A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew-the t.i.tle is from a line in Ecclesiastes-was published at the end of April. By the second week of May, it was already number one on the bestseller lists.

The literary supplements, which have never been kind to me, redoubled their attacks. I cut out some of the key phrases and stuck them in a notebook along with reviews from previous years; they said basically the same thing, merely changing the t.i.tle of the book: "...once again, despite the troubled times we live in, the author offers us an escape from reality with a story about love..." (as if people could live without love).

"...short sentences, superficial style..." (as if long sentences equaled profundity).

"...the author has discovered the secret of success-marketing..." (as if I had been born in a country with a long literary tradition and had had millions to invest in my first book).

"...it will sell as well as all his other books, which just proves how unprepared human beings are to face up to the encircling tragedy..." (as if they knew what it meant to be prepared).

Some reviews, however, were different, adding that I was profiting from last year's scandal in order to make even more money. As always, these negative reviews only served to sell more of my books: my faithful readers bought the book anyway, and those who had forgotten about the whole sorry business were reminded of it again and so also bought copies, because they wanted to hear my version of Esther's disappearance (since the book was not about that, but was, rather, a hymn to love, they must have been sorely disappointed and would doubtless have decided that the critics were spot-on). The rights were immediately sold to all the countries where my books were usually published.

Marie, who read the typescript before I sent it to the publisher, showed herself to be the woman I had hoped she was: instead of being jealous, or saying that I shouldn't bare my soul like that, she encouraged me to go ahead with it and was thrilled when it was asuccess. At the time, she was reading the teachings of a little-known mystic, whom she quoted in all our conversations.

When people praise us, we should always keep a close eye on how we behave."

"The critics never praise me."

"I mean your readers: you've received more letters than ever. You'll end up believing that you're better than you are, and allow yourself to slip into a false sense of security, which could be very dangerous."

"Ever since my visit to the cathedral in Vitoria, I do think I'm better than I thought I was, but that has nothing to do with readers' letters. Absurd though it may seem, I discovered love."

"Great. What I like about the book is the fact that, at no point, do you blame your ex- wife. And you don't blame yourself either."

"I've learned not to waste my time doing that."

"Good. The universe takes care of correcting our mistakes."

"Do you think Esther's disappearance was some kind of 'correction,' then?"

"I don't believe in the curative powers of suffering and tragedy; they happen because they're part of life and shouldn't be seen as a punishment. Generally speaking, the universe tells us when we're wrong by taking away what is most important to us: our friends. And that, I think I'm right in saying, is what was happening with you."

"I learned something recently: our true friends are those who are with us when the good things happen. They cheer us on and are pleased by our triumphs. False friends only appear at difficult times, with their sad, supportive faces, when, in fact, our suffering is serving to console them for their miserable lives. When things were bad last year, various people I had never even seen before turned up to 'console' me. I hate that."

"I've had the same thing happen to me."

"But I'm very grateful that you came into my life, Marie."

"Don't be too grateful too soon, our relationship isn't strong enough. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking of moving to Paris or asking you to come and live in Milan: it wouldn't make any difference to either of us in terms of work. You always work at home and I always work away. Would you like to change the subject now or shall we continue discussing it as a possibility?"

"I'd like to change the subject."

"Let's talk about something else then. It took a lot of courage to write that book. What surprises me, though, is that you don't once mention the young man."

"I'm not interested in him."

"You must be. Every now and again you must ask yourself: Why did she choose him?"

"I never ask myself that."

"You're lying. I'd certainly like to know why my neighbor didn't divorce his boring, smiling wife, always busy with the housework, the cooking, the children, and the bills. If I ask myself that, you must too."

"Are you saying that I hate him because he stole my wife?"

"No, I want to hear you say that you forgive him."

"I can't do that.""It's hard, I know, but you've no option. If you don't do it, you'll always be thinking of the pain he caused you and that pain will never pa.s.s. I'm not saying you've got to like him. I'm not saying you should seek him out. I'm not suggesting you should start thinking of him as an angel. What was his name now? Something Russian wasn't it?"

"It doesn't matter what his name was."

"You see? You don't even want to say his name. Are you superst.i.tious?"

