Conversations with an Immortal

1

I could never understand this strange, measured-mannered man who seemed to delight in bewildering me with his caustic, paradoxical observations on everything. He gave the impression of being taciturn; yet, after a little time with him, one could not fail to notice the most extraordinary thing I have ever known in my turbulent life: he was a smile. He was one from head to toe. He did not smile—he didn’t need to; his whole being was that smile. This impression came to me in a very curious, hard-to-explain way. I can only say that the smile seemed a natural property of his body, emanating even from his gait. I never heard him laugh, yet he possessed the gift of conveying either mirth or gravity, as the situation required. I never saw him depressed or upset, not even during those turbulent days near the end of the Second World War when, as a result of a political revolution, I found myself in prison—and he did absolutely nothing to secure my release. Even in that incident he proved himself an extraordinary man. He almost seemed intent on my remaining incarcerated, and on one occasion when I reproached him for this attitude he said to me: “You’re much better off in here than out there. At least you’re in good company, and maybe you’ll even awaken.” “But you can’t even sleep in here,” I replied. “That’s what you think,” he said, “because you don’t yet know which way of sleeping is more dangerous and harmful in the long run. There are those who watch over you even as you sleep, and you’re well accompanied.” In the ward where I was held, there were also many men whom I respected as intellectual equals and whose conversations I found stimulating. I played endless games of chess with some of them, but our talks always circled back to the political events that had led to our imprisonment. I pointed this out to my friend one afternoon when he visited me bearing Christmas gifts. “You’re still asleep,” was all he replied. That day we talked for quite a while, and I ventured to ask him: “How is it that you visit me so often and haven’t disappeared like the others who fled as soon as they learned of my situation?” “I am more than a friend; I am the friendship that binds us.” I could not help but smile, letting him know that this was hardly the time for his paradoxes, and I pressed him: “But if you’re truly my closest friend, why hasn’t the police arrested you?” His answer was as bewildering as everything else: “Friendship protects me. And it protects you too, though in a different way.” After a moment’s silence he added: “You don’t understand me because you still depend on them, just as they depend on you. Neither you nor they yet depend on yourselves, but you are all convinced otherwise. If only you could grasp this, you would understand everything else in due time.” This enraged me, and I snapped: that his words were all very interesting as philosophy for idle evenings, but under my circumstances they amounted to intolerable foolishness. “Furthermore,” I added in a highly charged tone, using terms unfit for print, “how could I depend on these people, whose only function is to lick that little opera-dictator’s boots? Or perhaps I also depend on every cretin who leans on brute force and crows about his popularity when the opposition is gagged. Do I depend on those who persecute intelligence and prate about progress? I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me so.” He looked at me with that unwavering, patient smile, listened until I had finished—and, offering me a cigarette and a light, replied: “You’ve said it. You also depend on him and on many other things. These ones”—he gestured toward the armed guards on the other side of the bars—“support him with their weapons because they cannot do anything but obey whoever knows how to command them. Without their arms, without uniform, without officers, they would be nothing. They think they own their weapons, but in reality they are enslaved by them. But you and those imprisoned with you are even worse. These wear uniforms because they are afraid to go through life alone, and because they have nothing more productive to offer the world; they also wear a uniform in their heads. But you are worse: you claim to be men of intellect and in fact are fools, enamored of your own foolishness. You support this dictatorship—and every dictatorship there is—you support it far better and more efficiently than the others; your support takes many forms, but mainly through the attitude of stupid arrogance that makes you live with your backs turned to the truth. And you not only support it, you strengthen it. Yes, you are worse than those who are innocently ignorant. And yet, none of you is truly to blame.” He said all this so calmly and soberly that I was struck dumb. A good while passed before I asked him: “What is it that we ignore?” “A very simple fact that is actually a physical truth, but which you all believe to be merely an impossible ethical precept. Surely you have read or heard it once: ‘Do not resist evil.’” “All those precepts were given to the world by true sages. Only a handful of beings in human history have been able to discover that they are really scientific truths. Ordinary science, of course, will deny this because it believes that ethics is something separate from what it calls matter, not realizing that ethics is precisely what conditions and enlivens matter and even creates its forms. Long ago there was a true sage among the men of science named Mesmer. Science—or whatever you call science—persecuted him and has ignored his work. Such is the fate of everyone who discovers the truth. Today mesmerism is regarded as a form of charlatanry, and curiously it is the charlatans of science themselves who rant most vehemently against Mesmer’s ‘charlatanry.’ Some who have studied Mesmer to practice magnetic healing have come close to the truth he left hidden in his aphorisms. But only a few—very few—have noticed that what is ‘yes’ can also be ‘no,’ that ‘yes’ is a truth relative to ‘no,’ just as ‘good’ is relative to ‘evil.’ But you will have an opportunity to learn more about that, for at last you have asked me a question worth answering.” I must confess that my friend’s words always struck me as the ravings of a madman. That afternoon he left happier and more radiant than usual, promising to visit me again in two days—something that, according to prison regulations, was exceedingly difficult. When I remarked on this, he said: “You know how to ride a bicycle, don’t you?” “Of course I do,” I replied. “Well; whoever knows how to ride their own bicycle can ride any other.” What on earth bicycles had to do with his visit I could never determine. Time and again I posed that question to myself, and many others sprung from his words. I still ponder them without finding a satisfactory answer. I must also confess that reason told me this man was mad, yet I felt a singular affection for him. I have chosen to portray him thus, acting in a crucial circumstance of my life—an event that marked the end of a career to which I had devoted all my strength and enthusiasm. Indeed, losing that position, won after many years of arduous labor, was a harsh blow; but when I poured out all these grievances to my friend, he merely replied: “It is the best thing that could have happened to you. Now it depends only on you that your awakening will not bring you greater suffering.” And then he told me many things that at the time I took simply as consolation, insisting that I possessed certain personal qualities indicative of a promised awakening. Certainly this account is not meant as an autobiography, nor to detail the minutiae of my turbulent existence before and after that event. If I note certain personal facts, it is only to provide background that explains my friend, and to substantiate the writings he has asked me to publish on this date “in order to increase the number of our own.” I recall that whenever I asked him what he meant by “our own” and who they were, he replied: “A very special kind of bees that appear only from time to time and with great effort.” Such was my friend’s will, and I comply not only because I gave him my word, but because I sense in all this something of value that escapes me. Perhaps some of the readers know what it is and can explain it to this man. I must also confess that I do not know his name; he never gave me his real name, and, except once, it never occurred to me to ask him those customary questions—name and surname, age, nationality, profession, and the like. Perhaps some of you know him or have heard of him. I say this because on the one occasion when I sought to probe that aspect of his being, I let him perceive my interest in his origins and other things he never explained spontaneously, as most people do to inspire confidence in others. My friend was nothing like anyone I had known in my life, and he seemed utterly indifferent to the impression he made. So, when the question of my curiosity about his identity arose, he uttered these enigmatic words: “Whoever truly wishes to know me can. You only need desire it to begin. I am everywhere in general, and nowhere in particular. I go to whoever calls me. But that is only a way of putting it, for the reality is otherwise. Few know how to call me, and it often happens that when I come to them, they are terrified, lose their wits, and barrage me with many questions: ‘Who are you? What is your name? How do you live? What is your work?’ And so on. I never answer such impertinences, because if a man does not know what he wants, it is better that he know nothing of me. It also happens that those who seek me without realizing it either decide not to pay me any attention or attribute everything to themselves. Some even consider me ‘evil.’ But it is only natural that this should occur in this era of frank degeneration of human intelligence. I shatter men’s dreams and leave them no illusions standing. Few decide to maintain contact with me, but those few are truly fortunate, for they have the possibility of knowing the real value of life. Of course, this knowledge carries responsibilities; but you will learn of them in due time.” I recall that I said then: “In that case, I am very glad I did not pester you. Please excuse my curiosity. I would not want to lose contact with you for anything in the world.” At these words he smiled and added: “There is a simple way to remain in contact with me: remembering. Memory is the contact with the past. In memory lies knowledge, the truth. To unite one’s heart with the truth is what matters most. Enjoy my friendship while it lasts. You would do well to strive to understand the things I tell you and to grasp me. Any effort you make in this regard will be a positive gain, even if it often seems your whole life is collapsing. You are one of those who have called me without fully realizing that they were seeking me. You have not overwhelmed me with questions or foolish demands. But I must warn you that while you have certain qualities that keep me by your side, those same qualities could drive me entirely away from you if you do not awaken. At least, if you were to awaken now—and it depends only on you—you would not suffer what you will surely suffer when you must remain alone and silent, as in the desert. I can accompany you only for a time. If you do not learn to treasure what I give you, only you will be to blame.” At that time I found his protective tone in such cases irritating. His solemnity seemed absurd and misplaced. Many friends and some of my colleagues felt a marked antipathy toward him. They would ask what I saw in this friend and label him a “weirdo”; some said he had no feelings, that nothing moved him. But I knew him to be a man full of love. When I recounted my friends’ opinions after a social incident, he said to me: “Do not let those opinions trouble you. They are the scum of the world, the true evil of human society. You will always find the thirty pieces of silver in their pockets. I have nothing to do with them, and nothing to desire of them; they are subject to other forces from which they could free themselves if they truly wished, but they have fallen in love with themselves and mistake sentiment for their personal weaknesses.” But it will be better and more practical to give a chronological account of the events.

2

I ENTERED journalism because, after one of the many wars of this century, I was left with a leg so badly injured that it was impossible for me to resume my career in the merchant navy. The fact that I knew some languages, could translate cable-telegraph messages, and didn’t write too badly were factors that helped me in this endeavor. I was ambitious, and I wanted to build a career because I felt very keenly that my health was working against me and that the years were growing ever shorter. I gave up the adventures and pleasures of traveling without a fixed course—like hopping aboard any ship as a crewman in any port—and I also gave up poetry and many other things that until then had brightened my existence. It was unpleasant to walk leaning on a cane, and even more unpleasant at times to have to resort to crutches. I did not have the money needed to see a specialist treat my leg properly, and I had fled my homeland in horror at the scant maternal care of the military hospitals. I had very good reasons for this—I had seen too much. But that has only the value of personal background. My salary was the minimum. I worked with a desire to prosper and with enthusiasm. Not only did I want to make a career and make a name for myself in journalism, but I also realized that as long as one day I depended on a cane, and the next on crutches—depending on how crowded the trams were that I used to go back and forth to work—my possibilities in life were limited to being a translator and nothing more. My first goal, then, was to earn money. And since I inherited and was educated with certain religious ideas, I judged that the best thing was to ask Heaven for help. I thought of directing my petitions to some of the saints credited with miracles, but my work argued against that decision. The news reported on the world situation on the eve of the Second World War and on that lamentable puppet show in Geneva. These reports struck me powerfully and ultimately undermined my belief in the saints. I could not explain how, with so much prayer and solicitous supplication to the saints, the world remained embarked on a blood orgy that I had experienced firsthand—and upon which my cane and crutches spoke eloquently, without needing their truth to be corroborated by the sharp pains I so often suffered. Amid all this, I comforted myself by thinking that I still had my leg and the possibility of saving it. Others had fared worse than I, losing legs or arms to wounds far less serious than mine. All of this—and other things too intimate to recount here—shaped my resolve to put aside the idea of asking for monetary help from Saint Jude Thaddeus, or Saint Pancras, or any of the other saints who, in theory and according to religious propaganda, perform miracles. I decided to present my troubles directly and personally to Our Lord Jesus Christ. After all, I had always felt that the “Lord Jesus Christ,” like the “Hail Mary,” moved me profoundly. And so I began to visit several churches in search of the right atmosphere until I found one in which a most beautiful painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus dominated the altar and nave. But by this point I must confess that I had stopped attending Mass on Sundays and holy days because on those days I preferred to stay in bed, in the modest boarding house room I rented, in order to give my leg a good rest. Moreover, I felt a pang of conscience: I considered that the holy sacraments were forever closed to me. This had its origin in the war. I had had a violent clash with my unit’s chaplain when, desperate, I told him that I thought God was a piece of garbage and that I couldn’t see how, by means of His ministers, He could sanction such slaughter of young men. This incident occurred after a field Mass, on the eve of several hundred boys, aged sixteen to eighteen, going in to receive their baptism by fire. The chaplain had offered me Communion, saying, “Just in case you die.” This filled me with such disgust that I unleashed on him, violently, all the anger I had accumulated over a year spent in lice-infested uniforms, without water and starving. I am a passionate man, and at that time I squeezed the trigger easily, as if life’s most natural function were to take another’s. I don’t recall exactly what I said that day, but in general I declared that I could understand how men who knew nothing of religion could become beasts, but it was utterly incomprehensible to me that religious men could sanction or even bless those who committed such barbarity. I never forgot that scene. I came through the fighting without a scratch, but deeply shaken after seeing so many young boys die, almost defenseless. The chaplain, who had helped carry the wounded under enemy fire, sat beside me on a log, put an arm around my shoulders when I broke down crying, and said he understood my state of mind. For a moment I thought he was crying in repentance, but I soon realized it was the combat’s nervous tension that made me break. Yet in my conscience remained the sense that I had committed a sacrilege in saying what I had said about God. Therefore I deemed myself unworthy to receive the holy sacraments. And, to speak honestly, I also feared the penance that would follow confessing such blasphemy. For that reason—and perhaps also because I wanted to atone for my sin in my own way—I only went to that church in the afternoons, when it was more or less empty, provided it was not too inconvenient. As a result of the war, of course, I had lost all faith in miracles. On the other hand, the international news I translated daily told me that miracles belonged to eras long past. It is true that every so often a paragraph would appear announcing some miraculous cure in Lourdes. But the miracle I awaited was far from happening, for I was waiting for the miracle of peace. What had happened to me in my country was then happening to Ethiopians and Italians in Africa. Shortly thereafter, in the name of supposedly noble principles and with the participation of religion and religious people, it began to happen in Spain. So by that time I knew deep down that no miracle would occur for me unless I, for my part and at my own risk, did what I needed to do. Nevertheless, I could not hide that deep faith in Christ within me. And even though I had blasphemed by calling God a piece of garbage, reason told me that if I took at face value the principle that He is in heaven, on earth, and everywhere, I would lose nothing by showing Him or explaining to Him that crisis I had suffered in the war. I thought that, in time, I could also persuade Him to help me earn enough money to have my leg operated on and work normally again. Thus, upon entering the church I would hastily pray an Our Father, a Lord Jesus Christ, and a Hail Mary. Then I would approach that beautiful image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and say: “Lord Jesus Christ, I am not asking much of You. I know You cannot give me the lottery, and even if You could, I do not covet that much money. Nor am I going to ask You to help me find an heiress. At the moment I do not wish to marry. Besides, what heiress would marry me once she learned that I only wanted her to pay for my leg operation? Only a very ugly woman would do that—and I do not wish to marry an ugly woman; nor do I wish to marry a very beautiful one, because if she is both beautiful and wealthy, she is surely an idiot and empty-headed. Do You know what my grandfather used to say? He said, ‘Give me death in the form of a wise man, but not life in the form of a fool.’ You know that runs in my blood. Therefore, Lord Jesus Christ, the only thing I ask of You is something everyone seems to disdain as useless and superfluous: I ask You for intelligence. Just help me become more intelligent, and I will manage the rest and bother You no more.” One of my few virtues is perseverance when something matters vitally to me. What I wanted at that time was to carve out a path for myself and become a great international correspondent. To that end, at night in the boarding house, I practiced writing the most sensational dispatches I could imagine based on what I was learning at work. I invented a series of political events of which I was a privileged witness. I knew these were crazy dreams, but I enjoyed dreaming them. It was also wonderful to notice that somewhere in me there was someone capable of dreaming. Gradually, building on the experience my work gave me, I began to write articles on the international situation. I took great pleasure in making forecasts about what would follow from a given event. These forecasts were based on certain phenomena I noticed repeating again and again in virtually all great events. They seemed to obey a principle, and that principle governed the actions of great men. This led me to resume studying history, which had especially interested me in school. I began to understand it from another perspective, noticing that those repetitions occurred automatically from the remotest times. Everything hinged on understanding motives; the motives were always the same and animated everything. So when my forecasts began to come true with more or less accuracy, I decided to intensify my petitions to Jesus Christ. I made them more serious and more ambitious. I jotted down my forecasts in a little notebook, and after a few months I began dispatching my work very efficiently and with greater speed, which earned me a slight raise. I also made some extra pesos by fabricating dispatches signed with some assumed name—branding them as coming from a great internationalist—and dating them in some European capital. The newspapers that bought this material had a weakness for Anglo-Saxon names. I therefore felt obliged to express my gratitude in some way, and I decided to go to the temple earlier and stay longer. I began my supplications very meticulously: “Lord Jesus Christ: thank You for hearing me. Each time I see more clearly. They have raised my salary, but the operation costs much more, so I beg You to give me more intelligence and I will not trouble You in this way again.” I also detailed my personal problems to Him, and asked for guidance, saying: “Enlighten me so that I may understand more clearly.” This attendance at the temple became a beneficial—and, of course, economical—habit, for while my friends gambled at the bars or went to the cinema for entertainment, I went to pray. And the money I would have spent with them became a growing sum that I deposited in a savings account. I awaited impatiently the day when I could leave behind the limp, the cane, and the crutch, and throw myself into the grand adventure of giving up translations to devote myself fully to the career of writing sensational reportage.

