Eleven Minutes

by Paulo Coelho

  "God, I'm such a romantic."

  During the week, she tried to think of something that would make Ralf Hart happy; for he had restored to her a dignity and a "light" that she thought were lost forever. But the only way she had of repaying him was with the thing he thought was her specialty: sex. Since there was little to inspire her in the routine at the Copacabana, she decided to look elsewhere.

  She again went to see a few porn movies, and again found nothing of interest in them, apart, perhaps, from the varying number of people involved. When films proved of no help, she decided, for the first time since she had arrived in Geneva, to buy some books, although she still didn't see the point in cluttering up her apartment with something which, once read, had no further use. She went to the bookshop she had seen when she and Ralf had walked down the road to Santiago, and asked if they had any books about sex.

  "Oh, loads," said the shop assistant. "In fact, it seems to be all people care about. There's a special section devoted to the subject, but in just about every other novel you can see around you there's always at least one sex scene. Whether it's hidden away in pretty little love stories or discussed in serious tomes on human behavior, it appears to be all anyone thinks about."

  Maria, with all her experience, knew that the woman was wrong: people wanted to think like that because they thought sex was everyone else's sole concern. They went on diets, wore wigs, spent hours at the hairdresser's or at the gym, put on sexy clothes, all in an attempt to awaken the necessary spark. And what happened? When the moment came to go to bed with someone, eleven minutes later it was all over. There was no creativity involved, nothing that would lift them up to paradise; the fire provoked by the spark soon burned out.

  But there was no point arguing with the young blonde woman, who believed that the world could be explained in books. She asked to be directed to the special section, and there she found various books about gay men, lesbians, nuns revealing scandals in the church, illustrated books showing oriental techniques, all involving extremely uncomfortable positions, but only one of the titles interested her: Sacred Sex. At least it was different.

  She bought it, went home, tuned to a particular radio station that always helped her to think (because they played such calming music), opened the book and noticed various illustrations, showing postures that only a circus performer could possibly hope to achieve. The text itself was very dull.

  Maria had learned enough in her profession to know that not everything in life is a matter of what position you adopt when making love, and that any variation usually occurs naturally, without thinking, like the steps in a dance. Nevertheless, she tried to concentrate on what she was reading.

  Two hours later, she had come to two conclusions.

  First, she needed to eat supper, because she had to get back to the Copacabana.

  Second, the person who had written the book clearly understood nothing, absolutely nothing about the subject. It was just a lot of empty theory, New Age mumbo-jumbo, pointless rituals and idiotic suggestions. She noticed that the author had studied meditation in the Himalayas (she must find out where they were), attended courses in yoga (she had heard of that), and had obviously read widely in the subject, for she kept quoting other authors, but she had failed to learn what was essential. Sex wasn't theories, incense, erogenous zones, bows and salaams. How did that person (a woman) have the nerve to write on a subject which not even Maria, who worked in the field, knew in depth. Perhaps it was all the fault of the Himalayas or the need to complicate something whose very beauty lay in simplicity and passion. If that woman could get away with publishing and selling such a stupid book, perhaps she should think seriously again about writing her own: Eleven Minutes. It wouldn't be cynical or false--it would just be her story.

  But she had neither the time nor the interest; she needed to focus her energies on making Ralf Hart happy and on learning how to manage a farm.

  From Maria's diary, just after abandoning the boring book:

  I've met a man and fallen in love with him. I allowed myself to fall in love for one simple reason: I'm not expecting anything to come of it. I know that, in three months' time, I'll be far away and he'll be just a memory, but I couldn't stand living without love any longer; I had reached my limit.

  I'm writing a story for Ralf Hart--that's his name. I'm not sure he'll come back to the club where I work, but, for the first time in my life, that doesn't matter. It's enough just to love him, to be with him in my thoughts and to color this lovely city with his steps, his words, his love. When I leave this country, it will have a face and a name and the memory of a fireplace. Everything else I experienced here, all the difficulties I had to overcome, will be as nothing compared to that memory.

  I would like to do for him what he did for me. I've been thinking about it a lot, and I realize that I didn't go into that cafe by chance; really important meetings are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other.

  Generally speaking, these meetings occur when we reach a limit, when we need to die and be reborn emotionally. These meetings are waiting for us, but more often than not, we avoid them happening. If we are desperate, though, if we have nothing to lose, or if we are full of enthusiasm for life, then the unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes direction.

  Everyone knows how to love, because we are all born with that gift. Some people have a natural talent for it, but the majority of us have to re-learn, to remember how to love, and everyone, without exception, needs to burn on the bonfire of past emotions, to relive certain joys and griefs, certain ups and downs, until they can see the connecting thread that exists behind each new encounter; because there is a connecting thread.

  And then, our bodies learn to speak the language of the soul, known as sex, and that is what I can give to the man who gave me back my soul, even though he has no idea how important he is to my life. That is what he asked me for and that is what he will have; I want him to be very happy.