"Mikhail. There you are, that's his name."

"The energy of hatred won't get you anywhere; but the energy of forgiveness, which reveals itself through love, will transform your life in a positive way."

"Now you're sounding like some Tibetan sage, spouting stuff that is all very nice in theory, but impossible in practice. Don't forget, I've been hurt before."

"Exactly, and you're still carrying inside you the little boy, the school weakling, who had to hide his tears from his parents. You still bear the marks of the skinny little boy who couldn't get a girlfriend and who was never any good at sports. You still haven't managed to heal the scars left by some of the injustices committed against you in your life. But what good does that do?"

"Who told you about that?"

"I just know. I can see it in your eyes, and it doesn't do you any good. All it does is feed a constant desire to feel sorry for yourself, because you were the victim of people stronger than you. Or else it makes you go to the other extreme and disguise yourself as an avenger ready to strike out at the people who hurt you. Isn't that a waste of time?"

"It's just human."

"Oh, it is, but it's not intelligent or reasonable. Show some respect for your time on this earth, and know that G.o.d has always forgiven you and always will."

Looking around at the crowd gathered for my book signing at a megastore on the Champs-Elysees, I thought: How many of these people will have had the same experience I had with my wife?

Very few. Perhaps one or two. Even so, most of them would identify with what was in my new book.

Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit down in front of the computer, gaze out on the unknown sea of my soul, and see a few islands-ideas that have developed and which are ripe to be explored. Then I climb into my boat-called The Word-and set out for the nearest island. On the way, I meet strong currents, winds, and storms, but I keep rowing, exhausted, knowing that I have drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach is no longer on my horizon.

I can't turn back, though, I have to continue somehow or else I'll be lost in the middle of the ocean; at that point, a series of terrifying scenarios flash through my mind, such as spending the rest of my life talking about past successes, or bitterly criticizing new writers, simply because I no longer have the courage to publish new books. Wasn't my dream to be a writer? Then I must continue creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and go on writing until I die, and not allow myself to get caught in such traps as success or failure. Otherwise, what meaning does my life have? Being able to buy an old mill in thesouth of France and tending my garden? Giving lectures instead, because it's easier to talk than to write? Withdrawing from the world in a calculated, mysterious way, in order to create a legend that will deprive me of many pleasures?

Shaken by these alarming thoughts, I find a strength and a courage I didn't know I had: they help me to venture into an unknown part of my soul. I let myself be swept along by the current and finally anchor my boat at the island I was being carried toward. I spend days and nights describing what I see, wondering why I'm doing this, telling myself that it's really not worth the pain and the effort, that I don't need to prove anything to anyone, that I've got what I wanted and far more than I ever dreamed of having.

I notice that I go through the same process as I did when writing my first book: I wake up at nine o'clock in the morning, ready to sit down at my computer immediately after breakfast; then I read the newspapers, go for a walk, visit the nearest bar for a chat, come home, look at the computer, discover that I need to make several phone calls, look at the computer again, by which time lunch is ready, and I sit eating and thinking that I really ought to have started writing at eleven o'clock, but now I need a nap, I wake at five in the afternoon, finally turn on the computer, go to check my e-mails, then remember that I've destroyed my Internet connection; I could go to a place ten minutes away where I can get online, but couldn't I, just to free my conscience from these feelings of guilt, couldn't I at least write for half an hour?

I begin out of a feeling of duty, but suddenly "the thing" takes hold of me and I can't stop. The maid calls me for supper and I ask her not to interrupt me; an hour later, she calls me again; I'm hungry, but I must write just one more line, one more sentence, one more page. By the time I sit down at the table, the food is cold, I gobble it down and go back to the computer-I am no longer in control of where I place my feet, the island is being revealed to me, I am being propelled along its paths, finding things I have never even thought or dreamed of. I drink a cup of coffee, and another, and at two o'clock in the morning I finally stop writing, because my eyes are tired.

I go to bed, spend another hour making notes of things to use in the next paragraph-notes which always prove completely useless, they serve only to empty my mind so that sleep can come. I promise myself that the next morning, I'll start at eleven o'clock prompt. And the following day, the same thing happens-the walk, the conversations, lunch, a nap, the feelings of guilt, then irritation at myself for destroying the Internet connection, until I, at last, make myself sit down and write the first page....

