The Zahir

by Paulo Coelho

  I paused. It was as if I were going back into the past, to the moment when her hand touched mine and changed my life.

  “And all because of a poem,” I went on. “A poem showed me that by writing and revealing my invisible world, I could compete on equal terms with the visible world of my classmates: physical strength, fashionable clothes, cars, being good at sports.”

  The journalist was slightly surprised, and I was even more surprised. He managed to compose himself, though, and asked:

  “Why do you think the critics are so hard on your work?”

  My automatic pilot would normally reply: “You just have to read the biography of any writer from the past who is now considered a classic—not that I’m comparing myself with them, you understand—to see how implacable their critics were then. The reason is simple: Critics are extremely insecure, they don’t really know what’s going on, they’re democrats when it comes to politics, but fascists when it comes to culture. They believe that people are perfectly capable of choosing who governs them, but have no idea when it comes to choosing films, books, music.”

  I had abandoned my automatic pilot again, knowing full well that the journalist was unlikely to publish my response.

  “Have you ever heard of the law of Jante?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he said.

  “Well, it’s been in existence since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in 1933 by a Danish writer. In the small town of Jante, the powers that be came up with ten commandments telling people how they should behave, and it seems to exist not only in Jante, but everywhere else too. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I’d say: ‘Mediocrity and anonymity are the safest choice. If you opt for them, you’ll never face any major problems in life. But if you try to be different…’”

  “I’d like to know what these Jante commandments are,” said the journalist, who seemed genuinely interested.

  “I don’t have them here, but I can summarize if you like.”

  I went over to my computer and printed out a condensed and edited version.

  “You are nobody, never even dare to think that you know more than we do. You are of no importance, you can do nothing right, your work is of no significance, but as long as you never challenge us, you will live a happy life. Always take what we say seriously and never laugh at our opinions.”

  The journalist folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.

  “You’re right. If you’re a nobody, if your work has no impact, then it deserves to be praised. If, however, you climb out of that state of mediocrity and are a success, then you’re defying the law and deserve to be punished.”

  I was so pleased that he had reached this conclusion on his own.

  “And it isn’t only the critics who say that,” I added. “More people, far more people than you might think, say exactly the same thing.”

  Later that afternoon, I rang Mikhail’s cell phone number:

  “Let’s travel to Kazakhstan together.”

  He didn’t seem in the least surprised; he merely thanked me and asked what had made me change my mind.

  “For two years, my life has consisted of nothing but the Zahir. Since I met you, I’ve been following a long-forgotten path, an abandoned railway track with grass growing between the rails, but which can still be used by trains. I haven’t yet reached the final station, so I have no way of stopping along the way.”

  He asked me if I had managed to get a visa. I explained that the Favor Bank had once again come to my aid: a Russian friend had phoned his girlfriend, who was the director of a major newspaper company in Kazakhstan. She had phoned the ambassador in Paris, and the visa would be ready that afternoon.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. In order to buy the tickets, I just need to know your real name; the travel agent is on the other line now.”

  “Before you hang up, I’d just like to say one thing: I really liked what you said about the distance between the tracks and what you said just now about the abandoned railway line, but I don’t think that’s why you’re asking me to come with you. I think it’s because of something you wrote once, and which I know by heart. Your wife was always quoting these lines, and what they say is far more romantic than that business about the Favor Bank:

  A warrior of light knows that he has much to be grateful for.

  He was helped in his struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing him to give of his best. That is why, at sunset, he kneels and gives thanks for the Protective Cloak surrounding him.

  His companions say: “He’s so lucky!” But he knows that “luck” is knowing to look around him and to see where his friends are, because it was through their words that the angels were able to make themselves heard.

  “I don’t always remember what I wrote, but thank you for that. Now I just need your name to give to the travel agent.”

  It takes twenty minutes for the taxi company to answer the phone. An irritated voice tells me I’ll have to wait another half an hour. Marie seems happy in her exuberantly sexy black dress, and I think of the Armenian restaurant and the man who admitted to feeling aroused by the thought that his wife was desired by other men. I know that all the women at the gala supper will be wearing outfits designed to make their breasts and curves the center of attention, and that their husbands or boyfriends, knowing that their wives or girlfriends are desired by other men, will think: “All right, have a good look, but keep your distance, because she’s with me, she’s mine. I’m better than you are, because I have something you’d all like to have.”

  I’m not going to be doing any business, I’m not going to be signing contracts or giving interviews; I am merely attending a ceremony, to repay a deposit made into my account at the Favor Bank. I will sit next to someone boring at supper, someone who will ask me where I find the inspiration for my books. Next to me, on the other side, a pair of breasts will perhaps be on show, possibly belonging to the wife of a friend, and I will constantly have to stop myself glancing down because, if I do, even for a second, she will tell her husband that I was coming on to her. While we wait for the taxi, I draw up a list of possible topics of conversation:

  (a) Comments about people’s appearance: “You’re looking very elegant.” “What a beautiful dress.” “Your skin’s looking fabulous.” When they go back home, they’ll say how badly dressed everyone was and how ill they looked.

