No, when I need to do something urgent, something that requires creative energy, this is my working method: I get into a state of near hysteria, decide to abandon the task altogether, and then the article appears. I've tried doing things differently, preparing everything carefully, but my imagination only works when it's under enormous pressure. I must respect the Favor Bank, I must write three pages about--guess what!--the problems of male-female relationships. Me, of all people! But the editors believe that the man who wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew must know the human soul well.
I try to log on to the Internet, but it's not working. It's never been the same since I destroyed the connection. I called various technicians, but when they finally turned up, they could find nothing wrong with the computer. They asked me what I was complaining about, spent half an hour doing tests, changed the configuration, and assured me that the problem lay not with me but with the server. I allowed myself to be convinced that everything was, in fact, fine, and I felt ridiculous for having asked for help. Two or three hours later, the computer and the connection would both crash. Now, after months of physical and psychological wear and tear, I simply accept that technology is stronger and more powerful than me: it works when it wants to, and when it doesn't, it's best to sit down and read the paper or go for a walk, and just wait until the cables and the telephone links are in a better mood and the computer decides to work again. I am not, I have discovered, my computer's master: it has a life of its own.
I try a few more times, but I know from experience that it's best just to give up. The Internet, the biggest library in the world, has closed its doors to me for the moment. What about reading a few magazines in search of inspiration? I pick up one that has just arrived in the post and read a strange interview with a woman who has recently published a book about--guess what?--love. The subject seems to be pursuing me everywhere.
The journalist asks if the only way a human being can find happiness is by finding his or her beloved. The woman says no.
The idea that love leads to happiness is a modern invention, dating from the end of the seventeenth century. Ever since then, people have been taught to believe that love should last forever and that marriage is the best place in which to exercise that love. In the past, there was less optimism about the longevity of passion. Romeo and Juliet isn't a happy story, it's a tragedy. In the last few decades, expectations about marriage as the road to personal fulfilment have grown considerably, as have disappointment and dissatisfaction.
It's quite a brave thing to say, but no good for my article, mainly because I don't agree with her at all. I search my shelves for a book that has nothing to do with male-female relationships: Magical Practices in North Mexico. Since obsession will not help me to write my article, I need to refresh my mind, to relax.
I start leafing through it and suddenly I read something that surprises me:
The acomodador or giving-up point: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress: a trauma, a particularly bitter defeat, a disappointment in love, even a victory that we did not quite understand, can make cowards of us and prevent us from moving on. As part of the process of increasing his hidden powers, the shaman must first free himself from that giving-up point and, to do so, he must review his whole life and find out where it occurred.
The acomodador. This fit in with my experience of learning archery--the only sport I enjoyed--for the teacher of archery says that no shot can ever be repeated, and there is no point trying to learn from good or bad shots. What matters is repeating it hundreds and thousands of times, until we have freed ourselves from the idea of hitting the target and have ourselves become the arrow, the bow, the target. At that moment, the energy of the "thing" (my teacher of kyudo--the form of Japanese archery I practiced--never used the word "God") guides our movements and then we begin to release the arrow not when we want to, but when the "thing" believes that the moment has come.
The acomodador. Another part of my personal history resurfaces. If only Marie were here! I need to talk about myself, about my childhood, to tell her how, when I was little, I was always fighting and beating up the other children because I was the oldest in the class. One day, my cousin gave me a thrashing, and I was convinced from then on that I would never ever win another fight, and since then I have avoided any physical confrontation, even though this has often meant me behaving like a coward and being humiliated in front of girlfriends and friends alike.
The acomodador. For two years, I tried to learn how to play the guitar. To begin with, I made rapid progress, but then reached a point where I could progress no further, because I discovered that other people were learning faster than I was, which made me feel mediocre; and so as not to have to feel ashamed, I decided that I was no longer interested in learning. The same thing happened with snooker, football, bicycle racing. I learned enough to do everything reasonably well, but there was always a point where I got stuck.
Why?
Because according to the story we are told, there always comes a moment in our lives when we reach "our limit." I often recalled my struggle to deny my destiny as a writer and how Esther had always refused to allow the acomodador to lay down rules for my dream. The paragraph I had just read fit in with the idea of forgetting one's personal history and being left only with the instinct that develops out of the various difficulties and tragedies one has experienced. This is what the shamans of Mexico did and what the nomads on the steppes of Central Asia preached.
The acomodador: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress.
It described exactly what happens in marriages in general and what had happened in my relationship with Esther in particular.
I could now write my article for that magazine. I went over to the computer and within half an hour I had written a first draft and was happy with the result. I wrote a story in the form of a dialogue, as if it were fiction, but which was, in fact, a conversation I had had in a hotel room in Amsterdam, after a day spent promoting my books and after the usual publishers' supper and the statutory tour of the sights, etc.
