Nadir Shah ordered to be thrown into the sea; in the Mahdi's prisons, in around 1892, a small compass that had been touched by Rudolf Karl von Slatin....)
A year later, I wake thinking about the story by Jorge Luis Borges, about something which, once touched or seen, can never be forgotten, and which gradually so fills our thoughts that we are driven to madness. My Zahir is not a romantic metaphor - a blind man, a compass, a tiger, or a coin.
It has a name, and her name is Esther.
Immediately after leaving prison, I appeared on the covers of various scandal sheets: they began by alleging a possible crime, but, in order to avoid ending up in court, they always concluded with the statement that I had been cleared. (Cleared? I hadn't even been accused!) They allowed a week to pass; they checked to see if the sales had been good (they had, because I was the kind of writer who was normally above suspicion, and everyone wanted to find out how it was possible for a man who writes about spirituality to have such a dark side). Then they returned to the attack, alleging that my wife had run away because of my many extramarital affairs: a German magazine even hinted at a possible relationship with a singer, twenty years my junior, who said she had met me in Oslo, in Norway (this was true, but the meeting had only taken place because of the Favor Bank - a friend of mine had asked me to go and had been with us throughout the only supper we had together). The singer said that there was nothing between us (so why put a photo of us on the cover?) and took the opportunity to announce that she was releasing a new album: she had used both the magazine and me, and I still don't know whether the failure of the album was a consequence of this kind of cheap publicity. (The album wasn't bad, by the way - what ruined everything were the press releases.)
The scandal over the famous writer did not last long; in Europe, and especially in France, infidelity is not only accepted, it is even secretly admired. And no one likes to read about the sort of thing that could so easily happen to them.
The topic disappeared from the front covers, but the hypotheses continued: she had been kidnapped, she had left home because of physical abuse (photo of a waiter saying that we often argued: I remember that I did, in fact, have an argument with Esther in a restaurant about her views on a South American writer, which were completely opposed to mine). A British tabloid alleged - and luckily this had no serious repercussions - that my wife had gone into hiding with an Islamist terrorist organization.
This world is so full of betrayals, divorces, murders, and assassination attempts that a month later the subject had been forgotten by the ordinary public. Years of experience had taught me that this kind of thing would never affect my faithful readership (it had happened before, when a journalist on an Argentinian television program claimed that he had "proof" that I had had a secret meeting in Chile with the future first lady of the country - but my books remained on the bestseller lists). As an American artist almost said: Sensationalism was only made to last fifteen minutes. My main concern was quite different: to reorganize my life, to find a new love, to go back to writing books, and to put away any memories of my wife in the little drawer that exists on the frontier between love and hate.
Or should I say memories of my ex-wife (I needed to get used to the term).
Part of what I had foreseen in that hotel room did come to pass. For a while, I barely left the apartment: I didn't know how to face my friends, how to look them in the eye and say simply: "My wife has left me for a younger man." When I did go out, no one asked me anything, but after a few glasses of wine I felt obliged to bring the subject up - as if I could read everyone's mind, as if I really believed that they had nothing more to occupy them than what was happening in my life, but that they were too polite or smug to say anything. Depending on my mood, Esther was either a saint