1. The Double Miracle of Kreuzberg
Ali Hasan was an Arab merchant of Syrian origin who owned a modest carpet shop on the bustling Oranienstraße, in the heart of the Kreuzberg neighborhood. He was a devout Muslim; he said his daily prayers, observed the religious prohibitions, and scrupulously observed the fast of Ramadan.
By one of those ironies of fate, his business neighbor was a Russian from Moscow , Vladimir Ivanoff, who specialized in Russian art and icons; a faithful Christian, a worshipper of the Holy Spirit, a devotee of the Virgin Mary, respectful of his patriarch, and knowledgeable about some twenty religious hymns that he sang in his deep, resonant voice at his Orthodox church in Berlin.
Despite their religious differences and contrasting customs, they had something in common: a love for a good cup of tea with Turkish pastries, served to them by the bakery one block up. Sometimes, if they weren’t too busy, they would share a steaming cup of good tea accompanied by a hard-fought game of chess.
“My dear Ali, chess is a game designed for Russians. Not because we’re smarter than Arabs, but because we’re more calculating and shrewd.”
“No people are more skilled at calculation than the Arabs; it’s no coincidence that we were who invented numbers.”
Competing between their respective cultures and religions was more than just a personal matter, for each of them felt he was the representative in this world of Allah and the God of the Christians.
Ali Hassan went through a rough patch in his carpet business; carpets were becoming increasingly expensive, and customers who loved exquisitely hand-knotted Persian carpets were growing scarce, and the worries and pressures had made him somewhat bitter. Finally, the bank and his creditors threatened to take him to court, and his business was hanging by a thread.
Vladimir wasn’t aware of his financial situation, but Ali was losing games far too easily and could barely concentrate. Finally, he wanted to know the reason for his distraction and even his outbursts of bad temper, and he got a sincere confession from Ali:
“Business is bad, Vladimir! I’m selling rugs that are too good and too expensive for these times. Unless a miracle happens, I’ll have to close up shop. But Allah is just, and I’m a good Muslim; I’m sure He won’t abandon me.”
Vladimir’s business wasn’t anything special either , but unlike Ali’s, he had known how to adapt to the times and stock low-quality items, intended mainly for tourists, which—combined with a nearly hermit-like lifestyle—had allowed him to achieve a respectable position. He slept on it and decided to help his friend, but in secret. So, through a friend, he had him buy the best rug he had, sparing no expense. Once the deal was done, Ali showed up at his shop smiling and happy.
“I told you, Vladimir, that Allah could not abandon a good believer! I just sold the best rug I had in the shop for 2,500 euros, and without haggling. It was a miracle! Praise be to Allah for remembering this humble believer!”
But Vladimir had his own opinion, which he obviously kept to himself: “Blessed be the God of the Christians, who is merciful and good, and has inspired my charitable act.” And that’s how things stood.
Ali paid off some debts, and business picked up with the arrival of winter.
One cold January morning, Ali was surprised to see Vladimir’s shop closed on a Saturday morning—the best day for foreign tourists visiting his shop. Ali knew his friend suffered from kidney problems, since he couldn’t finish a single game of chess game without emptying his bladder several times, but it didn’t seem serious enough to prevent him from tending to his business. Worried, he called his home and was given the news: he had been admitted to the emergency room because he needed kidney surgery. Ali didn’t want to hear the details, so without a second thought, he closed his own shop and rushed to the hospital.
“Dear Ali, we won’t be able to play our little game today! But why did you go to all this trouble? I appreciate it anyway! Go back to your store—these aren’t the times to be losing sales.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“Unfortunately, they can’t operate; they don’t have blood like mine.” “I’m a rare Russian, Ali—there aren’t two like me!”
Ali Hassan said goodbye to his friend, worried about the situation, because he didn’t understand these things. In the hospital hallway, he ran into the doctor treating him and wanted to know for sure how his friend was doing.
“There’s no blood of his type; we can’t operate!”
“How do you know about the blood? Couldn’t mine work?”
“We can run a test—who knows… it doesn’t hurt to try.”
As it happened, they shared the same blood type, and Ali provided the blood needed for the operation to take place.
A week later, weak and gaunt, Vladimir returned to his shop, and the first thing he did was visit his friend to share the good news.
“I’m as strong as an ox now, my friend Ali! But it’s not thanks to the butchers—it’s thanks to the mercy of my God, who performed the miracle of finding a donor at the last moment! It’s a true miracle that I’m still alive!”
But Ali Hassan had a different opinion, which he obviously kept to himself: “ Praise be to Allah and His infinite wisdom, which has given me the courage to care for a good friend.”
Months later, the two friends were still debating the superiority of their respective religions, but because of the strong friendship that bound them, they never revealed their respective secrets.
2. I, Adan: My Memoirs of Paradise
Some readers may be surprised by the title of this story, and I’m not surprised! There must be a good reason why, after so many years, I’ve decided to write my memoirs—and there is. So many absurd and nonsensical things have been said about Eve and me that a bit of seriousness is called for, and who better than myself to tell my true story and recount my hardships? It’s not easy for anyone to be the first man on this earth, but despite the difficulties, we managed to get by—and there’s humanity, with nearly seven billion descendants and still growing!
I don’t need to introduce myself, but for some clueless folks from remote cultures still waiting to be properly civilized, my name is Adam. Obviously, I don’t have a last name because I didn’t have a recognized biological father either, but for the sake of clarity, you can call me Adam of Paradise or Adam of Clay—it’s all the same, since both ideas relate to my origins.
My biographers claim that God created me from a figure of clay into which He breathed His breath, and I’m not going to argue with the fundamental fact that I was created by God, but the part about the clay requires an important clarification. I was born in the depths of the ocean—and I don’t specify
which one because in my day there was only one, and everything else was land. Apparently, we already had problems with atmospheric pollution back then, although I couldn’t say why, since at that time there were neither cars nor factories—in fact, there was nothing but viscous, heavily polluted mud. I don’t know who fixed it or how many millions it cost, because, among other things, we hadn’t invented money yet, but as soon as the atmosphere became breathable, you could say I was reborn—but this time on land, hence the idea put forward by my biographers. I still remember my early childhood, when I was nothing more than an insignificant little frog, just beginning my adventures on dry land. What happened next would take too long to recount, so I’ll summarize it by saying that one fine day I found myself an adult living in a paradisiacal place that God called the Garden of Eden. What was it like? I don’t know much about this subject because I’ve never been known for my knowledge of botany, but I do remember there were many trees, since in my youth I hardly ever set foot on the ground. Nothing amused me more than leaping from branch to branch, from tree to tree, and traversing the boundaries of Earthly Paradise in the blink of an eye. Although it’s not proper for me to praise myself, I was such a cute little creature!
The climate must have been like that of the Canary Islands, between 25 and 30 degrees Celsius degrees, because I remember that, thanks to that, it never even occurred to me to invent dresses. That came after the tragedy. Besides, what did I need them for? Who could see me if Eve didn’t even exist? Back then I was strictly vegetarian, although by mistake I’d occasionally eat a bug because of their habit of camouflaging themselves among the foliage. How was I supposed to know the habits of chameleons! There were normal rivers, where I used to take a good dip and, while I was at it, keep myself clean—because, mind you, I’ve always been clean—but others were made of honey, though perhaps it’s a bit of an exaggeration to call them rivers; they were more like streams, and not even that—let’s just say honey was dripping everywhere, because there was an abundance of wild beehives. Of course, the bees in Eden didn’t sting like the ones do now! As for food, needless to say—it could be said that there was nothing inside Paradise that wasn’t edible. The legumes and vegetables weren’t like the ones we have now; they were all organic, of course, and so tender and soft that there was absolutely no need to cook them. Of course, on on the other hand, fire hadn’t been invented yet! As for the other animals—which I certainly couldn’t call wild, since they were all as docile as lambs—you could say there was every kind imaginable. In fact, for that very reason, years later Noah had quite a job gathering them all onto his ark during the Flood.
My favorite animal was an African lion—though that’s a bit of a stretch, since Africa didn’t didn’t exist either; as I said, everything was called by the same name—Pangaea—although I have my doubts as to whether there might not have already been a continent or two by then. It was a calm and well-trained lion, whose primary purpose was to serve as a pillow for my regular sleep and naps. Has no one ever experienced how comfortable and warm an African lion’s mane is? Well, to tell the truth, after Paradise, lions find it a bother to do these and other favors for human beings. You could say that in the Garden of Eden I lacked nothing and everything was within reach—unlike now. Back then, things were just as God intended!
And speaking of God, of course we got along wonderfully from the very beginning. Don’t go thinking that God was satisfied with just anything—He was extremely demanding in every respect. There was nothing He created before me that He didn’t give His approval to after seeing how it worked. He made the heavens so vast that even today no one knows where they end. The Earth turned out a bit smaller, but it’s still vast—none of my earliest descendants could fully grasp the distances, and there was one who miscalculated; thank goodness he discovered America, because otherwise I don’t even want to think about what would have happened to him.
At first I thought the Earth was flat—how could I have imagined it was round! Even today I still wonder what prompted God to come up with such an idea, when it would have been so simple to make it flat. Anyway, He must have had His reasons.
As I was saying, after seeing how I behaved—once I’d outgrown my adolescence and my obsession with trees and other follies typical of that age—it seems He was fully satisfied. For quite some time, things in Paradise worked like a charm. There wasn’t the slightest cause for complaint on either side. Of course, I certainly wouldn’t have complained , since I’ve always known how to act with discretion and keep my distance. I have to say, in all honesty, that we never actually met face to face, and I still don’t know why, but I suspect that God is too great to fit into the world He Himself has created.
That’s why I said it had turned out a bit small for Him, unlike the heavens, which, as I said, are immense, and He must move through them as if they were His home. To tell the truth, heaven is His home, as it is written in all the religious textbooks. Despite our initial difficulties in communicating, He always managed to get in touch with me and take an interest in my affairs. My health was of no concern to Him because diseases were not yet known. Sometimes He did so through an animal—though, of course, He didn’t use snakes for the reason everyone knows, which I’ll discuss later; other times by stirring up a gale with a voice-over, as they say nowadays; and most often He appeared to me in dreams. During these pleasant conversations between Creator and creature, He used to ask me questions that were sometimes difficult to answer given my ignorance of life—questions through which He sought to inquire about my well-being, for it can be said that He did nothing else but keep abreast of my desires and, of course, overseeing the other aspects of His creation. But I must clarify that while Creation itself did not concern Him at all—since He had endowed it with its own means for survival and stability—I was a special concern of His. It was as if He were not entirely sure He had done a good job with me. I think He suspected I was plotting something against Him, when it’s obvious that such an idea never even crossed my mind. Why Why on earth would I rebel against God if He provided me with everything I wanted and I was happy? But He kept insisting over and over again:
“Are you sure, Adam, that you’re not missing anything?”
“Nothing at all!”
“Well, I mean, is there anything that bothers you; something you don’t like…”
“The truth is, now that you mention it, if you could make the elephants a little smaller… They take up too much space, and this garden isn’t very big! Plus, there’s the risk of getting trampled—not on purpose, of course.”
“No, that’s not what I mean; I’m asking if there’s anything you miss; if there’s something in your human nature that isn’t working as it should.”
—Honestly, if you don’t speak clearly, I don’t understand you! If you mean that I relieve myself anywhere when the urge strikes, next time I’ll look for a more secluded spot…
—That’s not it, for heaven’s sake!
—Well, I don’t understand you!
—Don’t you observe the other animals?
—Well, to tell you the truth, I do miss my youthful ability to climb trees like monkeys do, but that’s in the past now that I’ve settled down…
—All right, fine, I’ll put it plainly: Don’t you miss having someone else of your own kind to chat with, go for walks with, and… well, what the heck, enjoy the pleasures of nature!?
And like that, every single day! The truth is, there wasn’t a single night when we didn’t talk about this new idea that had gotten into his head, because honestly, I didn’t miss anything at all. Little by little, I began to understand his reasons. Maybe he was bored with my conversation, and since he didn’t talk this way with the rest of Creation, it must have occurred to him that if there were more of us, we’d have more reasons to talk and other topics of conversation. But to be honest, I didn’t like the idea at all, because I had a feeling it would simply be a mistake—not to mention that it would put an end to the tranquility of Earthly Paradise. But back then I didn’t know the reason this premonition, so God remained determined to get my approval, because, as I said, He lived for nothing else but to please me—as if I were a spoiled child. Of course, I was His only one!
God insisted so much on the idea of creating a human race to populate the Earth and rule over the rest of the poor animals and the unfortunate plants that I finally gave in, albeit grudgingly . But what I didn’t find funny at all was the means He proposed to use for His purpose. Nothing less than using one of my ribs! It’s not that I knew back then how many ribs were necessary for a normal existence, or whether I’d survive with one less, but what I wondered was: with all that mud available, why not use the same method—whatever he was planning to create—just as he had done with me? Had his divine breath run out? Was he unsure that the creature he was creating would turn out even as well as I did?
“Why my rib? —I dared to ask him in one of the dreams where we revisited the subject.
—Because it is my will!
—Is there some ulterior motive you’re keeping to yourself?
—There is. I want her to be clear about the subordinate place she must occupy in the world, since she was created from your rib!
—I don’t see the point.
—You’ll understand when you see her!
—Is it a surprise?
— “You can’t even imagine!”
