"People like us," she responds, proud to know the meaning of the word. "People who are free and manage to live with only what they can carry."
I correct her:
"That's not quite true. They're not poor."
"What do you know about poverty?" The tall, aggressive man, who now has even more vodka in his veins, looks straight at me. "Do you really think that poverty has to do with having no money? Do you think we're miserable wretches just because we go around begging money from rich writers and guilt-ridden couples, from tourists who think how terribly squalid Paris has become or from idealistic young people who think they can save the world? You're the one who's poor--you have no control over your time, you can't do what you want, you're forced to follow rules you didn't invent and which you don't understand..."
Mikhail again interrupted the conversation and asked the woman:
"What did you actually want to know?"
"I wanted to know why you're telling us your story when the old nomad said you should forget it."
"It's not my story anymore: whenever I speak about the past now, I feel as if I were talking about something that has nothing to do with me. All that remains in the present are the voice, the presence, and the importance of fulfilling my mission. I don't regret the difficulties I experienced; I think they helped me to become the person I am today. I feel the way a warrior must feel after years of training: he doesn't remember the details of everything he learned, but he knows how to strike when the time is right."
"And why did you and that journalist keep coming to visit us?"
"To take nourishment. As the old nomad from the steppes said, the world we know today is merely a story someone has told to us, but it is not the true story. The other st
ory includes special gifts and powers and the ability to go beyond what we know. I have lived with the presence ever since I was a child and, for a time, was even capable of seeing her, but Esther showed me that I was not alone. She introduced me to other people with special gifts, people who could bend forks by sheer force of will, or carry out surgery using rusty penknives and without anaesthesia, so that the patient could get up after the operation and leave.
"I am still learning to develop my unknown potential, but I need allies, people like you who have no personal history."
I felt like telling my story to these strangers too, in order to begin the process of freeing myself from the past, but it was late and I had to get up early the next day to see the doctor and have him remove the orthopedic collar.
I asked Mikhail if he wanted a lift, but he said no, he needed to walk a little, because he felt Esther's absence particularly acutely that night. We left the group and headed for a street where I would be able to find a taxi.
"I think that woman was right," I said. "If you tell a story, then that means you're still not really free of it."
"I am free, but, as I'm sure you'll understand, therein lies the secret; there are always some stories that are 'interrupted,' and they are the stories that remain nearest to the surface and so still occupy the present; only when we close that story or chapter can we begin the next one."
I remembered reading something similar on the Internet; it was attributed to me, although I didn't write it:
That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Don't expect to get anything back, don't expect recognition for your efforts, don't expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle. Not out of pride, inability, or arrogance, but simply because whatever it is no longer fits in your life. Close the door, change the record, clean the house, get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are.
But I had better find out what Mikhail means.
"What are 'interrupted stories'?"
"Esther isn't here. She reached a point where she could go no further in the process of emptying herself of unhappiness and allowing joy to flow in. Why? Because her story, like that of millions of other people, is bound up with the energy of love. It can't evolve on its own: she must either stop loving or wait until her beloved comes to her.
"In failed marriages, when one person stops walking, the other is forced to do the same. And while he or she is waiting, other lovers appear, or there is charitable work to get involved in, there are the children to worry about, there are long hours at the office, etc. It would be much easier to talk openly about things, to insist, to yell: 'Let's move on, we're dying of tedium, anxiety, fear.'"
"Are you telling me that Esther can't continue with the process of freeing herself from sadness because of me?"
"No, that's not what I meant. I don't believe that one person can blame another, under any circumstances. All I said was that she has a choice between stopping loving you or making you come to her."
"That's what she's doing."
"I know, but, if it were up to me, we would only go to her when the voice allows us to."
Right, this should be the last you see of the orthopedic collar. I certainly hope so anyway. But, please, avoid making any sudden movements. Your muscles need to get used to working on their own again. By the way, what happened to the girl who made those predictions?"
"What girl? What predictions?"
"Didn't you tell me at the hospital that someone had claimed to hear a voice warning that something was going to happen to you?"
"Oh, it wasn't a girl. And you said you were going to find out about epilepsy for me."