Suddenly, two, three, four, eleven weeks have pa.s.sed, and I know that I'm near the end; I'm gripped by a feeling of emptiness, the feeling of someone who has set down in words things he should have kept to himself. Now, though, I have to reach the final sentence-and I do.

When I used to read biographies of writers, I always thought they were simply trying to make their profession seem more interesting when they said that "the book writes itself, the writer is just the typist." Now I know that this is absolutely true, no one knows why the current took them to that particular island and not to the one they wanted to reach.

The obsessive redrafting and editing begins, and when I can no longer bear to reread the same words one more time, I send it to my publisher, where it is edited again, and then published.

And it is a constant source of surprise to me to discover that other people were also in search of that very island and that they find it in my book. One person tells anotherperson about it, the mysterious chain grows, and what the writer thought of as a solitary exercise becomes a bridge, a boat, a means by which souls can travel and communicate.

From then on, I am no longer the man lost in the storm: I find myself through my readers, I understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone.

At the appointed time, I start signing books. There is brief eye-to-eye contact and a feeling of solidarity, joy, and mutual respect. There are handshakes, a few letters, gifts, comments. Ninety minutes later, I ask for a ten-minute rest, no one complains, and my publisher (as has become traditional at my book signings in France) orders champagne to be served to everyone still in line. (I have tried to get this tradition adopted in other countries, but they always say that French champagne is too expensive and end up serving mineral water instead. But that, too, shows respect for those still waiting.) I return to the table. Two hours later, contrary to what anyone observing the event might think, I am not tired, but full of energy; I could carry on all night. The shop, however, has closed its doors and the queue is dwindling. There are forty people left inside, they become thirty, twenty, eleven, five, four, three, two...and suddenly our eyes meet.

"I waited until the end. I wanted to be the last because I have a message for you."

I don't know what to say. I glance to one side, at the publishers, salespeople, and booksellers, who are all talking enthusiastically; soon we will go out to eat and drink and share the excitement of the day and describe some of the strange things that happened while I was signing books.

I have never seen him before, but I know who he is. I take the book from him and write: "For Mikhail, with best wishes."

I say nothing. I must not lose him-a word, a sentence, a sudden movement might cause him to leave and never come back. In a fraction of a second, I understand that he and only he can save me from the blessing-or the curse-of the Zahir, because he is the only one who knows where to find it, and I will finally be able to ask the questions I have been repeating to myself for so long.

"I wanted you to know that she's all right, that she may even have read your book."

The publishers, salespeople, and booksellers come over. They all embrace me and say it's been a great afternoon. Let's go and relax and drink and talk about it all.

"I'd like to invite this young man to supper," I say. "He was the last in the queue and he can be the representative of all the other readers who were here with us today."

"I can't, I'm afraid. I have another engagement."

And turning to me, rather startled, he adds: "I only came to give you that message."

"What message?" asks one of the salespeople.

"He never usually invites anyone!" says my publisher. "Come on, let's all go and have supper!"

"It's very kind of you, but I have a meeting I go to every Thursday."

"When does it start?"

"In two hours' time."

"And where is it?"

"In an Armenian restaurant."My driver, who is himself Armenian, asks which one and says that it's only fifteen minutes from the place where we are going to eat. Everyone is doing their best to please me: they think that the person I'm inviting to supper should be happy and pleased to be so honored, that anything else can surely wait.

"What's your name?" asks Marie.

"Mikhail."

"Well, Mikhail," and I see that Marie has understood everything, "why don't you come with us for an hour or so; the restaurant we're going to is just around the corner. Then the driver will take you wherever you want to go. If you prefer, though, we can cancel our reservation and all go and have supper at the Armenian restaurant instead. That way, you'd feel less anxious."

I can't stop looking at him. He isn't particularly handsome or particularly ugly. He's neither tall nor short. He's dressed in black, simple and elegant-and by elegance I mean a complete absence of brand names or designer labels.