And that was the entire conversation we had about the new creature he planned to extract from one of my ribs. Fortunately, thanks to his special powers, the operation would pose no risk to my health and wouldn’t be painful. What’s more, I wouldn’t even notice it, because he planned to perform this delicate operation while I was asleep. So one fine day—I don’t know if that’s the right way to put it!— when I woke up one misty spring morning, there it was!
My first impression was disappointing. It was obvious that this thing—because I don’t know how else to describe it—didn’t resemble me at all; it was missing some parts and had others in excess. For example, in the lower groin area, it had no way to relieve the urge to urinate, and at chest level, it had two horrible, misshapen lumps. With a body like that body, it was impossible to take seriously the idea that it was “human”—and I say this with reference to God’s plan to create humanity. At first, the thing didn’t say a word, but from the very first moment I sensed a certain air of superiority, and no doubt, despite its notable and obvious flaws, deep down it must have believed itself to be beautiful. What What a mistake! I knew that if God didn’t use clay again, He’d mess things up!
I immediately went to God to complain, but it was His day of rest, so I had to face the facts and resign myself to the idea that, at the very least, I’d have to spend the weekend with that misshapen creature.
From the very first moment of its existence, that thing failed to live up to God’s expectations regarding its social standing, and without my giving it permission to speak to me, it started rambling about a bunch of nonsensical things.
“Hey, look who’s here—the hunk Adam! Oh, but don’t think I’m going to be easy, no; better get used to the idea, handsome, that I’m not one of those!”
“Which ones?” —I hadn’t intended to engage with her, but as soon as she opened her mouth for the first time, she already had me at my wits’ end.
—Like those tree-dwellers. No more alpha males or any of that nonsense here!
I had no idea what she was talking about and had to put up with an endless stream of impertinences and demands of all kinds until finally, that night, after the Sunday rest, I was able to lodge my complaint with God, to see if there was still any hope of remedying the situation.
“You’ll get used to her, Adam!”
“But she’s a monstrous creature!” I replied in a manner uncharacteristic of me, but I was so furious that I couldn’t control myself. “Besides, she’s missing some parts and has too much of others—I don’t think I’ll survive!”
“Adam, Adam, my child, don’t you understand? That’s where the charm lies!”
But God didn’t want to give me any more details; He merely argued that she had to be different—among other good reasons—to prevent homosexuality, or at least until there were at least a couple dozen more human beings on Earth, a task He had entrusted to me, E E but without bothering to give me a clue as to how to do it!
Naturally, from the very beginning she tried to organize my life, telling me what I should and shouldn’t eat; correct some of my manners—which were, admittedly, somewhat animalistic—at mealtimes; decide where we should go for walks and which places we shouldn’t frequent because, according to her, they weren’t suitable for human beings. She insisted that we live in a particular cave, which she thought was safe,
even though there was nothing to fear in Paradise, but she must have carried that obsession with safety as a genetic flaw, because it obsessed her from day one. She strictly forbade me from climbing trees or sleeping next to the African lion, whom she wouldn’t allow into the cave because she said those animals brought bugs and left everything covered in slime, not to mention hair and other unsavory things . She told me what time I had to get up and go to bed, when and how I had to wash myself—especially my ears, which I detested. She also picked on my beard and my long, beautiful hair, which already reached my waist, because she said it didn’t make me look manly—as if I knew what she meant! In short, in just two or three days she turned the Garden of Eden—which was never the same after her arrival!
But worst of all was carrying out the task I’d been entrusted with: populating the world. At first, busy as she was tidying up the cave, obsessively cleaning every nook and cranny, placing odd things in the corners that she said created ambiance, and making a bed of hay—which, to truth was more comfortable than the hard floor where I used to sleep, she didn’t pay me the slightest bit of attention. Among the contraptions she invented around that time, the most curious was a stick with branches on one end that she used to sweep the floor—which we eventually came to call a broom—undoubtedly one of her most brilliant ideas, along with the bed, of course. Because of all this, I actually began to gradually realize the advantages of her peculiar way of being, since it was obvious that she came up with more ideas than I did—and, if we’re being honest, I didn’t have any at all back then.
Resigned to having to share my life with such a person, I should at least know her name, because she didn’t like it when I called her “thing,” as I used to do at the beginning of our relationship, and God didn’t let me forget her name.
“Eva, my name is Eva; Eve of Paradise! And don’t you dare call me ‘thing’ again, and certainly not with that derogatory and arrogant name ‘my rib.’ That’s all in the past; now we’re both equal in the eyes of society. And honestly, now that I know you, I don’t know what God was thinking when He created you that way. He must have been a little tired after creating so many good and useful things, such as Creation! Because I’m good for many things, but you—tell me, what good is a man in this world!
She always had critical words for me; she saw nothing good or positive in me. If it had been up to her, she would have schemed to convince God of my uselessness and, taking advantage of the fact that I was the only one on Earth, would have had me destroyed. But whatever the reason, the truth is that God didn’t usually speak directly to her during His appearances; instead, He spoke directly to me. I think that by then God must have realized the mistake of having created such a creature, but things in Creation are irreversible, so I had to learn to live with her.
After a few weeks, God appeared to me again in a dream, and from the tone of His voice, I could tell He wasn’t in a good mood.
“How are things going with Eve?” He asked me.
“So-so, but I suppose it’s just a matter of giving it time. It’s not easy getting used to her cleaning quirks!”
“And what about my humanity?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want me to mean? Do you think I created Eve to be your servant? Your offspring!”
“—
“What offspring?”
“But haven’t you still…? Aren’t you sexually attracted to Eva? Well, now that you mention it, if you mean that at night I feel strange when I brush against her…”“Yes, of course; call it whatever you like! But have you done it yet?”“Done what?”—“Love, man of God, love!”—“If you don’t speak more clearly!”—“Well, let’s drop this subject, because it’s not my place to teach you those things; you’ll learn them sooner or later—that’s what Eve is good at, and she’s got a way with men. When she asks you, you’ll find out!”—I don’t understand why, ever since Eve’s been in Paradise, you’ve been speaking to me in riddles; you used to always speak plainly!—Speaking of Eve, I’ve noticed she talks too much with the snakes…—Well, now that you mention it, it’s true, and she won’t let me sleep with my lion!—You’ve got to keep an eye on this matter. Snakes are one of my few mistakes in Creation. I don’t trust them—they’re so slimy!—Well, if that’s the case, you’ve created other creatures that are even more repulsive, like cockroaches and bedbugs!—You’re always so quick-witted!—The truth is, I’m unable to control her, because she always does whatever she wants. She won’t even hear of her inferiority and submission to me—that drives her upset, and I’m not about to spend the whole day fighting with her over this!“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have to do something to test her loyalty. I have no choice but to forbid you from eating from the apple tree on the central hill in the Garden of Eden.”“But that’s the very tree that bears the sweetest and juiciest apples!”“Precisely that’s why; because it’s such a great temptation, I’m forbidding them to you, to test your willpower. You must learn that in this world, one must not do everything one can, but rather what one ought to do. Duty is the standard of conduct for every civilized human being!These were the kinds of conversations God and I had been having ever since Eve arrived in Paradise. Always arguing because of her! But the truth is that Eve surpassed me in practically everything, and while I struggled to learn all about the natural world , she seemed to know everything without having experienced a thing. It was baffling! What did she have that I didn’t? How was it possible—since she had been created from one of my ribs—that she was so different? The answer came to me from a serpent—specifically one that used to lurk around the forbidden apple tree—one time when I took an interest in its conversations with Eve.“She has intuition, and you don’t!” it explained to me.“And what is this thing that’s so important?”“It’s the knowledge found in nature; natural wisdom.”“You haven’t passed it on to her, have you?”“Maybe…”
“And since I’m here, might I ask what you’re talking about all those hours you spend together under the sacred apple tree? You aren’t plotting something against God, are you?”
“What sacred apple tree? All the trees here are the same!”
“That was before; now it’s different, and you need to know this. Neither Eve nor I can eat from this apple tree!”
—And who said that?
—God, of course!
—And who is God to interfere with nature?
—What nonsense! He can command whatever He sees fit—that’s why He created it!
—You’re wrong, Adam; neither He nor anyone else can interfere with the laws of nature once they’ve been established. That would be unnatural! Do you understand?
Ever since that conversation with the serpent, it was clear to me that we’d be in trouble. No doubt Eve and she were hatching some major scheme, one I had to uncover and bring to God’s attention. That very night, I decided to pry whatever information I could out of her. I certainly didn’t choose the best moment, because she was in a terrible mood—and that’s an understatement, since in Paradise even the dogs were in a good mood. But despite my limited experience with the opposite sex, I’d already learned a thing or two, and I knew how to approach her without arousing suspicion about my true intentions.
“You look so good today, Eve—it seems like only yesterday that God took you from my rib!”
This first comment about her appearance softened her a bit, but she remained in a bad mood.
“Cut the crap, Adam—I’m just not in the mood today!”
“But what’s wrong with you, woman?”
“Women’s stuff—you wouldn’t understand!”
“Teach me…”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I spoke with the serpent in the apple tree for a while today, and he struck me as an incredibly intelligent creature!”
“Really, Adam? Do you agree with its views on God, too?”
It was easy to lure her into the trap, because women may have a lot of intuition, but when it comes to malice and strategy, they’re no match for us. Deep down, they’re naive, no matter how wise and natural they may be.
That’s how I learned that Eve agreed with the serpent that God had no right to forbid us anything, let alone from eating the tastiest fruit tree in the Garden of Eden. The truth is, I didn’t really understand God’s reasoning or the moral purpose behind the prohibition either. Why create things if they were forbidden? If He didn’t want us to eat from that particular tree, why didn’t He command me to cut it down—or do it Himself, since He was supposed to have the power to do so? Did God not know that what is forbidden is what human beings desire most—even the first two of us? Did He not trust us? Why put us to the test if, in the Garden of Eden, there’s absolutely no reason to complain about anything? The truth is that with each passing day, the whole matter of the prohibition became harder for me to understand. On the other hand, I began to suspect that once prohibitions were invented , the day would come when everything would be forbidden. That made no sense in the Garden of Eden! Would we eventually end up with one-way paths and places where it was forbidden to walk, lie down, or take a nap? Would there be caves with restricted access? Things that were forbidden to drink, eat, or smoke? No, that definitely wasn’t a good idea! As much as it pained me to admit it, God had screwed up and allowed the serpent by the apple tree to hatch its plan.
Finally, the inevitable happened. One fine day, which must have been around fall—when the apples from the forbidden tree were in season—Eve suggested we take a walk through the center to see what was new there. I wasn’t very keen on the idea, because the center of the Garden of Eden had become a noisy and very stressful place. Not only because of the elephants—whom God had refused to make smaller—but also because, for some time now, it seemed as though all the animals in Paradise had the same idea, and not a day went by without them taking a stroll through there. We arrived at that infamous apple tree, and there it was, as usual, the rebellious serpent. I pretended not to see it, but Eve, who had become quite familiar with it, took the opportunity to say hello.
“Good morning, serpent.”
“Good morning, Eve and company. What brings you here?”
“Just taking a little stroll. It’s been a while since we’ve been downtown!”
“It’s quite lively here, especially at this time of year when fruit and apples are in abundance.”
“But you won’t be eating from this tree, I suppose. Since God said that…”
—“More than any other! These are the tastiest!”
—“And God doesn’t punish them?”
—“Why would He? What grows in nature belongs to everyone. Here, take this—try one! Isn’t it a shame that the juiciest apples in the Garden of Eden are rotting on the tree? That can’t be fair, even if God Himself ordered it!”
Eve, who didn’t stop to think much about the things she did—because she had no idea what was right or wrong, that is, good and evil—was already about to bite into the apple when I had to warn her about the consequences.
“Wait, Eve, don’t do anything foolish; think of your descendants! What you’re about to do is wrong!
“But what is evil?” she asked, quite bewildered.
“Well, evil… evil is… Well, I don’t know—there’s no such thing here in Paradise—but if you eat it, maybe we’ll find out, and that wouldn’t be good for us!
“You’re always going on and on about morality!”
“Well said, Eve!” said the sly serpent, determined to get her way.
And without thinking about the future consequences of her actions—typical of her, and I fear of her female descendants offspring—she bit into the apple with gusto. I expected God to appear to us and rebuke her for her action, to punish her with some as-yet-unknown evil, and that would be the end of it—but nothing special happened! God didn’t show up at all—neither as a gale, nor with some sign in the sky,
nor through the voice of some animal more presentable than the serpent—of which there was no shortage in those parts—nor in any other way. I assumed He would wait until that night to call our attention in our dreams, but what made the most sense was that He had played a joke on us, and eating from that apple tree wasn’t forbidden. After all, the serpent seemed to be right.
“See? Nothing—nothing’s happening!”
“That’s true, Adam. Well, now that you mention it, if you mean that at night I feel strange when I brush against…”
“Yes, of course; call it whatever you like! But have you done it yet?”
“Done what?”
“ Love, for heaven’s sake, love!
“If you don’t speak any clearer!”
“Well, let’s drop this subject, because it’s not my place to teach you those things; you’ll learn them sooner or later—Eve has a knack for that and knows how to handle things discreetly. When she asks you, you’ll find out!”
“I don’t understand why, ever since Eve’s been in Paradise, you’ve been speaking to me in riddles—you used to speak so clearly!
—Speaking of Eve, I’ve noticed she talks too much with the snakes…
—Well, now that you mention it, it’s true, and she won’t let me sleep with my lion!
