The Zahir Page 0,37

of someone in a pizzeria pretending to be communing with the spirit world just to impress or embarrass me, although I did feel that this was more than just a theatrical performance.

"Can you feel the wind blowing?"

At that moment, I was sure he wasn't acting; on the contrary, he was making an enormous effort to control himself and was more frightened by what was happening than I was.

"The lights, the lights are starting to appear! Please, get me out of here!"

His body began to be shaken by tremors. There was now no hiding what was going on; the people at the other tables had got up.

"In Kazakh..."

He did not manage to finish the sentence. He pushed the table away from him; pizzas, glasses, and cutlery went flying, hitting the diners on the next table. His expression had changed completely. His whole body was shaking and only the whites of his eyes were now visible. His head was violently thrown back and I heard the sound of bones cracking. A gentleman from one of the other tables leapt to his feet. Roberto caught Mikhail before he fell, while the other man picked up a spoon from the floor and placed it in Mikhail's mouth.

The whole thing can only have lasted a matter of seconds, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I could imagine the tabloids describing how a famous writer - and, despite all the adverse reviews, a possible candidate for a major literary prize - had concocted some sort of seance in a pizzeria just to get publicity for his new book. My paranoia was racing out of control. They would find out that the medium in question was the same man who had run off with my wife. It would all start again, and this time I wouldn't have the necessary courage or energy to face the same test.

I knew a few of the other diners, but which of them were really my friends? Who would be capable of remaining silent about what they were seeing?

Mikhail's body stopped shaking and relaxed; Roberto was holding him upright in his chair. The other man took Mikhail's pulse, examined his eyes, and then turned to me:

"It's obviously not the first time this has happened. How long have you known him?"

"Oh, they're regular customers," replied Roberto, seeing that I had become incapable of speech. "But this is the first time it's happened in public, although, of course, I've had other such cases in my restaurant before."

"Yes," said the man. "I noticed that you didn't panic."

The remark was clearly aimed at me, for I must have looked deathly pale. The man went back to his table and Roberto tried to reassure me:

"He's the personal physician of a very famous actress," he said. "Although it looks to me as if you're more in need of medical attention than your guest here."

Mikhail - or Oleg or whatever the name was of the young man sitting opposite me - was beginning to come to. He looked around him and, far from seeming embarrassed, he merely smiled rather shyly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I did try to control it."

I was doing my best to remain calm. Roberto again came to my rescue.

"Don't worry. Our writer here has enough money to pay for the broken plates."

Then he turned to me: "Epilepsy. It was just an epileptic fit, that's all."

I left the restaurant with Mikhail, who immediately hailed a taxi.

"But we haven't talked yet! Where are you going?"

"I'm in no state to talk now. And you know where to find me."

There are two kinds of world: the one we dream about and the real one.

In my dream world, Mikhail had told the truth: I was just going through a difficult patch, experiencing the kind of misunderstanding that can occur in any love relationship. Esther was somewhere, waiting patiently for me to discover what had gone wrong in our marriage and then to go to her and ask her forgiveness so that we could resume our life together.

In that dream world, Mikhail and I talked calmly, left the pizzeria, took a taxi, rang the doorbell of a house where my ex-wife (or my wife? The question now formulated itself the other way around) wove carpets in the morning, gave French lessons in the afternoon, and slept alone at night, waiting, like me, for the bell to ring, for her husband to enter bearing a large bouquet of flowers and carry her off to drink hot chocolate in a hotel near