This idea lasted a little more than four hours; later in the afternoon, I went to a church, lit a candle, and made another promise, this time a sacred, ritual promise: to try to find her. Marie was right. I was too old to continue deceiving myself by pretending I didn't care. I respected her decision to leave, but the very person who had helped me build my life had very nearly destroyed me. She had always been so brave. Why, this time, had she fled like a thief in the night, without looking her husband in the eye and explaining why? We were both old enough to act and face the consequences of our actions: my wife's (or, rather, my ex-wife's) behavior was completely out of character, and I needed to know why.
It was another week--an eternity--before the "performance" at the restaurant. In the next few days, I agreed to do interviews that I would never normally accept; I wrote various newspaper articles, practiced yoga and meditation, read a book about a Russian painter, another about a crime committed in Nepal, wrote prefaces for two books and recommendations for another four, something which publishers were always asking me to do, and which I usually refused.
There was still an awful lot of time to kill, so I decided to pay off a few debts at the Favor Bank--accepting supper invitations, giving brief talks at schools where the children of friends were studying, visiting a golf club, doing an improvised book signing at a bookshop on the Avenue de Suffren owned by a friend (he put an advertisement in the window three days before and all of twenty people turned up). My secretary remarked that I was obviously very happy, because she hadn't seen me so active in ages; I said that having a book on the bestseller list encouraged me to work even harder than I usually did.
There were two things I didn't do that week. First, I didn't read any unsolicited typescripts: according to my lawyers, these should always be returned immediately to the sender; otherwise, sooner or later I would run the risk of someone claiming that I had plagiarized one of their stories. (I've never understood why people send me their typescripts anyway--after all, I'm not a publisher.)
Second, I didn't look in an atlas to find out where Kazakhstan was, even though I knew that, in order to gain Mikhail's trust, I should try to find out a bit more about where he came from.
People are waiting patiently for someone to open the door that leads to the room at the back of the restaurant. The place has none of the charm of bars in St-Germain-desPres, no cups of coffee served with a small glass of water, no well-dressed, well-spoken people. It has none of the elegance of theater foyers, none of the magic of other shows being put on all over the city in small bistros, with the actors always trying their hardest, in the hope that some famous impresario will be in the audience and will introduce himself at the end of the show, tell them they're wonderful, and invite them to appear at some important arts center.
To be honest, I can't understand why the place is so full: I've never seen it mentioned in the magazines that specialize in listing entertainment and the arts in Paris.
While I'm waiting, I talk to the owner and learn that he is planning to turn the whole restaurant area into a theater.
"More and more people come every week," he says. "I agreed initially because a journalist asked me as a favor and said that, in return, he'd publish a review of my restaurant in his magazine. Besides, the room is rarely used on Thursdays, and while people are waiting, they have a meal; in fact, I probably make more money on a Thursday than I do on any other night of the week. The only thing that concerned me was that the actors might belong to a sect. As you probably know, the laws here are very strict."
Yes, I did know; certain people had even suggested that my books were linked to some dangerous philosophical trend, to a strand of religious teaching that was out of step with commonly accepted values. France, normally so liberal, was slightly paranoid about the subject. There had been a recent long report about the "brainwashing" practiced on certain unwary people. As if those same people were able to make all kinds of other choices about school, university, toothpaste, cars, films, husbands, wives, lovers, but, when it came to matters of faith, were easily manipulated.
"How do they advertise these events?" I ask.
"I've no idea. If I did, I'd use the same person to promote my restaurant."
And just to clear up any doubts, since he doesn't know who I am, he adds: "By the way, it isn't a sect. They really are just actors."
The door to the room is opened, the people flock in, depositing five euros in a small basket. Inside, standing impassive on the improvised stage, are two young men and two young women, all wearing full, white skirts, stiffly starched to make them stand out. As well as these four, there is an older man carrying a conga drum and a woman with a huge bronze cymbal covered in small, tinkling attachments; every time she inadvertently brushes against this instrument, it emits a sound like metallic rain.
Mikhail is one of the young men, although he looks completely different from the person I met at the book signing: his eyes, fixed on some point in space, shine with a special light.
The audience sits down on the chairs scattered around the room. Young men and women dressed in such a way that if you met them on the street, you would think they were into hard drugs. Middle-aged executives or civil servants with their wives. A few nine-or ten-year-old children, possibly brought by their parents. A few older people, who must have made a great effort to get here, since the nearest metro station is five blocks away.
They drink, smoke, talk loudly, as if the people on the stage did not exist. The volume of conversation gradually increases; there is much laughter, it's a real party atmosphere. A sect? Only if it's a confraternity of smokers. I glance anxiously about, thinking I can see Esther in all the women there, sometimes even when they bear no physical resemblance at all to my wife. (Why can't I get used to saying "my ex-wife"?)
I ask a well-dressed woman what this is all about. She doesn't seem to have the patience to respond; she looks at me as if I were a novice, a person who needs to be educated in the mysteries of life.
