Aleph (23 page)

B
EFORE ME NOW STANDS A MAN
, not a woman, although the women who stayed behind on the lakeshore with Hilal doubtless have the same powers. I don’t question his presence here, for both sexes possess the gift that will allow them to enter into contact with the unknown, as long as they are open to their “feminine side.” What lies behind my lack of enthusiasm for this meeting is knowing just how far humanity has drifted from its origins and contact with the Dream of God.

The shaman is lighting a fire in a hollow he dug to protect the flames from the wind that continues to blow. He places a kind of drum next to the fire and opens a bottle containing some unfamiliar liquid. The shaman in Siberia—where the term originated—is following the same rituals as
pajé
in the Amazonian jungle, as
hechiceros
in Mexico, as
Candomblé
priests from Africa, spiritualists in France,
curanderos
in indigenous American tribes, aborigines in Australia, charismatics in the Catholic Church, Mormons in Utah, et cetera.

That is what is so surprising about these traditions, which seem to live in eternal conflict with one another. They meet on the same spiritual plane and are to be found all over the world, even though they have nothing to do with one another on the physical plane. That is the Great Mother saying, “Sometimes my children have eyes but cannot see, ears but cannot hear. I will therefore demand that some should not be deaf and blind to me. They may have to pay a high price, but they will be responsible for keeping the Tradition alive, and one day my blessings will return to the Earth.”

The shaman begins to beat on the drum, gradually getting faster and faster. He says something to Yao, who immediately translates: “He didn’t use the word ‘qi,’ but he says the qi will come on the wind.”

The wind is getting stronger. Even though I am well wrapped up—special anorak, thick woolen gloves, and a scarf up to my eyes—it’s not enough. My nose appears to have lost all feeling; small ice crystals gather on my eyebrows and beard. Yao is kneeling, his legs folded neatly beneath him. I try to do the same but have to keep changing position because I’m wearing ordinary trousers and the chill wind penetrates them, numbing my muscles and causing painful cramps.

The flames dance wildly about but do not go out. The drumming grows more furious. The shaman is trying to make his heart keep time with the beating of his hand on the leather skin, the bottom part of the drum being left open to let in the spirits. In the Afro-Brazilian tradition, this is the moment when the medium or priest lets his soul
leave his body, allowing another, more experienced being to occupy it. The only difference is that in my country there is no precise moment for what Yao calls qi to manifest itself.

I cease being a mere observer and decide to join in the trance. I try to make my heart keep time with the beats. I close my eyes and empty my mind, but the cold and the wind won’t allow me to go further than that. I need to change position again; I open my eyes and notice that the shaman is holding a few feathers in one hand—possibly from some rare local bird. According to traditions throughout the world, birds are the messengers of the gods. They help the shaman rise up and speak with the spirits.

Yao has his eyes open, too; only the shaman will enter that ecstatic state. The wind increases in intensity. I am feeling colder and colder, but the shaman appears to be utterly impervious. The ritual continues. He opens the bottle containing the greenish liquid, takes a drink, and hands the bottle to Yao, who also drinks before handing it to me. Out of respect, I follow suit and take a mouthful of the sugary, slightly alcoholic mixture, then return the bottle to the shaman.

The drumming continues, interrupted only when the shaman pauses to trace a shape on the ground, symbols I have never seen before and which resemble some long-since-vanished form of writing. Strange noises emerge from his throat, like the greatly amplified cries of birds. The drumming is getting louder and faster all the time; the cold doesn’t seem to bother me much now, and suddenly, the wind stops.

I need no explanations. What Yao calls qi is here. The
three of us look at one another, and a kind of calm descends. The person before me is not the same man who steered the boat or who asked Hilal to stay behind on the shore; his features have changed, and he looks younger, more feminine.

He and Yao talk in Russian for a while—how long, I can’t say. The horizon brightens. The moon is rising. I accompany it on its new journey across the sky, its silvery rays reflected in the waters of the lake, which, from one moment to the next, have grown utterly still. To my left, the lights of the village come on. I feel completely serene, trying to take in as much of this moment as I can, because I had not expected this; it was simply lying in my path, along with many other moments. If only the unexpected always wore this pretty, peaceful face.

Finally, through Yao, the shaman asks me why I am here.

“To be with my friend, who had made a promise to return here. To honor your art. And to share with you in the contemplation of the mystery.”

“The man beside you does not believe in anything,” says the shaman through Yao. “He has come here several times in order to speak to his wife, and yet he still does not believe. Poor woman! Instead of walking with God while she awaits her time to return to Earth, she has to keep coming back to console this poor unfortunate. She leaves the warmth of the divine Sun for this wretched Siberian cold because love will not let her go!”

The shaman laughs.

“Why don’t you tell him?” I ask.

“I have, but he, like most people I know, won’t accept what he considers to be a loss.”

“Pure selfishness.”

“Yes, pure selfishness. People like him would like time to stop or go backward, and by doing so, they prevent the souls of their loved ones from moving on.”

The shaman laughs again.

“When his wife passed onto another plane, he killed God, and he will keep coming back once, twice, ten times, to try again and again to talk to her. He doesn’t ask for help in order to understand life better. He wants things to conform to his way of seeing life and death.”

He pauses and looks around him. It is now completely dark, apart from the light from the flames.

“I cannot cure despair when people find comfort in it.”

“Who am I talking to?”

“You are a believer.”

I repeat the question, and he answers: “Valentina.”

A woman.

