The Alchemist | Page 5

so that the reader wouldn't have to worry about memorizing a lot
of names.
When he was finally able to concentrate on what he was reading, he liked the book better; the burial
was on a snowy day, and he welcomed the feeling of being cold. As he read on, an old man sat down at
his side and tried to strike up a conversation.
"What are they doing?" the old man asked, pointing at the people in the plaza.
"Working," the boy answered dryly, making it look as if he wanted to concentrate on his reading.
Actually, he was thinking about shearing his sheep in front of the merchant's daughter, so that she could
see that he was someone who was capable of doing difficult things. He had already imagined the scene
many times; every time, the girl became fascinated when he explained that the sheep had to be sheared
from back to front. He also tried to remember some good stories to relate as he sheared the sheep. Most
of them he had read in books, but he would tell them as if they were from his personal experience. She
would never know the difference, because she didn't know how to read.
Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a conversation. He said that he was tired
and thirsty, and asked if he might have a sip of the boy's wine. The boy offered his bottle, hoping that the
old man would leave him alone.
But the old man wanted to talk, and he asked the boy what book he was reading. The boy was tempted
to be rude, and move to another bench, but his father had taught him to be respectful of the elderly. So
he held out the book to the man—for two reasons: first, that he, himself, wasn't sure how to pronounce
the title; and second, that if the old man didn't know how to read, he would probably feel ashamed and
decide of his own accord to change benches.
"Hmm…" said the old man, looking at all sides of the book, as if it were some strange object. "This is an
important book, but it's really irritating."
The boy was shocked. The old man knew how to read, and had already read the book. And if the book
was irritating, as the old man had said, the boy still had time to change it for another.
"It's a book that says the same thing almost all the other books in the world say," continued the old man.
"It describes people's inability to choose their own destinies. And it ends up saying that everyone believes
the world's greatest lie."
"What's the world's greatest lie?" the boy asked, completely surprised.
"It's this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what's happening to us, and our lives
become controlled by fate. That's the world's greatest lie."
"That's never happened to me," the boy said. "They wanted me to be a priest, but I decided to become
a shepherd."
"Much better," said the old man. "Because you really like to travel."
"He knew what I was thinking," the boy said to himself. The old man, meanwhile, was leafing through the

book, without seeming to want to return it at all. The boy noticed that the man's clothing was strange. He
looked like an Arab, which was not unusual in those parts. Africa was only a few hours from Tarifa; one
had only to cross the narrow straits by boat. Arabs often appeared in the city, shopping and chanting
their strange prayers several times a day.
"Where are you from?" the boy asked.
"From many places."
"No one can be from many places," the boy said. "I'm a shepherd, and I have been to many places, but I
come from only one place—from a city near an ancient castle. That's where I was born."
"Well then, we could say that I was born in Salem."
The boy didn't know where Salem was, but he didn't want to ask, fearing that he would appear ignorant.
He looked at the people in the plaza for a while; they were coming and going, and all of them seemed to
be very busy.
"So, what is Salem like?" he asked, trying to get some sort of clue.
"It's like it always has been."
No clue yet. But he knew that Salem wasn't in Andalusia. If it were, he would already have heard of it.
"And what do you do in Salem?" he insisted.
"What do I do in Salem?" The old man laughed. "Well, I'm the king of Salem!"
People say strange things, the boy thought. Sometimes it's better to be with the sheep, who don't say
anything. And better still to be alone with one's books. They tell their incredible stories at the time when
you want to hear them. But when you're talking to people, they say some things that