3

THAT’S HOW I CAME TO KNOW my friend. Like me, this seemingly focused man always occupied the same place in the church. He prayed with great devotion. I was drawn to his singular way of praying. He did not move his lips; his face bore no solemn expression but was suffused with serenity. He prayed with his arms outstretched in a cross and never took his eyes off the image of Christ. Often, in watching him, I would lose track of my own prayers. I thought it might be good to have that power of concentration and to direct myself properly to Our Lord Jesus Christ. Yet, even though I felt that desire in me, the idea of imitating him displeased me. My grandfather had always told me that one prays with what is in the heart, not with the head. I had never concerned myself with delving into such matters, and for reasons rooted in my upbringing, I flatly refused to recite the standard prayers except those that moved me. At school I had received many and painful beatings for questioning the real, practical meaning of prayers. But no thrashing was ever strong enough to break my stubbornness, and my teachers, by that method, only succeeded in turning me into an incorrigible rebel. This man seemed to time his prayers with exact precision. He always arrived before me—I never saw him enter after I did. Yet he would finish one or two minutes before I finished. He made the Sign of the Cross very solemnly but without the slightest affectation. I noticed that he held his hand at each position longer than even the priests did. One afternoon I wondered whether that manner of crossing oneself had some special significance. This man also never dipped his fingers into the holy-water font. He departed very quietly. After a few days, seeing that I watched him, he began to greet me with a slight nod of his head. That was when I realized there was something extraordinary about his bearing. His expression in greeting me was very kind—but it also showed great strength. And when I left the church to go to work, I would see him on the steps, either lighting or smoking a cigarette. One afternoon, when the news was more plentiful and more dire than usual, I hurried out of the church alongside him because I was anxious to get to work. As we reached the door we collided. My limp was an obstacle, and in order to let him go first I made a sudden movement and dropped my cane. Instead of passing through, he immediately stooped, picked it up, and handed it to me, saying, “Please forgive me. It was clumsy of me.” I was astonished, for there could be no doubt that the clumsy one was I—my childish eagerness to get past him had caused me to let the cane fall at just the moment it could trip him. It goes without saying that I was already quite used to being rebuked for my awkwardness—especially on the trams. Once, in that very church, a very devout lady reproached me for the cane that I, inadvertently, had left beside me. When I apologized for my negligence, she said, “God has punished you in this way for a reason, inconsiderate one!” I did not doubt for a moment that she was right, since I had sinned so gravely against God during the war; so I supposed her words were a warning to be more careful with the cane that had inconvenienced so devout a lady. I also thought her admonition implied that I should never come to church with crutches. The lady had hurried to the confessional, where there was a long line of women waiting their turn. When I looked at the one whom I had so inconvenienced, I realized that I was also to blame for her having lost at least two places in the queue, given the time she had spent recalling my sins and blasphemies. She was turning her rosary with agitated, nervous hands, and I surmised that she urgently needed confession. I recount this incident because I had already fostered a certain resignation to the reproaches of good people, whom my cane and limp so vexed. So when this strange man apologized to me for something of which I alone was guilty, I could think of nothing to say. I was so surprised by this novelty. I recall trying to utter something, but I do not know whether any words came out. He opened the narrow door very carefully, stepped aside, and invited me: “Please, you go first—you surely are in a hurry.” I only managed to incline my head in gratitude. Only once outside was I partly able to recover from my astonishment, and I said to him, “You know full well it was my fault. You are very kind. Thank you very much.” I must point out something very peculiar I felt in that moment. His courtesy produced in me a strange irritation. I had expected him to respond with the usual “Not at all.” I longed for him to say it, since I would have been disappointed had he done so. Why I felt such an odd desire, I cannot yet explain. But he did not say it, and then another unusual thing happened. I felt a genuine joy at his slight, silent nod of the head. And inwardly I thought, “Well, at least he’s not a nincompoop.” After his gesture, he moved away from me. I began to descend the church steps with that typical awkwardness of the lame, who can only take one step at a time. That day the descent was dreadfully slow for me. I felt behind me as if he were watching me and pitying me. Generally, the pity that some expressed at my limp tasted of hypocrisy and irritated me greatly. I called it false mercy, a banal formality like any other. Once again I had to change my opinion of this man. My judgment had been hasty. When I reached the sidewalk I looked back and saw him walking away in the opposite direction as if nothing had happened. I did not recall the incident again until the next day when I arrived at the church. Due to some rearrangements inside, the pews that he and I used for prayer were not in their usual positions. He had taken the end of the only pew from which one could look directly toward the altar—and that end was against a thick pillar. I sat on the same pew but a little way from him, and I took care to place my cane behind me on the seat. When he had finished his prayers, he sat down; I did not notice this until I too had finished and was preparing to leave. He had waited patiently, for to exit he would have had to interrupt me. Such delicacy moved me, especially since I had already noticed his habit of leaving the church as soon as he had completed his devotions. I looked at him, smiled, and said, “Thank you very much, sir.” Again he inclined his head, rose, and waited while I readjusted my leg and retrieved my cane. I hurried to do so as quickly as I could, in order to match his courtesy, and in doing so made a sudden movement that brought such a sharp pain that, before I realized what I was doing, I exclaimed, “Damn!” I already had the cane in my right hand. I let it fall to lean on the pew’s backrest and with my left hand I touched the sore spot in my leg. While bent over I realized what I had just said, and I raised my head to look at this man, feeling my face flush with shame. But he smiled without change, and with that same gentle, kind expression said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Amen.” The shock of that struck me so violently that I could not hold back laughter; I had to cover my mouth with my hand so as not to cause a scandal. I had just uttered a profanity before this man who, clearly, took this religious function very seriously. Yet he had not shown anger or annoyance—instead, he had dissipated my shame and guilt so completely that I burst into genuine hilarity. For as much as I am a passionate man, I also have an easy laugh—one trait goes with the other. I made an effort and regained as much composure as I could. I took my cane and began to leave with my usual awkwardness. This man did not even make a gesture to help me, and for that I felt grateful—his “Amen” was already a remarkable concession to my weakness. When we were outside, however, I felt compelled to offer an explanation, so I stopped him and said, “Sir, please forgive me. Believe me, it was an involuntary exclamation. The pain was very sharp.” “I understand,” he said. “Those pains are indeed sharp. Under the circumstances, your exclamation is natural. You have no need to apologize to me.” I confess it was a long time before I understood his words. Even now they seem inexplicable. But at that moment I did not ponder them, for I was concerned with offering my apologies and reciprocating the kindness he had shown me, so I said, “I realize my exclamation may have offended your devotion. You have been excessively considerate toward me, and I would not wish to cause you displeasure. After all, my devotion is not equal to yours; I do not come to the church to worship nor to ask forgiveness for my sins, for I know they have no pardon and that I do not deserve it. I come to ask for help in matters very far from spiritual. As you can see, I pile sin upon sin—and all for a pain in my leg.” It was then that he bestowed on me his first paradox. Speaking very deliberately and with intention, he said, “Just as with good and virtue, sin and evil can only occur in waking life. Whoever sleeps, sleeps; for the sleeping there is no sin, just as there is no good or virtue. There is only sleep.” I looked at him, suspecting I faced a madman, but his gaze was so clear and so fixed on my eyes—yet without impertinence—that I hesitated before completing my judgment. I said nothing. He continued, “In truth, no one sins deliberately; no one can do evil deliberately. In sleep things are as they are and in the only way they can be. When one is asleep, one has no control or mastery over what occurs in dreams.” “I confess I cannot understand you,” I said. “It is only natural that you should not,” he replied. “Forget this incident—it has no great importance.” “But I much fear that I have wounded you with that totally involuntary expression.” “No, you have not wounded me in any way. You have wounded yourself. The vast majority of men wound themselves in that way, precisely because almost everything they think, feel, and do is involuntary.” “I would like to be able to understand you. What you say is very confusing, and I regret that my preoccupations do not allow me to reflect on the meaning of your words.” “Even in sleep, man has a certain power of choice—limited, certainly—but he has it. In any case, when he exercises it, that power increases. If your interest in understanding is sincere and profound, it will be easy for you to realize that a sleeping man can choose between awakening and continuing to sleep.” I was not interested in puzzles of that kind. However, I was attracted by this man’s manner of speaking. But I was in a hurry to reach my office and see whether my latest forecast had come true. Moreover, the general crisis in Europe kept us all very busy, so my mind was not inclined to meditate on what I had just heard. Not wanting to be rude, I said, “Surely what you say is very true. At least, in my case it is. I am relieved not to have offended your religious feelings. I will try to be more careful in the future. Now please excuse me, for I must go to work.” I was about to say the customary “See you later,” when he interrupted me: “I have no fixed destination, so if you allow me I will accompany you.” I had always avoided the company of friends and acquaintances, knowing that my limp made them restless, since I had to more or less drag my injured leg behind me. I was about to refuse, saying I was in a great hurry, when I realized the incongruity of my apology. I could hardly claim to be hurrying. Not knowing what to do, I only managed to say, “With the greatest pleasure.” But inwardly I seethed with anger. This man imposed himself on my will so gently, and yet so resolutely, that I could not conceal my irritation and began to move in silence. Each of his gestures, however, was considerate. As I struggled down the temple steps toward the sidewalk, he told me he would go ahead to buy cigarettes. When we were together again, he toyed with the pack, and upon reaching the corner he did not offer that pious gesture—which irritated me so in others—of helping me cross to the opposite curb. He walked beside me very naturally, as if my gait were that of a normal man. Nevertheless, I think he sensed my inward irritation, for he said, “The pains you suffer are what you expressed in the church. And I would like you to cast them out of yourself.” This only increased my irritation. I was about to tell him that pity sickened me and that, in any case, he could hardly care whether I was suffering pain or not. But something held me back, and I remained silent. We walked at my pace—very slowly. For a stretch we both remained silent. I began to recall that more than once I too had fervently wished the disappearance of the pains suffered by more grievously wounded men, especially in field hospitals. So I thought perhaps this man was not a hypocrite in telling me how he felt about my suffering. I began to feel calmer and to trust him more. He offered me a cigarette and, seeing me reach for matches in my pocket, with my cane hanging from my arm, he let me help myself. I felt sympathy for him, and resolved to confide in him my embarrassing secret: “I hope I do not offend you by what I am about to say, but the truth is that I go to church hoping that, with the help of prayer, I will gain a bit more understanding so that I can perform better at my job. I hope thereby to earn a raise. I need it, and I work extra hours to be able to afford my leg operation and become whole again. But do not think that I expect a miracle; I also ask for other things that may be too petty.” “I understand,” he said. “I hope to gather the necessary sum soon. When I can walk well I will be able to work better and make a career and a name for myself.” “Evidently you have a very precise purpose.” “Well, without a precise purpose one can do very little,” I said. “It is a great thing to have a precise purpose, to know what one wants. It is far more important than most imagine. Yet very few men truly know what they want in life; some believe they do, but they are mistaken. They confuse ends with the means they use; and sometimes those means become their true aim. But because they see them as means—and cannot see more or better—they employ great and noble means for quite petty ends. That is how knowledge becomes prostituted.” This comment grated on me, and I replied, “Are you referring to my case—that I do not go to church for spiritual ends?” “No,” he said, “I speak in general terms. I do not think you have authorized me to address your private matters directly. Besides, when I want to say something I say it directly and without beating around the bush.” “Perhaps you find my attitude in church odd. But the fact is I do not know how to pray; nor do I know how to worship. I only know how to ask, and I ask in my own way. Religion ceased to interest me for many reasons.” “But, apparently, you have not lost faith—and that is the only thing that truly matters. All the more so in your particular case. There is much to say about faith. It is something that must grow in a man. And as for knowing how to pray, it is simpler than you suppose. In our times the meaning of prayer has become very complicated. I believe that when one knows what one wants and strives to achieve it, even without formulating it in words, one is in perpetual prayer. I once read somewhere that every profound desire is a prayer and never goes unanswered; man always receives what he asks for. But since generally man does not know what his heart truly wants, he also does not know how to ask for what is best for him. Hence I hold that the Our Father, for example, is a prayer accessible only to a heart thirsty for truth and hungry for goodness. Every true miracle lies in that—but modern man no longer sees it that way, and has also lost the true sense of the miraculous. He seeks it outside himself, in the phenomenal. Modern man has forgotten many simple things, and this forgetting is the underlying truth of the concept of original sin.” “I do not believe in miracles,” I answered. “It is possible that such is your formulation. But allow me to question your words.” “How could I not know what I myself believe?” “Facts reveal it. It is very simple, if you observe them well. If you did not believe in the miraculous, you would not come to church.” And without giving me a chance to reply, he took his leave, saying: “I have greatly enjoyed your company. I thank you. Perhaps we can return to these topics if you are interested. Will you go to church tomorrow?” “I certainly will,” I said. “If I am alive.” “And if God wills it,” he added very solemnly. I was left bewildered. That last expression had disturbed me. At times this man seemed pure reason itself, yet here were his paradoxes and contradictions to torment me. In any case, I told myself, at least he is honest—and he is not a nincompoop.

