Aleph by Paulo Coelho Read Free Book Online Page A

you?”
    Generally speaking, pushy people provoke one of two reactions in me: either I turn and walk away or I allow myself to be beguiled. I can’t tell someone that their dreams are impossible. Not everyone has the strength of mind that Mônica showed in that bar in Catalonia, and if I were to persuade just one person to stop fighting for something they were convinced was worthwhile, I would end up persuading myself, and my whole life would be diminished.
    It has been a very satisfying day. I phone the Brazilian ambassador and ask if he could include another guest at supper. Very kindly, he agrees, saying that my readers are my representatives.
    D ESPITE THE FORMAL ATMOSPHERE , the ambassador manages to put everyone at ease. Hilal arrives wearing an outfit that I consider to be tasteless in the extreme, full of gaudy colors, in sharp contrast with the sober dress of the other guests. Not knowing quite where to put this last-minute arrival, the organizers end up seating her in the place of honor, next to our host.
    Before we sit down to supper, my best friend in Russia, an industrialist, explains that we’re going to have problems with the subagent, who spent the whole of the cocktail party prior to supper arguing with her husband over the phone.
    “About what, exactly?”
    “It seems that you agreed to go to the club where he’s the manager but canceled at the last minute.”
    There
was
something in my planner along the lines of “discuss the menu for the journey through Siberia,” which was the least and most irrelevant of my concerns on an afternoon during which I had received only positive energy. I canceled the meeting because it seemed so absurd; I’ve never discussed menus in my entire life. I preferred to go back to the hotel, take a shower, and let the sound of the water carry me off to places I can’t even explain to myself.
    Supper is served, parallel conversations spring up around the table, and, at one point, the ambassador’s wife kindly asks Hilal about herself.
    “I was born in Turkey and came to study violin in Ekaterinburg when I was twelve. I assume you know how musicians are selected?”
    No, the ambassador’s wife doesn’t. Suddenly, there seem to be fewer parallel conversations going on. Perhaps everyone is interested in that awkward young woman in the garish clothes.
    “Any child who starts playing an instrument has to practice for a set number of hours per week. At that stage, they’re all deemed capable of performing in an orchestra one day. As they grow older, some start practicing more than others. In the end, there is just a small group of outstanding students who practice for nearly forty hours a week. Scouts from big orchestras visit the music schools in search of new talent, who are then invited to turn professional. That’s what happened to me.”
    “It would seem that you found your vocation,” says the ambassador. “We’re not all so lucky.”
    “It wasn’t exactly my vocation. I started practicing a lot because I was sexually abused when I was ten.”
    All conversation around the table stops. The ambassador tries to change the subject and makes some comment about Brazil negotiating with Russia on the export and import of heavy machinery, but no one, absolutely no one, is interested in my country’s trade balance. It falls to me to pick up the thread of the story.
    “Hilal, if you wouldn’t mind, I think everyone here would be interested to know what relation there is between being a young victim of sexual abuse and becoming a violin virtuoso.”
    “What does your name mean?” asks the ambassador’s wife in a last desperate attempt to take the conversation off in another direction.
    “In Turkish it means ‘new moon.’ It’s the symbol on our national flag. My father was an ardent nationalist. Actually, it’s a name more common among boys than girls. It has another meaning in Arabic, apparently, but I don’t quite know what.”
    I refuse to be