“The man at my side may be slightly foolish when it comes to things spiritual,” I say, “but he is an excellent human being, prepared for anything except what he calls the ‘death’ of his wife. The man at my side is a good man.”

The shaman nods. “So are you. You came with a friend who has been by your side for a long time, long before you met in this life. As have I.” Another laugh. “It was in a different place, and we met the same fate in battle, what your friend here calls ‘death.’ I don’t know in which country it was, but the wounds were caused by bullets. Warriors meet again. It is part of the divine law.”

He throws some herbs onto the flames, explaining that we have done this, too, in another life, sitting around a fire and talking about our adventures.

“Your spirit converses with the eagle of Baikal, which watches over and guards everything, attacking enemies and protecting and defending friends.”

As if to confirm his words, we hear a bird far off. The feeling of cold has been replaced by one of well-being. He again holds out the bottle to us.

“Fermented drinks are alive; they pass from youth to old age. When they reach maturity, they can destroy the Spirit of Inhibition, the Spirit of Loneliness, the Spirit of Fear, the Spirit of Anxiety. But if you drink too much of them, they rebel and usher in the Spirit of Defeat and Aggression. It’s all a matter of knowing when to stop.”

We drink and celebrate.

“At this moment, your body is on the earth, but your spirit is with me up here in the heights, and that is all I can offer you: a stroll through the skies above Baikal. You did not come here to ask for anything, and so I will give you only that. I hope it will inspire you to continue doing what you do.

“Be blessed. And just as you are transforming your own life, may you transform the lives of those around you. When they ask, do not forget to give. When they knock at your door, be sure to open it. When they lose something and come to you, do whatever you can to help them find what they have lost. First, though, ask; knock at the door and find out what is missing from your life. A hunter always knows what to expect—eat or be eaten.”

I nod.

“You have experienced this before and will do so many times,” the shaman goes on. “Someone who is your friend is also a friend of the eagle of Baikal. Nothing special will
happen tonight; you will have no visions, no magical experiences or trances that bring you into contact with the living or the dead. You will receive no special power. You will merely feel joy when the eagle of Baikal shows the lake to your soul. You will see nothing, but up above, your spirit will be filled with delight.”

My spirit is indeed filled with delight, even though I can see nothing. I don’t have to. I know he is telling the truth. When my spirit returns to my body, it will be wiser and calmer.

Time stops, because I can no longer keep track of it. The flames flicker, casting strange shadows on the shaman’s face, but I am barely here. I allow my spirit to go strolling; it needs to, after so much work and effort by my side. I don’t feel cold anymore. I don’t feel anything. I am free and will remain so for as long as the eagle of Baikal is flying over the lake and the snowy mountains. It’s a shame that my spirit cannot tell me what it sees, but then again, I don’t need to know everything that happens to me.

The wind is getting up again. The shaman makes a low bow to the earth and to the sky. The fire, in the shelter of its hole, suddenly goes out. I look at the moon, which is high in the sky now, and I can see the shapes of birds flying around us. The shaman is once again an old man. He seems tired as he puts his drum back into a large embroidered bag.

Yao sticks his hand in his left pocket and pulls out a handful of coins and notes. I do the same. Yao says, “We went begging for the eagle of Baikal. Here is what we received.”

The shaman bows and thanks us for the money, and we all walk unhurriedly back to the boat. The sacred island of
the shamans has its own spirit; it is dark, and we can never be sure that we are putting our feet in the right place.

When we reach the shore, we look for Hilal, but the two women explain that she has gone back to the hotel. Only then do I realize that the shaman did not mention her once.

T
HE HEAT IN MY ROOM
is still on maximum. Before even bothering to reach for the light switch, I take off my anorak, hat, and scarf, and go over to the window, intending to open it and let in a little fresh air. The hotel is on a small hill, and I can see the lights of the village below going out one by one. I stand there for a while, imagining the marvels that my spirit must have seen. Then, just as I’m about to turn around, I hear a voice saying, “Don’t turn around.”

Hilal is there, and the tone in which she says these words frightens me. She sounds deadly serious.

“I’m armed.”

No, that’s impossible. Unless those women …

“Take a few steps back.”

I do as ordered.

“A little more. That’s it. Now take a step to the right. Okay, stop there.”

I’m not thinking anymore. The survival instinct has taken charge of all my reactions. In a matter of seconds my mind has processed my options: I could throw myself on
the floor or try to strike up a conversation or simply wait and see what she does next. If she really is determined to kill me, she’ll do so soon, but if she doesn’t shoot in the next few minutes, she’ll start talking, and that will improve my chances.

There is a deafening noise, an explosion, and I find myself covered in shards of glass. The bulb above my head has burst.

“In my right hand I have my bow, and in my left my violin. No, don’t turn around.”

I stay where I am and breathe a sigh of relief. There’s nothing magical or special about what has just happened; opera singers can shatter a champagne glass, for example, by singing a particular note that makes the air vibrate at a frequency that can cause very fragile objects to break.

The bow touches the strings again, producing the same piercing sound.

“I know what happened. I saw it. The women took me there with no need for a ring of light.”

She’s seen it.

An immense weight is lifted off my glass-strewn shoulders. Yao doesn’t know it, but our journey to this place is also part of my journey back to my kingdom. I didn’t need to tell her anything. She had seen it.

“You abandoned me when I most needed you. I died because of you and have returned now to haunt you.”

“You’re not haunting me or frightening me. I was forgiven.”

“You forced me to forgive you. I didn’t know what I was doing.”