4

WE WALKED together again the next day. And the day after that as well. And so a beautiful, sincere friendship grew between us. His paradoxes reached me only from time to time. He cared that I ate well, that I enjoyed sufficient rest. He even persuaded me to give up the extra work that deprived me of sleep and repose. He helped me with my forecasts, and soon I had several little notebooks full of notes. But what seemed to concern him most was my leg. One day, very timidly, he ventured to say to me: “I have discussed your case with a surgeon friend of mine. If you can pay for the X-rays, he will operate on you free of charge. You can pay the hospital, anesthesia, ward, and so on in monthly installments. Are you interested?” “Of course!” I exclaimed. I could not contain my joy. By that time we had grown closer and knew one another better. I was drawn to his frank, open way of doing things—especially the way he spoke his mind without worrying about mine. Yet the religious topic was one he simply set aside, which struck me as curious. I obtained from my bosses the necessary permission to be absent from the office, and they even advanced me a sum against future paychecks so that I could make up the rest. That memorable afternoon, my friend was waiting for me at the church door. “We’re running late,” he said. “Let’s take a taxi.” He said nothing more during the ride, and I kept silent too, except to murmur, “It’s a shame I couldn’t pray this afternoon. I would have liked to give thanks for all this.” “You needn’t worry,” he replied. “It’s already done and received, and you are at peace with Him.” I barely had time to be surprised, for at that moment we arrived at the clinic, and he was first out to pay the driver. Those five weeks passed so quickly that I can hardly recall the details. He visited me every day; he took care of personal matters I couldn’t attend to; and when the doctor cleared me to get up and try walking, he stayed away. My first days without a cane, even in the clinic, were rather unpleasant. I had grown so accustomed to limping that I missed the cane. My friend said to me: “All habit is something acquired, and one can change it. Try this experiment.” He placed a box of matches in my hand and instructed: “Squeeze it as if it were the handle of a cane.” After a few tries, I realized that doing so made me feel more secure and helped me walk better. Time passed, and I was discharged. That day my friend came to fetch me and we left the clinic together. When I thanked the surgeon for his kindness in not charging me for the operation, I noticed he grew uneasy. Long afterward I learned that my friend had quietly paid all the expenses. He never gave me a chance to thank him for that gesture. When we left the clinic and I walked at his side with light heart, he offered one of his paradoxical remarks: “People believe habits are abandoned, when in fact one only ever changes them. A man’s wisdom is proved precisely by which habits he changes and what new ones he adopts in place of those he thinks he has left behind. I tell you this with a twofold purpose: the principal one is that you learn to know yourself; the other is to point out a detail by which you may grasp the thread of the knowledge that some very wise men deem indispensable to human happiness. For example, right now you are squeezing that matchbox, and you disguise the habit by keeping your hand hidden in your pocket. That is not especially harmful. I tell you simply so that you learn to observe yourself. For now, it is enough that you know it. You might have continued believing you left the cane habit behind—but what you left behind was only the cane, not the habit of leaning on something to walk. Now you lean on a matchbox. I don’t know if you see what I mean.” I immediately withdrew my hand from my pocket, somewhat embarrassed, but he said: “No— that was not my point. You have misunderstood me. You see, you might have changed the habit of leaning on something to walk into the habit of reacting with exaggerated pride—and that would be truly harmful. The wise man exercises discernment in these matters, in these trivial things—because greatness is made of trivialities. When we want to become better but don’t precisely know by and for ourselves what is better or worse, we easily fall into absurdities and become enslaved to what others determine to be good or evil. Within each human being there is a Judge always ready to guide us. But because of our poor upbringing and its consequences, or for other reasons, we either ignore this Inner Judge or, when He speaks, we pay Him no heed. This Judge is ourselves in a different, invisible form. I dare say that in your case it was this Judge who led you to the church and who has guided you through many of your troubles. Remembering this Judge, practicing His presence within oneself, is very important. And since He is, so to speak, an elevated aspect of ourselves, we may call this Judge the “I”—but not the ordinary “I” we know. By striving to feel Him in each of our actions, feelings, and thoughts, we nourish Him. Eventually we may come to perceive Him as something supremely extraordinary, supremely intelligent and understanding. It is a sensation and a feeling very different from what we are accustomed to calling the “I.” He does not appear overnight, but must be forged patiently. But that is enough for now. Ponder it, I beg you. Do you enjoy riding a bicycle?” I answered “Yes.” “Magnificent,” he said. “If you wish, when I return from a trip I must make soon, we can embark on a series of rides together. Fortunately I have two bikes—one belonged to a brother who died. Would you like those rides?” “Indeed I would,” I replied. And in truth, freed from my limp, I felt the world was a wonderful place. I bade my friend farewell. The next day I went to the church much earlier than usual. I expressed my gratitude to Jesus, and as I murmured my improvised speech, I recalled my friend’s words from our first conversation: —If you did not believe in the miraculous, you would not come to church.— I realized that in all I had just experienced a miracle had occurred—but I was not entirely convinced. Everything had happened too casually, and besides, I was used to thinking that miracles, to be real, had to take place in a matter of seconds. Mine had taken nearly a year, and to me that did not feel like a miracle. Perhaps whoever reads this can explain why in me there was a voice, an idea, something that insisted a miracle had indeed occurred, but I cannot find a fully satisfying answer—despite the fact that my friend often spoke to me of “the illusion of time.” In what he asked me to publish there is mention of time and of love that I frankly do not understand. I have simply typed out the pages he gave me. But let us return to him.

5

As I have already mentioned, I never knew his name—his true name. Sometimes he said that names are unimportant, that what really matters lies closer to us than our own name, that it is more real than our name. He said that names are merely a social convenience, a means of identification. Sometimes he said he felt kinship with certain strange bees of Yucatán; at other times with a Prince Canek, loved by a Princess Sac-Nicté; and sometimes he would say that his love for the Sun compelled him to feel he shared the spirit of the Inca Yahuar Huakak, whose concerns he had once shared, despite the centuries between them. On other occasions he confided that he was enamored of the wisdom of Ioanes and of some of Melchizedek’s teachings. Very often I heard him remark: > “The only thing that truly matters is to be. When a man simply *is*, everything else comes of its own accord.” In my notes from that period I find some of his words recorded: > “Time, the unfolding of life and of human events, is something very few take into account—and an even smaller number are capable of understanding. Life is itself a miracle, yet we rarely reflect on it. We take many things for granted that are not true, and would cease to be so if we applied a question to them—a ‘why?’ We do not know who we truly are, nor what we truly are, nor which inclinations really animate us. Few realize this. Most believe that a name, a profession, and a few other circumstantial things are all there is to know. Our way of thinking remains naïve. Much of what people ascribe to modern education must be sought in the depths of pure psychology—a thing now lost. Yet there are many psychologists who fail even to understand the very things they proclaim. Otherwise psychoanalysis would have long ago been discarded. Ordinary science does not believe nor accept the miraculous because it is not truly scientific. There are men of science who occasionally and for moral reasons speak of the spiritual, but they do not pause to reflect on what matter itself is. There are supposedly spiritual men who do not grasp the import of what Jesus Christ said to Nicodemus, recorded in the Gospel: > > ‘If I have told you earthly things and you do not believe, how will you believe if I tell you heavenly things?’ > > Science refuses to see that in Christ’s words, parables, miracles, and every known deed, there is far more science than we ordinarily imagine. Because of this, the philosophy we know is founded on anti-scientific naïveté, just as the Christianity we know conflicts with the fundamental truths Christ taught. But we must not despair. There are those who hold the keys to true science, and their knowledge is exact and precise—one cannot err when dealing with it. The only difficulty lies in that no one reaches this science and this knowledge by chance. One must seek them zealously and prepare oneself for a long time. But we can all come into contact with these men, connect with them through their ideas, and above all, by the effort we make to understand them. It is the sincere effort that counts. Much of this is found in literature. Few suspect that a little book costing mere cents contains the most marvelous teachings one could wish. As I say, we think very naively—better said, we do not know how to think. Science and philosophy, for example, use means that, if truly pondered, would become ends in themselves. One such means is called ‘intuition.’ Science ignores how much it owes to intuition; the same holds true for philosophy. It is a different gradation or speed of the function of the human intellect. We can say the same of art and religion. The revelations upon which religious dogma is based are something that all theologians wish to elaborate—without realizing that, at the speed at which ordinary reason works, they cannot be elaborated.” > “Which little book is that, costing so few cents?” I asked. > “The Sermon on the Mount—it is the sum of chapters five, six, and seven of Matthew’s Gospel.” > “Why does religion say nothing about that?” He looked at me and smiled. > “Religion fails to see that its error lies precisely in its concept of ‘religion.’ Yet to grasp the truth of that concept, one must discard the ordinary notion of religion.” I was stunned by such perplexity. > “But you are obviously a religious man—how can you say that?” > “You see,” he replied, “you cannot emerge from the coffin in which your education, your concept of religious morality, etcetera, have buried you. Many men glimpse the possibility of leaving that coffin—and understand me literally when I say ‘coffin’—they stick their heads above the edges, but the freedom they see frightens them, and soon they crawl back in and latch the lid with bolts so that nothing disturbs their sleep.” > “But why do you say that religion is a mistaken concept?” > “‘Religion’ means to re-link, and there is nothing in the Universe that is unlinked. Yet we must represent things as if they were separate because of the limitations of our senses and of the understanding derived from those limitations. How can the concept of re-linking be reconciled with the simplest catechism assertion, for example, that God is in heaven, on earth, and everywhere? Or with the Apostle Paul’s words: ‘In Him we live, move, and have our being?’” > “Then what is to be done?” > “Realize what the word ‘Universe’ means; strive to elevate the intellect to those states of acuity in which these ideas live. We can again turn to Nicodemus’s interview with Jesus, because in that very theme Jesus gave the key to understanding these things when He said: > > ‘No one has ascended into heaven except He who descended from heaven, the Son of Man who is in heaven. And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up; that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.’” > “That is exceedingly difficult to understand.” > “Everything depends on the effort one makes to understand it. The effort to grasp those statements, obscure though they seem, is precisely the key that can open the gates of heaven—but most content themselves with the first interpretation they find, abandon the effort, and so begin to fall; thus begins original sin. For it means halting the development of the intellect. When a man settles for the understanding he has today and does not strive to expand it to the utmost intensity he is capable of, he loses his capacity, loses his comprehension, and eventually loses his soul—better said, he mutilates and retards its growth so that the soul sickens and may even die altogether. This is what Christ sought to explain in the parable of the talents, in the wedding garment parable, and especially in those two words that appear at every turn in the Gospels: ‘Watch and pray.’” Over time I even grew accustomed to my friend’s special manner of speaking. I introduced him to some of my colleagues, and when they asked who he was, I did not know what to say, so I presented him as an eccentric relative who was, at heart, a good man. When I told him this, secretly hoping he would reveal the truth about himself, he commented: > “Our true kinship is far more real than you imagine. You will learn this one day.” > “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating the mystery a bit?” I said. > “Truth always seems an exaggeration to those who do not perceive it.” > “It’s rather hard to bear.” > “I do not doubt it. But you still do not realize that we speak different languages, because our understanding is different.” > “Then why don’t we speak mine?” > “Because—even if you do not know it—you want to learn mine. Were I to go by your words alone, we would have stopped seeing and talking long ago. I speak not to what you *appear* in your words, but to what you *can be.*” > “That is pure gibberish. Is that all you have to say?” > “What I tell you will always depend on what you choose to ask.” Although these interviews always left me uneasy—seeing how he guided my thoughts and diverted my intentions—I could not help but feel my affection for him grow. The contradiction was stark. Thus time passed. I continued leaning on a matchbox I always carried in my pocket, and I could not forget the war. Above all, I could not forget the horror I felt upon recalling a man I had killed by plunging my bayonet into his belly. The agony I had witnessed was so terrible that, at moments, I wished I had been the one to die. These scenes returned to me now that the war dispatches reported casualty numbers from every front. I could not treat those figures as mere numbers—they represented human suffering, affecting not only the troops but each soldier’s entire family, every circle of friends, even the very land. I could not explain whence these thoughts came, but I felt a profound inner disquiet that sometimes became painful. So I did everything possible to flee from them—and even envied the cold detachment with which my colleagues shuffled those figures. I was also astonished whenever newspapers carried headlines boasting of unprecedented events in world history as if they were truly glorious achievements. The papers paid exorbitant sums for those stories; people gladly paid to read them. War had become a specter haunting my conscience. Of every ten dispatches I received for translation, nine dealt directly with war and the tenth indirectly. Thus passed the eras of Ethiopia and Spain, and one day Poland, and finally the conflict engulfed the entire world. The sheer weight of it overwhelmed me—those endless casualties began to blind me. Gradually I hardened, as the statistics reproduced the dead, wounded, and missing. One day I realized I was taking an interest---even enjoying---the description of a bombardment that slaughtered thousands of defenseless women, children, and the elderly. By chance, that same day I had translated a dispatch containing declarations by a senior Red Cross official, concerning five points for the aid and protection of children—and I had resolved to keep a copy for myself. I had left it on my desk, and when I went to retrieve it, the other dispatches about the dead and wounded had completely buried it. I reflected on this apparently random event and realized that, as with the Red Cross dispatch, so was happening to my own feelings—at that moment I recalled the pleading eyes of the boy I had bayoneted, and I thought I saw in them a reproach: “Have you forgotten so soon?” Each war dispatch revived that scene in my memory, accompanied by thoughts of hope: I wanted to believe that boy’s soul had found some compensation in another life. A subtle yet powerful fear seized me when I sensed I too was growing callous. My colleagues teased me about my scruples; some argued that wars—especially this great war—would bring scientific progress, so we could hope for a better world and a better life. The incongruity repulsed me. History bore witness that wars produce only fresh, bloodier wars. Here were dispatches showing how even more cruel humanity had become compared to the last war—hatreds intensified. Could one expect a better world built upon greater cruelty? Or a better life built on more intense hatred under the banner of ‘total war’? In those days I remembered Lincoln’s words: “Human progress is in the human heart.” And was I not witness that my own heart had become enamored of that cruelty and those hatreds? This singular terror—cold, as if death lurked in every thought—grew swiftly. When I next met my friend I shared all these reflections: > “Yes,” he said, “it is natural. The soul always knows what it wants, and as soon as awakening begins, it demands its due. There is a voice in all men that refuses the first explanation their senses receive. Some heed that silent voice, others do not. It is very painful and unpleasant at first. It is the first threshold. When genuine life begins in a man, the power of all that leads him back to sleep is also strengthened. This is a dangerous period, for every awakening brings new energies. And all that is false in our personality takes advantage of them and increases our enslavement. One might say that this is how the soul is killed. Thus in the world there are many souls whose lives have been halted and who gradually lose the potential for growth and perfection that is every man’s right. Some souls are decidedly dead. The human being is more than body and senses—but he does not know it, does not understand it.” > “Are you telling me that the soul is not immortal?” I asked. > “That depends on the person in question,” he said. > “But there are religious doctrines, the writings of Plato, and affirmations by many recognized intellects assuring us that we have an immortal soul.” > “You still sleep.” > “Are you contradicting Plato?” > “I could clarify many points so that you might understand Plato, but you are not ready yet.” > “I don’t understand you.” > “You are blinded by your own ideas, and while you remain so, you will understand nothing. Consider this: if the soul were something we had naturally secured, religious writings would not insist that we must strive to save it. Nor would there be a need for philosophy or religions—we would know it naturally, and no one would fear death as they do. Hear me: We *form* the soul in this life based on what animates us. If our motives, ideals, and ambitions are transient—concerned only with the moment—our soul will likewise be transitory, impermanent, subject to our whims. One day you will reflect calmly on these matters and understand that boy whose death haunts you. Notice: you did not kill him *of your own volition*, for you cannot will anything from your base self. In other words, something other than yourself—a society—trained you, taught you to kill. Do you recall your outburst that day in church? It is the same. Your exclamation and that bayonet thrust were involuntary. Had you realized the fact beforehand, you would not have spoken; the same holds for the bayonet. A moment’s reflection would have restrained you. But in those moments there is no time for reflection. Understand what I say: there is no time. Thus, to act from the heart, one must transcend time—and this demands a type of will you do not yet know. Attaining that will requires great effort and obedience to something higher. Have you observed and reflected on philanthropy, charity? A man who for years has submitted himself to this training I speak of cannot help doing good—it becomes almost instinctive. He does it naturally. But most people think that doing good once is all that is needed, when it is only achieved through deliberate work, going against themselves. As for the soul’s immortality, there is no doubt it exists—but that it is immortal, that is another matter. Understand that I speak of the individual man.” > “Good Lord! Now I truly believe you’re insane!” I exclaimed. > “As you wish,” he said, smiling. > “Are you telling me we’ve all been mistaken?” > “Why not?” > “It’s impossible.” > “You are very naïve. You have living proof within yourself, yet you still argue vehemently. But it matters not. Would it not be equally wrong to go solely by your words? You know and feel that war is horrible, that it is barbaric—the consummation of humanity’s savagery. You know that your comrades are wrong regarding those casualty figures; to them, they are mere numbers, but to you each figure represents a human being and makes you suffer. Those who do not feel what they think will always be in error. And note that all this horror is occurring in what we call the Christian world, yet one of Christianity’s primary precepts is: ‘Thou shalt not kill!’ But men begin by killing in the heart before they kill in fact. The death you see everywhere began with hatred. Society justifies it in many ways to silence the voice of conscience—if it even heeds it at all. Which of the many Christian churches has taken a vigorous, unequivocal stand against this war? Only a handful of isolated men have opposed it, preferring to sacrifice their lives in laboratory experiments. Let us return to that interview between old Nicodemus and Jesus. It took place in times as turbulent as ours, when one culture was collapsing as another was forming. And Christ told Nicodemus that one must be born again—born of water and Spirit—to enjoy the attributes proper to a true soul.” > “But many who die are convinced their soul will survive.” > “I do not doubt that. Human beings are convinced of many things. Once they believed the earth was flat. If you scrutinize the Gospels, you will see it says plainly: ‘What does it profit a man to gain the world if he loses his soul?’” I found it impossible to argue with him. My interest in scripture was minimal—I had neither read nor studied it. Yet something deep within me told me that he was right, even if I understood nothing. After a brief silence I said: > “Then is it not enough simply to follow religion’s commands?” > “To follow faithfully and wholeheartedly the ordinary precepts of religion is the first step—an indispensable step. Everything is linked, everything is united. Religious forms are the external appearance of what may be called the Inner Church—and that is truly immortal. This is what the Creed means when it speaks of the ‘Communion of Saints.’” I seized the moment to ask him to explain the true way to pray. > “You have been praying intensely—without realizing it.” I replied by recounting my student-days experiences. > “You see,” he said, “ignorance nearly blinded you entirely. And now you are the one refusing the sustenance your soul needs. Do not think you can blame your teachers, confessors, or parents any longer—you could have done so until recently; now that is denied you. If you wish to know more about the Our Father, for example, start by unraveling what *forgiving those who trespass against us* truly means. I tell you these things because sincere ignorance is forgivable, but hypocrisy, lies, and sloth are not.” > “And how am I to do that?” > “In the same way you have done everything else. For instance, that line ‘deliver us from evil’ you have lived in your own way. Living a petition is more important than reciting it. You went to church to ask for more intelligence, as you told me. Intelligence is indeed an attribute of the kingdom of heaven. You were granted some understanding. The other line—‘lead us not into temptation’—you have experienced in your horror at finding yourself becoming callous.” > “But this is a very strange way to pray,” I said, astonished. > “It is the only way of the heart. To understand prayers, one must have at least an approximate idea of the Communion of Saints. Each prayer we know is a concise treatise of immense knowledge. They are psychology that ordinary psychologists ignore. The Our Father, for example, can be a Jacob’s ladder enabling the individual to ascend to heaven—if the individual lives it. For a physicist it can explain the nature of the Universe. I know an astronomer who has understood it for the benefit of his studies. These prayers are the work of the Communion of Saints—though that Communion has many names, according to the creed each race practices. It is not a instituted organization but a pulse of universal life. They are the guardians of culture and civilization, God’s helpers.” > “You often speak to me of the soul’s nourishment. What do you mean?” > “A nourishment as real as that which the body needs. This follows from Jesus’ words: ‘Man shall not live by bread alone but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.’ Physical food carries energies that nourish the soul. It is necessary for growth—I mean inner growth. When a man eats, drinks, and breathes with the fixed purpose of feeding his soul, he extracts certain especially nourishing substances from the food, air, and drink. But there is a higher nourishment—the one that moves us inwardly. We all know that anger impairs digestion. A sorrow is an impression. Liver disorders produce a sour temperament. Thus, by properly feeding on impressions, internal or external, we can nourish ourselves better or worse. But this requires study and effort. For example, some pray before eating, invoking the Highest’s blessing, but then chatter, argue, or quarrel during the meal. During digestion they might even utter curses—showing no continuity of purpose. Through continuity of purpose a new organ forms within a man—but that organ must exist potentially and be capable of growth.” > “What organ is that?” > “You would not understand now, because you are convinced you already have it. Everyone is convinced of the same—just as they are convinced of the continuity of their purposes. I will tell you only that it forms in one way, not two: by suffering deliberately and striving always to follow the voice of Conscience.” > “But everyone suffers.” > “No. Sufferings come as do pleasures—accidentally. To suffer deliberately presumes a certain degree of will—*one’s own* will. We all know that hatred is evil and love is good, that we must love our enemies. We know these things by rote, but cannot apply them because we simply lack the necessary degree of will to practice them. Society in which we live makes its peace with this so-called human weakness and forgets the principle. To suffer deliberately, one must rise above accidental suffering—and that does not mean fleeing to pleasures, for accidental sufferers also enjoy accidentally. One must overcome the accidental. And that is possible only through continuity of purpose, through a clear understanding of many things—most of which modern education ignores or despises.” We had seldom had such a long conversation. I would have liked to continue, but he soon diverted the topic, and we planned new bicycle outings together.

