by Paulo Coelho
If she had looked more deeply into herself, she would have realized that what had thrilled her about the bird was his freedom, the energy of his wings in motion, not his physical body.
Without the bird, her life too lost all meaning, and Death came knocking at her door. "Why have you come?" she asked Death. "So that you can fly once more with him across the sky," Death replied. "If you had allowed him to come and go, you would have loved and admired him even more; alas, you now need me in order to find him again."
She started the day by doing something she had rehearsed over and over during all these past months: she went into a travel agent's and bought a ticket to Brazil for the date she had marked on her calendar, in two weeks' time.
From then on, Geneva would be the face of a man she loved and who had loved her. Rue de Berne would just be a name, an homage to Switzerland's capital city. She would remember her room, the lake, the French language, the crazy things a twenty-three-year-old woman (it had been her birthday the night before) is capable of--until she realizes there is a limit.
She would not cage the bird, nor would she suggest he go with her to Brazil; he was the only truly pure thing that had happened to her. A bird like that must fly free and feed on nostalgia for the time when he flew alongside someone else. And she too was a bird; having Ralf Hart by her side would mean remembering forever her days at the Copacabana. And that was her past, not her future.
She decided to say "goodbye" just once, when the moment came for her to leave, rather than have to suffer every time she thought: "Soon I won't be here anymore." So she played a trick on her heart and, that morning, she walked around Geneva as if she had always known those streets, that hill, the road to Santiago, the Montblanc bridge, the bars she used to go to. She watched the seagulls flying over the river, the market traders taking down their stalls, people leaving their offices to go to lunch, noticed the color and taste of the apple she was eating, the planes landing in the distance, the rainbow in the column of water rising up from the middle of the lake, the shy, concealed joy of passersby, the looks she got, some full of desire, some expressionless. She had lived for nearly a year in a small town, like so many other small towns in the world, and if it hadn't been for the architecture peculiar to the place and the excessive number of banks, it could have been the interior of Brazil. There was a fair. There was a market. There were housewives haggling over prices. There were students who had skipped a class at school, on the excuse perhaps that their mother or their father was ill, and who were now strolling by the river, exchanging kisses. There were people who felt at home and people who felt foreign. There were tabloid newspapers full of scandals and respectable magazines for businessmen, who, however, were only ever to be seen reading the scandal sheets.
She went to the library to return the manual on farm management. She hadn't understood a word of it, but, at times when she felt she had lost control of herself and of her destiny, the book had served as a reminder of her objective in life. It had been a silent companion, with its plain yellow cover, its series of graphs, but, above all, it had been a lighthouse in the dark nights of recent weeks.
Always making plans for the future, and always being surprised by the present, she thought to herself. She felt she had discovered herself through independence, despair, love, pain, and back again to love--and she would like things to end there.
The oddest thing of all was that, while some of her work colleagues spoke of the wonder or the ecstasy of going to bed with certain men, she had never discovered anything either good or bad about herself through sex. She had not solved her problem, she could still not have an orgasm through penetration, and she had vulgarized the sexual act so much that she might never again find the "embrace of recognition"--as Ralf Hart called it--or the fire and joy she sought.
Or perhaps (as she occasionally thought, and as mothers, fathers and romances all said) love was necessary if one was to experience pleasure in bed.
The normally serious librarian (and Maria's only friend, although she had never told her so) was in a good mood. She was having a bite to eat and invited her to share a sandwich. Maria thanked her and said that she had just eaten.
"You took a long time to read this."
"I didn't understand a word."
"Do you remember what you asked me once?"
No, she didn't, but when she saw the mischievous look on the other woman's face, she guessed. Sex.
"You know, after you came here in search of books on the subject, I decided to make a list of what we had. It wasn't much, and since we need to educate our young people in such matters, I ordered a few more books. At least, this way they won't need to learn about sex in that worst of all possible ways--by going with prostitutes."
The librarian pointed to a pile of books in a corner, all discreetly covered in brown paper.
"I haven't had time to catalogue them yet, but I had a quick glance through and I was horrified by what I read."
Maria could imagine what the woman was going to say: embarrassing positions, sadomasochism, things of that sort. She had better tell her that she had to get back to work (she couldn't remember whether she had told her she worked in a bank or in a shop--lying made life so complicated, she was always forgetting what she had said).
She thanked her and was about to leave, when the other woman said:
"You'd be horrified too. Did you know, for example, that the clitoris is a recent invention?"
An invention? Recent? Just this week someone had touched hers, as if it had always been there and as if those hands knew the terrain they were exploring well, despite the total darkness.
"It was officially accepted in 1559, after a doctor, Realdo Columbo, published a book entitled De re anatomica. It was officially ignored for fifteen hundred years of the Christian era. Columbo describes it in his book as 'a pretty and a useful thing.' Can you believe it?"
They both laughed.