—You need to keep an eye on this. Snakes are one of my few mistakes in Creation. I don’t trust them— they’re so slimy!
—Well, if that’s the reason, you’ve created other creatures that are even more repulsive, like cockroaches and bedbugs!
—You’re always so quick-witted!
—The truth is, I’m unable to control her, because she always does whatever she wants. She won’t even hear about her inferiority and submission to me—that drives her crazy, and I’m not am not about to spend my days fighting with her over this!
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have to do something to test her loyalty. I have no choice but to forbid you from eating from the apple tree on the central hill in the Garden of Eden.”
—But that’s the very tree that bears the sweetest and juiciest apples!
—That’s precisely why; because it’s such a great temptation, I’m forbidding you to eat them, to test your willpower. You must learn that in this world, you shouldn’t do everything you can, but rather what you ought to do. Duty is the standard of conduct for every civilized human being!
These were the kinds of conversations God and I had been having ever since Eve arrived in Paradise. Always arguing because of her! But the truth is that Eve surpassed me in practically everything, and while I was struggling to learn all about human nature, she seemed to know it all without having experienced a thing. It was baffling! What did she have that I didn’t? How was it possible—since she had been created from one of my ribs—that she was so different? The answer came from a serpent—specifically one that used to lurk around the forbidden apple tree—one time when I took an interest in its conversations with Eve.
“She has intuition, and you don’t!” it explained to me.
“And what is this thing that’s so important?”
“It’s the knowledge found in nature; natural wisdom.”
“You didn’t pass it on to her, did you?”
“Maybe…”
“And since I’m here, might I ask what you’re talking about all those hours you spend together under the sacred apple tree? You aren’t plotting something against God, are you?”
“What sacred apple tree? All the trees here are the same!”
“That was before; now it’s different, and you need to know this. Neither Eve nor I can eat from this apple tree!”
—“And who said that?”
—“God, of course!”
—“And who is God to interfere with nature?”
—“What nonsense! He can command whatever He sees fit—that’s why He created it!”
—“You’re wrong, Adam. Neither He nor anyone else can interfere with natural laws once they’ve been established. That would be unnatural! Do you understand?”
Ever since that conversation with the serpent, it was clear to me that we’d be in trouble. No doubt Eve and she were hatching some major scheme, one that I had to uncover and bring to God’s attention. That very night, I set out to pry whatever information I could out of her. I certainly didn’t choose the best moment, because I was in a lousy mood—and that’s a figure of speech, since even the dogs were in a good mood in Paradise. But despite my limited experience with the opposite sex, I had already learned a thing or two, and I knew how to approach her without arousing suspicion about my true intentions.
“You look so good today, Eve—it seems like only yesterday that God took you from my rib!”
This first comment about her appearance softened her a bit, but she remained in a bad mood.
“Cut the nonsense, Adam, I’m just not having a good day today!
“But what’s wrong with you, woman?”
“Women’s stuff; you wouldn’t understand!”
“Teach me…”
“I’m not in the mood.”
—Well, I just wanted to tell you that I spoke with the serpent in the apple tree for a while today, and he struck me as an extremely intelligent creature!
—Really, Adam? Do you agree with his views on God, too?
It was easy to lure her into the trap, because women may have a lot of intuition, but when it comes to malice and strategy, they’re no match for us. Deep down, they’re naive, no matter how wise and down-to-earth they may be.
That’s how I learned that Eve agreed with the serpent that God had no right to forbid us anything, much less to eat from the tastiest fruit tree in the Garden of Eden. The truth is, I didn’t really understand God’s reasoning or the moral purpose of the prohibition either. Why create things if they were forbidden? If He didn’t want us to eat from that particular tree, why why didn’t He command me to cut it down, or do it Himself, since He was supposed to have the power to do so? Didn’t God know that what is forbidden is what human beings desire most—even the very first two of us? Didn’t He trust us? Why put us to the test if, in the Garden of Eden, there’s absolutely no reason for us to complain about anything? The truth is that with each passing day, the whole issue of the prohibition became harder for me to understand. On the other hand, I began to suspect that once prohibitions were invented, the day would come when everything would be forbidden. That made no sense in the Garden of Eden! Would we eventually end up with one-way paths and places where it was forbidden to walk, lie down, or take a nap? Would there be caves with restricted access? Would Things that were forbidden to drink, eat, or smoke? No, that definitely wasn’t a good idea! Although I was reluctant to admit it, God had dropped the ball and allowed the serpent by the apple tree to hatch its plan.
Finally, the inevitable happened. One fine day—it must have been around fall, when the apples on the forbidden tree were ripe—Eve suggested we take a walk downtown to see what was new there. I wasn’t very keen on the idea, because the center of the Garden of Eden had become a noisy and very stressful place. Not only because of the elephants—whom God had refused to make smaller—but also because, for some time now, it seemed as though all the animals in Paradise had the same idea, and not a day went by without them taking a stroll through there. We arrived at that famous apple tree, and there it was—as usual—the rebellious serpent. I pretended not to see it, but Eve, who had become quite familiar with it, took the opportunity to say hello.
“Good morning, serpent.”
“Good morning, Eve and company. What brings you here?”
“Just taking a little stroll.” It’s been a while since we’ve been downtown!
“There’s quite a lively atmosphere, especially at this time of year when fruit and apples are in abundance.”
“But I suppose you won’t be eating from this tree. Since God said that…”
“More than any other! These are the tastiest!”
“And doesn’t God punish you?”
“Why would He? What grows in nature belongs to everyone. Here, take this—try one! Isn’t it a shame that the juiciest apples in the Garden of Eden are rotting on the tree?” That can’t be fair, even if God Himself ordered it!
Eve, who didn’t stop to think much about the things she did—because she had no idea what was fair or unfair, that is, right and wrong—was already about to bite into the apple when I had to warn her about the consequences.
“Wait, Eve, don’t do anything foolish; think of your descendants! What you’re about to do is wrong!”
“But what is evil?” she asked, quite bewildered.
“Well, evil… evil is… Well, I don’t know—there’s none of that here in Paradise, but if you eat it, maybe we’ll find out, and that wouldn’t be good for us!”
“You’re always going on and on about morality!”
“Well said, Eve!” said the slithering serpent,
determined to have her way.
And without thinking about the future consequences of her actions— as was typical of her—and, I fear, of her female descendants—she bit into the apple with gusto. I expected God to appear to us and rebuke her for her action, punish her with some as-yet-unknown evil, and that would be the end of it—but nothing special happened! God didn’t show up at all—not as a gale, not with some sign in the sky, not through the voice of some animal more presentable than the serpent, of which there was no shortage in those parts, nor in any other form. I assumed He would wait until that night to call our attention in our dreams, but the most logical explanation was that He had played a joke on us, and eating from that apple tree wasn’t forbidden. After all, the serpent seemed to be right.
“See? Nothing—nothing’s happening!”
“It’s true, Adam. That prohibition was just to test our naivety as beginners. But by eating, we’ve shown Him that we’ve matured and have minds of our own; that we’re no longer kids who can be told, ‘Don’t eat this, don’t eat that,’ and so on.” Here, prove to God that you’re an adult too; go ahead and eat some of my apple as well!
“Don’t even think about it!” I retorted, convinced that, despite everything, if God had forbidden it, He must have had His reasons.
“Men! You go on and on about being macho, the stronger sex, and all that, but when it comes down to it, you’re incapable of making decisions for yourselves—without being told what to do!” —she reproached me contemptuously.
Right from the start, Eve knew how to provoke me by calling my manhood into question at the slightest opportunity. But on the other hand, she was right; there were things we had to do for ourselves, according to our own understanding—that’s why we had it—and the whole prohibition thing, as she said, didn’t make much sense. Finally, there was the fact that I had to live with Eve and not with God . God was up on high, peacefully going about His divine business, but I had to put up with Eva’s mood swings, living with her every day, every hour, and even every minute—because in the Garden of Eden there were no offices or jobs where one could spend a few hours away from one’s wife and relax with coworkers, not to mention such necessities as Sunday soccer or poker game on Thursday nights; in short, excuses to get away from her for at least a few hours a day. But in the Garden of Eden that was impossible, because none of those things existed there, and everything boiled down to strolling around, napping under the trees, or chatting with the animals that could speak—and there weren’t many of them. For all these reasons, I realized that if I didn’t bite into the apple starting that very day, my life—even in Paradise—would be hell. She would reproach me over and over again, for all eternity,
since we didn’t die back then, for not having had the courage to bite into that accursed apple—after all, she had done it, and nothing had happened!
I don’t know why I had that moment of weakness, much to the misfortune of my descendants and the rest of the innocent animals and plants!, which was undoubtedly influenced by the circumstances described and the serpent’s complicity. The truth is that I accepted the apple Eve offered me, and took a bite with relish. Indeed, it was the juiciest and sweetest apple I have ever eaten. But, as was to be feared, tragedy struck!
Suddenly the sky darkened with storm clouds and a tremendous storm broke out—something completely unknown in those parts—so I knew it was God’s wrath for biting the apple. Not a drop of rain fell, but all the blind forces of nature were unleashed. A hurricane-force wind blew, followed by lightning and thunder, and I was expecting God Himself to appear at any moment to rebuke me for my wrongdoing. When the storm subsided, I immediately realized that something had changed radically, and my first instinct was to look for the largest fig leaf I could find to cover my genitals with it. But why that strange reaction? It must undoubtedly have been one of the side effects of the sin we had committed. At first, Eve laughed it off, but judging by the blush on her cheeks, she was also embarrassed, and she looked for another leaf to cover herself. It was comical to see us with one hand in front and the other behind, without really knowing why we were doing it! But there was undoubtedly a reason: until that moment, I hadn’t realized how attractive Eve was, and now I saw her in a new light—which is why we felt ashamed in each other’s presence. Because for the first time, we desired one another! Well, at least I desired her; as for whether she felt the same way, I’m not really sure.
Amid the confusion caused by these new emotions, we heard the familiar footsteps of familiar footsteps of God, taking his usual stroll through the Garden of Eden, and for the first time we felt the urge to hide, more out of embarrassment than anything else. We didn’t want God to see us naked. God, surprised not to see me, called out:
“Where are you, Adam?”
The truth is, the question threw me off, because I’d always believed that God saw and knew everything. But the rest of our conversation was even more surprising:
“I’m sorry I hid from you, but I’m ashamed of being naked, and I haven’t had time to make myself something more decent.”
“Why are you ashamed?”
“What a question for God to ask! You should already know that we’ve eaten from the forbidden apple tree, since You’re supposed to see and hear everything.
“Not only have you disobeyed Me, but you’re also trying to be clever.”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard people say!”
“Well said, Adam!” interrupted Eve, who was hiding behind a palm tree.
“You’re the one to blame, woman! I curse you and I curse your offspring for disobeying me…”
“It’s not my fault—it was the serpent, who is also one of God’s creatures—well, I mean, one of yours.”
“Aren’t you going a bit too far, God? But I already warned you that creating woman wasn’t a good idea.”
And now you’re taking it out on me!
“It’s true, Adam, woman is worse than snakes, but this won’t stand! From now on, she won’t have it easy. She’ll give birth in pain…”
“What does ‘give birth’ mean?”
“Don’t interrupt me, Adam! You’ll crawl on your belly and eat dust every day of your life…”
—And what about me…?
—For having fallen into temptation!
—“And get ready, because you’ll have to learn a trade. The easy life in Paradise—living without working—is over!”
—“Well, that’s not so bad. Actually, this whole Paradise thing was kind of boring.”
—“I’m not done yet!”
—“Is there really more to it just for taking a single bite out of an apple?”
—“From dust I made you, and to dust you shall return!”
—What does that mean?
—Adam, I think God means we’re mortal now.
And that’s how that whole messy business ended. Then He sent one of His cherubim, armed with a flaming sword, to do the dirty work.
—Get moving; you’re banished!
And rudely, he threatened us with his sword, pointing us toward the exit from the Garden of Eden.
“Don’t worry,” the serpent had the audacity to tell us—the serpent, who, by the way, came along with us. “Now that you’ve had the courage to rebel against God Himself, I have no doubt whatsoever that you’ll make it!”
“Yeah, very funny, but what’s life like out there?”
“Out there, you’ll have to work hard from the very moment you set foot in the real world, and watch out for me and avoid my bites, because once we’re out, I won’t be responsible for my actions—and the misfortune might befall us that humanity doesn’t even get off the ground!”
Fortunately, we lived near the exit—I think on the north side—and we soon reached the border. Once there, the angel who expelled us from Paradise gave us some final advice—I think on his own initiative, moved by pity for our misfortune.
“As soon as you leave Paradise, you’ll notice strange things, like your legs getting tired on uphill slopes, or cold in your hands—well, all over your body— because you’re naked. You’ll experience something as unfamiliar as headaches and toothaches—which are the worst—though Eve will suffer the most unbearable pains, for she will give birth in pain, and, to make matters worse, since she’s a first-time mother. You’ll experience new feelings, such as the shame of being naked and the fear of the dark. You’ll also be overcome by doubt, disillusionment, misery, and disappointment—and all of that is because from then on you’ll be mortal. I’ll say no more; the rest you’ll have to learn for yourselves! And now, farewell—leave from Eden, to which you can never return, because I have been ordered to seal the gates shut for ever and ever, amen! And he threw us headfirst into the real world!