6

A long time passed before we returned to these matters. During that time I tried to understand his words and often reviewed my notes, but I did not grasp much. The few times we skirted the topic, he avoided going deeper, and on my part I stopped taking notes so now it would be impossible to reconstruct the stray phrases and explanations he gave me on many points. I was especially interested in the nourishment of the soul, but he insisted that one must first awaken. “What do you mean by awakening?” I asked him one day. “Can’t you see it yet?” “The awakening or vigilance I speak of is difficult but not impossible. It is a continuous effort, a constant groping in the dark for a long time until we manage to understand our own errors. But the great moment arrives for whoever keeps that effort alive. Then the latent possibilities within man become apparent. It is something one knows for oneself; one does not need anyone to tell or interpret it. In the body one discovers different forms of life, different levels. Then one no longer walks blind. One knows where one is going and why one does everything one does. The Gospels become a very valuable guide. You see, neither you nor I can say we are disciples of someone as magnificent and glorious as Jesus Christ and believe ourselves fully awake. In the Garden of Gethsemane, the apostles, the disciples, fell asleep...” He spoke those last words with such reverence that I was moved; his eyes began to fill with tears, and he let them run down his cheeks without embarrassment. What followed he said in a voice choked with powerful emotion that shook me, too. I was perplexed. He continued: “An apostle is in himself a superior man, and Jesus was an intellect the earth has rarely seen. Yet some think he surrounded himself with simpletons and fools. The apostles had wills tested by many things; otherwise they could not have lived beside Jesus. And yet all of them failed him in his last days. That is the story of man’s inner growth—ups and downs.” We fell silent. I did not want to press him further for fear of causing him new distress. He noticed my hesitation and said, “Do not misunderstand this emotion; it is not weakness but strength. It is the means by which one obtains a singular understanding.” His reference to Jesus’ intelligence and that of his disciples struck me deeply. For some reason I thought Judas must have been like the others, and I said so. “First,” he replied, “I must insist on one fact. To be a disciple of a figure like Jesus Christ, one must have seen something, have understood something; one must know something truly real. It is said the disciples were fishermen. Jesus tells them he will make them ‘fishers of men.’ That means the twelve already had some spiritual preparation before they met the Master. Had they not known something truly real, they could not have recognized Christ in Jesus, and they could not have valued his teaching properly. Approaching Christ presupposes already an intelligence of a certain development, a certain degree of will, and a feeling more or less profound for the truth. Naturally, everything changed after the Crucifixion, but that is another matter. Second, to suppose Judas could betray Jesus is little short of blasphemy. The relationship between Christ and his disciples is one that cannot be conceived in ordinary life terms based on sense perceptions. One must go beyond the senses—form eyes to see and ears to hear meaning rather than isolated facts, to see and hear on a plane of relationships. It is said Judas betrayed Jesus, but once you grasp the meaning of the events, you see that Judas’ conduct was not of his own will; he was forced to hand Jesus over. ‘To sell’ in the Gospel sense relates to poverty or richness in spirit. Remember that the kingdom of heaven is likened to something so precious that a good merchant sells everything he has to acquire it. Reverse that process to approach understanding. The mystery of Judas is one of the most confusing. Jesus knew he would die—indeed, knew how he would die. His death was already predestined, so there could be no real betrayal, for any betrayal requires trust based on ignorance. Think on this: Jesus insists that he chose the twelve and that one of them was a devil. Judging Judas retrospectively is easy based on others’ interpretations, but unraveling the mystery for oneself, driven solely by the desire to know the truth, is something else entirely. We all carry a Judas within us, just as we carry a John the Baptist, a Peter, a John, and nearly every figure in the Gospels. If you understand these writings mainly concern man’s inner development, you begin to see that legion of characters within yourself and the events that connect them.” Another point that interested me was love and sexual relations. When I raised this some days later, he said: “Love is the key to everything, for it is the force that preserves and sustains all. The formula ‘Love God above all things and your neighbor as yourself’ requires very deep consideration. No one can love another more than themselves, yet to love oneself requires a certain kind of impression that is difficult to explain. If we view love in terms of impressions, we see that those in love see everything through rose-colored glasses. That is a very special nourishment. But when one loves knowingly—when one loves consciously, with full awareness, with full understanding—the delights of being in love are nothing compared to the delights of love that springs from the spirit alone. To love oneself well is to long for inner growth, and that requires normality. One cannot love oneself who suffers inhibition or frustration. So self-love necessarily involves the normal balance of all functions, including the sexual. But this is hard to understand unless one grasps adultery in love. From this perspective adultery in love is having an amorous or sexual relationship with someone one does not love wholeheartedly, and love must be mutual. Only conscious love can produce true love. There is a big difference between loving and being in love; the former presupposes self-knowledge to a certain degree and understanding of certain laws. The latter is something predetermined by nature for the purposes of creation and the maintenance of life. For conscious evolution, balance and normality are required. That is determined by one’s own understanding. In discussing this, the Gospels use the term ‘eunuch.’ But before saying that, they indicate that the mandate comes through the inner word. And that is understanding.” A few days later my friend gave me a written poem whose contrast with the dryness of his explanatory words struck me. The poem read: God gave the Sun to the Earth as a spouse and blessed their love when He made the Moon. So too He made you, woman, to pour His life into human love. And so that in the pleasure of loving the soul may find the path of return to where “always is,” where there is no becoming. For just as life goes to death for love, so love rises again from death where there is a waking heart to hold it in its loving and in its dying. With every kiss the soul dies a little, forgetting that it is life in love. And, in the same way, with every kiss the soul can be reborn if it knows how to die. Oh paradox of Creation! In every breath of love there is a sigh that is eternity. And in every caress also burns the fire of death and resurrection. Raise simple, humble love to the highest peaks! Let loving and kissing be a prayer of life to the most intimate being that is Truth and is God. For it is not you who love but the Father’s love stirring within you. His most powerful blessing will be yours if in every kiss you give and receive you sanctify His name, keeping His presence in your deepest longings. In your love, seek first the kingdom of God and His justice, and all else—even the joy of being—will be given you besides. Do not fear love; rather, fear Him who can turn your love into prejudice or wickedness. Make of your union a serene path to the heavens. As long as you carry His presence in your hearts, you will truly be loving God above all things even as you love one another. And at the moment of your supreme bliss, you will be one with Him and with His Creation. I did not see him again for some time, as he must have undertaken a long journey. We exchanged letters. I remember writing to ask how one could attain such an understanding of life and love. His answer came in the form of this paradoxical poem: Do not doubt doubt, and doubt. But doubt with faith, and even doubt faith. For is not doubt inertia on faith’s slope toward darkness, and yet a force in the impulse to reach understanding? Do not doubt, and yet doubt all you deem true, for doubt is also true in itself. Doubt doubt, and doubt with faith and of faith, and you will see the illusory nature of doubt and faith crumble at your feet… and rise majestic before your eyes, doubt made Truth.

