the Witch of Portobello, had been found in Hampstead. She had been brutally murdered.

  Now that I've finished transcribing all the taped interviews, I'm going to give her the transcript. She's probably gone for a walk in the Snowdonia National Park as she does every afternoon. It's her birthday--or, rather, the date that her parents chose for her birthday when they adopted her--and this is my present to her.

  Viorel, who will be coming to the celebration with his grandparents, has also prepared a surprise for her. He's recorded his first composition in a friend's studio and he's going to play it during supper.

  She'll ask me afterward: "Why did you do this?"

  And I'll say: "Because I needed to understand you." During all the years we've been together, I've only heard what I thought were legends about her, but now I know that the legends are true.