The Zahir Page 0,68
in French. I ask her why she wants me to go to France. She repeats what she has said and admits she's afraid of the space opening up around her as she erases her personal history; she's afraid that everything will rush back in more intensely than before, and then there will be no way of freeing herself from her past. She tells me not to worry about buying a ticket or getting a visa; she will take care of everything. Before going through passport control, she looks at me, smiles, and says that, although she may not have known it, she had been waiting for me as well. The days we had spent together had been the happiest she had known in the last three years.
"I start working at night, as a bouncer at a striptease joint, and during the day I devote myself to learning French. Oddly enough, the attacks diminish, but the presence also goes away. I tell my mother that I've been invited to go abroad, and she tells me not to be so naive, I'll never hear from the woman again.
"A year later, Esther returns to Almaty. The expected war has begun, and someone else has written an article about the secret American bases, but Esther's interview with the old man had been a great success and now she has been asked to write a long article on the disappearance of the nomads. 'Apart from that,' she said, 'it's been ages since I told my story to anyone and I'm starting to get depressed.'
"I help put her in touch with the few tribes who still travel, with the Tengri tradition, and with local shamans. I am now fluent in French, and over supper she gives me various forms from the consulate to fill in, gets me a visa, buys me a ticket, and I come to Paris. We both notice that, as we empty our minds of old stories, a new space opens up, a mysterious feeling of joy slips in, our intuitions grow sharper, we become braver, take more risks, do things which might be right or which might be wrong, we can't be sure, but we do them anyway. The days seem longer and more intense.
"When I arrive in Paris, I ask where I'm going to work, but she has already made plans: she has persuaded the owner of a bar to allow me to appear there once a week, telling him that I specialize in an exotic kind of performance art from Kazakhstan which consists of encouraging people to talk about their lives and to empty their minds.
"At first, it is very difficult to get the sparse audience to join in, but the drunks enjoy it and word spreads. 'Come and tell your old story and discover a new one,' says the small handwritten notice in the window, and people, thirsty for novelty, start to come.
"One night, I experience something strange: it is not me on the small improvised stage in one corner of the bar, it is the presence. And instead of telling stories from my own country and then moving on to suggest that they tell their stories, I merely say what the voice tells me to. Afterward, one of the spectators is crying and speaks about his marriage in intimate detail to the other strangers there.
"The same thing happens the following week - the voice speaks for me, asking people to tell stories not about love, but about the lack of love, and the energy in the air is so different that the normally discreet French begin discussing their personal lives in public. I am also managing to control my attacks better; if, when I'm on stage, I start to see the lights or feel that warm wind, I immediately go into a trance, lose consciousness, and no one notices. I only have 'epileptic fits' at moments when I am under great nervous strain.
"Other people join the group. Three young men the same age as me, who had nothing to do but travel the world - the nomads of the Western world; and a couple of musicians from Kazakhstan, who have heard about their fellow countryman's 'success,' ask if they can join the show, since they are unable to find work elsewhere. We include percussion instruments in the performance. The bar is becoming too small, and we find a room in the restaurant where we currently appear; but now we are starting to outgrow that space too, because when