"Two years later, in 1561, another doctor, Gabriello Fallopio, said that he had 'discovered' it. Imagine that! Two men--Italians, of course, who know about such things--arguing about who had officially added the clitoris to the history books!"
It was an interesting conversation, but Maria didn't want to think about these things, mainly because she could already feel the juices flowing and her vagina getting wet--just remembering his touch, the blindfolds, his hands moving over her body. No, she wasn't dead to sex; that man had managed to rescue her. It was good to be alive.
The librarian, however, was warming to her subject.
"Its 'discovery' didn't mean it received any more respect, though." The librarian seemed to have become an expert on clitorology, or whatever that science is called. "The mutilations we read about now in certain African tribes, who still insist on removing the woman's right to sexual pleasure, are nothing new. In the nineteenth century, here in Europe, they were still performing operations to remove it, in the belief that in that small, insignificant part of the female anatomy lay the root of hysteria, epilepsy, adulterous tendencies and sterility."
Maria held out her hand to say goodbye, but the librarian showed no signs of tiring.
"Worse still, dear Dr. Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, said that in a normal woman, the female orgasm should move from the clitoris to the vagina. His most faithful followers went further and said that if a woman's sexual pleasure remained concentrated in the clitoris, this was a sign of infantilism or, worse, bisexuality.
"And yet, as we all know, it is very difficult to have an orgasm just through penetration. It's good to have sex with a man, but pleasure lies in that little nub discovered by an Italian!"
Distracted, Maria realized that she had that problem diagnosed by Freud: she was still in the infantile stage, her orgasm had not moved to the vagina. Or was Freud wrong?
"And what do you think about the G-spot?"
"Do you know where it is?"
The other woman blushed and coughed, but managed to say:
"As you go in, on the first floor, the back
window."
Brilliant! She had described the vagina as if it were a building! Perhaps she had read that explanation in a book for young girls, to say that if someone knocks on the door and comes in, you'll discover a whole universe inside your own body. Whenever she masturbated, she preferred to concentrate on her G-spot rather than on the clitoris, since the latter made her feel rather uncomfortable, a pleasure mingled with real pain, rather troubling.
She always went straight to the first floor, to the back window!
Seeing that the librarian was clearly never going to stop talking, perhaps because she had discovered in Maria an accomplice to her own lost sexuality, she gave a wave of her hand and left, trying to concentrate on whatever nonsense came into her head, because this was not a day to think about farewells, clitorises, restored virginities or G-spots. She focused on what was going on around her--bells ringing, dogs barking, a tram rattling over the tracks, footsteps, her own breathing, the signs offering everything under the sun.
She did not feel like going back to the Copacabana, and yet she felt an obligation to work until the end, although she had no real idea why--after all, she had saved enough money. She could spend the afternoon doing some shopping, talking to the bank manager, who was a client of hers, but who had promised to help her manage her savings, having a cup of coffee somewhere, sending off the clothes that wouldn't fit into her suitcases. It was strange, for some reason, she was feeling rather sad; perhaps because it was still another two weeks before she would leave, and she needed to get through that time, to look at the city with different eyes and feel glad for what she had experienced there.
She came to a crossroads where she had been hundreds of time before; you could see the lake from there and the water spout, and, on the far pavement, in the middle of the public gardens, the lovely floral clock, one of the city's symbols...and that clock would not allow her to lie, because...
Suddenly, time and the world stood still.
What was this story she had been telling herself since the morning, something about her recently restored virginity?
The world seemed frozen, that second would never end, she was face to face with something very serious and very important in her life, she could not just forget about it, she could not do as she did with her nighttime dreams, which she always promised herself she would write down and which she never did...
"Don't think about anything! The world has stopped. What's going on?"
ENOUGH!
The bird, the lovely story about the bird she had just written--was it about Ralf Hart?
No, it was about her!
FULL STOP!
It was 11:11 in the morning, and she was frozen in that moment. She was a foreigner inside her own body, she was rediscovering her recently restored virginity, but its rebirth was so fragile that if she stayed there, it would be lost forever. She had experienced Heaven perhaps, certainly Hell, but the Adventure was coming to an end. She couldn't wait two weeks, ten days, one week--she needed to leave now, because, as she stood looking at the floral clock, with tourists taking pictures of it and children playing all around, she had just found out why she was sad.
And the reason was this: she didn't want to go back.
And the reason she didn't want to go back wasn't Ralf Hart, Switzerland or Adventure. The real reason couldn't have been simpler: money.
Money! A special piece of paper, decorated in sombre colors, which everyone agreed was worth something--and she believed it, everyone believed it--until you took a pile of that paper to a bank, a respectable, traditional, highly confidential Swiss bank and asked: "Could I buy back a few hours of my life?" "No, madam, we don't sell, we only buy."
Maria was woken from her delirium by the sound of screeching brakes, a motorist shouting, and a smiling old gentleman, speaking English, telling her to step back onto the pavement--the pedestrian light was red.
"But this can't be exactly an earth-shattering discovery. Everyone must feel what I feel. They must know."