7

A few months later we met again at the start of the following autumn. I noticed certain changes in him, though I could not explain them. He avoided topics related to the Gospels. Only once, when I told him I could not understand how he could be so devoted to Jesus Christ and at the same time so given to reading Maya, Inca, Guarani, Hindu, and Chinese works, he made this observation: “Every people, every race, every nation, every era has had messengers who bore witness to the same and only truth, even though they used different words, different symbols, and different allegories. Words, symbols, and allegories have no permanent value in themselves; they are merely tools to be discarded little by little as understanding and experience of reality grow. But for a long time in our lives we can only see words in words and symbols in symbols. When we notice that two symbols are not the same, we hardly bother to find out if we are right or wrong; for a long time we believe that external differences mean the same interior difference. Yet each symbol is a word and each word is a symbol. How many truly know what they are saying when they say ‘I’?” He went on to say something about the dimensions of time and space. As I mentioned, I usually took notes on most of what he said. But this time I did not, and I vaguely remember something about space being time, that there are three dimensions of space and three dimensions of time, and that the Hebrew symbol of the six-pointed star indicated that space and time were one thing or being. If I recall correctly, he also said once that Jesus’ words “I am the way, the truth, and the life” could be taken in physics as the three dimensions of time, as well as constituting a process of cosmic order which, together with five other trinity-based processes, made up all universal processes at every level of being. But as I have said, I have no notes on these words of his, though I suspect there are writings about it somewhere. Many other things he told me went in one ear and out the other. At that time I was interested in many things besides my friendship with him. But our friendship remained firm. He was not flashy. He dressed well but without luxury. With a bit more polish he would have been elegant. For some reason he tried to dress very discreetly and seemed not to want to attract attention—but in my view he did, even if unintentionally. I often resolved to ponder what he said. I envied his calmness, his serenity. I, by contrast, was a powder keg one day and a sea of tenderness the next. When I suffered any setback I could not help recalling his words. We both continued going to the same church every afternoon. But because of the war my life began to change rapidly, and time seemed to grow shorter. From quick, ever more isolated visits to the church, I first went days without attending; these became weeks, and suddenly I realized I had stopped praying and also stopped having those talks with my friend, whom I saw only when he, without warning, appeared in my office. My situation had improved greatly. I was a prosperous man. I held an important position and, like all “important” men, I had no time for many things—for example, fulfilling the promise I myself had made never to miss a day at the temple. I excused myself by blaming the war. My importance lay in the fact that everyone wanted to be promptly informed of events. Diplomats and politicians knew that on my desk they would always find the latest news. My phone rang without pause. We had to install an unlisted number. Every day officials from government, embassies, major firms, etc. visited or called me. And as was natural, these professional contacts soon became personal friendships. My circle widened. The inevitable invitations to parties, honorary receptions, and intimate gatherings organized by one group or another began to arrive. And I, who could not find half an hour in the afternoon to go to church, found that I could attend all these social events. Of course I always used the same excuse: “It’s the war and I owe it to the public that pays my fees.” One day when I gave my friend a similar explanation, he looked at me compassionately, took a blank sheet from my desk, and wrote: Never feel so perfect that you lower your guard or relax vigilance. Love yourself well, but do not prostitute yourself. “Keep this where you can see it often,” he told me as he handed it to me. Then he stood and left. Several months passed before I saw him again. I often remembered him. His strange observations, his timely advice on problems I assumed he was completely ignorant of—these, along with my own conscience, filled me with a strange unease whenever I thought of him and reread his words. At that time the craze for “good neighbor” policy began. Pan-Americanism took hold. International intrigues, each more petty than the last, flourished everywhere. I realized that several European powers, supposedly friends of the United States, were secretly undermining the idea of good neighborliness. Everyone wanted a share of the profits from the lucrative war business. Neither industrialists, miners, politicians, diplomats, nor journalists were free from this temptation. And I too fell into it, with much pleasure, through a friend who speculated heavily on the stock exchange and needed to be well and promptly informed of war developments. Thus I began to grow rich. Meanwhile, certain propaganda organizations began asking me for contributions in the form of articles—and they paid more the more bombastic and stupid they were. I accepted and earned even more money. One day I recalled some remarks my friend made when the first surveys about the United States’ Good Neighbor policy began: “Only one who pays in cash can be a good neighbor. Today no one is in a position to do that, much less the South American countries. But since man lives on pretty words—and the prettier the more foolish—he finds the concept sonorous, applauds it, and does not know what he is getting into. It is a concept born of the Good Samaritan parable. But in the United States someone twisted it, and other countries distorted it even more. Yet the idea is pretty, and since dollars abound in the United States, up goes the Pan-American parade—and it is nothing but a twenty-mouthed snake and a single head.” “That is too caustic,” I told him. “Truth is always caustic, especially to hypocrites. Don’t identify so much with the propaganda you write, and perhaps you can see some of reality.” “But good neighborliness at least means good intent.” “Satan has the best intentions toward man—hence he stupefies him.” “You see everything so coldly. Pan-Americanism is a good intention.” “You still sleep. If you understood that man cannot maintain continuity in his purposes, you would soon see that intention is not enough. If man could maintain continuity in thought, feeling, and action, his good intentions would bear generous fruit. Just as the individual has great intentions one day and the next is diverted from them by anything, so it is in politics. The democratic idea is older than walking, but it is impossible because it requires discrimination few possess.” In my notes from that time I found a page from a letter he wrote me about international politics then, while on one of his travels. It reads: “…Mr Roosevelt is, without doubt, a well-intentioned man, but the only good neighbor he has is his cigarette. Just as Mr Churchill’s only true ally is his cigar, and Mr Stalin’s only comrade is his pipe. Notice that neither Hitler nor Mussolini smokes. They are too virtuous, and like all fanatics of virtue, they see only the mote in another’s eye. When this war ends there will likely be another, and with it science may progress to the point of enjoying the glory of having destroyed civilization. Nothing is easier than to predict a war. But war also brings inner unrest to peoples and to the individual himself. If that inner unrest were used by the individual for his development, and if he even tried to find out where it comes from and why it occurs, I believe a step toward peace would be taken. But it is not easy for man to understand that in the face of celestial phenomena he is less than an atom. Peace is an individual conquest; it has never been the work of masses, much less armies. Man has not yet learned to use what history teaches and experience indicates. The League of Nations was for many years a peace illusion; in truth it was a hotbed of intrigue. Mussolini destroyed it with one stroke. After this war something similar will likely arise under another name. Man delights in naming or renaming the oldest things in history. The League of Nations was born dead. It died in Greece over two thousand years ago, with the Amphictyony. It is not organizations that matter; it is men who must change. Do not ask me to take good neighborliness seriously, for it amounts to a heap of lies. The tragic thing is that no one lies intentionally; no one realizes the Great Lie. Observe it in yourself—see how you have already begun to believe every lie you are writing.” Of all this, what interested me was the idea that a good neighbor can only be someone who pays in cash. I decided to use that idea for an article, and when I published it my life underwent a new transformation, connected in a way to this singular friend. I found myself thrown headlong into the intrigues of political espionage. A few days after elaborating that idea in a series of articles, I came into contact with certain dealers of machinery that could not be manufactured anywhere. I met them through some diplomatic friends. And from then on my importance grew. Suddenly I saw that even my opinions were “important.” Even the most absurd non-sequitur I might utter after a few drinks began to carry “weight.” The significance and regard attributed to me did not rest on my intelligence or critical judgment, for I had long ceased to use either of those faculties. It rested plainly on the position I held—and which I would continue to hold as long as I obeyed the emptiness of my own “importance.” There is no need to recount all the intrigues of that time. I mention only the facts connected to my friend and his ideas. But what I observed in the politicians, diplomats, and spies I mixed with would make a fine satirical comedy if not for the tragic consequences their activity has for our culture’s fauna and flora. I notice I write with some bitterness, and I do not hide it. If my friend could read this now, he would surely say something like: “Do not fail to forgive. You still sleep. Your flora and fauna cannot stop or maim life.” Writing this I am aware of how nostalgic I am for him, how sorry I am not to be by his side now. But back to the story. One night he invited me to dinner. My confidence in him had not waned. We talked at length and with great joviality. I told him my observations, and he smiled kindly and understandingly as if to say, “Poor fellows—they mean no harm.” After dinner we went together to my apartment, which contrasted sharply with the modest boarding-house room where I had lived for many years before I became “important.” He looked around in silence. Remembering that night, I see how graceless my behavior was. I began proudly showing him all my possessions: stock certificates, clothes, a miniature bar, my sports corner with its sandbag, punching ball, boxing gloves, and iron dumbbells, my beautiful Italian bicycle. When I finished my display I asked with an air of triumph: “What do you think?” “Perfect,” he said. “You are only a bit short of being a complete fool. And I do not mean these comforts, but your attitude toward all this well-being and the harm you are doing yourself.” “I do not understand you,” I said. “I earn plenty of money, live well, and enjoy life.” “At what price?” “I do not find it so terrible,” I protested. “Do not be prudish. You only lack complaining about the traces of women you have discovered.” “Perhaps those are the traces of the only decent thing you have left. But it is your life. Live it as you please.” I felt a vague fear upon hearing those words. We remained silent for a while. Then I felt a strong desire to confess everything that tortured me. “I need your help,” I said. “I am listening.” I explained all the things that had become a fearful dilemma within me—this infernal circle of lies I had fallen into. He listened closely and asked a few questions to clarify points I did not want to expose openly. He paused a moment after I finished. “What do you tell me?” I asked. “What do you want me to say?” “What I should do.” “Cut it off at the root. Break with it all. Leave this behind and begin again.” “But are you mad?” “No; you are the mad one. Look where you have arrived.” He then went to the bathroom, took from the closet a bottle containing tablets of a stimulant I was supposed to take daily to activate my nervous system so I could endure such a pace of life. When I saw him holding that bottle I realized many things: his enormous power of observation, his genuine goodness, and the affection he felt for me. But I felt that matters had gone too far to change. I bowed my head in silence. “It is a good thing you still have some shame,” he said. “Use it and pick up the thread of your life before it ends completely. Soon you will go from this stimulant to drugs. And when you feel the need to flee the garbage you live in, your sandbag and boxing gloves will vanish, replaced by pornographic pictures. Now that love in your life can help you—but if you do not understand it, if you do not cling to it with all your strength, if you continue to yield to temptation in this way, you will lose that love and seek orgy.” “You know I cannot leave my job. You know what this is about. You know what the war is.” “Suit yourself. You asked what you should do, and I have answered. I have nothing more to say.” Then I made a regrettable mistake: “Listen,” I said. “You are smarter than me. I will give you half of everything I have and all I earn if you help me get out of this.” He looked at me in silence, without saying a single word. I realized too late how I had hurt him. I saw tears welling in his eyes. He turned away, overwhelmed by a singular sadness, and as he stood in the doorway, he said: “Thirty pieces of silver…” I felt a wish to ask his forgiveness, but something stopped me. I went to the bar, poured myself a glass of whisky, and as I poured, I remembered that other silent scene in the distant past—the time in church when I had exclaimed “shit” and he had answered “amen.” I drank the whisky at one gulp, looked at the stimulant tablets he had left on the bar, and said aloud: “May he go to hell!” Then I drank whisky until I was drunk.

8

Time passed. Suddenly, the machine I was caught up in began to operate differently, more intensely. We were nearing the end of the war. Everything became more desperate. I changed cities, moved to another country, and there I had to continue what I had started and could no longer evade. I remembered my friend only occasionally. Every day I was more amazed by how easily I lied and deceived, and by how easily everyone seemed to believe my lies and deceptions. One night, after drinking more than necessary to forget my own corruption, I found my friend. He looked at me in silence and, before I could express my joy, said: “Think carefully. Don’t seek suffering you need not endure.” I knew I could not lie to him. I begged him not to leave me, and he announced that he would stay in that city for a time and that we would probably see each other often. That night we spoke very little. His warning that I was seeking needless suffering intrigued me. As usual, I thought it must be one of his eccentricities. Still, I wished I could have shown him greater hospitality, responded to his friendship more tangibly. When I offered him lodging in my home, he politely declined, saying that other friends had arranged to host him, but that we would meet often. At our next meeting I asked if he had read my dispatches. He said yes, and that he’d clipped one to keep. I was astonished; I’d expected him to say, “I don’t read political propaganda,” or something similar. That he had clipped one of my pieces was truly new. I asked which one; he pulled it from his wallet. I had assumed it would be one of those complex analyses of international affairs, full of bank magnates and labor leaders. Instead, it was very different: a commentary on certain Guarani songs in which I recorded my own impressions. “What you observed in this music is most interesting,” he said. “It faithfully corresponds to a treasure of wisdom that the Guarani still feel but no longer understand, overwhelmed by Western culture. I find the same thread in all the continent’s folklore: a strand hidden in time. Read this little Yucatecan work and you will see the same content, though in a different form.” He gifted me a small book I still keep. He told me that my clipping had led him to seek me out again, and added, “You cannot imagine the good you did yourself by listening so attentively to that music. It will always resonate within you.” I smiled with no small self-satisfaction and replied, “Man… if you want Guarani music, I have plenty at home. I also have two beautiful Mayan songs and numerous records of Inca music.” I described in detail how I had built this collection, even mentioning how much I had spent. He listened with pleasure. “The Guarani have a rich expression meaning that everything a man says in words, in human language, is a portion of the soul’s substance. You will notice that this concept is similar to one of Christianity’s holy truths, that from the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. Some have said that a man can only express what he is. In any case…” The next evening we dined at my home and feasted on Guarani music. But I was agitated and nervous because of the day’s events, and I would have preferred to discuss my personal problems with him. He enjoyed the music. I drank whisky. The music was indeed captivating, but my mind was full of worries born of life amid such intrigue. My situation had grown too dense, seemingly with no crack through which to escape. At that moment I envied his serenity, the immense peace he carried, and above all his composure and confidence. When he rose to leave, he said: “The Guarani have done much the same as you with that glass of whisky—they drink cane juice. It is not entirely unpleasant, but drinking it to flee from oneself is the wisest folly a man can commit. The Guarani have fallen into the same stupor you have. That music we just heard is the voice of their soul, captured by a man who still wants to awaken his people. The Voice of Life still vibrates within them, but they have let themselves be hypnotized not only by alcohol but by Western encyclopedism, the poison that consumes our peoples.” “I do not believe anything in the Guarani has died,” I said. “Their virility is quite evident. I believe the Guarani are the bravest people I have known; I saw them in the war. By the way, it was during the war that I first learned their music, and I find it as beautiful and revelatory as the music of the highlands.” “Yes,” he said, “both are genuine calls of the soul of these lands, though their forms differ to match their latitudes. Both are essentially mystical music. Inca music follows the movements of the celestial bodies—how could it be otherwise? Its rhythm and melody encompass all our soul already knows about the solar system and the mysteries of the Milky Way and the Pleiades. At over three thousand meters altitude, under a star-studded sky, the Andean man must feel in grand terms. If his thought matched the altitude of his feeling, the race would not have degenerated. That degeneration began long before the conquest; still, proportionally it is less than Western degeneration under Christianity. One sees it in the writings that survived the empire’s Catholicization. The soul of these races retains enough spiritual strength; yet unfortunately they do not know how to actualize it, and have hidden it deep within Catholic practices. As for the Guarani, the semi-tropical nature of their land gives them a different rhythm, another form, another feeling—but in essence it speaks the same spiritual truth. The problem is that few understand life’s reality through feeling and emotion, leading to a civilization of schizophrenics. What has been called the subconscious is merely correlating functions that can work in harmony with mind and thought. That is why I say: if this artistic treasure, this emotional expression, were intellectually understood, the races of our continent would grasp their true destiny. But there are already those at work to shed light in this regard. For now these men are like John the Baptist—a voice crying in the wilderness.” “So, by what you say, it would be wise to revive the religions and myths of the native races?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “That would be foolish. In that sense nothing needs revival because nothing has died. We cannot return to past forms; we must understand the eternal principle animating all forms. We must understand, not fragment or divide. And that is a task for each individual.” “Estimates say there are ten million Indians in South America. A bold man who knew their languages could organize and revolt them. That would be interesting.” He looked at me with compassion. “You see?” he said. “Here, in yourself, you have Western schizophrenia. You have saturated yourself with violence to the point that you can only measure life in terms of destruction and death.” Several days passed before we met again. By then my life’s affairs were becoming incredibly complicated. The machine trapped me mercilessly, and I felt like a little bird hypnotized by a snake—knowing it would die, that it had to flee, yet unable to do so. When I next saw my friend, I confided the facts to him. “It’s too late now,” he said. “Now you must follow the machine’s movement wherever it leads you. You cannot escape—look.” He led me to a window overlooking the street and pointed out two men trying to conceal their presence. “Who are they?” I asked. “You are so elated by your success that you haven’t noticed the obvious. Lies have trapped you. They are police following you for several days.” I felt a blow to the heart. I do not shrink easily, and though I know fear, I also know that courage is mastering it no matter how fiercely it assails us. Yet something inside me trembled in horror at the stark fact that my end was near. I looked at my friend, waiting for him to say something, but he only commented, “You should feel deeply grateful for this escape. Usually, for the intrigues you’ve joined, the only escape is suicide or… an accident in the street.” He said no more. He knew me well enough to know I would not kill myself, and street accidents left me cold. I knew I posed a threat to many, and they would welcome my disappearance. But I had anticipated this and made sure they knew I kept a diary in which I recorded things the political and diplomatic world called “very interesting.” Several copies of that diary existed, some abroad, others in a bank. I told him all this. “A cornered rat always has talent,” he said. I turned on him violently, fist raised to strike him, but his gaze paralyzed me. Even now I cannot explain how it happened. He did not lift a finger, did not make a single gesture. He simply looked at me, and I was disarmed inside and out. “You are so rotten you have lost your integrity,” he said. “How you have changed.”