I’ll never forgive myself for my weakness and the tremendous pain it has caused my descendants. But, to tell the truth, along with countless bad things, I learned a few good ones, and now, after all these centuries have passed, I don’t know whether to think that, despite everything, it was worth disobeying God. The first good thing is that I discovered sexual pleasure, since it didn’t exist in Paradise, which is why we had no offspring at first—something I now believe was the real reason God had us expelled, for how could we have had offspring if desire didn’t exist? The second thing is that Eve, proud of me and contrary to God’s expectations, grew truly fond of me, and we discovered love, friendship, and companionship; and thus, we enjoyed happiness—but human happiness—not that heavenly happiness which serves no purpose here on Earth. Moreover, her hysterical fits from Paradise came to an end. Finally, I must say that Eve bore the brunt of it, yet at the same time experienced the greatest joys, for she saw her natural desire to have a child fulfilled—Cain, a charming creature born from her womb and not through some trick involving ribs, as was the case with me. Too bad it turned into a disaster, but that’s another story!
And this is the true story of my origins and my life in Paradise; I hope it has entertained you. Oh, by the way, I’ve received an email from Hollywood expressing interest in my story, but I think the time for this kind of movie on these topics has passed; there aren’t even any good actors left for such challenging roles. Anyway, I’ll see what I do—I’ve told them I’m thinking it over.
3. Hermann in Purgatory
1. When I tell you where I am, you’ll probably think I’m crazy, or that I’ve smoked marijuana. Even worse, that I’ve taken some powerful hallucinogen, like LSD, or, perhaps, that I’ve accidentally eaten some poisonous mushroom that’s caused me to have strange visions. I haven’t done any of that, and it can’t even be said that I’m the type to hallucinate—quite the opposite, in fact: I’m realistic, level-headed, and rational. I consider myself practically an atheist and don’t let my emotions get the better of me. Nor can it be said that I have a vivid imagination, and I’m not at an age where my mind would play tricks on me like this. But, inexplicably, here I am, and I don’t even know how I managed to end up in this eerie place. All I remember is that I was sitting comfortably in my armchair, reading a complex book on metaphysics—since, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m a rationalist and, therefore, a lover of philosophy—savoring a steaming cup of coffee, when suddenly the lights in my apartment went out and I was left in complete darkness. I reacted with absolute calm. First, I waited a few moments, convinced it was just a temporary power outage. Then I put down the book, relaxed, and reflected on the complex arguments of what I’d just read. Since I couldn’t make much sense of it, I got up and, feeling my way, made my way to the kitchen—not without tripping over the coffee table in the living room. I knew I kept a small flashlight in one of the drawers, but I rummaged through the odds and ends inside without finding it. This frustrated me and even put me in a bad mood, which is unusual for me. I resigned myself to staying in the dark for the duration of the blackout, and—not without tripping over the coffee table again— I returned to my armchair.
There I waited for the lights to come back on—but they didn’t! Barely a couple of minutes had passed when I had the alarming sensation that the armchair was fading away and I could no longer feel its support. Moments later, millions of stars began to appear—at first faintly, but soon with extraordinary brilliance and intensity—forming galaxies and constellations. And there I was, floating in space, in the midst of pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by the pale glow of the stars, without the slightest idea of what had happened to me or why I found myself in that extraordinary place.
I had the sensation of having lost my body, because I felt neither cold nor heat, only a strange sensation of neutrality and well-being. But, as I had begun to fear, it was evident that I had not become a spirit; rather, I remained apparently intact, just as I had been sitting in my armchair. I could walk as if I were walking on water, without feeling the ground beneath me; I could move, change positions, lie face down or on my back, because in reality I had no reference point to determine my position. No matter where I looked, there was only an immense, dark expanse, filled with brilliant and spectacular galaxies, because from the strange place where I found myself, their masses and mists—in shades of blue, purple, and red—could be seen in all their splendor, in spiral shapes and other, more distorted and whimsical shapes. If I’d paid more attention in school when studying astronomy, I surely could have recognized some of these galaxies—especially the Milky Way— and I might have been able to get even a rough idea of where I was, but in my initial daze I failed to recognize any of them, so I was completely lost and disoriented.
I didn’t feel dizzy, because I didn’t have the sensation that I might be plummeting toward any specific place. There was nothing solid around me—no planet, moon, or even meteorite onto which I might fall. It was like floating in water, but without feeling its wetness.
I tried to draw some reasonable conclusion and immediately realized that I had simply fallen asleep and was in the middle of a nightmare. I reacted with some energy, trying to wake up, because the situation wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was all in vain. I assumed I’d fallen into a deep sleep from which I was having trouble waking up, and that it was just a matter of being patient, letting that bad dream run its course, and seeing just how many more absurd situations it would lead me into. What might have been several hours passed—though I didn’t have a clear sense of time—and, strangely enough for a dream, as I floated in the midst of that nothingness, I finally fell asleep!
2.
“Sir, sir; wake up, sir!”
Someone, with a strange, high-pitched yet muffled voice, was shaking me. I woke up convinced that my nightmare had ended, and that I would find myself back in my comfortable apartment in Berlin, and before I could fully grasp the situation, I promised myself that I would never again read a book on metaphysics, which I blamed for that bad dream. But that wasn’t the case, and Berlin would have to wait. The nightmare continued, and I remained suspended in the void, surrounded by the same dark, abysmal spectacle.
Despite the darkness, I could make out the person who had woken me, and although I’ve always been tolerant of strange people, this individual provoked an instinctive aversion in me. He was a gaunt old man, hunched over and trembling, dressed in what looked like a doublet like the ones I’d seen in some 15th- or 16th-century engravings, an indescribable brown color, cinched with a thick cord tied at the waist. His breeches reached down to his knees, and he covered his skeletal calves with white stockings, though they were surely darkened by grime. He wore a small felt cap on his head—as faded as the rest of his garments—which covered a whitish skull, while his sparse hair blended into a long, matted, gray beard that reached down to his waist. But despite his eccentric appearance, his gaze was kind, and his movements were slow and shaky; so, despite his hideous appearance, they suggested to me that he was possibly a good person. I haven’t mentioned that he was carrying a huge sack, in which he apparently kept something of great value, because he didn’t even bother to set it down—though, on the other hand, there was nowhere to leave it anyway.
“Do you have anything you don’t need that you can give me?” he asked me without waiting for us to introduce ourselves.
But I didn’t want to waste the opportunity presented by this strange person’s unexpected appearance to find out where I was, so a torrent of hurried, disorganized questions poured out of me:
“But where are we? Who are you? Why are we floating in space? Where the hell did you come from? This is just a nightmare, isn’t it?
The old man didn’t seem fazed, and as if he hadn’t heard me, he pressed his request:
“You can give me anything; I’ll figure out later what it’s good for.”
However, I pressed him:
— But at least tell me who you are and where you came from.
— Ah, you want to know that. But can’t you see? I’m a poor old man who makes a living begging around here! What else do you want to know? Oh, right—where we are, and who knows what else; ask someone more educated than me! But you must have something you don’t need. Why don’t you give me your shoes? Shoes aren’t necessary here.
It was clear I wouldn’t get anywhere with that conversation, but I wasn’t willing to let that opportunity to shed some light on my absurd situation.
— All right, all right; I’ll give you my shoes if you answer one last question. After all, in nightmares you can give away your shoes and whatever else you want,
because it’s nothing more than a bad dream, and that’s all there is to it. But at least tell me your name and where you’re from.
— I’d appreciate it if you’d give me your shoes, but I can’t possibly answer your question. I forgot that a long time ago. I only remember the soldier who thrust his spear into my chest—do you want to see the wound? He was a damned Catholic mercenary of the Antichrist, born at the wrong time, serving Emperor Charles, but don’t ask me any more questions. Will you give me your shoes now?
— Emperor Charles? Are you referring to Charles V?
The old man made a gesture of disgust and tried to spit, but no saliva came out.
— That very bastard!
So that ragged old man must have been about five hundred years old—and he was dead! And what about me—wasn’t I dead too? As a nightmare, I’d gone very far. Normally, in previous bad dreams, I’d wake up when my life was in danger—whether because I was about to be run over, falling off a cliff, or being violently attacked by someone. But now I’d experienced the same startle and emotional turmoil—yet I hadn’t woken up!
“So… you’re dead, and I must be too.”
The old man didn’t clear up my doubts or even seem to have heard me, and he insisted once more on his pleas:
— I’ve already told you everything I know, and you promised me that…
— All right, I’ll give you my shoes—I certainly don’t need them anymore if I’m dead!
The old man seemed pleased and, with great difficulty, unloaded the enormous sack so he could put my shoes inside it. Although I knew it would be useless, I dared to ask him one last question.
— But, for God’s sake, what do you have in that sack?
— I’ve already told you—things with which I earn an honest living.
— “In a place like this?”
“You have to make a living somewhere.”
“But you’re dead!”
“Me, dead? How absurd! It would take a hundred pikes like the one that pierced my chest to finish me off.”
“Then I…”
“If you’ve promised to give me your shoes, don’t make me waste any more time.”
The old man was clearly disturbed and unaware of his condition. What worst part was that I, too, was on the verge of losing my mind. I had to try to calm down, give him my damn shoes, and get him to leave me alone so I could try to make sense of that strange situation—if that was even possible.
“Thank you, and may God reward you.”
No sooner had he thanked me than he stuffed my shoes into his sack, hoisted it back onto his hunched shoulders, and, with an unsteady but determined stride, I watched him walk away until he disappeared into the darkness.
3.
That mysterious old man left me plunged into agonizing mental confusion. Something truly serious had happened to me, but what? I couldn’t be dead, because there was no reason to justify it. My health is reasonably good. Perhaps I suffer from a stomach ulcer because of my frequent heartburn, and I really should have gone to the doctor to put my mind at ease once and for all. But that’s no cause of death. It’s true that I overdo it with mustard on my sausages, but it’s beyond my control to avoid it. I may also drink too much coffee and smoke more than I’d like to, but I lack the willpower to quit. Maybe, without my knowing it, my heart was weakened. Or maybe my blood pressure was very high and I had a heart attack, but the last time they checked it, it seemed normal. Besides, these things don’t just happen out of the blue; I would have had to have had some prior symptoms—palpitations, chest pain, something, I say! But last night I felt perfectly fine; it was just that unexpected blackout, and if I hadn’t tripped over the table, I might have thought that whoever got up to look for the flashlight was already a spirit. But I tripped twice, so I was still alive. And after that, everything happened so fast. Was that when death came upon me suddenly and without warning? It’s not possible; no, that couldn’t have happened to me!
— Unfortunately, it has happened to you. You did, in fact, suffer sudden cardiac death.
— Who…?
— Don’t ask who’s speaking to you, because I can’t answer you. I’m speaking to you through your consciousness. Start to come to terms with it, because you’re dead and you’re nothing more than an antibody— the specter of what you were physically at the moment of your death. Perhaps you’ll understand it better if I tell you that you’re composed of antimatter—a subtle form of matter that predates energy. You’re identical in every way to what you were at the moment of your death, except that now you lack sensations, because you’re all spirit and mind; that is to say, you are fully aware of good and evil, but you lack physical sensation. Since you wish to know where you are, don’t be surprised if I tell you that you’re in purgatory, an intermediate space between heaven and earth. Something—not serious enough to deserve hell—must be weighing on your conscience since you didn’t go directly to heaven. Don’t be alarmed; you can leave this place, but someone has to help you so that you can free yourself from the guilt in your conscience. However, I warn you that this may take years or perhaps even centuries. Here, time is cosmic, and a thousand years is a relatively brief period.
— So I’m dead!
— Unfortunately, that’s right.
— And you’re the voice of my conscience.
— That’s right.
— And I’m in Purgatory.
— At least for now, that’s where you are.
— Because of some transgression I committed that still weighs on my conscience.
— That’s the reason.
— But what is that transgression, if I may ask?
— That’s for you to figure out; that’s what your conscience is for.
— But I must have committed thousands of transgressions over the course of my life—how can I know which one is the reason I’m in Purgatory?
— Only you yourself have the answer. Now you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out. Heaven can wait.
— Heaven? But what is heaven?
— You’ll find out as soon as you’re free of your guilt.
— For the voice of my conscience, you aren’t very talkative.
— Goodbye, Hermann.
— How do you know my name?
— Remember, I’m your conscience. I’ve known it since the very day you did. Good luck on your long journey, Hermann. Remember: only someone who helps you can get you out of this place.
The voice of my conscience said nothing more, leaving me plunged into agonizing bewilderment. Then hundreds of images and thoughts flooded my mind, depressing me even further. If I really were dead, who would discover my body? Would my colleagues at the library grow concerned and come to my apartment to check on me? Luckily, I left a spare key with the building manager, so they won’t have to break down the door . Well, at least my poor, deceased parents will be spared this distress. And where will they bury me? They’ll surely cremate me and toss my ashes into the crematorium’s trash bin. But what about my bank account? Who’ll get my savings? And what will happen to my email account? No one but me knows the password. I should have written it down somewhere easy to find. Will my more than 150 Facebook friends wonder why I’m not posting anymore? Which of them will break the news of my death, and what will they say in their comments? Thank goodness, at least I don’t have a Twitter account! But what am I thinking? I just died, and I’m worrying about those stupid trifles! I must calm down, face the facts, stop worrying about everything I’ve left behind, and focus on my salvation. This darkness is unbearable! How am I supposed to wander through this pitch-black darkness for a thousand or two thousand years? I won’t even have any sense of time! That crazy old man has been here for almost five hundred years now, and he’s still just like he was on the day he died—convinced he’s still alive. There are no days or nights here; there’s no time for waking and no time for sleeping. So how am I supposed to get any sense of the passage of time? But who can help me get out of here, and what would they have to do for me? My mind is clouded and I can’t think clearly; it’s better to let my mind rest and think of nothing—absolutely nothing. Isn’t it absurd to be dead and still thinking?
