Read Online Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho - Free Book Online
Authors: Paulo Coelho
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Visionary & Metaphysical, Brazil, working, Switzerland, Geneva, Prostitutes, Brazilian Novel And Short Story, Brazilians - Switzerland - Geneva, Prostitutes - Brazil, Brazilians
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a work permit.'
Maria showed him hers and the man's mood seemed to improve.
'Got any experience?'
She didn't know what to say: if she said yes, he would ask
her where she had worked before. If she said no, he might turn her down.
'I'm writing a book.'
The idea had come out of nowhere, as if an invisible voice
had come to her aid. She saw that the man knew she was lying, but was pretending to believe her.
'Before you make any decision, talk to some of the other girls. We get at least six Brazilian women in every night, that way you can find out exactly what to expect.'
Maria was about to say that she didn't need any advice
from anyone and that, besides, she hadn't come to a decision just yet, but the man had already moved off to the other side
of the bar, leaving her on her own, without even a glass of water to drink.
The women started to arrive, and the owner called over some of the Brazilians and asked them to talk to the new arrival. None of them seemed very willing; fear of
competition, Maria assumed. The sound system was turned on and a few Brazilian songs were played (well, the place was called 'Copacabana'); then some Asiatic-looking women came in, along with others who seemed to have come straight from the snowy, romantic mountains around Geneva. She had been standing there for nearly two hours, with nothing to drink
and just a few cigarettes, filled by a growing sense that she was definitely making the wrong decision - the words 'what am
I doing here?' kept repeating over and over in her head - and feeling increasingly irritated by the complete lack of
interest on the part of both the owner and the other women, when, finally, one of the Brazilian girls came over to her.
'What made you choose this place?'
Maria could have resorted to that story about writing a
book, or she could, as she had with the Kurds, with Miro and with Fellini, simply tell the truth.
'To be perfectly honest, I don't know where to start or if
I want to start.'
The other woman seemed surprised by such a frank, direct answer. She took a sip of what looked like whisky, listened to the Brazilian song they were playing, made some comment
about missing her home, then said that there wouldn't be many customers that night because a big international conference being held near Geneva had been cancelled. In the end, when
she saw that Maria still hadn't left, she said:
'Look, it's very simple, you just have to stick to three basic rules. First: never fall in love with anyone you work
with or have sex with. Second: don't believe any promises and always get paid up front. Third: don't use drugs.'
There was a pause.
'And start now. If you go home tonight without having got your first client, you'll have second thoughts about it and you won't have the courage to come back.'
Maria had gone there more for a consultation, to get some feedback on her chances of finding a temporary job. She found herself confronted by the feeling that so often pushes people into making hasty decisions - despair.
'All right. I'll start tonight.'
She didn't mention that she had, in fact, started
yesterday. The woman went up to the owner, whom she called
Milan, and he came over to talk to Maria.
'Have you got nice underwear on?'
No one - her boyfriends, the Arab, her girlfriends, far
less a stranger - had ever asked her that question. But that
Was what life was like in that place: straight to the point.
'I'm wearing pale blue pants. And no bra,' she added provocatively. But all she got was a reprimand.
'Tomorrow, wear black pants, bra and stockings. Taking off your clothes is all part of the ritual.'
Without more ado, and on the assumption now that he was talking to someone who was about to start work, Milan introduced her to the rest of the ritual: the Copacabana
should be a pleasant place to spend time, not a brothel. The men came into that bar wanting to believe that they would
find a lady on her own. If anyone came over to
Maria showed him hers and the man's mood seemed to improve.
'Got any experience?'
She didn't know what to say: if she said yes, he would ask
her where she had worked before. If she said no, he might turn her down.
'I'm writing a book.'
The idea had come out of nowhere, as if an invisible voice
had come to her aid. She saw that the man knew she was lying, but was pretending to believe her.
'Before you make any decision, talk to some of the other girls. We get at least six Brazilian women in every night, that way you can find out exactly what to expect.'
Maria was about to say that she didn't need any advice
from anyone and that, besides, she hadn't come to a decision just yet, but the man had already moved off to the other side
of the bar, leaving her on her own, without even a glass of water to drink.
The women started to arrive, and the owner called over some of the Brazilians and asked them to talk to the new arrival. None of them seemed very willing; fear of
competition, Maria assumed. The sound system was turned on and a few Brazilian songs were played (well, the place was called 'Copacabana'); then some Asiatic-looking women came in, along with others who seemed to have come straight from the snowy, romantic mountains around Geneva. She had been standing there for nearly two hours, with nothing to drink
and just a few cigarettes, filled by a growing sense that she was definitely making the wrong decision - the words 'what am
I doing here?' kept repeating over and over in her head - and feeling increasingly irritated by the complete lack of
interest on the part of both the owner and the other women, when, finally, one of the Brazilian girls came over to her.
'What made you choose this place?'
Maria could have resorted to that story about writing a
book, or she could, as she had with the Kurds, with Miro and with Fellini, simply tell the truth.
'To be perfectly honest, I don't know where to start or if
I want to start.'
The other woman seemed surprised by such a frank, direct answer. She took a sip of what looked like whisky, listened to the Brazilian song they were playing, made some comment
about missing her home, then said that there wouldn't be many customers that night because a big international conference being held near Geneva had been cancelled. In the end, when
she saw that Maria still hadn't left, she said:
'Look, it's very simple, you just have to stick to three basic rules. First: never fall in love with anyone you work
with or have sex with. Second: don't believe any promises and always get paid up front. Third: don't use drugs.'
There was a pause.
'And start now. If you go home tonight without having got your first client, you'll have second thoughts about it and you won't have the courage to come back.'
Maria had gone there more for a consultation, to get some feedback on her chances of finding a temporary job. She found herself confronted by the feeling that so often pushes people into making hasty decisions - despair.
'All right. I'll start tonight.'
She didn't mention that she had, in fact, started
yesterday. The woman went up to the owner, whom she called
Milan, and he came over to talk to Maria.
'Have you got nice underwear on?'
No one - her boyfriends, the Arab, her girlfriends, far
less a stranger - had ever asked her that question. But that
Was what life was like in that place: straight to the point.
'I'm wearing pale blue pants. And no bra,' she added provocatively. But all she got was a reprimand.
'Tomorrow, wear black pants, bra and stockings. Taking off your clothes is all part of the ritual.'
Without more ado, and on the assumption now that he was talking to someone who was about to start work, Milan introduced her to the rest of the ritual: the Copacabana
should be a pleasant place to spend time, not a brothel. The men came into that bar wanting to believe that they would
find a lady on her own. If anyone came over to
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