The Zahir Part 18

"May we know what is forbidden?" asks the organizer, who is starting to feel uncomfortable.

"Well, money, for example. All of us around this table have money, or pretend that we do. We a.s.sume we've been invited here because we're rich, famous, and influential. But have any of us ever thought of using this kind of event to find out what everyone actually earns? Since we're all so sure of ourselves, so important, why don't we look at our world as it is and not as we imagine it to be?"

"What are you getting at?" asks the director of the car-manufacturing firm.

"It's a long story. I could start by talking about Hans and Fritz sitting in a bar in Tokyo and go on to mention a Mongolian nomad who says we need to forget who we think we are in order to become who we really are."

"You've lost me."

"That's my fault. I didn't really explain. But let's get down to the nitty-gritty: I'd like to know how much everyone here earns, what it means, in money terms, to be sitting at the head table."

There is a momentary silence-my gamble is not paying off. The other people around the table are looking at me with startled eyes: asking about someone's financial situation is a bigger taboo than s.e.x, more frowned upon than asking about betrayals, corruption, or parliamentary intrigues.

However, the Arab prince-perhaps because he's bored by all these receptions and banquets with their empty chatter, perhaps because that very day he has been told by hisdoctor that he is going to die, or perhaps for some other reason-decides to answer my question: "I earn about twenty thousand euros a month, depending on the amount approved by the parliament in my country. That bears no relation to what I spend, though, because I have an unlimited so-called entertainment allowance. In other words, I am here courtesy of the emba.s.sy's car and chauffeur; the clothes I'm wearing belong to the government; and tomorrow I will be traveling to another European country in a private jet, with the cost of pilot, fuel, and airport taxes deducted from that allowance."

And he concludes: "Apparent reality is not an exact science."

If the prince can speak so frankly, and given that he is, hierarchically, the most important person at the table, the others cannot possibly embarra.s.s him by remaining silent. They are going to have to partic.i.p.ate in the game, the question, and the embarra.s.sment.

"I don't know exactly how much I earn," says the organizer, one of the Favor Bank's cla.s.sic representatives, known to some as a lobbyist. "Somewhere in the region of ten thousand euros a month, but I, too, have an entertainment allowance from the various organizations I head. I can deduct everything-suppers, lunches, hotels, air tickets, sometimes even clothes-although I don't have a private jet."

The wine has run out; he signals to a waiter and our gla.s.ses are refilled. Now it was the turn of the director of the car-manufacturing firm, who, initially, had hated the idea of talking about money, but who now seems to be rather enjoying herself.

"I reckon I earn about the same, and have the same unlimited entertainment allowance."

One by one, everyone confessed how much they earned. The banker was the richest of them all, with ten million euros a year, as well as shares in his bank that were constantly increasing in value.

When it came to the turn of the young blonde woman who had not been introduced to anyone, she refused to answer: "That's part of my secret garden. It's n.o.body's business but mine."

"Of course it isn't, but we're just playing a game," said the organizer.

The woman refused to join in, and by doing so, placed herself on a higher level than everyone else: after all, she was the only one in the group who had secrets. However, by placing herself on a higher level, she only succeeded in earning everyone else's scorn.

Afraid of feeling humiliated by her miserable salary, she had, by acting all mysterious, managed to humiliate everyone else, not realizing that most of the people there lived permanently poised on the edge of the abyss, utterly dependent on those entertainment allowances that could vanish overnight.

The question inevitably came around to me.

"It depends. In a year when I publish a new book, I could earn five million euros. If I don't publish a book, then I earn about two million from royalties on existing t.i.tles."

"You only asked the question so that you could say how much you earned," said the young woman with the "secret garden." "No one's impressed."

She had realized that she had made a wrong move earlier on and was now trying to correct the situation by going on the attack.

"On the contrary," said the prince. "I would have expected a leading author like yourself to be far wealthier."

A point to me. The blonde woman would not open her mouth again all night.The conversation about money broke a series of taboos, given that how much people earn was the biggest of them all. The waiter began to appear more frequently, the bottles of wine began to be emptied with incredible speed, the emcee-c.u.m-organizer rather tipsily mounted the stage, announced the winner, presented the prize, and immediately rejoined the conversation, which had carried on even though politeness demands that we keep quiet when someone else is talking. We discussed what we did with our money (this consisted mostly of buying "free time," traveling, or practicing a sport).

I thought of changing tack and asking them what kind of funeral they would like-death was as big a taboo as money-but the atmosphere was so buoyant and everyone was so full of talk that I decided to say nothing.

"You're all talking about money, but you don't know what money is," said the banker.