4
For a few moments, I managed to free myself from my distressing thoughts by focusing my attention on contemplating one of the most spectacular galaxies within my field of vision. It had a spiral shape, though with irregularities. The center was an intense, brilliant white, and as it expanded, the hues shifted from pinkish to violet, while the wisps of dense nebulae at the edges were pale blue. The faint light illuminating me probably came mainly from that fantastic galaxy. I would have liked to know its name; surely it was well-known among Earth’s astronomers.
Just as I had managed to calm my excited spirits after that extraordinary sight, it startled me once more because I thought I saw, silhouetted against the galaxy’s glow, a human figure; and moments later, I could hardly believe my eyes when I found myself face to face with a young woman dressed in the style of old German peasant women—wearing a white camisole and a red bodice with exquisite embroidery, along with long, ankle-length skirts covered by an apron. She wore her small feet were bare. She was probably no more than twenty years old, with long, waist-length blonde hair, which she had gathered into two long braids and covered with a white bonnet, fastened with a brooch—likely made of silver—in the shape of a rose with open petals. Her features were pleasant but sad. But what was most astonishing was that she was holding one of my shoes in each hand—the very ones I had given to the crazy old man just moments before. She approached me with a certain shyness and awkwardness, and as she held out the shoes to me, she said:
“Here, sir, your shoes. My grandfather probably shouldn’t have asked you for them, and you were very kind to give them to him.”
“Your grandfather? That crazy old man is your grandfather?”
“That’s right, sir. But he’s not crazy, just a little confused. That’s all. Well… goodbye, sir, and please forgive us, but now I have to go back to my grandfather.
With a certain hesitation, as if she were expecting me to stop her, she turned around, and I could see a horrible wound on her back, which had torn part of her dress. Then I realized that perhaps the old man and she had died for the same cause—pierced by the pikes of Charles V’s Catholic mercenaries.
“Wait, wait! Don’t leave without telling me who you are and how you got here.”
“What do you want me to say? I can’t linger long. My grandfather must be missing me by now.”
“I just wish I knew how… how… I mean, how you died!”
— Ah, that. My grandfather and I were killed by the Catholics on the same day. I was trying to flee; I ran as fast as I could, but they thrust a spear through my back. I didn’t die right away, and I managed to crawl over to where my grandfather was, who tried to help me.
Then the same soldier mercilessly killed him too, thrusting the spear into his chest as he held me in his arms…
— How evil!
— Yes, those Catholic mercenaries were very cruel.
—“So, are you Protestants?”
—“Yes, sir; Lutherans, and they killed us just for that.”
—“And where did this happen?”
—“We lived in the beautiful city of Magdeburg.”
—“Ah, it was during the siege of Magdeburg.”
—“Yes, sir; they were razing everything to the ground. They killed children, women, and the elderly, without any mercy. And they called themselves Christians!”
We both remained silent for a few moments, shaken by the image of those horrific massacres.
— It was a dreadful thing, no doubt…
— Was? Do Catholics no longer kill Protestants?
— Of course not! They’ve been living in peace with one another for centuries.
— Is that true? My grandfather should know! That’s great news, and it might bring him back to his senses.
“Apparently, he still isn’t aware that he’s dead.”
“That’s the problem. He thinks he’s alive and goes about his daily routine, as if he were in Magdeburg. You know, he used to collect things people gave him because they were useless and sell them at the market. That’s how he made a few coins to help out at home. I was employed as a maid in the home of the burgomaster’s house—a good man, whom the Catholics must have killed as well!
— “And your parents?”
— “They died during the last plague epidemic. Now they must surely be in heaven. If you could convince my grandfather, he could leave this horrible place and go to heaven too. Deep down, he’s a good person, but he’s full of hatred for the emperor.”
— “If you think so, I’ll give it a try.”
— Will you do that for me? Will you really try?
— Of course; absolutely. It won’t cost me a thing.
The poor child rubbed her hands together with joy, and, for the first time since I’d met her, I saw a smile on her lips, and her expression became more charming and youthful.
— Wait here; we won’t be a minute!
— Tell me your name first.
— Eloísa; I think so, because that’s what my grandfather calls me.
And she vanished into the darkness from which she had appeared. For a moment I thought that sweet creature had never been there and that she had been an apparition caused by my agitated mind, which, ever since her voice had warned me, had been desperately searching for someone to help me escape that purgatory. But when I saw that she was holding my shoes, I was relieved, because it was proof that that young woman had been there, and she would surely return with her grandfather, just as she had promised me. The paradox is that I was going to be the one to help someone escape that dark place.
5.
A terrifying silence fell once more, though for a few moments I thought I heard a strange sound, as if it were the high notes of an organ, with a certain harmony, but without forming a specific musical phrase. It was a monotonous tone, sometimes lower and sometimes higher. The sound was pleasant and solemn, but at the same time terrifying, because it seemed to come from the galaxies. Sometimes it faded away completely, and the most absolute silence reigned. Would I have to listen to that spectral music for the thousand or two thousand years I remained in that purgatory?
Fortunately, the arrival of the old man and the young Eloísa pulled me out of that agonizing supposition.
“Sir, tell my grandfather what you told me. He must believe me.
The old man looked at me incredulously, but he seemed restless and expectant. I tried to speak with composure and be as convincing as possible. The young woman gently nudged the old man to come closer to me and relieved him of his bulky sack.
“It’s true, sir, and you must believe me. For years now, Catholics and Protestants have been living together in peace and harmony.”
“I can’t believe it; you must be a Catholic trying to deceive me, but I will not renounce my faith—I’d rather die a thousand times over!”
“Grandfather, don’t be so stubborn!” the young woman reproached him.
“There are no more religious wars in Germany. Charles V is dead, and so are his successors!”
“The emperor is dead?”
“Completely! It’s been almost five centuries!”
— But who are you, and how do you know all that? Are you an emissary from the Protestant League?
— No, no; that was many years ago. But I, too, am dead. You’ve been in this purgatory for a long time, and I’ve just arrived from the world of the living. Things have changed a great deal in the world since you died.
— You must believe him, Grandfather; he’s telling you this with good intentions. This gentleman doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s a good person— he even gave you his shoes!” the young woman interceded again.
The old man seemed moved, as if he were waging a deep inner struggle. He exchanged a questioning glance with his granddaughter, and she gave a vigorous nod of affirmation.
“So, I’m dead, and there’s no point in me collecting useless things lying around…”
“No, Grandpa, it’s no use to you anymore; you’ll never be able to sell them at the market. It’s all over for us. Now all that’s left for us is to earn our place in heaven, and this good man can help us.
The old man remained confused. His calves were trembling, and he kept exchanging anxious glances with his granddaughter. Finally, it seemed to me that he had accepted the reality of the situation, because he approached his granddaughter, squeezed her hand, and exclaimed in despair:
“So, that soldier killed both of us on the same day…”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“And you’ve known all along!”
“I’ve tried many times to convince you, but you were stubborn.”
The old man seemed calm and resigned. He turned to me and asked if I knew how the emperor had died.
“Sick and weary of fighting against all the princes of Europe, he retired to a monastery in Spain…”
“Did that Antichrist become a monk?”
“Oh,
no; not at all. He remained the same arrogant and fanatical character as always, like all the Habsburgs of that era. But in his final years, people lost respect for him. Even the monks and locals at the monastery made his life miserable. Not even his son had much respect for him.
— Young Philip?
— Yes, that’s the one. He finally died after a painful agony, a victim of malaria, although from a very young age he had already suffered from the painful disease of gout, so common among the princes of that time.
— God punished him!
— In his final days, he must have suffered great remorse, because he practically lost his mind. He had the monks at the monastery hold his funeral while he was still alive and in his own coffin.
“He must have gone straight to hell,” the young woman interrupted me.
“Without a doubt!”
“And what happened next?”
— Unfortunately, his son Philip didn’t behave any better than he did, and he sparked a long war between Catholics and Protestants. But eventually a peace agreement was signed, under which it was decided that northern Germany would be predominantly Protestant and the south predominantly Catholic, though with religious freedom in both regions. Today, Catholic and Protestant churches stand side by side, and the two denominations coexist peacefully.
“Praise be to God!” exclaimed the old man, and then he seemed to sink into deep thought. “I forgive him! If God has already punished him, I must forgive him, for the Lord told us that we should forgive our enemies, and I have no greater enemy than the emperor.”
What happened immediately afterward was astonishing. The old man seemed to fall into a blissful trance. His faint figure began to fade while taking on a faint glow, which grew until it became a small white light of dazzling intensity, illuminating us as if it were a tiny star. A moment after this extraordinary metamorphosis, the light was rapidly absorbed toward the great white galaxy shining above our heads, and I suppose it went on to merge with it. Was that the heaven my conscience spoke of?
6.
After that extraordinary event, young Eloísa seemed deeply shaken. It was as if her grandfather’s strange vanishing had brought her joy, yet at the same time, sadness. She seemed unable to make sense of her thoughts. She exchanged an expressive glance with me, hoping I would offer a reasonable explanation. But I found myself in the same situation, and I, too, did not know how I should react. I wondered what the point of life was if, after striving to keep our conscience free of remorse and enduring the bitter ordeal of death, we ended up becoming a tiny speck of energy and being drawn toward a star—assuming, of course, we didn’t first have to go through the painful purgatory. It didn’t make much spiritual sense, but if it had happened, that must be how it was.
On the other hand, the old man’s final expression seemed serene and happy, as if he were experiencing a blissful spiritual peace—undoubtedly a logical feeling for someone preparing to ascend to heaven. So,
is energy itself heaven and the source of happiness? What a disappointment for theologians!
“I think your grandfather has gone to heaven,” I dared to suggest, though not without serious doubts about the meaning of that phenomenon.
“Do you think so?”
“Without a doubt; when he faded away, he looked very happy.”
“And will he be reunited with my parents?”
— That must be the case.
— It’s strange; I expected going to heaven to be something different.
— How did you expect it?
— I’m not quite sure, but an angel should have appeared and taken him away, because angels must know the way to heaven…
— Yes, it would have been more poetic and spiritual, but we humans have too much imagination. Things must be simpler in reality.
— So my poor grandfather is resting in peace now.
— I think so.
— You know, I believe that’s the case too, and I thank you most sincerely for your help. If it hadn’t been for you, God only knows how long we would have remained in this darkness. Now I, too, will be able to go and rest in peace, alongside my family; yes, at last we’ll all be reunited again…
Hearing her wishes, I felt an indescribable bitterness, because, despite having known her for only a short time, I already felt a fatherly affection for that sweet creature. Moreover, I was terrified by the idea of being alone again in that dreadful abyss. Perhaps unconsciously, I had believed that she was the one who would help me escape from purgatory, just as the voice of my conscience had warned me. And if that were the case, what would become of me if she, too, were to vanish? I think I behaved like a true egoist who did not deserve to leave that place, and I shared my fears with her without giving a thought to her own salvation.
“Please, Eloísa, don’t go! Now I’m the one who needs your help.”
“My help? But what can I possibly do for you?”
“I don’t know; I’m not sure.”
“If I can help you, I will, but I…”
— You miss your family!
— Yes, sir, but I also care about you. Tell me what I must do, and I’ll be happy to do it. I’ve spent so much time in this place that a little more doesn’t matter.
I felt my conscience twisting inside my soul, and for that blackmail I deserved to go straight to hell. It wasn’t fair to hold her back if it wasn’t her wish; I should let her go. It was the fairest and most honorable thing to do. On the other hand, what I did for her grandfather wasn’t a great sacrifice.
But before I had time to show my regret, I noticed her figure brighten slightly. Yes, she was transforming into energy and would soon disappear like her grandfather into that majestic white galaxy. I didn’t want her to leave with any regrets, so I hurried to be honest with her.
“Actually, Eloísa, you’ve already helped me enough by allowing me to do a good deed for your grandfather. Now you, too, can leave without any regrets. Reunite with your family—that’s what you want most.”
“You make me very happy, but I won’t forget you. I’ll pray for you when I’m in heaven.”
Her beloved figure grew brighter and brighter, and, before disappearing completely, she removed the small brooch that held her bonnet in place and offered it to me.
“Here, so that you won’t forget me either! I no longer need it in heaven.”
As soon as I took the brooch, she vanished completely, and her little light rose rapidly toward the great white galaxy, just as her grandfather had done moments before, leaving a faint luminous trail in that pitch-black darkness. Then silence fell once more, and I found myself alone again, floating in that unknown space, my soul shattered, but my conscience at peace, for I had done what I had to do and not what I wanted.
7.
A few agonizing moments passed during which I could not take my eyes off the great white galaxy where, somehow, Eloísa must have already been reunited with her loved ones. I wondered what I should do to be reunited with them as well, but I was unable to find within my conscience the fault that was holding me back in that purgatory.
— Hermann, you have already earned enough merit to deserve to ascend to heaven as well, but your time has not yet come. As I told you before, heaven can wait.