  (b) Recent holidays: “You must visit Aruba, it’s fantastic.” “There’s nothing like a summer night in Cancún, sipping a martini by the seashore.” In fact, no one enjoys themselves very much on these holidays, they just experience a sense of freedom for a few days and feel obliged to enjoy themselves because they spent all that money.

  (c) More holidays, this time to places which they feel free to criticize: “I was in Rio de Janeiro recently—such a violent city.” “The poverty in the streets of Calcutta is really shocking.” They only went to these places in order to feel powerful while they were there and privileged when they came back to the mean reality of their little lives, where at least there is no poverty or violence.

  (d) New therapies: “Just one week of drinking wheatgrass juice really improves the texture of your hair.” “I spent two days at a spa in Biarritz; the water there opens the pores and eliminates toxins.” The following week, they will discover that wheatgrass has absolutely no special properties and that any old hot water will open the pores and eliminate toxins.

  (e) Other people: “I haven’t seen so-and-so in ages—what’s he up to?” “I understand that what’s-her-name is in financial difficulties and has had to sell her apartment.” They can talk about the people who weren’t invited to the party in question, they can criticize all they like, as long as they end by saying, with an innocent, pitying air: “Still, he/she’s a wonderful person.”

  (f) A few little complaints about life, just to add savor to the evening: “I wish something new would happen in m
y life.” “I’m so worried about my children, they never listen to proper music or read proper literature.” They wait for comments from other people with the same problem and then feel less alone and leave the party happy.

  (g) At intellectual gatherings, like the one this evening, we will discuss the Middle East conflict, the problem of Islamism, the latest exhibition, the latest philosophy guru, the fantastic book that no one has heard of, the fact that music isn’t what it used to be; we will offer our intelligent, sensible opinions, which run completely counter to our real feelings—because we all know how much we hate having to go to those exhibitions, read those unbearable books, or see those dreary films, just so that we will have something to talk about on nights like tonight.

  The taxi arrives, and while we are being driven to the venue I add another very personal item to my list: I complain to Marie about how much I loathe these suppers. She reminds me—and it’s true—that I always enjoy myself in the end and have a really good time.

  We enter one of Paris’s most elegant restaurants and head for a room reserved for the event—a presentation of a literary prize for which I was one of the judges. Everyone is standing around talking; some people say hello and others merely look at me and make some comment to each other; the organizer of the prize comes over to me and introduces me to the people who are there, always with the same irritating words: “You know who this gentleman is, of course.” Some people give a smile of recognition, others merely smile and don’t recognize me at all, but pretend to know who I am, because to admit otherwise would be to accept that the world they’re living in doesn’t exist, and that they are failing to keep up with the things that matter.

  I remember the tribe of the previous night and think: stupid people should all be marooned on a ship on the high seas and forced to attend parties night after night, being endlessly introduced to people for several months, until they finally manage to remember who is who.

  I draw up a catalog of the kind of people who attend events like this. Ten percent are Members, the decision makers, who came out tonight because of some debt they owe to the Favor Bank, but who always have an eye open for anything that might be of benefit to their work—how to make money, where to invest. They can soon tell whether or not an event is going to prove profitable or not, and they are always the first to leave the party; they never waste their time.

  Two percent are the Talents, who really do have a promising future; they have already managed to ford a few rivers, have just become aware of the existence of the Favor Bank and are all potential customers; they have important services to offer, but are not as yet in a position to make decisions. They are nice to everyone because they don’t know who exactly they are talking to, and they are more open-minded than the Members, because, for them, any road might lead somewhere.

  Three percent are what I call the Tupamaros—in homage to the former Uruguayan guerrilla group. They have managed to infiltrate this party and are mad for any kind of contact; they’re not sure whether to stay or to go on to another party that is taking place at the same time; they are anxious; they want to show how talented they are, but they weren’t invited, they haven’t scaled the first mountains, and as soon as the other guests figure this out, they immediately withdraw any attention they have been paying them.

  The last eighty-five percent are the Trays. I call them this because, just as no party can exist without that particular utensil, so no event can exist without these guests. The Trays don’t really know what is going on, but they know it’s important to be there; they are on the guest list drawn up by the promoters because the success of something like this also depends on the number of people who come. They are all ex-something-or-other-important—ex-bankers, ex-directors, the ex-husband of some famous woman, the ex-wife of some man now in a position of power. They are counts in a country where the monarchy no longer exists, princesses and marchionesses who live by renting out their castles. They go from one party to the next, from one supper to the next—don’t they ever get sick of it, I wonder?