"Why do people think that a bit of colored paper, a plastic card, or a coin made out of fifth-rate metal has any value? Worse still, did you know that your money, your millions of dollars, are nothing but electronic impulses?"

Of course we did.

"Once, wealth was what these ladies are wearing," he went on. "Ornaments made from rare materials that were easy to transport, count, and share out. Pearls, nuggets of gold, precious stones. We all carried our wealth in a visible place. Such things were, in turn, exchanged for cattle or grain, because no one walks down the street carrying cattle or sacks of grain. The funny thing is that we still behave like some primitive tribe-we wear our ornaments to show how rich we are, even though we often have more ornaments than money."

"It's the tribal code," I said. "In my day, young people wore their hair long, whereas nowadays they all go in for body piercing. It helps them identify like-minded people, even though it can't buy anything."

"Can our electronic impulses buy one extra hour of life? No. Can they buy back those loved ones who have departed? No. Can they buy love?"

"They can certainly buy love," said the director of the car-manufacturing firm in an amused tone of voice.

Her eyes, however, betrayed a terrible sadness. I thought of Esther and of what I had said to the journalist in the interview I had given that morning. We rich, powerful, intelligent people knew that, deep down, we had acquired all these ornaments and credit cards only in order to find love and affection and to be with someone who loved us.

"Not always," said the director of the perfumery, turning to look at me.

"No, you're right, not always. After all, my wife left me, and I'm a wealthy man. But almost always. By the way, does anyone at this table know how many cats and how many lampposts there are on the back of a ten-dollar bill?"

No one knew and no one was interested. The comment about love had completely spoiled the jolly atmosphere, and we went back to talking about literary prizes, exhibitions, the latest film, and the play that was proving to be such an unexpected success.

How was it on your table?"

"Oh, the usual.""Well, I managed to spark an interesting discussion about money, but, alas, it ended in tragedy."

"When do you leave?"

"I have to leave here at half past seven in the morning. Since you're flying to Berlin, we could share a taxi."

"Where are you going?"

"You know where I'm going. You haven't asked me, but you know."

"Yes, I know."

"Just as you know that we're saying goodbye at this very moment."

"We could go back to the time when we first met: a man in emotional tatters over someone who had left him, and a woman madly in love with her neighbor. I could repeat what I said to you once: 'I'm going to fight to the bitter end.' Well, I fought and I lost, and now I'll just have to lick my wounds and leave."

"I fought and lost as well. I'm not trying to sew up what was rent. Like you, I want to fight to the bitter end."

"I suffer every day, did you know that? I've been suffering for months now, trying to show you how much I love you, how things are only important when you're by my side.

But now, whether I suffer or not, I've decided that enough is enough. It's over. I'm tired.

After that night in Zagreb, I lowered my guard and said to myself: If the blow comes, it comes. It can lay me out on the canvas, it can knock me out cold, but one day I'll recover."

"You'll find someone else."

"Of course I will: I'm young, pretty, intelligent, desirable, but will I experience all the things I experienced with you?"

"You'll experience different emotions and, you know, although you may not believe it, I loved you while we were together."

"I'm sure you did, but that doesn't make it any the less painful. We'll leave in separate taxis tomorrow. I hate goodbyes, especially at airports or train stations."

THE RETURN TO ITHACA

We'll sleep here tonight and, tomorrow, we'll continue on horseback. My car can't cope with the sand of the steppes."

We were in a kind of bunker, which looked like a relic from the Second World War. A man, with his wife and his granddaughter, welcomed us and showed us a simple, but spotlessly clean room.

Dos went on: "And don't forget to choose a name."

"I don't think that's necessary," said Mikhail.

"Of course it is," insisted Dos. "I was with his wife recently. I know how she thinks, I know what she has learned, I know what she expects."

Dos's voice was simultaneously firm and gentle. Yes, I would choose a name, I would do exactly as he suggested; I would continue to discard my personal history and, instead, embark on my personal legend-even if only out of sheer tiredness.I was exhausted. The previous night I had slept for two hours at most: my body had still not adjusted to the enormous time difference. I had arrived in Almaty at about eleven o'clock at night local time, when in France it was only six o'clock in the evening.

Mikhail had left me at the hotel and I had dozed for a bit, then woken up in the small hours. I had looked out at the lights below and thought how in Paris it would just be time to go out to supper. I was hungry and asked room service if they could send me up something to eat: "Of course we can, sir, but you really must try to sleep; if you don't, your body will stay stuck on its European timetable."