“Are you the voice of my conscience again?”
“Your own inner voice.”
“What do you mean, my time hasn’t come yet?”
“You’ll get off easy this time, but you were dead for a few moments. Your heart will start beating again.”
“— And everything I’ve seen and done happened in just a few moments?
— That’s right; time here is relative.
— You know, now I’m not sure if I want to return to life. Down there, there are too many contradictions and temptations to act unjustly, and now I know how important it is to live with a clear conscience.
— Hermann, you’ve learned a lot in a very short time.
— It’s been a great experience—one I would never have had had I not gone through this ordeal. Theologians have written so much nonsense… Besides, wherever I am, I miss young Eloísa.
— Your young friend Eloísa is in heaven.
— So heaven…
— Is energy.
— And hell…
— Simply matter.
— And purgatory must be an intermediate state.
— That’s right. Those who die with a guilty conscience—their spirit cannot rise and remains attached to their corpse, even if it is cremated.
— As if they were a zombie—the living dead!
— A soul in torment, clinging to the very matter they so desired in life. And so they will remain for centuries until the universe itself collapses, for they have no chance of being transformed into energy. But those who die with a peaceful conscience are immediately transformed into pure energy, which gives them a glorious sense of happiness and joy.
— And those of us who have some unresolved in our conscience, we remain trapped in this dark void.
— Indeed, but you can escape from here; you can’t escape from hell.
— And that’s it? Is that the meaning of our existence?
— It’s that simple and natural. It’s the interaction between the body, the soul, and the conscience, but it only occurs among sentient beings; those who are unconscious and lack understanding go straight to heaven. Only humans face the moral dilemma of judging our actions and acting justly and morally.
— “Then the world must be teeming with zombies!”
— “It is, unfortunately for them. Especially in and around cemeteries.”
— “Clarify a few more things for me. Do angels exist?”
— “Of course! They’re tiny entities of energy that wander through space and eventually reach inhabited worlds.”
— Inhabited worlds? Are there other inhabited planets?
— Millions! Almost as many as there are stars. It’s rare to find a star that doesn’t have one.
— Go on about the angels.
— They have the ability to transform themselves into whatever image suggests itself to whoever approaches them. They’re usually biblical figures—most often in the form of a virgin or Jesus Christ himself—but they typically appear as winged beings; they have to stay afloat somehow!
— And God? Who is God? Is He also some form of energy?
— I can answer anything about natural phenomena, but don’t ask me about the supernatural. Only God knows who God is; the rest is pure fantasy! God is inconceivable. Consciousness cannot arrive at an answer. It’s a matter of faith. You either believe in Him or you don’t, but don’t try to prove His existence..
— Not even in purgatory is there an answer! Anyway, I resign myself to returning to life and its temptations, but now I will no longer fear death!
8.
Suddenly, the lights came back on in my apartment, and I was startled by the shrill beep of the radio-alarm clock, which had been set out of order. The printer, too—which had been left on—went haywire, trying to get back online. It was as if those devices, too, sensed that the energy flowing through their circuits was bringing them to life. I woke up without the slightest sensation of pain or discomfort, and my heart, once the initial shock had passed, seemed to return to beating normally.
I didn’t want the vivid memories of my experience in purgatory to fade, but I slowly began to grasp the situation and started to doubt whether it had actually happened. The most reasonable explanation was that it had been a dream, but at least I shouldn’t consider it a nightmare. It had its moral lesson and some interesting explanations. In times of great spirituality, I would have considered it a vision, and it might even have served to found a new religion, but fortunately those times had passed, and this kind of experience always had a reasonable explanation.
The image of the young Eloísa also began to fade, and it even struck me as sheer nonsense that a specter from nearly five hundred years ago could wander through space only to vanish, turn into a tiny ball of luminous energy, and be absorbed by a galaxy—and claim, furthermore, that this was heaven. I must have read about it somewhere, and it had been stored in my subconscious.
— “But why would an atheist like me dream of creatures going to heaven and voices explaining the nature of angels to me?” I thought aloud. “What could be in my subconscious that causes me to have these kinds of dreams? From now on, I have to pay closer attention to what I read . No metaphysical, incorporeal beings, and certainly no theological readings, no matter how absurd they may seem to me.”
Finally, I convinced myself that it had simply been a dream and that I’d been influenced by the sudden darkness that had engulfed the apartment. But, as I recalled it, already in a vague and hazy way, of the young Eloísa, deep down I wished it had been real.
— “Well, whatever the case, it was a good dream,” I told myself reassuringly. “Now I’ll have to reset this darn clock radio and search again for all the stations I’d already saved.”
But as I reached for the clock, a small silver brooch in the shape of a rose with open petals fell from my hand. Every hair on my body stood on end, and my heart beat so intensely and rapidly that for a moment I thought I would truly die this time.
—“So, it wasn’t a dream after all, but actually happened? " — I said to myself in anguish.
— Indeed, Hermann, it was real, and now you know why you were cast into purgatory.
— You again!
— Because of your disbelief!
4. Eva’s Demon
Eva has been awake since a little after 5 a.m. She is distressed and cannot fall asleep because this was one of her last nights in her luxurious apartment in the city’s most coveted neighborhood.
In a week, she’ll move into a nursing home she chose herself, to be admitted there only to leave in an urn, turned to ashes, and have her ashes scattered anywhere where there’s only nature, as is her wish.
She’s 82 years old and needs someone by her side to help her with everything, such as going to the bathroom, getting dressed, feeding herself, walking from the living room to the bedroom, calling someone on the phone, getting up from the plush sofa in the living room, combing her hair, showering, and even—the height of vanity—painting her withered lips and applying a bit of mascara to her drooping eyelids.
Eva had once been a stunning model, sought after by fashion designers and catwalks around the world where haute couture was in high demand. She had turned the living room of her home into a museum of herself. Perhaps a hundred photographs, most in black and white or that imperceptibly veiled color of the early Kodachrome color photos. She disliked the ones with vivid colors, because they were contemporary and showed an aged Eva —a look she detested. That’s why the recent photos were piled up in a drawer, at the back of a closet, where she kept nothing of interest.
The framed photos placed on the dresser and any piece of furniture that could serve as a base, or hung on the walls—which had hardly any empty space—depicted an Eva admired for her beauty and unmistakable style.
Her movements on the runways were neither calculated nor rehearsed, but spontaneous and natural. On her perfect body, the clothes took on an impressive value, as if it were necessary to buy her expensive dresses to feel attractive and desired—just as she was.
There was no politician of the time or fashionable actor who hadn’t been photographed alongside her, to feel important and worthy of her company, nor any gigolo or playboy who didn’t wish to be her lover. Her favorite photograph—which stood out from the rest because of its size and its splendid frame, inlaid with gold and crafted exclusively for her—was the one taken of her with the Beatles, whom she passionately admired . In it, John Lennon warmly shook hands with a smiling and excited Eva.
But she was obsessed with money. Behind that charming and beautiful woman lay an insensitive, selfish, and calculating heart. She haggled over every last cent when paying for her services; she demanded receipts for everything she bought, even if it was just a simple loaf of bread; and, before leaving a store, she checked that what she had paid matched what she had bought and the marked price. She never gave tips , because she considered it just another abusive tax—albeit a hidden one.
Of the many marriage proposals she received, she accepted only that of a multimillionaire, a former trafficker in all things illegal and prohibited, whom she was certain—given his age and ailments—would not survive more than 5 or 6 years. Her indifference and coldness hastened the death of her unfortunate husband, and she passed away three years later.
From that lucrative marriage, she inherited his luxurious apartment and a vast array of assets she had not yet had the chance to explore. She limited herself to collecting her substantial benefits and affixing her trembling signature to dozens of documents that her trusted lawyer gave her to sign in order to maintain or increase the amount of her high income—while at the same time the income of her loyal and self-serving lawyer grew.
If suitors had once pursued her for her beauty, they now pursued her for her wealth. She became the most sought-after young widow in the country . But Eva already had what she wanted—money and freedom—and she preferred the company of Cuca, a cheerful and grumpy little terrier, to that of a new husband.
She was one of the first women to appear in public wearing the provocative miniskirt invented by Mary Quant, and she was also the model who most influenced the acceptance of the innovative and colorful pop fashion of the 1960s.
She fought off the tedium and boredom of a life without ambitions or goals at the casino roulette tables, where she often lost fabulous sums of money, or at the three social clubs to which she belonged: one in her city, exclusive to VIPs, another located on a golf course, just a few kilometers from the city—a sport she had taken up—and a yacht club in a well-known coastal town frequented by millionaires.
And so the years passed without her being aware of the passage of time, until that fateful day when, as she was about to step onto an escalator in a department store, someone remarked behind her, “Let this old woman go first woman.” Only then did she realize how she had squandered her precious and irretrievable lost time.
From that very day on, she began to think about death—at first merely out of curiosity, but soon it would become an obsession. As has been happening in recent weeks, today she had the same nightmare again, which is why she’s concluded that someone from the other world is trying to send her a message, but one she can’t understand
—“Josefina, Josefina, come quickly or this man will take me to hell! No, let go of me; I don’t want to go to hell! Josefina, save me from this hateful man! No, no, let go of me and leave me alone!” she screamed in a panic.
Josefina, her nurse and caregiver, rushed to her room, knowing that her patient was once again experiencing the hallucinations she’d been having for the past few weeks—in which a faceless man would grab her by the arm and, with extraordinary strength, force her to follow him down a narrow, dark hallway, lit only by the glow of a gigantic light at the end of the tunnel.
Josefina enters the room, turns on the light, and finds Eva lying on the bed, as if someone had actually dragged her there, because she knows Eva couldn’t have gotten into that position on her own.
“ Ah, you’re finally here! Look how she’s running away; the light bothers her. She’s going back to her hell, but she’ll be back tomorrow! And she won’t give up until I keep her company in her damned hell! But she won’t leave—he had a trusted friend, whom, inexplicably, he’d kept since childhood. He was already an ailing old man with strange hobbies, the most notable of which was his fascination with the mysteries of the Kabbalah and his determination to discover the philosopher’s stone, which would turn lead into gold, because he shared Eva’s passion for money—and especially for the coveted yellow metal.
“Once again, that little bastard of an ex-husband has tried to drag me into his damned hell, but I stopped him! You believe me, don’t you? You don’t think I’m crazy!
Eva told her elderly friend during one of their regular get-togethers to play a game of brisca.
- I find it hard to believe, but I’ve read many books on black magic, and I think that in certain situations, the spirits of the dead may appear to take revenge on the living whom they hate.
- And he hates me! You’re an expert on black magic and the apparitions of evil spirits. How could I possibly get rid of this devil of an ex-husband?
_ Back when these apparitions were common, people would get rid of them with spells…
- Well, let’s cast a spell! You must know how to do it.
My dear friend, you know I’d do anything for you, but you’re asking me to do something very delicate and dangerous. Demons possess great powers, and it’s not easy to get rid of them. Yes, I’ve read several spells against evil spirits in some of my incunabula, but I don’t know…
- I don’t care how dangerous it is, because I have to get rid of him or he’ll end up dragging me to hell!
They agreed to cast the spell the following Sunday, when Josefina had the day off.
Back at his apartment, the loyal friend locked himself in his prized library and searched through his esoteric books for a spell suitable for the occasion. After a painstaking search, he found a suitable one and went on Sunday, just as planned, to the home of an excited Eva.
“He hasn’t bothered me tonight,” she told her friend. “You should know that we’re preparing a spell that will free me from his evil presence.”
The incunabulum containing the spell had been handwritten by the monks of Cluny in Latin and featured impressive illustrations of the various forms the evil one can take, but it was badly deteriorated and barely legible. They waited until the appointed hour, , just as the procedure indicated; they entered the bedroom, she cleared her throat to ensure her voice sounded loud and clear, and recited the dreaded spell.
Eva expected to see her evil ex-husband struck down and cast into the darkness, from which he could never escape to haunt and terrify her for the rest of her life. But nothing strange or supernatural happened , because according to the spell, the gates of hell would open and they would see her demon-possessed ex-husband fall into the darkness.
“My friend, I think that book of yours must be outdated,” Eva remarked, visibly annoyed. “
I’ll never be able to get rid of him!”
But as soon as they returned to the living room, the bedroom wall began to vibrate, and the tunnel leading to the flames of hell opened once more. As on previous occasions, the demon-possessed ex-husband emerged and, in a sinister voice, shouted at the terrified Eva:
“You have summoned me, and you will never be able to get rid of me. I will drag you down to hell with me!”
In Eva tried in vain to wriggle free from his claw-like hands, and he dragged her into the tunnel amid the screams and wails of the unfortunate Eva.
Stunned, the friend who had cast the spell wondered what had gone wrong and reviewed the practically illegible handwritten text; he realized that at the bottom of the parchment, there was a “no” that was barely legible:
<1>
"Christiani invocatis servare potente diabolo fascinavit dominica die, quia contrarium.. habeb
(Let Christians beware of invoking the devil with this powerful spell on the Lord’s Day, for it will have the opposite effect
4. Ivette’s Story
“I had so much fun at your party, Ivette. You have a great mom. No one tells stories like she does.”
“Yeah, she knows lots of beautiful stories; she’s a writer!”
I remember this simple conversation with one of my best friends at the end of my birthday party, when I turned seven—that delicate age when we begin to distinguish between reality and fantasy, mixing the two together. That very same day, when everything seemed to be joy and smiles, a true ordeal began for me.