  Sometimes life is very mean: a person can spend days, weeks, months and years without feeling anything new. Then, when a door opens--as happened with Maria when she met Ralf Hart--a positive avalanche pours in. One moment, you have nothing, the next, you have more than you can cope with.

  Two hours after writing her diary, when she arrived at work, Milan, the owner, came looking for her:

  "So you went out with that painter, did you?"

  Ralf was obviously known at the club--she had realized this when he paid the rate for three customers, without having to ask the price. Maria merely nodded, trying to act mysterious, but Milan took no notice; he knew this life better than she did.

  "Perhaps you're ready for the next stage. There's a special client of ours who has often asked about you. I told him that you're not experienced enough, and he believed me, but perhaps now is the moment to try."

  A special client?

  "What's this got to do with the painter?"

  "He's a special client too."

  So everything she had done with Ralf Hart had already been done by one of her colleagues. She bit her lip and said nothing; she had had a lovely week, and she must not forget what she had written.

  "Should I do the same thing I did with him?"

  "I don't know what you did; but tonight, if someone offers you a drink, say no. Special clients pay more; you won't regret it."

  Work started as it always did. The Thai women all sat together, the Colombians adopted their usual air of knowing everything, the three Brazilians (including her) looked absently about them, as if nothing could ever surprise or interest them. Apart from them, there was an Austrian, two Germans, and the rest were tall, pretty women with pale eyes who came from the former Eastern Bloc countries and who always seemed to find husbands more quickly than the others.

  The men began to arrive--Russian, Swiss, German, all of them busy executives, well able to afford the services of the most expensive prostitutes in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Some came over to her table
, but she kept her eye on Milan, who shook his head. Maria was pleased; tonight, she wouldn't have to open her legs, put up with smells or take showers in sometimes chilly bathrooms; all she had to do was to teach a man grown weary of sex how to make love. And when she thought about it, not every woman would have been creative enough to come up with that story about the exchange of gifts.

  At the same time, she was wondering: Why is it that, having experienced everything, these men want to go right back to the start? Not that this was her concern; as long as they paid well, she was there to serve them.

  A man came in, younger than Ralf Hart; he was good-looking, with dark hair, perfect teeth, and wearing what looked like a Mao jacket--no tie, just a high collar and, underneath, an impeccable white shirt. He went up to the bar, where both he and Milan turned to look at Maria; then he came over.

  "Would you like a drink?"

  She saw Milan nod, and so invited the man to sit down at her table. She ordered a fruit juice cocktail and waited for him to ask her to dance. Then the man introduced himself:

  "My name is Terence, and I work for a record company in England. Since I assume I'm in a place where I can trust the personnel, I take it this will remain entirely between you and me."

  Maria was about to start talking about Brazil, but he interrupted her:

  "Milan says you understand what I want."

  "I've no idea what you want, but I know my job."

  They did not follow the usual ritual; he paid the bill, took her arm and they got into a taxi, where he gave her a thousand francs. For a moment, she remembered the Arab man with whom she had gone to the restaurant full of famous paintings; it was the first time she had received the same amount of money, and instead of making her feel glad, it made her feel nervous.

  The taxi stopped outside one of the most expensive hotels in the city. The man greeted the porter and seemed totally at ease in the place. They went straight up to his room, a suite with a view over the river. He opened a bottle of wine--possibly a rare vintage--and offered her a glass.

  Maria watched him while he drank; what did a rich, good-looking man like him want with a prostitute? Since he barely spoke, she too remained largely silent, trying to work out what would make a special client happy. She knew that she should not take the initiative, but once the process had begun, she needed to be able to follow his lead as quickly as possible; after all, it wasn't every night that she earned a thousand francs.

  "We've got plenty of time," Terence said. "All the time in the world. You can sleep here if you like."

  Her feelings of insecurity returned. The man did not seem in the least intimidated, and, unlike her other customers, he spoke very calmly. He knew what he wanted; he put on the perfect piece of music, at the perfect volume, in the perfect room, with the perfect window, which looked out onto the lake of a perfect city. His suit was well-tailored, his suitcase was there in the corner, very small, as if he always travelled light, or as if he had come to Geneva just for that one night.

  "I'll sleep at home," Maria said.

  The man opposite her changed completely. An icy glint came into his hitherto gentlemanly eyes.

  "Sit there," he said, indicating a chair by the desk.

  It was an order! A real order. Maria obeyed and, oddly enough, she felt excited.

  "Sit properly. Back straight, like a lady. If you don't, I'll punish you."

  Punish her! Special client! In a flash, she understood everything, took the thousand francs out of her bag and put it down on the desk.

  "I know what you want," she said, looking deep into those cold, blue eyes. "And I won't do it."

  The man seemed to return to his normal self and he could see that she was telling the truth.

  "Have a drink of wine," he said. "I won't force you to do anything. You can either stay a little longer, if you like, or you can leave."

  That made her feel better.

  "I have a job. I have a boss who protects and trusts me. I'd be grateful if you didn't say anything to him."