9

Time passed. Suddenly, the machine I was caught up in began to run in a different, more intense way. We were nearing the end of the war. Everything became more desperate. I changed cities, moved to another country, and there I had to continue what I had begun and could no longer evade. I remembered my friend only occasionally. Every day I marveled more at how easily I lied and deceived, and how readily everyone seemed to believe my lies and deceptions. One night, after drinking more than was wise to help me forget my corruption, I ran into my friend. He looked at me in silence and, before I could express my relief, said, “Reflect a little. Don’t invite suffering you don’t need.” I knew I could not lie to him. I begged him not to leave, and he told me he would stay in that city for a while, and that we would see each other often. That night we spoke very little. His remark that I was seeking needless suffering intrigued me, but as usual I chalked it up to one of his eccentricities. I still regretted not having shown him greater hospitality, or thanked him more tangibly for his devotion as a friend. When I offered him lodging in my home he politely declined, saying other friends had arranged to host him, but promising we would meet often. At our next meeting I asked whether he had read my dispatches. “Yes,” he said, “I even clipped one to keep.” I was astonished—I had expected him to say, “I don’t read political propaganda,” or something similar. That he had clipped one of my pieces was genuinely new. I asked which one; he produced it from his wallet. I thought it would be one of those complex analyses of international affairs—bank magnates, labor leaders, and so on. But the piece he’d clipped was quite different: a commentary on certain Guaraní songs in which I recorded my own impressions. “What you observed in this music is very interesting,” he said. “It corresponds faithfully to a treasure of wisdom that the Guaraní still feel but no longer understand, overwhelmed by Western culture. I find the same hidden thread in all our continent’s folklore. Read this little Yucatecan work—its content is the same, though its form differs.” He gave me a small book I still keep. He told me that this clipping had led him to seek me out again, and added, “You cannot imagine the good you did yourself by listening to that music so attentively. Its song will always resonate within you.” I smiled, perhaps a bit proudly, and replied, “My friend, if you want Guaraní music, I have plenty at home. I also have two beautiful Mayan songs and several recordings of Inca music.” I described how I had assembled this collection and even mentioned how much I had spent. He listened with pleasure. “The Guaraní have a rich expression meaning that everything a man utters in words, in human language, is but a portion of his soul’s substance,” he said. “You will notice this concept echoes one of Christianity’s truths: ‘Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.’ Some say a man can only express what he is.” That evening we dined at my home and indulged in Guaraní music. But I was restless and anxious because of the day’s events; I would have preferred to confide in him about my personal troubles. He enjoyed the music; I drank whisky. The music was indeed compelling, but my mind teemed with worries born of life mired in intrigue. My situation felt impenetrably dense, with no crack through which to escape. In that moment I envied his ease, his boundless peace—and above all his confidence and calm. As he rose to leave, he said, “The Guaraní have done much the same as you with that glass of whisky: they drink cane liquor. It may not be unpleasant, but drinking it to flee oneself is the greatest folly a man can commit. The Guaraní have fallen into the same stupor you have. That music we just heard is the voice of their soul, captured by a man who still wants to rouse his people. The Voice of Life still vibrates in them, but they have let themselves be hypnotized by alcohol and by the venom of Western encyclopedism that consumes our peoples.” “I don’t believe the Guaraní soul has died,” I said. “They still display remarkable virility. I believe they are the bravest people I’ve known—I saw it in the war. By the way, it was during the war that I first discovered their music, and I find it as beautiful and revealing as the music of the highlands.” “Yes,” he said, “both are genuine calls of the soul of these lands, though their forms differ to match their latitudes. Both are essentially mystical music. Inca music follows the celestial bodies’ movements—how could it be otherwise? Its rhythm and melody encompass all that our souls already know about the solar system and the mysteries of the Milky Way and the Pleiades. At over three thousand meters high, under a star-filled sky, the Andean man must feel in grand terms. Had his thought matched his feeling’s altitude, his race would not have degenerated. That decline began long before the conquest; still, proportionally, it is less than Western degeneration under Christianity. You see it in the pre-Catholic writings that survived the empire’s subjugation. The soul of these races still retains spiritual force, but sadly they do not know how to actualize it, keeping it buried deep within Catholic practices. As for the Guaraní, their semi-tropical environment gives them another rhythm, another form, another feeling—but in essence they express the same spiritual truth. The problem is that few understand life’s reality through emotion and feeling, and that has produced a civilization of schizoid souls. What is called the subconscious is simply correlating functions that can operate harmoniously with mind and thought. That is why I say: if this artistic treasure, this emotional expression, were intellectually understood, the races of our continent would grasp their true destiny. But some are already working to bring light in this regard. For now, these men are like John the Baptist—a voice crying in the wilderness.” “From what you say, it would seem wise to revive the native races’ religions and myths,” I ventured. “No,” he replied. “That would be foolish. Nothing needs revival because nothing has died. We cannot return to past forms; we must understand the eternal principle that underlies all forms. We must understand, not divide or dismember. That is a task for each individual.” “Estimates put South America’s Indian population at ten million. A bold man knowing their languages could organize them and incite a revolt. That would be interesting,” I said. He looked at me with compassion. “You see?” he replied. “There you have the Western schizophrenia in yourself. You have saturated yourself with violence so completely that you only measure life in terms of destruction and death.” Several days passed before we met again. By then the affairs of my life had grown unbelievably complicated. The machine was crushing me relentlessly, and I felt like a bird hypnotized by a snake—knowing it was doomed, needing to flee, yet powerless to do so. When I saw my friend next, I laid out all the facts. “It’s too late now,” he said. “Now you must go along with the machine’s motion as far as it takes you. You can’t escape—look.” He led me to a window overlooking the street and pointed out two men trying to remain discreet. “Who are they?” I asked. “You’re so drunk on your own success that you haven’t noticed the obvious. Your lies have trapped you. Those are police who have been following you for days.” I felt as if my heart would stop. I am not easily cowed, and though I know fear, I know courage is mastering it no matter how savage. Yet something inside me trembled in horror at the stark reality of my impending end. I looked at my friend, expecting him to say more, but he only said, “Be grateful that this escape slams open for you. Usually, in the intrigues you’re in, the only escape is suicide, or… an accident in the street.” He said no more. He knew me well enough to know I would not choose suicide, and the threat of a staged accident left me cold. I knew I posed a danger to many, and they would rejoice at my disappearance. But I had anticipated this—and made sure they knew I kept a diary recording things the political and diplomatic world calls “very interesting.” Several copies existed, some abroad, some in a bank. I shared this with him. “A cornered rat always shows its talent,” he said. I turned on him in a fury, fist raised to strike, but his gaze froze me. I still cannot explain how. He made no move, no gesture—he simply looked at me, and I was disarmed inside and out. “You’re so rotten you’ve lost your integrity,” he said. “How you’ve changed.”

10

Time passed into mid-spring, and with the warm weather a wave of violence broke out everywhere in the country. Students began rioting, egged on by democratic leaders whom the police had humiliated. They published one manifesto after another, comfortably printed in an elegant club. One day I had to meet with them after several students had been arrested and wounded. I reported the facts. “What barbarity!” they exclaimed. “Where is this man taking us?” “You know perfectly well,” I replied. “You must act now.” “But what can we do?” “If you’re too afraid to take to the streets against thugs and police, at least stop inciting these young people.” “But the love of country burns in their blood,” said a banker. “Go to hell, you sissies!” I shouted, consumed by fury those days. I stormed home, and my friend was waiting. I told him what had happened. “The Feathered Serpent wants to fly,” was all he said. I had no spirit for puzzles. I turned my back and went to my room. When I recovered, I found him reviewing the notebook where I recorded his comments and observations, correcting a few entries. “You’re a good journalist with a fine memory,” he said. “You’ve made very few mistakes.” For every remarkable thing he had said, I had not only noted his words but described the scene in detail—names, places, dates. He asked me to destroy every personal reference, every place name and date. I left only the facts that portrayed him, and from those notes comes this account. Many of the spies and secret agents I had contacted had fled in time. Their enemies—agents serving other countries—began to watch me more closely as well. There was no doubt my game was exposed. One day I learned that some spies who knew me were in prison. As always, I confided everything to my friend, and he told me, “Those who are arrested have betrayed you; the ones who fled have spoken abroad. And those others are using you.” “What should I do?” I asked. “Recover your manhood. Either surrender openly and tell the whole truth, or go on to the end and let whatever comes, come.” “I’ll go on to the end,” I said, hoping something would turn in my favor. I was beginning to feel a deep repugnance for myself, and I told him so. “It’s natural,” he said. “The dream becomes a nightmare because the effect of the psychic drugs you’ve been taking is fading. But don’t despair. One day you will discover the great secret of confession and its value, and then you’ll know that the Feathered Serpent can fly.” It was in those days that I discovered my friend was a consummate actor—he could alter his appearance almost at will and transform himself into anyone. The incident that revealed this happened one night when certain political conspirators urgently summoned me. We arranged to meet far from the city center. As I left home, agitated by their tone, I ran into my friend. “Something serious has happened. So-and-so has called. Come with me,” I said. The problem was that one conspirator—a newspaper director whose circulation was quite significant—had received a confidential warning: that very night he would be arrested. He didn’t doubt the tipster, a policeman who would take an active part in the operation. This officer owed certain favors to the director and was also on the conspirators’ payroll. Our problem was to help the director escape before the police caught him, thinking his flight could be used for propaganda. We discussed several plans when my friend intervened: “He can claim asylum,” he said. That was invaluable. I ran to the phone and called a diplomatic friend. As I was about to explain, my friend covered my mouth with his hand and whispered, “Tell him to come to the embassy immediately and leave the door open, because you’ll arrive by car.” So I did. My diplomat friend, who had once benefited from my efforts, agreed easily. After our meeting the three of us—my friend, the director, and I—took a taxi. Just as I was about to give the embassy address, my friend gave the driver another destination on the opposite side of town. We rode in silence for half an hour, then stopped at a late-night pastry shop. Only when we were seated did I realize why my friend had taken such precautions: the police were following us. Two plainly unconvincing plainclothes officers tried to hide in the café. I saw one of them make a phone call. My friend saw it too and said, “They won’t act alone. They’re calling for backup. Now we’ll use a very old trick.” He rose and walked to a private booth. We followed. In the restroom he changed clothes with the director—both were similar in build. Dressed as each other, we made a conspicuous exit one by one, drawing the officers’ attention. We reunited at the corner and watched the two detectives pursue the wrong man. I was astonished. My friend had perfectly imitated the director’s voice, accent, even his gait. He hailed a cab and left. Minutes later we saw the officers follow him. The director and I stood amazed. He said, “What a noble gesture from your friend. Who is he?” I did not answer. Seeing the police chase him, I felt a peculiar fear. I knew the methods of that police force well enough to dread what would happen if they caught him. I also felt overwhelming anger toward that journalist, now safe and free because of my friend’s sacrifice. In contrast, I knew my friend would be badly treated initially—mistaken for the director—but that the embassy would notify the government the next day, exposing the truth. As I mulled this over, the man with me chattered on unbearably. I barely listened, but caught his closing remark: “The struggle for press freedom is indeed bitter.” His words struck me so hard that I could not help despising all these armchair revolutionaries—men who used others’ passions to protect themselves, then profited from their sacrifices. “Faggot!” I shouted at him, full of rage. “What did you say?” he asked, startled. I grabbed him by the lapels, pinning him to the wall, and pouring out all my hatred, said, “I called you a faggot. You and your collection of faggots can go to hell with your freedom of the press. My friend has nothing to do with this filth. I risk my life for you only to save myself. I’m as dishonest and hypocritical as you. But I’m not fooling myself. Now I’ll help you only because I need you. What I should do is break your face and hand you to the police. I care about my friend, not you and your idiocies. Come on, idiot. The embassy awaits you with coffee, brandy, cigarettes, and a comfortable bed so you can dream of all the glory I’ll write about in my report.” Strangely, even as anger surged, I felt pity for him. He was one of the idealists who early in the revolution believed no adventurer could seize power. What infuriated me was his stubborn belief that the people would defend the country’s traditions—those few who had dared never to touch—that he still clung to. But events had shattered that. Now he was nearly lost, not knowing what to do except beg anyone for help, including my friend. In the taxi I checked that no one was following us. For extra security we switched cabs several times. During these maneuvers he began to show fear and tried to make conversation. I snapped, “Shut up!” “But—” I cut him off. We hailed the first taxi we saw and headed for the embassy. “Do you have any money?” I asked the director. He opened his wallet. “How much do you need?” he asked. “All of it,” I said, snatching the wallet. “But then I’ll be penniless.” “You’ll at least have your skin intact and a wreath of laurels. Pay something, anyway. You can get more money anywhere. This will go to those young people who lost their freedom—and possibly their health—because of you.” “You’re on Mr. So-and-So’s side,” he said, naming the dictator. “Believe what you wish,” I said. “I no longer care.” I delivered him to the embassy. I conferred with the officials about how far I could go in my writings. We agreed, and I wrote my report right then. I was delighted when the ambassador told me that under international law he could not publish a political interview with the asylum-seeker. I was grateful—at least it reduced the number of lies I’d have to write about him. I’d portrayed him as a hero, a daring man who had outmaneuvered the dictator’s henchmen. The ambassador, one of the few sober, sensible diplomats in that country, smiled when I shared my article. “Why don’t you earn your living writing detective novels?” he said. At that moment the aide brought coffee, brandy, cigarettes, and sandwiches. Soon the ambassador’s secretary arrived with the asylum-seeker. He glared at me reproachfully, and I realized he knew about my seizure of his money. He asked to speak privately with the ambassador, but I stepped forward: “Mr. Ambassador,” I said, “a friend I care for deeply may now be in police hands so this man can escape. For me, he is only a news story. In the taxi I took his money. Here it is,” I said, placing the wallet on the table. “I don’t mind keeping it, and what I do with it is my business. In this report you saw I said this man made a generous donation to aid the cause and those fighting for freedom. Well, I will make that wreath literal. You are witnesses that this man now makes this donation voluntarily.” The ambassador looked uneasy and irritated. The secretary was startled by my boldness. The asylum-seeker stared with his mouth open. But the most surprised of all was myself. I don’t wish to justify myself by denigrating those salon revolutionaries, but I must admit I found them intolerably repellent—so in my face. I realized I had walloped a broken man who had entrusted his life and liberty to me. My feelings were wildly contradictory. I glared at him and in a voice I never suspected I possessed said, “All right… what do you have to say?” And he, hesitating slightly, looked to the ambassador and said, “I understand the shock of your friend’s decision upset you. Of course, I forgive how you behaved. You are a noble man trying to conceal your nobility. Use the money as you see fit, and allow me to thank you for everything.” He offered his hand. I felt such repugnance that I could barely clasp it. I felt dirty deep inside. And then I thought, “I told you I’m anything but noble and selfless. I’m as dishonest and brazen as you are. At least let’s not be hypocrites.” The ambassador intervened: “If I didn’t know you, I’d ask you to leave at once. You’re agitated—don’t drink any more. As for your friend, even if he surrendered himself to the police, no one could help him. Certainly I cannot, without making my government an accomplice. Let’s put an end to this. Officially, I know only that you came seeking asylum, and I grant it. Beyond that, I know nothing.” We exchanged a half dozen polite remarks. The asylum-seeker left with the secretary. The ambassador closed the door, and we were alone. We talked for a long time about subjects that have no place in this account. When we said goodbye, he said, “The only thing I ask is that you not turn the embassy into a hotel. We went through this in Spain, and I’m too old for such nonsense.” That night I could not sleep, tormented by concern for my friend’s fate. I tried to locate the police informant but failed. Early the next morning my friend appeared at my door. I had red, bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep and too much alcohol. His smile gave me strength. I flung my arms around him and nearly wept for joy, but he calmly said, “Don’t lose your head.” We made coffee. Before breakfast he gave me an effervescent tonic and advised, “A Turkish bath will do you good. It will be interesting to see that fat policeman sweating along with us.” He meant the officer who had been trailing me. I told him everything that had happened the previous night, expecting reproach, but all he said was, “You’ve begun to realize that the freedom everyone talks about is a myth they made for themselves. You’ve begun to be honest with yourself. What you feel now as regret is the first stirrings of real freedom.” “But I stole his money and abused him. I’ve put the ambassador in an awkward position.” “Sometimes our hearts know much, but our mental clumsiness twists everything. But don’t worry. What matters is that you did not hide behind bombastic phrases to justify your violence. As for the ambassador, don’t fret. He sees you as I do. He is one of us.” “Who are us? What does that mean?” I asked. “You’ll recognize them in time. Those with eyes to see always recognize their own. Besides, you’ll need that money.”

