Read Online Aleph by Paulo Coelho - Free Book Online

where I assume we will spend most of the time; and a kitchen.
    I go to my compartment, which consists of a double bed, a wardrobe, a table and a chair facing the window, and a door that opens onto one of the bathrooms. At the end is another door. I go over and open it and see that it leads into an empty room. It would seem that the two compartments share the same bathroom.
    Ah, it was obviously intended for the representative who did not turn up. But what does that matter?
    The whistle sounds. The train slowly starts to move. We all rush to the lounge window and wave good-bye to people we’ve never seen before. We watch the platform rapidly being left behind, the lights passing faster and faster, the tracks, the dim electric cables. I’m impressed by how quiet everyone is; none of us wants to talk, because we are all dreaming about what might happen, and no one, I’m sure, is thinking about what they’ve left behind but about what lies ahead.
    When the tracks disappear into the black night, we sit around the table. There’s a basket of fruit we could eat, but we had supper in Moscow. The only thing that awakens everyone’s interest is a gleaming bottle of vodka, which we immediately open. We drink and talk about everything but the journey, because that is the present, not the past. We drink some more and begin to reveal what we all expect from the coming days. We continue to drink, and an infectious joy fills the room. Suddenly, it’s as if we’ve known one another all our lives.
    The translator tells me something of his life and passions: literature, traveling, and the martial arts. As it happens, I learned aikido when I was young, and he says that if we get bored at any point and run out of conversation, we can always do a little training in the tiny corridor beside the compartments.
    Hilal is talking to the same editor who hadn’t wanted her to get into the carriage. I know that both are trying to patch up their misunderstanding, but I know, too, thattomorrow is another day, and confinement together in a small space tends to exacerbate conflicts. Another argument is sure to break out. Not for a while, though, I hope.
    The translator appears to have read my thoughts. He pours everyone more vodka and talks about how conflicts are resolved in aikido.
    “It’s not really fighting. What we aim to do is calm the spirit and get in touch with the source from which everything comes, removing any trace of malice or egotism. If you spend too much time trying to find out what is good or bad about someone else, you’ll forget your own soul and end up exhausted and defeated by the energy you have wasted in judging others.”
    No one seems very interested in what a man of seventy has to say. The initial euphoria provoked by the vodka gives way to a collective weariness. At one point, I get up to go to the toilet, and when I return, the room is empty.
    Apart from Hilal, of course.
    “Where is everyone?” I ask.
    “They were being polite and waiting for you to leave so that they could go to bed.”
    “You’d better do the same.”
    “But there’s an empty compartment here—”
    I pick up her backpack and bag, take her gently by the arm, and lead her to the end of the carriage.
    “Don’t push your luck. Good night.”
    She looks at me but says nothing and heads for her compartment, although I have no idea where that is.
    I retire to my room, and my excitement becomes intense weariness. I place my computer on the table andmy saints—who go everywhere with me—beside the bed, then I go to the bathroom to clean my teeth. This turns out to be a far harder task than I’d imagined. The glass of mineral water in my hand keeps lurching about with the movement of the train. After various attempts, I achieve my objective.
    I put on the T-shirt I wear in bed, smoke a cigarette, turn off the light, close my eyes, and imagine that the swaying is rather like being inside the womb and that I will spend a night blessed by the