The Zahir Page 0,7
music, I take a walk around the block, chat to the baker, come home, and suddenly the whole day has gone and I still haven't managed to type a single sentence. I decide that I hate Esther, that she's forcing me to do things I don't want to do.
When she gets home, she doesn't ask me anything, but I admit that I haven't managed to do any writing. She says that I have the same look in my eye as I did yesterday.
The following day I go to work, but that evening I again go over to the desk on which the typewriter is sitting. I read, watch television, listen to music, go back to the machine, and so two months pass, with me accumulating pages and more pages of "first sentences," but never managing to finish a paragraph.
I come up with every possible excuse - no one reads in this country; I haven't worked out a plot; I've got a fantastic plot, but I'm still looking for the right way to develop it. Besides, I'm really busy writing an article or a song lyric. Another two months pass, and one day, she comes home bearing a plane ticket.
"Enough," she says. "Stop pretending that you're busy, that you're weighed down by responsibilities, that the world needs you to do what you're doing, and just go traveling for a while." I can always become the editor of the newspaper where I publish a few articles, I can always become the president of the recording company for which I write lyrics, and where I work simply because they don't want me to write lyrics for their competitors. I can always come back to do what I'm doing now, but my dream can't wait. Either I accept it or I forget it.
Where is the ticket for?
Spain.
I'm shocked. Air tickets are expensive; besides, I can't go away now, I've got a career ahead of me, and I need to look after it. I'll lose out on a lot of potential music partnerships; the problem isn't me, it's our marriage. If I really wanted to write a book, no one would be able to stop me.
"You can, you want to, but you don't," she says. "Your problem isn't me, but you, so it would be best if you spent some time alone."
She shows me a map. I must go to Madrid, where I'll catch a bus up to the Pyrenees, on the border with France. That's where a medieval pilgrimage route begins: the road to Santiago. I have to walk the whole way. She'll be waiting for me at the other end and then she'll accept anything I say: that I don't love her anymore, that I still haven't lived enough to create a literary work, that I don't even want to think about being a writer, that it was nothing but an adolescent dream.
This is madness! The woman I've been living with for two long years - a real eternity in relationship terms - is making decisions about my life, forcing me to give up my work and expecting me to walk across an entire country! It's so crazy that I decide to take it seriously. I get drunk several nights running, with her beside me getting equally drunk - even though she hates drinking. I get aggressive; I say she's jealous of my independence, that the only reason this whole mad idea was born is because I said I wanted to leave her. She says that it all started when I was still at school and dreaming of becoming a writer - no more putting things off; if I don't confront myself now, I'll spend the rest of my life getting married and divorced, telling cute anecdotes about my past and going steadily downhill.
Obviously, I can't admit she's right, but I know she's telling the truth. And the more aware I am of this, the more aggressive I become. She accepts my aggression without complaint; she merely reminds me that the departure date is getting closer.
One night, shortly before that date, she refuses to make love. I smoke a whole joint of marijuana, drink two bottles of wine, and pass out in the middle of the living room. When I come to, I realize that I have reached the bottom of the pit, and now all that remains is for me to clamber back up to the top. And I, who so pride myself on my courage, see how cowardly, mean, and unadventurous