In my article, the names of the characters and the situation in which they find themselves are omitted. In real life, Esther is in her nightdress and is looking out at the canal outside our window. She has not yet become a war correspondent, her eyes are still bright with joy, she loves her work, travels with me whenever she can, and life is still one big adventure. I am lying on the bed in silence; my mind is far away, worrying about the next day's appointments.
Last week, I interviewed a man who's an expert in police interrogations. He told me that they get most of their information by using a technique they call 'cold-hot.' They always start with a very aggressive policeman who says he has no intention of sticking to the rules, who shouts and thumps the table. When he has scared the prisoner nearly witless, the 'good cop' comes in and tells his colleague to stop, offers the prisoner a cigarette, pretends to be his friend, and gets the information he wants."
"Yes, I've heard about that."
"Then he told me about something else that really frightened me. In 1971, a group of researchers at Stanford University, in California, decided to create a simulated prison in order to study the psychology of interrogations. They selected twenty-four student volunteers and divided them into 'guards' and 'criminals.'
"After just one week, they had to stop the experiment. The 'guards'--girls and boys with normal decent values, from nice families--had become real monsters. The use of torture had become routine and the sexual abuse of 'prisoners' was seen as normal. The students who took part in the project, both 'guards' and 'criminals,' suffered major trauma and needed long-term medical help, and the experiment was never repeated."
"Interesting."
"What do you mean 'interesting'? I'm talking about something of real importance: man's capacity to do evil whenever he's given the chance. I'm talking about my work, about the things I've learned!"
> "That's what I found interesting. Why are you getting so angry?"
"Angry? How could I possibly get angry with someone who isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to what I'm saying? How can I possibly be angry with someone who isn't even provoking me, who's just lying there, staring into space?"
"How much did you have to drink tonight?"
"You don't even know the answer to that, do you? I've been by your side all evening, and you've no idea whether I've had anything to drink or not! You only spoke to me when you wanted me to confirm something you had said or when you needed me to tell some flattering story about you!"
"Look, I've been working all day and I'm exhausted. Why don't you come to bed and sleep? We can talk in the morning."
"Because I've been doing this for weeks and months, for the last two years in fact! I try to have a conversation, but you're always tired, so we say, all right, we'll go to sleep and talk tomorrow. But tomorrow there are always other things to do, another day of work and publishers' suppers, so we say, all right, we'll go to sleep and talk tomorrow. That's how I'm spending my life, waiting for the day when I can have you by my side again, until I've had my fill; that's all I ask, to create a world where I can always find refuge if I need it: not so far away that I can't be seen to be having an independent life, and not so close that it looks as if I'm invading your universe."
"What do you want me to do? Stop working? Give up everything we've struggled so hard to achieve and go off on a cruise to the Caribbean? Don't you understand that I enjoy what I'm doing and haven't the slightest intention of changing my life?"
"In your books, you talk about the importance of love, the need for adventure, the joy of fighting for your dreams. And who do I have before me now? Someone who doesn't read what he writes. Someone who confuses love with convenience, adventure with taking unnecessary risks, joy with obligation. Where is the man I married, who used to listen to what I was saying?"
"Where is the woman I married?"
"You mean the one who always gave you support, encouragement, and affection? Her body is here, looking out at the Singel Canal in Amsterdam, and she will, I believe, stay with you for the rest of her life. But that woman's soul is standing at the door ready to leave."
"But why?"
"Because of those three wretched words: We'll talk tomorrow. Isn't that enough? If not, just consider that the woman you married was excited about life, full of ideas and joy and desires, and is now rapidly turning into a housewife."
"That's ridiculous."
"Of course it is! It's nonsense! A trifle, especially considering that we have everything we could possibly want. We're very fortunate, we have money, we never discuss any little flings we might have, we never have jealous rages. Besides, there are millions of children in the world starving to death, there are wars, diseases, hurricanes, tragedies happening every second. So what can I possibly have to complain about?"
"Do you think we should have a baby?"
"That's how all the couples I know resolve their problems--by having a baby! You're the one who has always prized your freedom and put off having children for later on. Have you really changed your mind?"
"I think the time is right."
"Well, in my opinion, you couldn't be more wrong! I don't want your child. I want a child by the man I knew, who had dreams, who was always by my side! If I ever do become pregnant it will be by someone who understands me, keeps me company, listens to me, who truly desires me!"
"You have been drinking. Look, I promise, we'll talk tomorrow, but, please, come to bed now, I'm tired."
"All right, we'll talk tomorrow. And if my soul, which is standing at the door, does decide to leave, I doubt it will affect our lives very much."
"Your soul won't leave."
"You used to know my soul very well, but you haven't spoken to it for years, you don't know how much it has changed, how desperately it's begging you to listen. Even to banal topics of conversation, like experiments at American universities."
"If your soul has changed so much, how come you're the same?"