For me, the worst possible torture is not being able to sleep. I ate a sandwich and decided to go for a walk. I asked the receptionist my usual question: "Is it dangerous to go walking at this hour?" He told me it wasn't, and so I set off down the empty streets, narrow alleyways, broad avenues; it was a city like any other, with its neon signs, the occasional pa.s.sing police car, a beggar here, a prost.i.tute there. I had to keep repeating out loud: "I'm in Kazakhstan!" If I didn't, I would end up thinking I was merely in some unfamiliar quarter of Paris.

"I'm in Kazakhstan!" I said to the deserted city, and a voice replied: "Of course you are."

I jumped. A man was sitting close by, on a bench in a square at dead of night, with his backpack by his side. He got up and introduced himself as Jan, from Holland, adding: "And I know why you're here."

Was he a friend of Mikhail's? Or was I being followed by the secret police?

"Why am I here, then?"

"Like me, you've traveled from Istanbul, following the Silk Road."

I gave a sigh of relief, and decided to continue the conversation.

"On foot? As I understand it, that means crossing the whole of Asia."

"It's something I needed to do. I was dissatisfied with my life. I've got money, a wife, children, I own a hosiery factory in Rotterdam. For a time, I knew what I was fighting for-my family's stability. Now I'm not so sure. Everything that once made me happy just bores me, leaves me cold. For the sake of my marriage, the love of my children, and my enthusiasm for my work, I decided to take two months off just for myself, and to take a long look at my life. And it's working."

"I've been doing the same thing these last few months. Are there a lot of pilgrims like you?"

"Lots of them. Loads. It can be dangerous, because the political situation in some of these countries is very tricky indeed, and they hate Westerners. But we get by. I think that, as a pilgrim, you'll always be treated with respect, as long as you can prove you're not a spy. But I gather from what you say that you have different reasons for being here.

What brings you to Almaty?"

"The same thing as you. I came to reach the end of a particular road. Couldn't you sleep either?"

"I've just woken up. The earlier I set out, the more chance I have of getting to the next town; if not, I'll have to spend the night in the freezing cold steppes, with that constant wind blowing."

"Have a good journey, then."

"No, stay a while. I need to talk, to share my experiences. Most of the other pilgrims don't speak English."And he started telling me about his life, while I tried to remember what I knew about the Silk Road, the old commercial route that connected Europe with the countries of the East.

The traditional route started in Beirut, pa.s.sed through Antioch and went all the way to the sh.o.r.es of the Yangtse in China; but in Central Asia it became a kind of web, with roads heading off in all directions, which allowed for the establishment of trading posts, which, in time, became towns, which were later destroyed in battles between rival tribes, rebuilt by the inhabitants, destroyed, and rebuilt again. Although almost everything pa.s.sed along that route-gold, strange animals, ivory, seeds, political ideas, refugees from civil wars, armed bandits, private armies to protect the caravans-silk was the rarest and most coveted item. It was thanks to one of these branch roads that Buddhism traveled from China to India.

"I left Antioch with about two hundred dollars in my pocket," said the Dutchman, having described mountains, landscapes, exotic tribes, and endless problems in various countries with police patrols. "I needed to find out if I was capable of becoming myself again. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do."

"I was forced to beg, to ask for money. To my surprise, people are much more generous than I had imagined."

Beg? I studied his backpack and his clothes to see if I could spot the symbol of the tribe-Mikhail's tribe-but I couldn't find it.

"Have you ever been to an Armenian restaurant in Paris?"

"I've been to lots of Armenian restaurants, but never in Paris."

"Do you know someone called Mikhail?"

"It's a pretty common name in these parts. If I did know a Mikhail, I can't remember, so I'm afraid I can't help you."

"No, I don't need your help. I'm just surprised by certain coincidences. It seems there are a lot of people, all over the world, who are becoming aware of the same thing and acting in a very similar way."

"The first thing you feel, when you set out on a journey like this, is that you'll never arrive. Then you feel insecure, abandoned, and spend all your time thinking about giving up. But if you can last a week, then you'll make it to the end."

"I've been wandering like a pilgrim through the streets of one city, and yesterday I arrived in a different one. May I bless you?"

He gave me a strange look.

"I'm not traveling for religious reasons. Are you a priest?"

"No, I'm not a priest, but I feel that I should bless you. Some things aren't logical, as you know."

The Dutchman called Jan, whom I would never see again, bowed his head and closed his eyes. I placed my hands on his shoulders and, in my native tongue-which he wouldn't understand-I prayed that he would reach his destination safely and leave behind him on the Silk Road both his sadness and his sense that life was meaningless; I prayed, too, that he would return to his family with shining eyes and with his soul washed clean.