by Paulo Coelho
In reality, they weren’t headed for Asia but for the former Constantinople. Others had joked with the driver about this, and now he did the same thing with the young couple. Favorable delusions were always welcome.
“What’s going on in the world?” Karla asked, pointing to the newspaper. The driver also seemed surprised by her makeup and her smile. Something had changed.
“Things have cooled down in the last week. For the Palestinians, who—according to the newspaper—are a majority in the country and were planning a coup, this will be forever known as Black September. That’s what they’re calling it. But travel routes are flowing normally—though I did call the office again and they’ve suggested I wait here for instructions.”
“Great, no one’s in any hurry. There’s an entire world to discover here in Istanbul.”
“You two need to visit Anatolia.”
“All in good time.”
As they walked toward the bus stop, Paulo noted that Karla held his hand as though they were something they were not—boyfriend and girlfriend. They made small talk, there was a lovely full moon that night, it wasn’t windy or rainy, it was perfect dining weather.
“I’ll pay today,” she said. “I’m dying to drink something.”
They boarded the bus and crossed the Bosphorus in reverential silence—as though having a religious experience. They got off at the first stop and walked along the edge of Asia, where there were five or six restaurants with plastic tablecloths. Seating themselves at the first one they came to, they looked out at the view before them; Istanbul’s monuments weren’t lit as in Europe, but the moon took it upon itself to cast over the city the most beautiful light they’d ever seen.
A waiter approached to take their order. They asked him to choose the best and most traditional dish. The waiter wasn’t used to this.
“But I need to know what you want. Here, everyone typically knows what they want.”
“We want the best. Isn’t that a good enough answer?”
No doubt it was. And the waiter, rather than complaining again, accepted the fact that the foreign couple was placing their trust in him. Which was an incredible responsibility, but at the same time, an incredible joy. “And what would you like to drink?”
“The best local wine. Nothing European; we’re in Asia, after all.”
They were dining in Asia, together, for the first time in their lives! “Unfortunately we don’t serve alcoholic beverages here. Strict religious regulations.”
“Turkey is a secular country, is it not?”
“Yes, but the owner is religious.” If they wanted to change restaurants, they could find what they were looking for two blocks away. Two blocks away they would have their wine but lose the magnificent view of Istanbul bathed in moonlight. Karla asked herself if she could manage to say everything she wanted to say without drinking. Paulo didn’t hesitate—this would be a dinner without wine.
The waiter brought a red candle inside a metal lantern, lit it in the center of the table, and while all this happened, neither of them said a thing. They imbibed the surrounding beauty and were soon drunk with it.
“We were telling each other about the days we had. You said you started off toward the bazaar to find me but soon changed your mind. A good thing, because I wasn’t at the bazaar. We’ll go tomorrow, together.”
She was behaving quite differently, remarkably mellow—which wasn’t typical of her. Had she found someone and needed to share her experience?
“You begin. You left there saying you were going after a religious ceremony. Did you find one?”
“Not exactly what I was looking for, but I found something.”
“I knew you would return,” said the man without a name when he saw the young man in colorful clothes walk through the door. “I think you must have had a powerful experience because this place is filled with the energy of the dancing dervishes. Although, I must stress: every place on Earth contains the presence of God in the tiniest things—insects, a grain of sand, everything.”
“I want to learn the ways of the Sufi. I need a teacher.”
“Then seek the Truth. Seek always to be on its side, even when it brings you pain. There are times when the Truth goes quiet for long stretches, or when it doesn’t tell you what you want to hear. That’s Sufism. The rest is a series of sacred rites that do nothing more than intensify this state of ecstasy. But in order to take part in them, it’s necessary to convert to Islam, something I truly cannot recommend. There’s no need to join a religion on account of its rituals alone.”
“But I need someone to lead me along the path toward truth.”
“That’s not Sufism. Thousands of books have been written about the path toward Truth, and none of them explain what it is exactly. Humanity has committed its greatest crimes in the name of the Truth. Men and women were burned alive, entire civilizations were destroyed, those who committed sins of the flesh were sent away, those who pursued a different path were cast out. One of them, in the name of ‘truth,’ was crucified. But before dying, he clarified Truth’s ultimate definition. It is not that which gives us certainty. It is not that which gives us profound thoughts. It is not that which makes us better than others. It is not that which makes us prisoners to our own prejudices. ‘The Truth is what makes us free. You will know the Truth and the Truth shall set you free,’ Jesus said.”
He paused.
“Sufism is nothing more than bringing yourself up-to-date, shifting your mind, understanding that words lack the power to describe the Absolute, the Infinite.”
The food arrived. Karla knew exactly what Paulo was saying, and everything she would tell him when her turn came would be based on his words.
“Let’s eat in silence?” she asked. Once again, Paulo found her behavior unusual—normally she would have pronounced those words with an exclamation point at the end.