"Love stories," she says. "Stories and energy."
Stories and energy. Perhaps I had better not pursue the subject, although the woman appears to be perfectly normal. I consider asking someone else, but decide that it's best to say nothing. I'll find out soon enough for myself. A gentleman sitting by my side looks at me and smiles:
"I've read your books and so, of course, I know why you're here."
I'm shocked. Does he know about the relationship between Mikhail and my wife--I must again correct myself--the relationship between one of the people on stage and my ex-wife?
"An author like you would be bound to know about the Tengri. They're intimately connected with what you call 'warriors of light.'"
"Of course," I say, relieved.
And I think: I've never even heard of the Tengri.
Twenty minutes later, by which time the air in the room is thick with cigarette smoke, we hear the sound of that cymbal. Miraculously, the conversations stop, the anarchic atmosphere seems to take on a religious aura; audience and stage are equally silent; the only sounds one can hear come from the restaurant next door.
Mikhail, who appears to be in a trance and is still gazing at some point in the distance, begins:
"In the words of the Mongolian creation myth: 'There came a wild dog who was blue and gray and whose destiny was imposed on him by the heavens. His mate was a roe deer.'"
His voice sounds different, more feminine, more confident.
"Thus begins another love story. The wild dog with his courage and strength, the doe with her gentleness, intuition, and elegance. Hunter and hunted meet and love each other. According to the laws of nature, one should destroy the other, but in love there is neither good nor evil, there is neither construction nor destruction, there is merely movement. And love changes the laws of nature."
He gestures with his hand and the four people on stage turn on the spot.
"In the steppes where I come from, the wild dog is seen as a feminine creature. Sensitive, capable o
f hunting because he has honed his instincts, but timid too. He does not use brute force, but strategy. Courageous, cautious, quick. He can change in a second from a state of complete relaxation to the tension he needs to pounce on his prey."
Accustomed as I am to writing stories, I think: "And what about the doe?" Mikhail is equally used to telling stories and answers the question hanging in the air:
"The roe deer has the male attributes of speed and an understanding of the earth. The two travel along together in their symbolic worlds, two impossibilities who have found each other, and because they overcome their own natures and their barriers, they make the world possible too. That is the Mongolian creation myth: out of two different natures love is born. In contradiction, love grows in strength. In confrontation and transformation, love is preserved.
"We have our life. It took the world a long time and much effort to get where it is, and we organize ourselves as best we can; it isn't ideal, but we get along. And yet there is something missing, there is always something missing, and that is why we are gathered here tonight, so that we can help each other to think a little about the reason for our existence. Telling stories that make no sense, looking for facts that do not fit our usual way of perceiving reality, so that, perhaps in one or two generations, we can discover another way of living.
"As Dante wrote in The Divine Comedy, 'The day that man allows true love to appear, those things which are well made will fall into confusion and will overturn everything we believe to be right and true.' The world will become real when man learns how to love; until then we will live in the belief that we know what love is, but we will always lack the courage to confront it as it truly is.
"Love is an untamed force. When we try to control it, it destroys us. When we try to imprison it, it enslaves us. When we try to understand it, it leaves us feeling lost and confused.
"This force is on earth to make us happy, to bring us closer to God and to our neighbor, and yet, given the way that we love now, we enjoy one hour of anxiety for every minute of peace."
Mikhail paused. The strange cymbal sounded again.
"As on every Thursday, we are not going to tell stories about love. We are going to tell stories about the lack of love. We will see what lies on the surface--the layer where we find all our customs and values--in order to understand what lies beneath. When we penetrate beneath that layer we will find ourselves. Who would like to begin?"
Several people raised their hand. Mikhail pointed to a young woman of Arab appearance. She turned to a man on his own, on the other side of the room.
"Have you ever failed to get an erection when you've been to bed with a woman?"
Everyone laughed. The man, however, avoided giving a direct answer.
"Are you asking that because your boyfriend is impotent?"
Again everyone laughed. While Mikhail had been speaking, I had once more begun to suspect that this was indeed some new sect, but when sects hold meetings, I can't imagine that they smoke and drink and ask embarrassing questions about each other's sex lives.
"No, he's not," said the girl firmly. "But it has occasionally happened to him. And I know that if you had taken my question seriously, your answer would have been 'Yes, I have.' All men, in all cultures and countries, independent of any feelings of love or sexual attraction, have all experienced impotence at one time or another, often when they're with the person they most desire. It's normal."
Yes, it was normal, and the person who had told me this was a psychiatrist, to whom I went when I thought I had a problem.
The girl went on:
"But the story we're told is that all men can always get an erection. When he can't, the man feels useless, and the woman is convinced she isn't attractive enough to arouse him. Since it's a taboo subject, he can't talk to his friends about it. He tells the woman the old lie: 'It's never happened to me before.' He feels ashamed of himself and often runs away from someone with whom he could have had a really good relationship, if only he had allowed himself a second, third, or fourth chance. If he had trusted more in the love of his friends, if he had told the truth, he would have found out that he wasn't the only one. If he had trusted more in the love of the woman, he would not have felt humiliated."