11

I believe my friend could foresee the future. None of his predictions had failed until then. This one didn’t either. As soon as word got out about what I had done—helping the director flee—my life took another unexpected turn. Naturally, the darker side of my actions remained unspoken. Riots in the city grew worse. Students raised one strike after another. One day two of them came to my house. My friend helped me spirit them off to a neighboring country. He took the money I had taken from the director—who was already writing heroic tales abroad, his fantasies far surpassing mine—and distributed it between them. I stood there stunned to see him take charge of the whole operation, hearing him tell me I should now work on misleading the police so he could have free rein in this task. Soon we had to rent an apartment elsewhere in the city. For weeks we played a real-life Scarlet Pimpernel. My funds ran out quickly. Fuel was rationed, but my friend managed to procure coupons. We used diplomatic and prosecutor’s cars for our affairs. When I saw the money vanishing, I began to extort funds from the gentlemen of the aristocratic club where they were still planning how to give “moral support” to these students. Spies with whom I still had contacts joined our venture and even contributed money. My friend assumed the real and effective direction of the entire system we had set up so swiftly. He worked so unobtrusively that nobody would have guessed he was the architect of every plan. As for me, my nerves were shot. My friend would simply watch me. I increased my stimulant dosage to stay awake and active. By day I had to perform my role as a journalist as though nothing abnormal were happening; by night I had to assist my friend. Necessity taught me many things. One quiet afternoon, I told him how poorly I felt inside, how disgusted I was by this life of deceit, lies, and constant shocks. He merely smiled. A few days later, disillusionment arrived. One morning toward the end of summer, a squad of police turned up at my house. While the others rifled through my drawers, cut the phone lines, and carried out their duties to isolate me, one of them prepared breakfast for everyone. They were all very polite, very courteous—except for one officer, who sat on the sofa with a submachine gun in his hand. Remarkably, in the face of all this, I began to feel calm, serene. I said to the armed officer, “Friend, holster your gun. I assure you I’m far too tired to resist or even try to run.” The police took charge of my home. I was taken to a precinct where I endured the most absurd interrogations imaginable. Judging by the way they questioned me, and by the questions themselves, it seemed they wanted to build a case so sensational it could justify something equally sensational. They almost convinced me that I was the most dangerous person alive. But I had no strength left, inside or out. Deprived of my stimulant, my nervous system was at rest. I said yes to everything, without bothering to deny anything. The charges were so fantastical that I signed declaration after declaration without even reading them.

12

I believe my friend could foresee what lay ahead. None of his predictions had failed until then—and this one didn’t either. As soon as word got out about what I had done, helping the director escape, my life took another unexpected turn. Naturally, the darker aspects of my actions remained unspoken. The city’s unrest only grew. Students rioted, striking one day after another. One day two of them showed up at my house. My friend helped me send them off safely to a neighboring country. He took the money I had taken from the director—who by then was abroad spinning heroic tales that outdid even my own—and handed it over to them. I was left speechless as I watched him take control of the situation, and heard him say that I should now focus on misleading the police so he could operate unhindered. Soon we had to rent an apartment in another part of the city. For weeks we played a real-life Scarlet Pimpernel. My funds ran out almost immediately. Fuel was rationed, but my friend still managed to procure coupons. We used diplomatic and prosecutor’s cars for our operations. When I saw the money vanish, I resorted to threatening the gentlemen of the aristocratic club where they still tried to offer “moral support” to the students. Spies I had dealt with joined our venture and contributed their own funds. My friend became the real, effective director of the rapidly assembled network. He worked so unobtrusively that no one ever suspected he was behind every plan. As for me, my nerves were shattered. My friend simply observed me. I increased my stimulant dosage to stay alert and active. By day I performed my journalistic duties as though nothing was wrong; by night I aided my friend. Necessity taught me many lessons. One quiet afternoon, I confessed to him how sick I felt inside—how revolted I was by a life of deception, lies, and constant shocks. He simply smiled. A few days later, the moment of disillusionment arrived. One morning, toward the end of summer, a squad of police arrived at my house. While some officers ransacked my drawers, cut my phone lines, and secured the place, one of them prepared breakfast for everyone. They were all courteous—except for one, who sat on the sofa with a submachine gun. Yet in that moment, I felt a surprising calm and said to the armed officer, “Friend, holster your weapon. I assure you I’m far too tired to resist or flee.” The police took over my home. I was hauled off to a precinct for the most absurd interrogations imaginable. From their questions, it seemed they wanted to build a sensational case that would justify something even more sensational. They nearly convinced me I was the most dangerous man alive. But drained of stimulants, my nervous system at rest, I had no fight left in me. I answered yes to everything, signing false statements without even reading them. Thus my career—and my life—ended. I expected to be embroiled in some scandalous dispatch like those I had written so often—and I laughed at the irony. I didn’t care what the newspapers would say about me, nor what my colleagues would think. Nothing mattered except rest. But the police moved swiftly to suppress any scandal. Later, I learned through my friend that he had arranged for the papers to report I was not detained but perhaps on holiday somewhere. The true reason for that decision is too murky to relate here—and my friend played no part in it. In my first days of isolation in a cell, I tried to recall everything my friend had said and that I’d recorded, but my notebook wasn’t at hand. I began to view life and human affairs in a curious new light, as though I were detached from them. Then I remembered something he’d told me about the key to the Sermon on the Mount, hidden in its opening phrase: “And seeing the multitudes, he went up on the mountain.” Were my disillusionments and all that led to this my own “seeing the multitudes”? And what was “going up on the mountain”? I thought of the mountain as the inner peace that filled me when I remembered my friend—peace as if I knew he would provide answers to the questions now flooding my mind. In that isolation, I saw the revolution, my career, my youth so differently. I realized how foolish and pointless my frantic life had been, that it led nowhere and made no sense. I could not understand what had become of those students who—terrified of police—had come to my home for help. I could not fathom how they now voluntarily testified against me. Eventually I was sent to a prison and left in peace. My friend’s first visit came in the presence of the interrogating commissioner. I asked him about the others. “I’m right here,” he said. “I don’t mean you,” I replied, “but so-and-so, what about them?” He looked at me with pity and replied in a mock-serious tone, “Those? They’re free men. They’re enjoying a lovely siesta.” “I imagine they’re doing well,” I said. “The only one doing truly well is you—but you don’t see it yet.” Then, addressing the commissioner, he said, “This man needs rest—above all, time to reflect. Maybe you could help him? You’ve studied philosophy, and perhaps your words might offer him something.” I don’t know what private conversations they’d had. They seemed trusted friends. Clearing his throat, the commissioner launched into a lecture so absurd that I smothered a laugh behind my cigarette. I dared not meet my friend’s eyes. He concluded roughly as follows: “We serve the state for the community’s good. The nation comes first. But we are human too. You’ve confessed—you’ve saved us work and expense. While the authorities decide your fate, I’ll make sure you’re treated well. Political offenses deserve gentlemanly consideration. It’s like boxing: you lost the round, but we both win. That’s all.” His hypocrisy was nauseating. I had seen the faces of the students who came seeking help at my home. I realized my friend must have influenced the commissioner to act according to his own lofty words. The commissioner then fetched a chessboard, ordered coffee for everyone, and we began a game lasting hours. I realized my friend was playing a comedy—he feigned earnest effort, then deliberately lost. At the end the commissioner said, “We must play again—your defeat cost me dearly.” He was radiant. During the game he had paled several times. Finally he added kindly, “We must celebrate this victory. Please accept my invitation to dinner.” My friend looked at me before replying, but the commissioner said, “We’ll bring you along too—though you’d best give your word of honor not to flee.” My friend said, “I vouch for him.” The prison food was vile, so I looked forward to dinner in a real restaurant. The commissioner opened the small metal safe where the police had confiscated my cash “for investigation” and slipped a handful of bills into his pocket. The three of us dined well and happily. My friend was completely transformed—he seemed to adore the commissioner like a child adores his father. The conversation turned to the commissioner and me. Seeing his vanity, I said, “My journalism career ended thanks to you. But I’ve discovered another possibility: tell me your most interesting investigations, and combining them with the background I have from the secret services, I could write a fine adventure book. It’s an underdeveloped genre here.” “I’ll think on it,” he said gravely, then added, “Yes, I believe you could do it well. I’ve read your dispatches and like your style.” “Thank you,” I said. “How would you describe me?” he asked. “Well… first I’d have to disguise your name, right? But so it’s still clear who you are. Then I’d change your physical description—that’s important. Better if you describe your character yourself, since you know counter-espionage psychology. I only know an amateur’s spycraft, and look where that’s gotten me—behind bars.” “It’s a good idea,” he said. “What do you think?” the commissioner asked my friend. I trembled. One harsh word from him and my situation could worsen. I looked at him pleadingly. Without taking his eyes off me, he replied, “He who does not know his own psychology cannot know another’s. That’s obvious, isn’t it?” “Of course,” said the commissioner, pondering the tablecloth as though solving a great philosophical problem. My friend continued, “Because ignorance of oneself makes one see truth only in distorted form, there is a remarkable difference between your psyche and my friend’s. For your novel’s hero—a counter-espionage agent—you are best suited to describe him, so that you won’t distort your own subjective conception by even an atom. Naturally, I could be wrong; you proved me right when I had you at my mercy. If I’m wrong, please tell me.” The commissioner beamed as though uplifted to the heavens, his smile so beatific I had to stifle a laugh. He weighed my friend’s words with such solemnity that, for an instant, I thought he realized my friend was effectively calling him an “idiot.” But my fears were unfounded. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Your observations are most apt. Indeed, you’re not mistaken. My subjective conception is precisely one of the psychological assets that have won me extraordinary success. As you said, the vast difference between my psyche and the gentleman’s explains why, in the affair I lost, you acted only as a journalist—an amateur in psychological matters.” He fell madly in love with the words “psyche” and “subjective.” During my imprisonment I often heard him explain them to subordinates. My friend manipulated him at will, extracting what he needed—yet he never so much as tried to obtain my release. When I reproached him, he said, “You’re better off in here than outside. At least here you have company, and you might even awaken.” Months passed.