Marie links arms with Mikhail and heads for the exit. The bookseller still has a pile of books waiting to be signed for readers who could not come to the signing, but I promise that I will drop by the following day. My legs are trembling, my heart pounding, and yet I have to pretend that everything is fine, that I'm glad the book signing was a success, that I'm interested in what other people are saying. We cross the Champs-Elysees, the sun is setting behind the Arc de Triomphe, and, for some reason, I know that this is a sign, a good sign.

As long as I can keep control of the situation.

Why do I want to speak to him? The people from the publishing house keep talking to me and I respond automatically; no one notices that I am far away, struggling to understand why I have invited to supper someone whom I should, by rights, hate. Do I want to find out where Esther is? Do I want to have my revenge on this young man, so lost, so insecure, and yet who was capable of luring away the person I love? Do I want to prove to myself that I am better, much better than he? Do I want to bribe him, seduce him, make him persuade my wife to come back?

I can't answer any of these questions, and that doesn't matter. The only thing I have said up until now is: "I'd like to invite this young man to supper." I had imagined the scene so often before: we meet, I grab him by the throat, punch him, humiliate him in front of Esther; or I get a thrashing and make her see how hard I'm fighting for her, suffering for her. I had imagined scenes of aggression or feigned indifference or public scandal, but the words "I'd like to invite this young man to supper" had never once entered my head.

No need to ask what I will do next, all I have to do now is to keep an eye on Marie, who is walking along a few paces ahead of me, holding on to Mikhail's arm, as if she were his girlfriend. She won't let him go and yet I wonder, at the same time, why she's helping me, when she knows that a meeting with this young man could also mean that I'll find out where my wife is living.

We arrive. Mikhail makes a point of sitting far away from me; perhaps he wants to avoid getting caught up in a conversation with me. Laughter, champagne, vodka, and caviar-I glance at the menu and am horrified to see that the bookseller is spending about a thousand dollars on the entrees alone. There is general chatter; Mikhail is asked what he thought of the afternoon's event; he says he enjoyed it; he is asked about the book; he says he enjoyed it very much. Then he is forgotten, and attention turns to me-was Ihappy with how things had gone, was the queue organized to my liking, had the security team been up to scratch? My heart is still pounding, but I present a calm front. I thank them for everything, for the efficient way in which the event was run.

Half an hour of conversation and a lot of vodka later, I can see that Mikhail is beginning to relax. He isn't the center of attention anymore, he doesn't need to say very much, he just has to endure it for a little while longer and then he can go. I know he wasn't lying about the Armenian restaurant, so at least now I have a clue. My wife must still be in Paris! I must pretend to be friendly, try to win his confidence, the initial tensions have all disappeared.

An hour pa.s.ses. Mikhail looks at his watch and I can see that he is about to leave. I must do something-now. Every time I look at him, I feel more and more insignificant and understand less and less how Esther could have exchanged me for someone who seems so unworldly (she mentioned that he had "magical" powers). However difficult it might be to pretend that I feel perfectly at ease talking to someone who is my enemy, I must do something.

"Let's find out a bit more about our reader," I say, and there is an immediate silence.

"Here he is, about to leave at any moment, and he's hardly said a word about his life.

What do you do?"

Despite the number of vodkas he has drunk, Mikhail seems suddenly to recover his sobriety.

"I organize meetings at the Armenian restaurant."

"What does that involve?"

"I stand on stage and tell stories. And I let the people in the audience tell their stories too."

"I do the same thing in my books."

"I know, that's how I first met..."

He's going to say who he is!

"Were you born here?" asks Marie, thus preventing him from finishing his sentence.

"I was born in the Kazakhstan steppes."

Kazakhstan. Who's going to be brave enough to ask where Kazakhstan is?

"Where's Kazakhstan?" asks the sales representative.

Blessed are those who are not afraid to admit that they don't know something.

"I was waiting for someone to ask that," and there is an almost gleeful look in Mikhail's eyes now. "Whenever I say where I was born, about ten minutes later people are saying that I'm from Pakistan or Afghanistan.... My country is in Central Asia. It has barely fourteen million inhabitants in an area far larger than France with its population of sixty million."