Yes, they ate in silence. Gazing at the sky, the full moon, the waters of the Bosphorus glowing beneath its rays, their faces illuminated by candlelight, their hearts bursting at the meeting of two strangers who suddenly enter another dimension together. The more we allow the world in, the more we receive—be it love, be it hate.
But at that moment it was neither one nor the other. Paulo wasn’t seeking any revelations, he didn’t respect any tradition, he’d forgotten what was dictated by sacred texts, logic, philosophy, everything.
He had entered a state of complete emptiness, and this emptiness, through its inherent contradiction, filled everything.
* * *
—
They didn’t ask what they’d been served—they only knew that there were tiny portions spread across many plates. They didn’t have the courage to drink the water, so they ordered soda—safer, though certainly much less interesting.
Paulo ventured the question that was burning him up, the question that could have ruined the night, but he couldn’t control himself any longer.
“You’re completely different. Have you found someone and fallen in love? You don’t need to answer, if you don’t want to.”
“I have found someone and I am in love, though he doesn’t know it.”
“Is that what happened today? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes. When you’re done with your story. Or did you already finish?”
“No, but I need to tell it through to the end, because the story has yet to find its ending.”
“I’d like to hear the rest.”
There was no anger in her response to his question, and he tried concentrating on the food—no man likes to hear these things, especially from the woman with whom he’s dining. He always wants her to be entirely there, focused on the moment, on the candlelight dinner, the moonlight falling over the water and the city.
He began to try each dish—pasta stuffed with meat in the shape of ravioli, rice rolled up in
tiny cigars made from grape leaves, yogurt, unleavened bread fresh from the oven, beans, skewers of meat, several sorts of pizza in the shape of boats and stuffed with olives and spices. Their dinner would last an eternity. But, to their surprise, the food soon disappeared from the table—it was too delicious to leave there to grow cold and lose its flavor.
The waiter returned, cleared the plastic plates, and asked whether he could bring the main dish.
“No way! We’re much too full!”
“But we’re already making it, we can’t stop now.”
“We’ll happily pay for it, but please don’t bring anything else or we won’t be able to walk afterward.”
The waiter laughed. They laughed. A strange wind blew in, bringing unexpected things with it, filling everything around them with unfamiliar flavors and colors.
It had nothing to do with the food, the moon, the Bosphorus, or the bridge—but with the day both of them had had.
“Will you tell me the rest?” Karla asked, lighting two cigarettes and handing him one. “I’m dying to tell you about my day and how I found myself.”
By the look of it, she’d found her soul mate. In reality, Paulo no longer had any interest in his own story, but she’d asked him to tell her, and now he’d tell it to the end.
His mind returned to the green room with the paint peeling from the rafters and the broken windows that once must have been true works of art. The sun had already gone down, the room was filled with darkness, and it was time to go back to his hotel, but Paulo began to question the man without a name.
“But you, sir, must have had a teacher.”
“I had three—none of them related to Islam or familiar with the poetry of Rumi. As I learned, my heart asked the Lord: Am I on the right path? He responded: You are. But I insisted: Who is the Lord? He responded: You are.”
“Who were your three teachers?”
The man smiled, lit the blue hookah at his side, released a few puffs, offered it to Paulo, who did the same thing, and sat on the floor.
“The first was a thief. One time I was lost in the desert and only managed to make it home late into the night. I’d left my key with the neighbor, but I didn’t have the courage to wake him at that hour. Finally, I found a man, asked for help, and he opened the lock in the blink of an eye.
“I was quite impressed and begged him to teach me how to do it. He told me he’d spent his life robbing other people, but I was so grateful I invited him to sleep in my house.
“He spent a month in my home. Every night he would go out, saying: ‘I’m going to work; continue your meditation and make sure to pray.’ When he returned, I always asked whether he’d managed anything. Invariably, he responded: ‘Nothing tonight. But, God willing, I’ll try again tomorrow.’
“He was a happy man, and I never saw him looking desperate due to a lack of results. During a good part of my life, I didn’t succeed in talking to God, I meditated and meditated and nothing happened. I remembered the thief’s words—‘Nothing tonight. But, God willing, I’ll try again tomorrow.’ This gave me the strength to carry on.”
“And who was the second person?”
“A dog. I was walking to the river for a drink when the dog appeared. He, too, was thirsty. But as he neared the river, he saw another dog there—it was nothing more than his reflection.
“He was frightened, turned back, barked, did everything he could to free himself of the other dog. Nothing happened, of course. Finally, because his thirst was immense, he decided to face the situation and flew headlong into the river; at that moment, the image disappeared.”
The man without a name paused before continuing.
“Finally, my third teacher was a child. He was walking to the mosque near the village where he lived, with a burning candle in his hand. I asked him: ‘Was it you who lit this candle?’ He told me that it was. As I was worried by children playing with fire, I asked again: ‘Boy, at one moment this candle was not lit. Can you tell me where the flame that now burns came from?’