13

Thus my life ended—and my career with it. I expected to be embroiled in some of those scandalous dispatches similar to ones I had written so many times—and I laughed. I thought it only fair that I once be the subject of such stories, and I had no worry at all about what the papers would say or what my colleagues would think. I didn’t care a bit. I only wanted rest. But the police saw to it that no scandal broke out. Later, I learned from my friend that he had arranged for newspapers to report I was not detained, but perhaps on holiday somewhere. The real reason for that decision is too murky to include here—and my friend had no involvement in it. In my first days of isolation in a cell, I tried to recall the many things my friend had told me and that I had noted, but my notebook was out of reach. I began to see life and human affairs in a strangely detached way, as though I were an observer removed from them. Then I remembered something he had said about the hidden key to the Sermon on the Mount, concealed in its opening phrase: “And seeing the multitudes, he went up on the mountain.” Were all my disappointments and everything that had led me here the “seeing the multitudes” he spoke of? And what was “going up on the mountain”? I thought of the mountain as that inner tranquility that flooded me whenever I remembered my friend—peace as though I knew he would provide the answers to all the questions now rising in my mind. In that solitary confinement, I saw the revolution, my career, my youth so differently. I realized how foolish and pointless my frantic life had been—that it led nowhere and made no sense. I could not explain what had happened to those students who, terrified of police, had come to my home for help—and how they now willingly testified against me in the indictment. Eventually, I was transferred to a prison, and I found a strange peace there. My friend’s first visit came in the presence of the interrogating commissioner. I asked after our mutual acquaintances. “I am here,” he said. “I don’t mean you,” I replied, “but so‐and‐so, and what about them?” He looked at me with pity and, in a mock‐solemn tone, said, “Those men are free. They’re enjoying a lovely siesta.” “I imagine they’re doing well,” I said. “The only one doing truly well is you,” he replied, “but you don’t see it yet.” Then, addressing the commissioner, he added, “This gentleman needs rest—above all, time to reflect. Perhaps you could help him? You’ve studied philosophy; maybe your words could do him some good.” I don’t know what private conversations they’d had—clearly they were trusted friends. The commissioner cleared his throat and began a pompous lecture so absurd that I stifled a laugh behind my cigarette. He concluded roughly: “We serve the state for the common good. The nation comes first, but we’re human too. You’ve confessed—you’ve saved us work and expense. While the authorities decide your fate, I’ll make sure you’re treated well. Political offenses deserve gentlemanly consideration. It’s like a boxing match: you lost the round, but we both win. That’s all.” His hypocrisy was nauseating. I had seen the faces of those students in my home, and I knew my friend must have influenced the commissioner to follow his own lofty words. Then the commissioner produced a chessboard, summoned coffee for everyone, and we began a game lasting hours. I realized my friend was performing a charade—he pretended to strive for victory, then deliberately lost. At the end, the commissioner exclaimed, “We must play again—your defeat cost me dearly!” He was elated. During the game he had paled more than once. Finally he said kindly, “We must celebrate this victory. Please accept my invitation to dinner.” My friend glanced at me before replying, but the commissioner added, “We’ll bring you too—though you must swear not to flee.” My friend said, “I vouch for him.” I looked forward to dinner, for the prison food was horrid. The commissioner opened the small metal safe where they had seized my cash “for investigation” and slipped a handful of bills into his pocket. The three of us dined well and cheerfully. My friend seemed transformed—he looked at the commissioner with the admiration of a child for his father. The conversation turned, and I observed the commissioner’s vanity. I said, “My journalism career has ended thanks to you. But I’ve found another possibility: tell me your most interesting investigations, and with what I know of intelligence service methods, I could write a great adventure novel. It’s a neglected genre here.” “I’ll consider it,” he said gravely, then added, “Yes, I believe you could do it well. I’ve read your dispatches and admire your style.” “Thank you,” I said. “How would you describe me in a novel?” he asked. “Well… first I’d change your name, right? But so readers still know who you are. Then I’d alter your physical description—that’s important. Better if you describe yourself; you know counterintelligence psychology. I’m only an amateur behind bars.” “That’s an excellent idea,” he told my friend. I trembled—one harsh word from him and my situation could worsen. I looked at my friend pleadingly. Without easing his gaze, he said, “One who ignores his own psychology cannot grasp another’s. That’s obvious, isn’t it?” “Certainly,” the commissioner agreed, stroking his chin as though solving a profound philosophical problem. My friend continued, “Because ignorance of oneself distorts truth, there is a remarkable difference between your psyche and my friend’s. For your novel’s hero—a counter‐espionage agent—you are ideally suited to describe him, so you won’t distort your own subjective perspective by even an atom. I could be wrong; you proved me right when you outmaneuvered me. If I’m mistaken, let me know.” The commissioner beamed, as though elevated to the heavens, and spoke of his “extraordinary success” born of psychological insight. He had fallen in love with words like “psyche” and “subjective,” and I heard him expounding them to subordinates many times in prison. My friend manipulated him effortlessly—yet never once did he strive to secure my freedom. When I reproached him, he said, “You’re better off here than out there. At least here you have company, and you might awaken.” Months passed. One afternoon my friend came to the prison and told me, “So‐and‐so (the master of ‘subjective psyche’) says they’ll deport you in two weeks, maybe sooner. They’ll treat you well until then. I must leave, but we’ll meet again soon.” I could not hold back my tears. He felt it too, but his smile and composure revealed only warmth and goodwill. Then he spoke of the qualities that heralded a “promise of awakening.” I was left alone, bitter at heart. Ten days later I was notified of my expulsion. I also learned that my file had been sent to every police force on the continent, each adding or omitting “confidential sources” to my dossier. I knew well who those sources were and their motives—but that no longer matters. All that time now feels so remote I can barely recall some events. The petty tricks men play are so blatant in certain cases—I suspect that is what my friend meant when he wrote of “men of clay” in the pages that follow. But one last scene remains, and with it this story’s true conclusion. One May morning I boarded an international train bound for the border—the very country to which that charming, shameless confidential agent had sent me. An hour before my departure, the “categorical imperative of subjective psyche” led me to his office. In solemn tone he said, “Young man, if it were up to me I’d let you go free. I would have done so long ago. Once your game was exposed, the spy is worthless unless dead. That is what matters to me. You may rebuild your life as you wish. Here is a summary of my most important counter‐espionage findings. I’ve portrayed you as the most challenging subject of all. Naturally, I have had to exaggerate in your case, to match your psyche to mine. I recommend you not alter the chapter describing my psyche. I disguised myself as much as possible. Good luck—and write to me with copies of whatever you produce. I remain at your service.” He shifted tone, returned to his desk, pulled my money and passport from his safe, and added, “As for your journey, the law allows you to take only so many pesos out of the country. When you were detained, this box contained seven times the legal limit. As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll allow you to leave with double the legal amount. You’ve spent so much—more than half—on upkeep, grooming, and so forth. The rest is yours to spend as you wish.” Nothing surprised me now, so I said, “Surely another spy of equally ‘low subjective psyche’ will fall into your hands soon. Please use whatever remains to aid him, as a gesture from one colleague to another. Perhaps he has no funds.” He handed me the money and documents, then, without a word, pocketed the rest. We said goodbye, but as I reached the door I turned and asked, “I’m traveling with one of your men. Which of you will keep this money?” I had every reason to doubt police altruism. “Under the law, the agent accompanying you must hold it and hand it over at the border,” he replied. “In your case, we’ll make an exception.” Then he called in the waiting officer, with handcuffs at the ready. “This prisoner is in your charge by ministerial order. He carries X pesos—that’s officially authorized. He’ll carry it himself. Understood? And you needn’t cuff him. Go as friends.” “Yes, sir,” the agent replied. As we left, I overheard him say, “Surely you’ll want to buy something special on the trip. Here you go.” Clearly he was slipping a share of my legacy for future underpaid spies of “subjective psyche” into his own pocket. The agent beamed, took my suitcase with genteel courtesy, and said, “Whenever you’re ready, sir.” The journey lasted two days and a night.

14

During the journey I often repeated to myself, “And seeing the multitudes,” without being able to make anything of it except a profound disillusionment with humankind and with myself. I still had five days of travel ahead and had to cross two countries before reaching the place where I intended to settle and hoped to find work as a journalist. When I reached the border I said farewell to the agent. He was a good young man. I was alone in the train compartment and thought of my friend. I had too many dilemmas I didn’t know how to face. My reputation lay in tatters. It would be difficult to find responsible work like the position I once held. Like so many others, I had become a victim of that enormous machine we call total war. I had no friends outside it, and I looked forward to seeing my friend again—if he had promised, I trusted he would keep his word. Unexpectedly, at a station past the border, he climbed aboard. “Have you learned enough?” he asked. “Let’s see whether you can profit from this lesson. You may still have to suffer for all you’ve done. But don’t despair. Pay attention to that Inner Judge I told you about. If you do, and don’t set anything new in motion, in time the inertia of all you have set in motion will come to an end.” That was the last I heard from him. He handed me the notebook in which I had recorded his words, and I never heard from him again—except when I received the letter reproduced below, which he asked me to publish in part. When I arrived at the city where I needed to make arrangements to continue my journey, I found the same political turmoil I had just left behind. The day after my arrival the confidential agent who had given me the wallet came to see me. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “We can use your services here.” “Thank you for reminding me,” I replied, “but I’m tired.” I explained my personal situation, my obligations, and the suffering I had already caused those I cared about. “Don’t worry about that,” he insisted. “Your experience will be valuable. There’s no risk. And we’ll pay you well.” “I appreciate the offer, but I prefer to move on.” He changed his tone. “You’re not in a position to refuse us,” he said. “If we wished, we could detain you again as a suspect. You know our situation well, and I assure you we will not allow diplomatic friends to help you. You have no friends here, you have almost no money, and you won’t find work.” “In any case,” I said, “I suppose you won’t exploit my condition to force me to do something I don’t want to do.” “The homeland comes above all,” he replied. I couldn’t suppress a smile of contempt. “I know that here constitutional guarantees are suspended, that you must operate under a permanent state of siege. I know I’m in a ruined state and depend on you to be reunited with my own. Yet believe me, I’d rather be killed than continue on this train of farce and lies.” He turned ashen. He slapped me across the face, and I—though months earlier I would have killed him on the spot—stood there unmoving. Something strange happened inside me, something I cannot explain; it wasn’t fear, but something singular. A calmness rose in my chest as I smiled. The man, ashamed, muttered a half dozen more threats and left. From the hotel balcony I watched him sit on a bench in the public square. A few moments later, while I shaved, he returned. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should have taken into account all you’ve just suffered. But please accept the minister’s invitation to lunch. You may change your mind then.” I did not refuse. The reason for the lunch was simple: a conspiracy was underway to depose the president and install the minister in his place, and it was necessary to sound out certain circles. I told him that professionally I was discredited. “We can fix that easily,” he said. He named an opposition newspaper and implied that its proprietors—owners of extensive natural-resource interests—would welcome my contributions. “No,” I said. “I’m tired of all that.” “At least think it over for a few days,” he urged. “I have a very interesting dossier on you and your political ideas. I also see you’re discreet.” His veiled threat could not be ignored. I found myself once again entangled in one of those abominable South American political intrigues—a machine of lies, crimes, and extortion. Disillusioned, that afternoon I contemplated suicide.

15

I felt as though I were drowning. I could not escape even if I wanted to—the police were watching me. I took a tram and headed for the outskirts of the city. From people’s attitudes, their manner of speaking, and the many clues a seasoned observer can pick up, I sensed that anyone who rose up against the current president might succeed. People also wanted the freedom to change masters—only to turn around and depose whoever they themselves had put in power. The years of lies, piled upon more lies, had left me despising not only myself but all mankind. Yet something inside me shifted, and I noticed my contempt was neither as bitter nor as strong. It felt more like resignation when I looked at the crowds. I kept repeating to myself, “And seeing the multitudes,” but my thoughts flew to my friend, and I forgot everything else. Suddenly I was seized by a powerful urge to pray. I found a small chapel full of indigenous worshippers. I watched them and felt affection for them. I knelt in a corner and began speaking, as before, to a crucified Christ. I recounted in detail everything I was going through, and I ended my prayer with these words: “Judging by my actions, I have used the intelligence you gave me very poorly. Why don’t you grant me another chance? If you can, please give me a new kind of insight—not only one that will help me escape this tangle, but one that will let me live in peace with my friend.” I lifted my eyes to Christ’s face. I do not know if it was my imagination, fueled by longing, but I think I saw him smile. That night, when I returned to the city, I sought refuge in my hotel room. On the nightstand I found a message from a former diplomat I had known years before—now a Senator, according to his letterhead. I called the number he gave, and he answered himself. He was very kind. He said he had heard I was passing through the city, that he missed my newspaper dispatches, and that he was eager to speak with me. He offered to come to the hotel to fetch me. I felt too weak to refuse. When we met, our cordiality was merely a formality. The Senator knew everything but concealed it. A Senator does not summon a journalist like this merely to reminisce about happier days in a gracious capital. Our conversation during the drive was emptier than usual. Finally, the luxury car stopped in front of the government palace. The Senator smiled, as though to say, “You didn’t expect this, did you?” We dined in the presidential dining room. I had no appetite. The blow came later, when the Senator, the President, and I sat alone in a private salon. It was another intrigue—but this one on a grander scale. I was to go to a certain country and launch a press campaign that would allow the President to consolidate his party’s forces and, eventually, the entire nation. “If necessary,” he said, “we could even mobilize.” The prospect of yet another war terrified me. Still, I remained calm and shared my impressions of the day, the common people. I wondered whether they knew of the conspiracy brewing within the President’s own cabinet. I set that aside and explained that his unpopularity stemmed not from himself but from a lack of civic education among the people, which made them easy prey for any demagogue. Both the President and the Senator spoke to me of their deep love for the homeland, of the sacrifices they had made and would still have to make, and of the urgent need to galvanize public opinion by showing the threat posed by enemies, and so on. I said nothing. I felt disgust. When I left the palace, I walked back to the hotel instead of riding in the luxury car. Days and weeks passed, and every attempt I made to continue my journey met with obstacles. One Sunday—this I remember well—the city erupted in a frenzy of bloodshed that lasted several days. I heard the first gunshots from the hotel. Then a macabre dance began, and in the midst of a roaring, delirious mob drunk on blood, I saw the mutilated corpse of the President. Rivers of blood flowed; no one was safe. One night I ran into a fellow countryman. He told me he had used the chaos to escape the prison where he’d been held for months. The shooting could resume at any moment, so we decided to steal a car and fled full throttle toward the frontier. Time passed, and I found humble work. Continue here: https://createtheone.com/free/chain%20of%20the%20immortals.pdf