But they didn't. She looked around her. People were walking along, heads down, hurrying off to work, to school, to the employment agency, to Rue de Berne, telling themselves: "I can wait a little longer. I have a dream, but there's no need to realize it today, besides, I need to earn some money." Of course, everyone spoke ill of her profession, but, basically, it was all a question of selling her time, like everyone else. Doing things she didn't want to do, like everyone else. Putting up with horrible people, like everyone else. Handing over her precious body and her precious soul in the name of a future that never arrived, like everyone else. Saying that she still didn't have enough, like everyone else. Waiting just a little bit longer, like everyone else. Waiting so that she could earn just a little bit more, postponing the realization of her dreams; she was too busy right now, she had a great opportunity ahead of her, loyal clients who were waiting for her, who could pay between three hundred and fifty and one thousand francs a session.
And for the first time in her life, despite all the good things she could buy with the money she might earn--who knows, she might only have to work another year--she decided consciously, lucidly and deliberately to let an opportunity pass her by.
Maria waited for the light to change, she crossed the road and paused in front of the floral clock; she thought of Ralf, saw again the look of desire in his eyes on the night when she had slipped off the top half of her dress, felt his hands touching her breasts, her sex, her face, and she became wet; and as she looked at the vast column of water in the distance, without even having to touch any part of her own body, she had an orgasm right there, in front of everyone.
Not that anyone noticed; they were all far too busy.
Nyah, the only one of her work colleagues with whom she had a relationship that could be described as friendship, called her over as soon as she came in. She was sitting with an oriental gentleman, and they were both laughing.
"Look at this," she said to Maria. "Look what he wants me to do with him!"
The oriental gentleman gave a knowing look and, still smiling, opened the lid of what looked like a cigar box. Milan was watching from a distance in case it contained syringes or drugs. It did not, it was something that even he didn't know quite what to do with, but it wasn't anything very special.
"It looks like something from the last century!" said Maria.
"It is," said the oriental gentleman indignantly. "It's over a hundred years old and it cost a fortune."
What Maria saw was a series of valves, a handle, electric circuits, small metal contacts and batteries. It looked like the inside of an ancient radio, with two wires sticking out, at the ends of which were small glass rods, about the thickness of a finger. It certainly didn't look like something that had cost a fortune.
"How does it work?"
Nyah didn't like Maria's question. Although she trusted Maria, people could change from one moment to the next, and she might have her eye on her client.
"He's already explained. It's the Violet Rod."
And turning to the oriental man, she suggested that they leave, because she had decided to accept his invitation. However, the man seemed pleased that his toy should have aroused such interest.
"Around 1900, when the first batteries came onto the market, traditional medicine started experimenting with electricity to see if it could cure mental illness or hysteria. It was also used to get rid of spots and to stimulate the skin. You see these two ends? Well, they were placed here," he indicated his temples, "and the battery created the same sort of static electricity that you get in Switzerland when the air's very dry."
Static electricity was something that never happened in Brazil, but was very common in Switzerland. Maria had discovered it one day when she opened the door of a taxi; she had heard a crack and received a shock. She thought there must be something wrong with the car and had complained, saying that she wasn't going to pay the fare, and the driver had insulted her and told her she was stupid. He was right; it wasn't the car, it w
as the dry air. After receiving several more shocks, she began to be afraid of touching anything made of metal, until she discovered in a supermarket a bracelet she could wear that discharged the electricity accumulated in the body.
She turned to the man:
"But that's really nasty."
Nyah was getting more and more irritated by Maria's remarks. In order to avoid future conflicts with her only possible friend, she kept her arm around the man's shoulder, thus leaving no room for doubt as to whom he belonged.
"It depends where you put it," said the man, laughing loudly.
He turned the little handle and the two rods seemed to turn violet. He quickly placed them on the two women; there was a crack, but the shock was more ticklish than painful.
Milan came over.
"Would you mind not using that in here, please."
The man put the rods back inside the box. Nyah seized the moment and suggested that they go straight to the hotel. The man seemed rather disappointed, since the new arrival seemed far more interested in his machine than the woman who was now suggesting they go back to his hotel. He put on his jacket and stowed the box away inside a leather briefcase, saying:
"They've started making them again now; they've become quite fashionable amongst people in search of special pleasures. But you'd only find ones like this in rare medical collections, museums and antique shops."
Milan and Maria just stood there, not knowing what to say.
"Have you ever seen one before?"
"Not like that, no. It probably did cost a fortune, but then he's a top executive with an oil company.... I've seen modern ones, though."
"What do they do with them?"
"The man puts them inside his body...and then asks the woman to turn the handle. He gets an electric shock inside."
"Couldn't he do that on his own?"
"You can do most kinds of sexual activity on your own, but if they stopped believing that it was more fun with another person, my bar would go bankrupt and you would have to find work in a greengrocer's shop. By the way, your special client said that he would be here tonight, so make sure you turn down any other offers."