"Would you like me to come with you?"
She accepted at once. We arrived at the restaurant, ordered some wine, and started to drink. I was drinking in order to get up the courage to say what I thought I was feeling, although it seemed absurd to me to be declaring my love to someone I hardly knew. And she was drinking because she was afraid of talking about what she didn't know.
After the second glass of wine, I realized how on edge she was. I tried to hold her hand, but she gently pulled away.
"I can't be afraid."
"Of course you can, Athena. I often feel afraid, and yet, when I need to, I go ahead and face up to whatever it is I'm afraid of."
I was on edge too. I refilled our glasses. The waiter kept coming over to ask what we'd like to eat, and I kept telling him that we'd order later.
I was talking about whatever came into my head. Athena was listening politely, but she seemed far away, in some dark universe full of ghosts. At one point, she told me again about the woman in Scotland and what she'd said. I asked if it made sense to teach what you didn't know.
"Did anyone ever teach you how to love?" she replied.
Could she be reading my thoughts?
"And yet," she went on, "you're as capable of love as any other human being. How did you learn? You didn't, you simply believe. You believe, therefore you love."
"Athena..."
I hesitated, then managed to finish my sentence, although not at all as I had intended.
"...perhaps we should order some food."
I realized that I wasn't yet prepared to mention the things that were troubling my world. I called the waiter over and ordered some starters, then some more starters, a main dish, a pudding, and another bottle of wine. The more time I had, the better.
"You're acting strangely. Was it my comment about your books? You do what you like. It's not my job to change your world. I was obviously sticking my nose in where it wasn't wanted."
I had been thinking about that business of "changing the world" only a few seconds before.
"Athena, you're always telling me about...no, I need to talk about something that happened in that bar in Sibiu, with the gypsy music."
"In the restaurant, you mean?"
"Yes, in the restaurant. Today we were discussing books, the things that we accumulate and that take up space. Perhaps you're right. There's something I've been wanting to do ever since I saw you dancing that night. It weighs more and more heavily on my heart."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do. I'm talking about the love I'm discovering now and doing my best to destroy before it reveals itself. I'd like you to accept it. It's the little I have of myself, but it's not my own. It's not exclusively yours, because there's someone else in my life, but I would be happy if you could accept it anyway. An Arab poet from your country, Khalil Gibran, says: 'It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked.' If I don't say everything I need to say tonight, I'll merely be a spectator watching events unfold rather than the person actually experiencing them."
I took a deep breath. The wine had helped me to free myself.
She drained her glass, and I did the same. The waiter appeared with the food, making a few comments about the various dishes, explaining the ingredients and the way in which they had been cooked. Athena and I kept our eyes fixed on each other. Andrea had told me that this is what Athena had done when they met for the first time, and she was convinced it was simply a way of intimidating others.
The silence was terrifying. I imagined her getting up from the table and citing her famous, invisible boyfriend from Scotland Yard, or saying that she was very flattered, but she had to think about the class she was to give the next day.
"And is there anything you would withhold? Some day, all that you have shall be given. The trees give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish."
She was speaking quietly and carefully because of the wine she'd drunk, but her voice nevertheless silenced everything around us.
"And what greater merit shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."
She said all this without smiling. I felt as if I were conversing with a sphinx.
"Words written by the same poet you were quoting. I learned them at school, but I don't need the book where he w
rote those words. I've kept his words in my heart."