Aleph by Paulo Coelho Read Free Book Online

Moscow, or in London, Sofia, Tunis, Kiev, Santiago de Compostela, Guimarães, or any of the other cities I’ve visited in the last month and a half.
    I can hear an argument going on behind me, but I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. The argument, however, shows no sign of abating. Finally, I turn around and ask my publisher what the problem is.
    “It’s that girl from yesterday. She says she wants to be near you.”
    I can’t even recall the girl from yesterday, but I ask them at least to stop arguing. I carry on signing books.
    Someone sits down close to me only to be removed by one of the uniformed security guards, and the argument starts again. I stop what I’m doing.
    Beside me is the girl whose eyes speak of love and death. For the first time, I take a proper look at her: dark hair, between twenty-two and twenty-nine years old (I’m useless at judging people’s ages), a beat-up leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
    “We’ve checked the backpack,” says the security man, “and there’s nothing to worry about. But she can’t stay here.”
    The girl simply smiles. A reader is waiting for this conversation to end so that I can sign his books. I realize that the girl is not going to leave.
    “My name’s Hilal, don’t you remember? I came to light the sacred fire.”
    I lie and say that yes, of course I remember. The people in the queue are beginning to grow impatient. The reader at the head of the queue says something in Russian to her, and judging from his tone of voice, I sense that it was nothing very pleasant.
    There is a proverb in Portuguese, that says, “What can’t be cured must be endured.” Since I don’t have time for arguments now and need to make a quick decision, I simply ask her to move slightly farther off, so that I can have a little privacy with the people waiting. She does as asked, and goes to stand at a discreet distance from me.
    Seconds later, I have once again forgotten her existence and am concentrating on the task at hand. Everyone thanks me, and I thank them in return, and the four hours pass as if I were in paradise. I take a cigarette break every hour, but I’m not in the least tired. I leave each book-signing session with my batteries recharged and with more energy than ever.
    Afterward, I call for a round of applause for the organizers. It’s time to move on to my next engagement. The girl whose existence I had forgotten comes over to me.
    “I have something important to show you,” she says.
    “That’s not going to be possible,” I say. “I have a supper to go to.”
    “It’s perfectly possible,” she replies. “My name is Hilal. I was waiting for you yesterday outside your hotel. And I can show you what I want to show you here and now, while you’re waiting to leave.”
    Before I can respond, she takes a violin out of her backpack and starts to play.
    The readers, who had begun to drift away, return for this impromptu concert. Hilal plays with her eyes closed, as if she were in a trance. I watch the bow moving back and forth, lightly touching the strings and producing this music, which, even though I’ve never heard it before, is saying something that I and everyone else present need to hear. Sometimes she pauses; sometimes she seems to be in a state of ecstasy; sometimes her whole being dances with the instrument; but mostly only her upper body and her hands move.
    Every note leaves in each of us a memory, but it is the melody as a whole that tells a story, the story of someone wanting to get closer to another person and who keeps on trying, despite repeated rejections. While Hilal is playing, I remember the many occasions on which help has come from precisely those people whom I thought had nothing to add to my life.
    When she stops playing, there is no applause, nothing, only an almost palpable silence.
    “Thank you,” I say.
    “I’ve shared a little of my soul, but there is still a lot to do before I can fulfill my mission. May I come with