I’m a writer and I’ve imagined many stories, but it’s true that reality surpasses fantasy, because what happened to me in the days that followed surpasses any fantasy story I could ever imagine. That was also the day I realized what it meant to be a writer—especially of children’s stories—as I watched the happy expressions on my friends’ faces, who listened, spellbound, to my mother’s stories.
She taught me the importance of our laborious, self-sacrificing, and creative craft as writers, but I’ll never be able to measure up to her, because my mother was a remarkable person—the kind who comes along only once in a million.
When I said goodbye to all the guests, offering congratulations and praise to my mother, I found her slumped on the sofa, with an alarming look of pain in her chest, which she had suppressed throughout the party.
“Mom, something’s wrong; are you okay?”
“No, sweetheart; it’s just a little dizziness from the commotion of your party—those little rascals wear you out. Did they enjoy your party?”
But I couldn’t focus on her answer, because even then I had a premonition that my mother was very ill, but I couldn’t imagine how serious it was.
Other times, during our usual Sunday bike rides along the banks of the river that runs through our city, she would beg me to stop and rest for a few moments, and again I’d see that same look of pain and the effort she made to hide it.
Not only did I admire my mother for her talent, her sweetness, and her sharp intelligence, but I was also very close to her, because the two of us practically lived alone in our huge apartment in Berlin.
My father is a renowned architect and had to oversee the many buildings he had designed that were still under construction, scattered throughout the country. We could only get together as a family on weekends, which my father used to rest, take a relaxing bath, without paying much attention to what was brewing inside my mother.
But the effects of her serious illness were evident in the alarming pallor of her sweaty face and a permanent grimace of pain on her lips.
What finally alerted my father to her condition was the day she stopped writing her weekly story for a local radio station.
“Mom, what’s wrong? You’ve never stopped writing those stories for the radio…”
“Ivette, sweetheart, nothing’s wrong with me, but all writers have bad days when our imagination just doesn’t work.”
“But, Mom, all the kids at my school listen to your stories…”
Yes, my mother was suffering a writer’s greatest tragedy: not being able to write!
Just as I’d feared, one tragic morning my mother suffered a severe heart attack just as I was getting ready to leave for school, and she collapsed to the floor, clutching her hands to her chest where her immense, damaged heart lay.
I didn’t know how to react; all I could think to do was hug her and cry out in terror.
“Mommy, Mommy, what’s wrong with you? Why won’t you talk to me? Mommy, I don’t want you to be like this; Mommy, I’m scared, and you’re not saying anything or moving. Mommy, say something to me, please, say something…”
I didn’t know what to do; I was too young to handle such a dramatic situation. I burst into tears while continuing to hold her lifeless body close.
I stayed like that—I don’t know for how long—until a housekeeper who helped my mother with the housework came to our home. The poor woman had a nervous breakdown when she saw the scene: a crying little girl hugging her dead mother! If I had reacted
and run out to find someone to help me take her to the hospital—or called an ambulance—she might have been saved.
Those were horrible minutes; I didn’t want to be separated from my mother, because I couldn’t grasp the idea of death and thought she’d soon regain consciousness and everything would go back to normal. They practically had to pry me away from her body. I kept clinging to her, trembling from
head to toe and crying uncontrollably.
“Mommy, wake up, I don’t want you to be like this—wake up, please…!”
When the ambulance arrived and they took her to the hospital—where they could only certify her death—they had to hold me back so I wouldn’t run after the paramedics who carried her body out of our house, and I was left in a state of shock, barely aware of what happened next.
My father appointed one of his assistants to replace him and came over, deeply distressed by my mother’s unexpected death. I let myself be led around like a robot, still in a state of shock, unable to think or remember what had happened.
My father believed he was responsible for her death because he hadn’t taken better care of her, and for a while he shut himself away in our house and paid no attention to his commitments, and work on many of his construction projects had to be suspended, resulting in enormous losses. Only when he was threatened with a lawsuit did he react and resume his usual absences. It was futile for him to try to make me understand his situation and his serious, inescapable responsibilities, but I wasn’t listening to what he was trying to tell me, because I was still in a state of shock.
He turned to an elderly sister on his mother’s side, but cheerful and jovial at heart—whom my father believed was the best person for the job—to take care of me 24 hours a day and bring me back to the real world so I could accept the irreversible facts. But I locked myself in my room, and as if it were etched into my brain, I whispered the same lament over and over:
“Mommy, come back from wherever you’ve gone.” I’ll be good, I won’t sneak sweets, I’ll eat the vegetables you know I hate, and I won’t forget to brush my teeth a single day; yes, Mommy, I’ll do it all without complaining, but come back, come back, Mommy…
And I’d end up bursting into inconsolable tears when I got no answer. My caregiver tried in vain, with immense affection, patience, and care not to say anything that might make me relive those dramatic events. But I locked myself in my room, repeating the same pleas between sobs, because I was convinced that my mother would hear them and come back from wherever she was. And it happened!
One morning when I woke up, I found my mother sitting on the edge of my bed. The overwhelming joy of her return left me speechless—I just wanted to hug her. But when I lunged forward, I almost fell out of bed, because there was nothing there to hug; she had become transparent and was wearing a horrible white gown with a number printed on the side of her heart—the very thing that had led to her sudden death.
- Mommy , why can’t I hug you? What did they do to you at the hospital? Why…
I wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but she gestured with her hands for me to be quiet, and I could hear her strange voice—I heard it inside my head but not through my ears.
“Be quiet, sweetheart. No one but you must know I’m here.”
I know you’ve suffered a lot because of my death…
“So it’s true what Dad says—that you’re dead.”
“Yes, I’m dead, but you’re too little to be left alone during these sad times.” I’ll be your guardian angel until you come to terms with it and accept everything without objection or the slightest doubt, and every morning when you wake up, I’ll always be by your side. And every morning, when you wake up, you’ll find me sitting here, on the edge of your bed, so you can tell me everything that’s troubling you and I can help you get through it. We’ll be so happy!
At my tender age, I was willing to believe anything, no matter how strange it seemed, and even though she was no longer a disembodied vision, I accepted her proposal.
During those quiet early morning hours, my elderly caregiver overheard my conversation with my late mother and, alarmed, informed my father.
“It sounds as if she’s talking to her mother, as if she were actually here in her room. I think you need to do something before it’s too late and she loses her mind.”
Over the weekend, my father returned as usual, and the next morning he stood right outside my bedroom door, trying to eavesdrop on my conversations with my late mother.
When I woke up, she was sitting on the edge of my bed, just as she had promised.
“Good morning, sweetheart! How is my little girl feeling this morning?”
“Good morning, Mommy. I’m sad because you…”
And I couldn’t finish the sentence because my father walked into my room without knocking. My mother vanished as soon as the sound of the door latch was heard.
“Ivette, daughter, who were you talking to? Are Are you talking to your mother?
I was furious because I’d caused her to disappear, but he thought that if he set me straight, I’d return to the real world sooner, and he scolded me with an aggressiveness uncharacteristic of him.
“Daughter, face the facts! Your mother is dead, and the dead never return to the living. You’re seeing hallucinations because of the pain of her death, but she’s never been here, in this room, nor will she ever be able to be here!
“That’s not true—she was here, but you scared her away, and she’s gone, because no one must know she’s been here. It was our secret, and you’ve ruined everything. Now she’ll never come back. I hate you! I hate you! Go away! Get out of my room!”
And once again, the anguish I felt made me weep inconsolably.
My elderly caregiver had to step in to restore peace to that chaotic situation.
“Come on, leave her alone and don’t pay any attention to what she says; when she recovers, she’ll ask for your forgiveness.”
My father was deeply hurt by my violent behavior, but he resigned himself to it, and they left me alone in the desolate room.
PART TWO
Despite my pleas, my mother didn’t appear by my bed the next morning or any of the mornings after that. I was so depressed that I began to hatch a terrible plan to be reunited with her: If she were dead but at the same time, in some way, still alive, I could be reunited with her wherever she might be if I died too.
At that tender age, I believed that dying was like moving to a new house in another neighborhood. I had heard
mothers picking up their children from school say that some celebrities had died from an overdose of sedatives, and I remembered that my mother took them too and kept them in a cabinet in the bathroom— and there they were! A whole bottle of white and red pills that looked like candy.
Thrilled by the discovery, I hid the precious bottle in my room and waited until nightfall, when my caregiver was asleep. Then I imagined that those very pills would reunite me with my mother. Those were terrible hours of anguish that made me cry uncontrollably. My caregiver realized that something serious was happening to me, but she couldn’t imagine what I was up to.“Sweetheart, you’re shaking from head to toe. If it’s something that’s scaring you, you can come sleep with me tonight.”Today I’m certain that that cheerful woman could tell from my agitation that I was plotting something serious. I didn’t know what excuse to come up with to turn down her invitation, but after a dramatic silence, a good alibi came to mind:“Since my dad says my mom can’t be there, I’m not afraid to sleep alone anymore.”That answer made the poor woman believe I was losing my mind, and she was beginning to resign herself to the situation and return to normal.I locked myself in my room and pretended to play with my dolls, which reassured my overprotective caregiver even more.I was firmly determined to carry out my plan, so I pretended to play with all those things I liked and that made me feel good—like the teddy bears someone gave me every birthday ; or the clown and fairy godmother costumes I’d worn during the last few carnivals; or the posters of my cartoon characters that made me laugh; or the music box playing the tune of “ Für Elise,” and so many other toys that I couldn’t take with me wherever my mother might be.Those were moments of terrible inner conflict, in which the deep love I felt for my mother competed with all those objects that bore witness to the happy moments of my short life.But I reacted decisively and put my mother first.I took out the small bottle of pills from where I’d hidden it, and it seemed incredible to me that something so small could take me so far away.That night, my caregiver was very restless—perhaps she had a premonition of my suicide attempt—and she suddenly came into my room twice under the pretext of asking if I wanted anything. Paradoxically, she aided my failed suicide attempt, and I asked her for a glass of milk, because I’d forgotten to bring something to drink to take the pills with.After midnight, nothing could be heard, and I assumed my caregiver was already asleep. I could barely stay awake myself. During those agonizing hours, my childish mind struggled in vain to wake me from that nightmare, but I wouldn’t listen to it.I scattered the pills on the bedspread, and for a few agonizing moments I was struck by the thought that that very night I might be with my mother, whom I called out to once more in a dramatic final plea.“Mommy, if you’re listening, come here and I won’t take these pills.”But she didn’t appear, and amid even more bitter sobs, I swallowed all those colorful pills one by one. A few moments later, as I waited for the miracle of our reunion, I felt a painful jolt—as if a bolt of lightning were piercing my brain—and I lost consciousness.As I collapsed onto the pillow, the empty pill bottle rolled across the bedspread until it crashed to the floor and shattered into pieces.The noise woke my guardian, and she ran to my room, wailing, because she sensed that something serious had happened to me. When she entered my room and saw me lying there, she exclaimed:“Good heavens! What have you done, little one?”She came me, and when she saw that I was unconscious, she shook me, trying to revive me. When she discovered the remains of the bottle, she immediately realized what had happened.“No—for God’s sake, you couldn’t possibly have done something like that!” But yes, she did; she must have swallowed all the pills in this bottle. Oh my God, what a tragedy! I have to call an ambulance, but where did I put that darn cell phone?In her fluster and nervousness, she was unable to find her cell phone, even though it was within reach, and she let time slip by, putting my life at risk.Bewildered and distraught, she ran out into the street looking for help, and as luck would have it, a municipal police patrol on night watch happened to be passing by at that very moment; a few minutes later, an ambulance arrived with a doctor:“We can’t pump her stomach here because she’s in a coma. We have to get her to the hospital immediately—and may God help us—let’s hope she doesn’t die on the way.” “Poor child! Why would such a young girl try to commit suicide?”That was the grim prognosis from the doctor who treated me. My poor caregiver had to be given a strong sedative because she wouldn’t stop moaning and cursing herself for her carelessness.At the hospital, they treated me with all the standard medical procedures for such cases, but I showed no response, so they contacted my father to inform him of my admission and the treatment’s lack of results. Deeply shaken, he set out on a reckless journey back.During the harrowing trip, he nearly crashed his car and took his own life as well, because two deaths in his absence were unbearable.To his despair, the reports from the doctors who treated me could not have been more negative.-“Unfortunately, the bottle contained not only sedatives but also medications for your wife’s cardiovascular disease, and the combination could not be more harmful. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your daughter’s life is now in God’s hands and her own if she fights against death, but she is very young and lacks the strength to fight against fate.”In case these grim statements from the doctor who treated me weren’t , they warned me that even if I were to come out of the coma, my brain might have been damaged and I might spend the rest of my life in a vegetative state—Can I stay in her room until she comes out of the coma?-Yes, we’ll make an exception. You can even talk to her, showing your love and your desire for her to survive; she might hear you. Medicine isn’t an expert on souls—only on bodies.They set him up on a folding bed next to mine, and he remained watchful for any sign from me that might indicate my recovery. But the next day, I still hadn’t regained consciousness. As
daybreak approached and an unusual silence fell over the hospital, my father followed the doctor’s advice and decided to speak to me. He had been crying silently; he wiped away his tears and sat on the edge of my bed:
“Daughter, the doctors say you might be able to hear me. If so, I beg you to fight against whatever is trying to drag you to your death and to survive, because if you die, I’ll lose the little girl I’d always
dreamed of having as my daughter—the one who filled me with happiness and gave meaning to
my life. I love you very much—as much as I loved your mother, but in a different way. I’m not a good speaker, nor do I know how to express my feelings the way she did; I only know how to design houses. But I hope it’s enough for you to hear me repeat that I love you very much, and I beg you to find the will and strength to defeat death and recover without any lasting effects. As if nothing had happened—just a bad dream; a nightmare. That’s all I wanted to tell you… . I hope you heard me.
