the zahir | Page 7

more divorces. Free again, but it�s just a feeling; freedom is not the absence of
commitments, but the ability to choose�and commit myself to�what is best for me.
I continue my search for love, I continue writing songs. When people ask me what I do, I
say I�m a writer. When they say they only know my song lyrics, I say that�s just part of
my work. When they apologize and say they�ve never read any of my books, I explain
that I�m working on a project�which is a lie. The truth is that I have money, I have
contacts, but what I don�t have is the courage to write a book. My dream is now
realizable, but if I try and fail, I don�t know what the rest of my life will be like; that�s
why it�s better to live cherishing a dream than face the possibility that it might all come
to nothing.
One day, a journalist comes to interview me. She wants to know what it�s like to have my
work known all over the country but to be entirely unknown myself, since normally it�s
only the singer who appears in the media. She�s pretty, intelligent, quiet. We meet again
at a party, where there�s no pressure of work, and I manage to get her into bed that same
night. I fall in love, but she�s not remotely interested. When I phone, she always says
she�s busy. The more she rejects me, the more interested I become, until, at last, I manage
to persuade her to spend a weekend at my house in the country. (I may have been the
black sheep of the family, but sometimes rebellion pays off: I was the only one of my
friends at that stage in our lives to have bought a house in the country.)
We spend three days alone, contemplating the sea. I cook for her, and she tells me stories
about her work and ends up falling in love with me. We come back to the city, she starts
sleeping at my apartment on a regular basis. One morning, she leaves earlier than usual
and returns with her typewriter; from then on, without anything being said, my home
becomes her home too.
The same conflicts I had with my previous wives begin to surface: women are always
looking for stability and fidelity, while I�m looking for adventure and the unknown. This
time, though, the relationship lasts longer. Nevertheless, two years on, I decide it�s time
for Esther to take her typewriter back to her own apartment, along with everything else
she brought with her.
�It�s not going to work.�
�But you love me and I love you, isn�t that right?�
�I don�t know. If you�re asking me if I like your company, the answer is yes. If, on the
other hand, you�re asking me if I could live without you, the answer is also yes.�
�I�m glad I wasn�t born a man. I�m very content with my female condition. All you
expect of us women is that we can cook well. Men, on the other hand, are expected to be
able to do everything�they�ve got to be able to keep a home afloat, make love, take care
of the children, bring in the money, and be successful.�
�That�s not it either: I�m very happy with myself. I enjoy your company, but I just don�t
think it�s going to work.�
�You enjoy my company, but hate being by yourself. You�re always looking for
adventure in order to forget more important things. You always want to feel the
adrenaline flowing in your veins and you forget that the only thing that should be flowing
through them is blood.�
�I�m not running away from important things. Give me an example of something
important.�
�Writing a book.�
�I can do that any time.�
�Go on then, do it. Then, if you like, we can go our separate ways.�
I find her comment absurd; I can write a book whenever I want to; I know publishers,
journalists, all of whom owe me favors. Esther is just a woman who�s afraid of losing me,
she�s inventing things. I tell her it�s over, our relationship is at an end, it isn�t a matter of
what she thinks would make me happy, it�s about love.
What is love? she asks. I spend half an hour explaining and realize that I can�t come up
with a good definition.
She says that, since I don�t know how to define love, I should try and write a book.
I say that the two things are completely unrelated. I�m going to leave the apartment that
very day; she can stay there for as long as she likes. I�ll go and stay in a hotel until she
has found somewhere else to live. She says that�s fine by her, I can leave now, the
apartment will be free within the month�she�ll start looking for a new place tomorrow. I
pack my bags, and she goes and reads a book. I say it�s getting late, I�ll leave tomorrow.
She says I should leave at once because, tomorrow, I won�t feel as strong