  Maria said this without a hint of pleading or self-pity in her voice; it was simply how things were.

  Terence was once again the man she had first met--neither gentle nor harsh, just someone who, unlike her other clients, gave the impression that he knew what he wanted. He seemed to emerge from a trance, from a play that had scarcely begun.

  Was it worth leaving now and never finding out the truth about this "special client"?

  "What exactly did you want?"

  "You know what I want. Pain. Suffering. And a great deal of pleasure."

  "Pain and suffering don't normally go with pleasure," Maria thought. And yet she desperately wanted to believe that they did, and thus make a positive out of her many negative experiences.

  He took her by the hand and led her over to the window: on the other side of the lake they could see a cathedral spire. Maria remembered passing it when she had walked the road to Santiago with Ralf Hart.

  "You see the river, the lake, the houses and the church? Well, it was all pretty much the same five hundred years ago, except that the city was deserted. A strange disease had spread throughout Europe, and no one knew why so many people were dying. They began to call the disease the Black Death--sent by God because of mankind's sins.

  "Then a group of people decided to sacrifice themselves for the sake of humanity. They offered the thing they most feared: physical pain. They began to spend days and nights walking across these bridges, along these streets, beating their own bodies with whips and chains. They were suffering in the name of God and praising God with their pain. They soon realized that they were happier doing this than baking bread, working in the fields or feeding their animals. Pain was no longer a cause of suffering, but a source of pleasure because they were redeeming humanity from its sins. Pain became joy, the meaning of life, pleasure."

  His eyes grew cold again. He picked up the money she had put down on the desk, separated out one hundred and fifty francs and put those in her bag.

  "Don't worry about your boss. Here's his commission, and I promise I won't say anything. You can leave now."

  She grabbed the money back.

  "No!"

  It was the wine, the Arab man in the restaurant, the woman with the sad smile, the idea that she would never ever return to this wretched place, the fear of a new love that was coming to her in the shape of a man, the letters to her mother telling of a wonderful life full of job opportunities, the boy from her childhood who had asked her for a pencil, the struggles with herself, the guilt, the curiosity, the money, the search to discover her own limits, and all the missed chances and opportunities. Another Maria was there now: she was no longer offering gifts, she was offering herself up as a sacrifice.

  "I'm not afraid anymore. Let's carry on. If necessary, you can punish me for my rebelliousness. I've lied and betrayed and maligned the very person who protected and loved me."

  She was entering into the spirit of the game. She was saying the right things.

  "Kneel down!" said Terence in a low, chilling voice.

  Maria obeyed. She had never been treated this way, and she didn't know if it was good or bad, only that she wanted to go forward; she deserved to be humiliated for all she had done in her life. She was entering a role, becoming a different person, a woman she did not know at all.

  "You will be punished because you are useless, because you don't know the rules and because you know nothing about sex, life or love."

  While he was speaking, Terence was transformed into two very different men. The one who was calmly explaining the rules to her and the one who made her feel like the most miserable wretch in the world.

  "Do you know why I am doing this? Because there is no greater pleasure than that of initiating someone into an unknown world. Taking someone's virginity--the virginity not of their body, but of their soul, you understand."

  She understood.

  "Today you can ask questions, but the next time, when the theater curtain goes u
p, the play will begin and cannot be stopped. If it does stop, it is because our souls are incompatible. Remember: it is a play. You must be the person you have never had the courage to be. Gradually, you will discover that you are that person, but until you can see this clearly, you must pretend and invent."

  "What if I can't stand the pain?"

  "There is no pain, only something that transforms itself into delight and mystery. It forms part of the play to say: 'Don't treat me like that, you're really hurting me.' As is: 'Stop, I can't take anymore!' In order to avoid danger...." He broke off at this point and said: "Keep your head down; don't look at me!"

  Maria, kneeling, lowered her head and stared at the floor.

  "...in order to avoid this relationship causing any serious physical harm, we have two code words. If one of us says 'yellow,' that means that the violence should be decreased slightly. If one of us says 'red,' it must be stopped at once."

  "You said 'one of us'..."

  "We take turns. One cannot exist without the other; no one can know how to humiliate another person if they themselves have not experienced humiliation."

  These were terrible words, from a world she did not know, full of shadow, slime and putrefaction. Nevertheless, she wanted to go on--her body was trembling with fear and excitement.

  Terence placed his hand on her head with unexpected tenderness.

  "That's all."

  He asked her to get up, not particularly kindly, but not with the same brusque aggression he had shown before. Still trembling, Maria put on her jacket. Terence noticed the state she was in.

  "Have a cigarette before you go."

  "Nothing happened."

  "It doesn't need to. It will start to happen in your soul, and the next time we meet, you will be ready."

  "Was tonight worth one thousand francs?"

  He didn't reply. He too lit a cigarette and they finished the wine, listening to the perfect music, savoring the silence together, until the moment came to say something, and when it did, Maria was surprised by her own words.