“The boy laughed, put out the candle, and asked me in return: ‘And you, sir, can you tell me where the flame has disappeared to?’
“At that moment, I understood how stupid I had always been. Who ignites the flame of wisdom? Where does it disappear to? I understood that, just like that candle, at certain moments man carries the sacred flame in his heart but never knows where it comes from. From that moment on, I began to pay closer attention to everything around me—clouds, trees, rivers, and forests, men and women. And everything gave me the knowledge I needed at the moment I needed it. I’ve had thousands of teachers throughout my life.
“I began to believe that the flame would always light the way when I most needed it; I’ve been a disciple of life and I continue to be. I was able to learn from the simplest and most unexpected things, such as the stories parents tell their children.
“That is why nearly all of the wisdom of Sufism is not to be found in sacred texts, but in stories, prayers, dance, and contemplation.”
Paulo could hear the voices once again coming from the loudspeakers of the mosques, the muezzins calling the faithful for the final prayer of the day. The man without a name kneeled facing Mecca and began to pray. When he finished, Paulo asked if he could return the next day.
“Of course,” the man said. “But you won’t learn anything more than what your heart wishes to teach you. All I have for you are stories and a place where you can always come when you’re in search of silence—as long as we’re not performing one of our religious dances.”
Paulo turned to Karla.
“Your turn.”
Yes, she knew. She paid the bill, and they walked to the edge of the strait. They could hear the cars blowing their horns on the bridge, but they were incapable of ruining the moon, the water, the view of Istanbul.
“Today I sat on the other side and spent hours watching the river flow. I thought back on how I’ve lived up until now, the men I’ve met, and my behavior, which never seemed to change. I was tired of myself.
“I asked myself: Why am I like this? Am I the only one, or are there others incapable of love? I’ve known many men in my life who were eager to do everything for me, and I never loved any of them. At times, I thought I’d finally met my Prince Charming, but this feeling didn’t last long—and soon I couldn’t stand the person anymore, no matter how caring, attentive, and loving he was. I didn’t give any explanation, I simply told them the truth—they would try everything to win me over again, but it was useless. The simple touch of their hands on my arm, in an attempt to make things all right, repulsed me.
“I’ve been with people who threatened to commit suicide—thank God it was only a threat. I’ve never felt jealousy. At a certain time in my life, when I passed the barrier of twenty, I thought I was sick. I’ve never been faithful—I always found other lovers, even when I was with someone willing to do everything for me. I met a psychiatrist, or a psychoanalyst, I’m not exactly sure which, and we went to Paris. It was the first time someone noticed this, and then he started in with his labels—I needed medical attention, my body lacked some hormones. Instead of looking for help, what I did was return to Amsterdam.
“As you’ve no doubt noticed and imagined, I seduce men rather easily. But soon thereafter, I lose interest. That’s why I had the idea of going to Nepal: I considered never returning, growing old discovering my love for God—which, I admit, until now is only something that I think I feel, but I’m not entirely sure.
“The fact is I never found an answer to my question, I didn’t want to consult doctors, I simply wanted to disappear from the world and dedicate my life to contemplation. Nothing more.
“Because a life without love isn’t worth living. What is a life without love? It’s a tree that bears no fruit. It’s sleeping without dreaming. At times, it’s even an inability to sleep. It’s living one day a
fter another waiting for the sun to shine into a room that is completely shut up, painted black, where you know where the key is but have no desire to open the door and go out.”
Her voice began to crack, as though she were about to cry. Paulo drew near and tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away.
“I’m still not finished. I’ve always been an expert at manipulating others, and this gave me such confidence in myself, in my superiority, that subconsciously I repeated to myself: I’ll only give completely of myself the day someone appears who is capable of taming me. And to this day, that person has yet to appear.”
She turned to him, her eyes, which one might have expected to be full of tears, were filled with sparks.
“Why are you here, in this land of dreams? Because I wanted. Because I needed company and I thought you were the ideal companion, even after seeing all your shortcomings—pretending you were a free man as you followed the Hare Krishna through the streets, going to that house of the rising sun to show how brave you were, when really it was just stupid. Accepting my invitation to see a windmill—a windmill!—as if you were taking a trip to Mars.”
“You insisted.”
Karla hadn’t insisted, she’d merely made a suggestion, but apparently her suggestions were generally taken as orders. She continued, without bothering to explain further.
“And that was the day, when we came back from seeing the windmill and went after what I wanted—to buy the ticket to Nepal—that I realized I was falling for you. Not for any particular reason, nothing had changed from the day before, it wasn’t any gesture or thing that you’d said—absolutely nothing. But I was falling hard. And I knew, as I had each time before, that this feeling wouldn’t last long—you’re completely wrong for me.