"Out of cowardice. Because I genuinely think that tomorrow we will talk. Because of everything we've built together and which I don't want to see destroyed. Or for that worst of all possible reasons, because I've simply given up."
"That's just what you've been accusing me of doing."
"You're right. I looked at you, thinking it was you I was looking at, but the truth is I was looking at myself. Tonight I'm going to pray with all my might and all my faith and ask God not to let me spend the rest of my days like this."
I hear the applause, the theater is packed. I'm about to do the one thing that always gives me sleepless nights, I'm about to give a lecture.
The master of ceremonies begins by saying that there's no need to introduce me, which is a bit much really, since that's what he's there for and he isn't taking into account the possibility that there might be lots of people in the audience who have simply been invited along by friends. Despite what he says, however, he ends up giving a few biographical details and talking about my qualities as a writer, the prizes I've won, and the millions of books I've sold. He thanks the sponsors, turns to me, and the floor is mine.
I thank him too. I tell the audience that the most important things I have to say are in my books, but that I feel I have an obligation to my public to reveal the man who lies behind those words and paragraphs. I explain that our human condition makes us tend to share only the best of ourselves, because we are always searching for love and approval. My books, however, will only ever be the mountaintop visible in the clouds or an island in the ocean: the light falls on it, everything seems to be in its place, but beneath the surface lies the unknown, the darkness, the incessant search for self.
I describe how difficult it was to write A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, and that there are many parts of the book which I myself am only beginning to understand now, as I reread it, as if the created thing were always greater and more generous than its creator.
I say that there is nothing more boring than reading interviews or going to lectures by authors who insist on explaining the characters in their books: if a book isn't self-explanatory, then the book isn't worth reading. When a writer appears in public, he should attempt to show the audience his universe, not try to explain his books; and in this spirit, I begin talking about something more personal.
"Some time ago, I was in Geneva for a series of interviews. At the end of a day's work, and because a woman friend I was supposed to have supper with canceled at the last minute, I set off for a stroll around the city. It was a particularly lovely night, the streets were deserted, the bars and restaurants still full of life, and everything seemed utterly calm, orderly, pretty, and yet suddenly...suddenly I realized that I was utterly alone.
"Needless to say, I had been alone on other occasions during the year. Needless to say, my girlfriend was only two hours away by plane. Needless to say, after a busy day, what could be better than a stroll through the narrow streets and lanes of the old city, without having to talk to anyone, simply enjoying the beauty around me. And yet the feeling that surfaced was one of oppressive, distressing loneliness--not having someone with whom I could share the city, the walk, the things I'd like to say.
"I got out my cell phone; after all, I had a reasonable number of friends in the city, but it was too late to phone anyone. I considered going into one of the bars and ordering a drink; someone was bound to recognize me and invite me to join them. But I resisted the temptation and tried to get through that moment, discovering, in the process, that there is nothing worse than the feeling that no one cares whether we exist or not, that no one is interested in what we have to say about life, and that the world can continue turning without our awkward presence.
"I began to imagine how many millions of people were, at that moment, feeling utterly useless and wretched--however rich, charming, and delightful they might be--because they were alone that night, as they were
yesterday, and as they might well be tomorrow. Students with no one to go out with, older people sitting in front of the TV as if it were their sole salvation, businessmen in their hotel rooms, wondering if what they were doing made any sense, women who spent the afternoon carefully applying their makeup and doing their hair in order to go to a bar only to pretend that they're not looking for company; all they want is confirmation that they're still attractive; the men ogle them and chat them up, but the women reject them all disdainfully, because they feel inferior and are afraid the men will find out that they're single mothers or lowly clerks with nothing to say about what's going on in the world because they work from dawn to dusk to scrape a living and have no time to read the newspapers. People who look at themselves in the mirror and think themselves ugly, believing that being beautiful is what really matters, and spend their time reading magazines in which everyone is pretty, rich, and famous. Husbands and wives who wish they could talk over supper as they used to, but there are always other things demanding their attention, more important things, and the conversation can always wait for a tomorrow that never comes.
"That day, I had lunch with a friend who had just got divorced and she said to me: 'Now I can enjoy the freedom I've always dreamed of having.' But that's a lie. No one wants that kind of freedom: we all want commitment, we all want someone to be beside us to enjoy the beauties of Geneva, to discuss books, interviews, films, or even to share a sandwich with because there isn't enough money to buy one each. Better to eat half a sandwich than a whole one. Better to be interrupted by the man who wants to get straight back home because there's a big game on TV tonight or by the woman who stops outside a shop window and interrupts what we were saying about the cathedral tower, far better that than to have the whole of Geneva to yourself with all the time and quiet in the world to visit it.
"Better to go hungry than to be alone. Because when you're alone--and I'm talking here about an enforced solitude not of our choosing--it's as if you were no longer part of the human race.