The Zahir Page 0,92

my real personal history, in order to become free of it. I went on:

"I didn't wear trendy clothes either. That's all the girls in my class were interested in, and so they just ignored me. At night, when my friends were out with their girlfriends, I spent my free time creating a world in which I could be happy: my companions were writers and their books. One day, I wrote a poem for one of the girls in the street where I lived. A friend found the poem in my room and stole it, and when we were all together, he showed it to the entire class. Everyone laughed. They thought it was ridiculous - I was in love!

"The only one who didn't laugh was the girl I wrote the poem for. The following evening, when we went to the theater, she managed to fix things so that she sat next to me, and she held my hand. We left the theater hand in hand. There was ugly, puny, untrendy me strolling along with the girl all the boys in the class fancied."

I paused. It was as if I were going back into the past, to the moment when her hand touched mine and changed my life.

"And all because of a poem," I went on. "A poem showed me that by writing and revealing my invisible world, I could compete on equal terms with the visible world of my classmates: physical strength, fashionable clothes, cars, being good at sports."

The journalist was slightly surprised, and I was even more surprised. He managed to compose himself, though, and asked:

"Why do you think the critics are so hard on your work?"

My automatic pilot would normally reply: "You just have to read the biography of any writer from the past who is now considered a classic - not that I'm comparing myself with them, you understand - to see how implacable their critics were then. The reason is simple: Critics are extremely insecure, they don't really know what's going on, they're democrats when it comes to politics, but fascists when it comes to culture. They believe that people are perfectly capable of choosing who governs them, but have no idea when it comes to choosing films, books, music."

I had abandoned my automatic pilot again, knowing full well that the journalist was unlikely to publish my response.

"Have you ever heard of the law of Jante?"

"No, I haven't," he said.

"Well, it's been in existence since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in 1933 by a Danish writer. In the small town of Jante, the powers that be came up with ten commandments telling people how they should behave, and it seems to exist not only in Jante, but everywhere else too. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I'd say: 'Mediocrity and anonymity are the safest choice. If you opt for them, you'll never face any major problems in life. But if you try to be different...'"

"I'd like to know what these Jante commandments are," said the journalist, who seemed genuinely interested.

"I don't have them here, but I can summarize if you like."

I went over to my computer and printed out a condensed and edited version.

"You are nobody, never even dare to think that you know more than we do. You are of no importance, you can do nothing right, your work is of no significance, but as long as you never challenge us, you will live a happy life. Always take what we say seriously and never laugh at our opinions."

The journalist folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.

"You're right. If you're a nobody, if your work has no impact, then it deserves to be praised. If, however, you climb out of that state of mediocrity and are a success, then you're defying the law and deserve to be punished."

I was so pleased that he had reached this conclusion on his own.

"And it isn't only the critics who say that," I added. "More people, far more people than you might think, say exactly the same thing."

Later that afternoon, I rang Mikhail's cell phone number:

"Let's travel to Kazakhstan together."

He didn't seem in the least surprised; he merely thanked me and asked what had made me change my mind.

"For two years, my life has consisted of nothing but the Zahir. Since I met you, I've been following a long-forgotten path, an abandoned railway track with grass growing between the rails, but which can still