The Zahir Page 0,27

My secretary remarked that I was obviously very happy, because she hadn't seen me so active in ages; I said that having a book on the bestseller list encouraged me to work even harder than I usually did.

There were two things I didn't do that week. First, I didn't read any unsolicited typescripts: according to my lawyers, these should always be returned immediately to the sender; otherwise, sooner or later I would run the risk of someone claiming that I had plagiarized one of their stories. (I've never understood why people send me their typescripts anyway - after all, I'm not a publisher.)

Second, I didn't look in an atlas to find out where Kazakhstan was, even though I knew that, in order to gain Mikhail's trust, I should try to find out a bit more about where he came from.

Chapter 3

People are waiting patiently for someone to open the door that leads to the room at the back of the restaurant. The place has none of the charm of bars in St-Germain-des-Pres, no cups of coffee served with a small glass of water, no well-dressed, well-spoken people. It has none of the elegance of theater foyers, none of the magic of other shows being put on all over the city in small bistros, with the actors always trying their hardest, in the hope that some famous impresario will be in the audience and will introduce himself at the end of the show, tell them they're wonderful, and invite them to appear at some important arts center.

To be honest, I can't understand why the place is so full: I've never seen it mentioned in the magazines that specialize in listing entertainment and the arts in Paris.

While I'm waiting, I talk to the owner and learn that he is planning to turn the whole restaurant area into a theater.

"More and more people come every week," he says. "I agreed initially because a journalist asked me as a favor and said that, in return, he'd publish a review of my restaurant in his magazine. Besides, the room is rarely used on Thursdays, and while people are waiting, they have a meal; in fact, I probably make more money on a Thursday than I do on any other night of the week. The only thing that concerned me was that the actors might belong to a sect. As you probably know, the laws here are very strict."

Yes, I did know; certain people had even suggested that my books were linked to some dangerous philosophical trend, to a strand of religious teaching that was out of step with commonly accepted values. France, normally so liberal, was slightly paranoid about the subject. There had been a recent long report about the "brainwashing" practiced on certain unwary people. As if those same people were able to make all kinds of other choices about school, university, toothpaste, cars, films, husbands, wives, lovers, but, when it came to matters of faith, were easily manipulated.

"How do they advertise these events?" I ask.

"I've no idea. If I did, I'd use the same person to promote my restaurant."

And just to clear up any doubts, since he doesn't know who I am, he adds: "By the way, it isn't a sect. They really are just actors."

The door to the room is opened, the people flock in, depositing five euros in a small basket. Inside, standing impassive on the improvised stage, are two young men and two young women, all wearing full, white skirts, stiffly starched to make them stand out. As well as these four, there is an older man carrying a conga drum and a woman with a huge bronze cymbal covered in small, tinkling attachments; every time she inadvertently brushes against this instrument, it emits a sound like metallic rain.

Mikhail is one of the young men, although he looks completely different from the person I met at the book signing: his eyes, fixed on some point in space, shine with a special light.

The audience sits down on the chairs scattered around the room. Young men and women dressed in such a way that if you met them on the street, you would think they were into hard drugs. Middle-aged executives or civil servants with their wives. A few nine- or ten-year-old children, possibly brought by their parents. A few older people, who must have made a great effort to get here, since the nearest metro station is five blocks away.

They drink, smoke, talk loudly, as if the people on the