Applause. Cigarettes are lit, as if a lot of the people there--men and women--feel a great sense of relief.
Mikhail points to a man who looks like an executive in some big multinational.
"I'm a lawyer and I specialize in contested divorces."
"What does that mean?" asks someone in the audience.
"It's when one of the parties won't agree to the separation," replies the lawyer, irritated at being interrupted and as if he found it absurd that anyone should not know the meaning of such a straightforward legal term.
"Go on," says Mikhail, with an authority that I would never have imagined in the young man I had met at the book signing.
The lawyer continues:
"Today I received a report from the London-based firm Human and Legal Resources. This is what it says:
(a) 'Two-thirds of all employees in a company have some kind of love relationship. Imagine! That means that in any office of three people, two will end up having some form of intimate contact.
(b) 'Ten percent leave their job because of this, 40 percent have relationships that last more than three months, and in the case of certain professions that require people to spend long periods away from home, at least eight out of ten end up having an affair.'
"Isn't that unbelievable?"
"Well, of course, we have to bow down to statistics!" remarks one of a group of young men who are all dressed as if they were members of some dangerous band of robbers. "We all believe in statistics! That means that my mother must be being unfaithful to my father, but it's not her fault, it's the fault of the statistics!"
More laughter, more cigarettes, more relief, as if the people in the audience were hearing things they had always been afraid to hear and that hearing them freed them from some kind of anxiety. I think about Esther and about Mikhail in "professions that require people to spend long periods away from home..."
I think about myself and the many times this has happened to me. They are, after all, statistics. We are not alone.
Other stories are told of jealousy, abandonment, depression, but I am no longer listening. My Zahir has returned in its full intensity--even though, for a few moments, I had believed I was merely engaging in a little group therapy, I am, in fact, in the same room as the man who stole my wife. My neighbor, the one who recognized me, asks if I'm enjoying myself. He distracts me for a moment from my Zahir, and I am happy to respond.
"I still can't quite see the point. It's like a self-help group, like Alcoholics Anonymous or marriage counseling."
"But doesn't what you hear strike you as genuine?"
"Possibly, but again, I can't see the point."
"This isn't the most important part of the evening; it's just a way of not feeling so alone. By talking about our lives, we come to realize that most people have experienced the same thing."
"And what's the practical result?"
"If we're not alone, then we have more strength to find out where we went wrong and to change direction. But, as I said, this is just an interval between what the young man says at the beginning and the moment when we invoke the energy."
"Who is the young man?"
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the cymbal. This time, it is the older man with the conga drum who speaks.
"The time for reasoning is over. Let us move on now to the ritual, to the emotion that crowns and transforms everything. For those of you who are here for the first time tonight, this dance develops our capacity to accept love. Love is the only thing that activates our intelligence and our creativity, that purifies and liberates us."
The cigarettes are extinguished, the clink of glasses stops. That same strange silence descends upon the room; one of the young women says a prayer:
"We wi
ll dance, Lady, in homage to you. May our dancing make us fly up to heaven."
Did I hear right? Did she say "Lady"? She did.
The other young woman lights the candles in four candelabra; the other lights are switched off. The four figures in white, with their starched white skirts, come down from the stage and mingle with the audience. For nearly half an hour, the second young man, with a voice that seems to emerge from his belly, intones a monotonous, repetitive song, which, curiously, makes me forget the Zahir a little and slip into a kind of somnolence. Even one of the children, who had kept running up and down during the "talking about love" session, is now quiet and still, her eyes fixed on the stage. Some of those present have their eyes closed, others are staring at the floor or at some invisible point in space, as I had seen Mikhail do.
When he stops singing, the percussion--the cymbal and the drum--strike up a rhythm familiar to me from religious ceremonies originating in Africa.
The white-clothed figures start to spin, and in that packed space, the audience makes room so that the wide skirts can trace movements in the air. The instruments play faster, the four spin ever faster too, emitting sounds that belong to no known language, as if they were speaking directly with angels or with the Lady.
My neighbor gets to his feet and begins to dance too and to utter incomprehensible words. Ten or twelve other people in the audience do the same, while the rest watch with a mixture of reverence and amazement.
I don't know how long the dance went on for, but the sound of the instruments seemed to keep time with the beating of my heart, and I felt an enormous desire to surrender myself, to say strange things, to move my body; it took a mixture of self-control and a sense of the absurd to stop myself from spinning like a mad thing on the spot. Meanwhile, as never before, the figure of Esther, my Zahir, seemed to hover before me, smiling, calling on me to praise the Lady.
I struggled not to enter into that unknown ritual, wanting it all to end as quickly as possible. I tried to concentrate on my main reason for being there that night--to talk to Mikhail, to have him take me to my Zahir--but I found it impossible to remain still. I got up from my chair and just as I was cautiously, shyly, taking my first steps, the music abruptly stopped.