  When I commented on this recently to Marie, she said that just as some people are addicted to work, so others are addicted to fun. Both groups are equally unhappy, convinced that they are missing something, but unable to give up their particular vice.

  A pretty young blonde comes over while I’m talking to one of the organizers of a conference on cinema and literature and tells me how much she enjoyed A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew. She’s from one of the Baltic countries, she says, and works in film. She is immediately identified by the group as a Tupamaro, because while appearing to be interested in one thing (me), she is, in fact, interested in something else (the organizers of the conference). Despite having made this almost unforgivable gaffe, there is still a chance that she might be an inexperienced Talent. The organizer of the conference asks what she means by “working in film.” The young woman explains that she writes film reviews for a newspaper and has published a book (About cinema? No, about her life—her short, dull life, I imagine).

  She then commits the cardinal sin of jumping the gun and asking if she could be invited to this year’s event. The organizer explains that the woman who publishes my books in that same Baltic country, an influential and hardworking woman (and very pretty too, I think to myself), has already been invited. They continue talking to me; the Tupamaro lingers for a few more minutes, not knowing what to say, then moves off.

  Given that it’s a literary prize, most of the guests tonight—Tupamaros, Talents, and Trays—belong to the world of the arts. The Members, on the other hand, are either sponsors or people connected with foundations that support museums, classical music concerts, and promising young artists. After various conversations about which of the candidates for the prize that night had applied most pressure in order to win, the master of ceremonies mounts the stage, asks everyone to take their places at the tables (we all sit down), makes a few jokes (it’s part of the ritual, and we all laugh), and says that the winners will be announced between the entrée and the first course.

  I am at the head table; this allows me to keep the Trays at a safe distance, and also means that I don’t have to bother with any enthusiastic and self-interested Talents. I am seated between the female director of a car-manufacturing firm, which is sponsoring the party, and an heiress who has decided to invest in art. To my surprise, neither of them is wearing a dress with a provocative décolletage. The other guests at our table are the director of a perfumery; an Arab prince (who was doubtless passing through Paris and was pounced on by one of the promoters to add luster to the event); an Israeli banker who collects fourteenth-century manuscripts; the main organizer of tonight’s event; the French consul to Monaco; and a blonde woman whose presence here I can’t quite fathom, although I suspect she might be the organizer’s next mistress.

  I have to keep putting on my glasses and surreptitiously reading the names of the people on either side of me (I ought to be marooned on that imaginary ship and invited to this same party dozens of times until I have memorized the names of all the guests). Marie, as protocol demands, has been placed at another table; someone, at some point in history, decided that at formal suppers couples should always be seated separately, thus leaving it open to doubt whether the person beside us is married, single, or married but available. Or perhaps someone thought that if a couple were seated together, they would simply talk to each other; but, in that case, why go out—why take a taxi and go to the supper in the first place?

  As foreseen in my list of possible conversational topics, we begin with cultural small talk—isn’t that a marvelous exhibition, wasn’t that an intelligent review…. I would like to concentrate on the entrée—caviar with salmon and egg—but I am constantly interrupted by the usual questions about how my new book is doing, where I find my inspiration, whether I’m working on a new project. Everyone seems very cultured, everyone manages to mention—as if by chance, of course—some famous person who also happens to be a close friend. Everyone can
speak cogently about the current state of politics or about the problems facing culture.

  “Why don’t we talk about something else?”

  The question slips out inadvertently. Everyone at the table goes quiet. After all, it is extremely rude to interrupt other people and worse still to draw attention to oneself. It seems, however, that last night’s tour of the streets of Paris in the guise of a beggar has caused some irreparable damage, which means that I can no longer stand such conversations.

  “We could talk about the acomodador: the moment in our lives when we decide to abandon our desires and make do, instead, with what we have.”

  No one seems very interested. I decide to change the subject.

  “We could talk about the importance of forgetting the story we’ve been told and trying to live an entirely different story. Try doing something different every day—like talking to the person at the next table to you in a restaurant, visiting a hospital, putting your foot in a puddle, listening to what another person has to say, allowing the energy of love to flow freely, instead of putting it in a jug and standing it in a corner.”

  “Are you talking about adultery?” asks the director of the perfumery.

  “No, I mean allowing yourself to be the instrument of love, not its master, being with someone because you really want to be, not because convention obliges you to be.”

  With great delicacy, and just a touch of irony, the French consul to Monaco assures me that all the people around our table are, of course, exercising that right and freedom. Everyone agrees, although no one believes that it’s true.

  “Sex!” cries the blonde woman whose role that evening no one has quite identified. “Why don’t we talk about sex? It’s much more interesting and much less complicated!”