He came over to me, kissed me on the forehead, and whispered anxiously, “Daughter, don’t you leave me too!” Then he went back to his tiny bed, where sleep overtook him.
I was listening to him, but in a strange way. His voice echoed in my head as if he were speaking to me from inside a cave.
No; my father wasn’t blaming me for my mother’s death, and I’d made a grave mistake for which I was paying the price.
I tried to wake up, but all my efforts were in vain. Something was holding me fast, as if I’d been tied down. I couldn’t even open my eyelids, nor did I feel cold or hot. It was clear that my body was already lifeless—perhaps I was already dead.
- Ivette, my little one, why did you do this?
Suddenly suddenly I heard, in that same strange voice, what seemed to be my mother.
“Mom, is that you?!” But you were dead!
“Yes, Ivette, I’m dead, and you, too, are clinically dead—that’s why I can speak to you. But you’re only on the threshold, and you can still save yourself.”
“Mom, forgive me for letting you die. I…”
“Ivette, my little one, it wasn’t you but my destiny that was responsible for my death. Everything is written in the star from which we come. Just as pollen travels long distances in search of a flower to fertilize a fruit, souls emerge from the stars and travel long distances across the universe to fertilize the egg of a human being. It was written that I was to die that day, and no one could have prevented it. It is not written in your destiny that you would die in this hospital. You still have a long road ahead of you, many beautiful works to write, because you, too, will be a writer. I
have only one piece of advice to give you before I embark on my long journey back to my star: when you have doubts about your talent, look up at the sky on a clear night and you’ll see that there are millions of stars—some are big and others are small, but they all shine with their own light. Whether you’re a great or a small writer,
, always shine with your own light. My little Ivette, live, wake up, and greet your father with a smile,
so he’ll know you’ve conquered death. And now I must go. Never forget this advice; don’t forget that I gave it to you…
And I could no longer hear her voice, for it had faded away
A few moments later, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach and a bitter taste in my mouth. Little by little, my senses came back until I could open my eyes and see my father asleep.
Dawn was breaking, and a ray of sunlight streamed through my window; I could feel its warmth on my cheeks, so there was no doubt that I was regaining all my senses. I wanted to call out to him and wake him, but I couldn’t form a single word. I tried again and again until, finally, stammering, I managed to call out to him.
“Da… da!”
He woke up, and when he saw the ray of sunlight illuminating my face, he thought it was a hallucination
“Ivette, is that you calling me, or is this a hallucination?”
I couldn’t answer, but I smiled at him just as my mother had asked me to, and my father realized I had woken up.
It’s been twenty years since those events, and I’ll never know if the mother who appeared was really her or just a figment of my imagination, but every time I gaze at a starry sky, I remember her advice: “Whether you’re big or small, always shine with your own light.”
The End
Frau Goldschmidt’s Dog
In the Berlin neighborhood of Charlottenburg, not far from the Spree River and just a stone’s throw from the palace gardens, lived Frau Emma Goldschmidt, a good-natured elderly woman who was already a bit clumsy since she was in her eighties, but despite her understandable ailments, she never stayed home for a single moment, as she couldn’t stand loneliness and found television boring.
It was common to see her feeding the hungry seagulls that fluttered frantically amid pitiful squawks, or the fierce coots, always fighting among themselves, or the scatterbrained ducks, but her favorites, naturally, were the pair of proud and stately swans, who, accompanied by their latest brood, ruled the river.
As Christmas approached, Frau Goldschmidt, club in hand and in high spirits, set out to visit the Christmas market set up in the courtyard of Charlottenburg Palace. For years she had made it a habit to buy a quarter kilo of smoked ham from Tyrol from her friend “The Salzburg Man”—as the stall was called—where every year he offered all kinds of delicious Tyrolean specialties.
“A quarter of that, Hans!” she said to the stall attendant.
“Not a gram more, Frau Goldsmidt, and may you eat it in good health and with God’s peace—for that you must never lack!
“One of these years you won’t see me around here anymore, and where I plan to go, your bacon won’t do me any good!
“
Don’t be in such a hurry—it’s not so bad here!
— Loneliness, my friend Hans; loneliness is the worst! My poor Albert died fifteen years ago, and I still haven’t gotten used to it!
— Get yourself a little dog—they’re such good company!
— No, no, what a hassle! You have to take them for a walk every day, they poop everywhere, and they don’t let you sleep. A cat, maybe—but poor thing, I’m too old to take care of them!
She bought her annual ham, put it in her bag, steeled her nerves, and after saying goodbye until next year (if God willed it), she set off for home.
She hadn’t even left the crowded market when—perhaps drawn by the smell of the ham or out of sympathy for the elderly woman— Frau Goldschmidt noticed that she was being followed by a small dog, furry as a ball of cotton, with a slender snout, pricked-up ears, and a lively gaze.
“What a cute little mutt!” she thought, recalling the Tyrolean shopkeeper’s advice, “What could he be doing around here without his owner?” . But she didn’t think much of it and focused on walking, especially when she reached the traffic light at the intersection of Otto-Suhr-Alle and Kaiser-Frederich-Straße, which she had to cross twice. She made it to the other side of the street, though not without a bit of a scare at the last moment, since this traffic light isn’t designed for an elderly woman’s slow pace. Once she was calmer, she paused for a moment to make sure everything was all right—and there the dog still was!
“Come on, go find your owner! Or have you gotten lost?” Good heavens, the poor mutt must be starving!” Frau Goldschmidt realized it must be the aroma of Tyrolean ham that was attracting the little dog, and, though somewhat hesitant, she tossed him a thin slice. “Here, take this and goodbye! Go on, go, go; don’t follow me—the restaurant’s closed!
But the dog paid no attention to her orders and kept following her until, once she was in front of her door, she found herself faced with the dilemma of taking him in.
“Fine, come on up, and I’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow! You’re not going to stay out on the street on a night like this—but no making a fuss! Got it?”
The animal seemed to get the idea because it wagged its tail excitedly and planted itself in the middle of the doorway, ready to step through first, as if it were his own home.
The next day, at the same time as the day before, Frau Goldschmidt tied the dog with a makeshift collar made from a curtain cord and, with her usual calm, returned to the Christmas market, just in case the dog’s owners showed up. She walked up and down with the animal,
walked through the market several times—which took her a little over an hour—and since no one claimed the animal, she had no choice but to adopt it herself. On her way home, she admitted to herself that she was glad it had happened.
“ “Come on home! And from now on, you’ll be called Dodo, like the little dog we had at home when I was a child. If you don’t like it, too bad—I’ll be feeding you anyway!”
The old woman picked up a small fir branch, bought a dog toy, wrapped it carefully, and hung it on the branch, along with other little trinkets for herself.
“Don’t you dare open your present before Christmas!” —she warned the dog.
The old woman and the dog soon grew fond of each other. To save her the trouble, the dog would carry his toy all the way to the nearby gardens himself; there he’d drop it on the ground, and she’d give it a tap with her cane, sending it flying a few meters. He’d pick it up playfully, prancing around as if it had been a struggle to reach it, and then start all over again. Finally, when he realized the old woman was tired of the game, he would pick up his toy himself and carry it back to the house in his mouth. There they talked about a thousand things, most of them fond memories of her other “Dodo” from her childhood.
Months went by. The rosebushes withered, the first snow fell, and it was Christmas time again. As every year, Frau Goldschmidt, now with her dog—who was sporting a brand-new collar with a flashing light—went to the Tyrolean vendor’s stall to buy her usual quarter-kilo of smoked ham.
“Well, I see you took my advice and bought yourself a little dog!”
“Don’t believe a word of it, Hans: he’s the one who bought me!”
But suddenly the dog yanked so hard on the collar that it nearly knocked her over.
“Tarzan! My Tarzan! Daddy, it’s our Tarzan!”
Indeed, the dog lunged at a boy whom he undoubtedly recognized and must have been very fond of, because his tail was wagging at breakneck speed. Frau Goldschmidt turned pale instantly, because she immediately understood the situation: it was the dog’s owners!
The family lived in the neighboring town of Oranienburg and visited the Charlottenburg Christmas market every year , and in a moment of carelessness the previous year, they’d lost the dog. Now they’d found him again.
But Herr Haussmann—as the head of the family that owned the dog was called—was a man of high principles and a strong sense of justice, so he wondered whether, after so much time had passed, he had the right to claim the animal.
“If he’s yours, then you should take him back. He’s been good company, and I’m going to miss him,
but I’ll miss the boy, too. What can we do?” remarked the heartbroken old woman.
Herr Haussmann didn’t think it was fair to make that decision outright and opted for a Solomonic solution to resolve the dilemma, which the boy was slow to accept, but eventually found reasonable: let the dog decide!
They went to the nearby park, stood facing each other at a certain distance, and left the dog in the middle; whoever the animal chose as its owner would get to keep it. Herr Haussmann left the dog at the agreed-upon spot, and the boy—perhaps out of nervousness—couldn’t help himself and called the animal by its old name: “Tarzan, come here, Tarzan!” The dog didn’t hesitate; he leaped and ran toward the boy. The poor old woman seemed resigned, as she considered it only natural. But suddenly, after running just a few meters, the dog—as if realizing the betrayal it was about to commit—stopped dead in its tracks, looked at the heartbroken old woman, and with another leap, ran off toward her.
6. The Incredible Story of Katherine von Stein
Katherine von Stein was a young aristocrat from an illustrious family in the Electorate of Holstein-Battenberg. At age 24, she was appointed lady-in-waiting to Empress Elizabeth Christine, wife of Frederick II of Prussia, and the family moved to Potsdam, where they had a beautiful mansion built near Sans-Souci.
The years passed amid elegant parties at Sans-Souci, Charlottenburg, or the Prince’s Palace in Berlin; long, enjoyable country rides on horseback through the Tiergarten and the area around the Wannsee; picnics enlivened by the finest chamber musicians of the era and Europe’s most renowned poets, and solemn opera performances, including the occasional minor work by the emperor himself, a music lover and a decent flutist.But Katherine lacked the gift of modesty; on the contrary, she was haughty, conceited, and even a bit haughty. She had ample reason for her behavior, for she was truly beautiful, possessed a considerable family fortune, and one could practically say she was the empress’s favorite lady.She played the harpsichord with sensitivity, and did not hesitate in the least to sing a trendy little song for the imperial couple, who held her in such high esteem that they could find no suitor worthy of her many .“Miss von Stein is of marriageable age,” the emperor would remark to his most serene wife during the endless winter evenings at Sans-Souci.“Let her enjoy life! She’s not a catch for just any suitor, and I don’t want to give her to a foreign prince. We’ll marry her off when God grants us the light and we find the right suitor.”For her part, Katherine von Stein didn’t seem interested in her future and took pleasure in wounding the vanity and pride of even the most battle-hardened soldiers close to the imperial family, as well as quite a few young provincial aristocrats residing in Berlin. In total, she had provoked 16 duels, resulting in three deaths, six seriously wounded, and seven with minor injuries.Such qualities and such arrogance could not go unnoticed even by the Devil himself, and he decided to seduce her in person.The opportunity arose in the spring, during Katherine’s return to her mansion from Sans-Souci, a walk she usually took on foot and unaccompanied, encouraged by the mild temperatures and the heady scent of honeysuckle and blooming rhododendrons. The Devil seized the first opportunity, and disguised as a captain of the Dragoons, he staged a chance encounter, riding a spirited black steed, beautifully decked out for the occasion. As a true expert in disguise, the Devil had taken great care with his appearance, and he wore a Dragoon dress uniform, with an embroidered epaulet on his shoulder, an immaculate white silk shirt, a gleaming sword, boots polished right up to the knee, unruly black curly hair, green eyes with a mocking and wicked gaze, broad shoulders and a slender waist—in short, irresistible!He brought his steed to a halt beside her, dismounted briskly, and with a nimble leap stood beside her. Katherine didn’t bat an eye; he wasn’t the first captain of the Dragoons who had reined in his horse to admire her beauty.“Forgive my impertinence, miss, but seeing you from afar with that majestic bearing, that princely gait, and the gentle sway of your beautiful gown, I thought you were none other than the most exalted Empress Elizabeth herself.But Katherine did not so much as flinch, and continued on her way as if the Devil were the royal gardener himself.“And now that I see you up close,” continued the Devil, following a plan long rehearsed on countless occasions —I feel dizzy from your feminine beauty. You are more beautiful than a poor mortal can imagine. What heavenly artist could have sketched that face, as fine and delicate as Hessian porcelain or Peking silk?The Devil always resorted to sacred clichés because he knew the contradictory nature of beautiful women: they like saints, but not as husbands. But Katherine remained unmoved, even though the latest barrage of compliments had left her slightly flattered.“If you would deign to speak to me, you would be the most... the happiest Dragon in this world, and I would be capable of nothing less than surrendering Paris to lay at your delicate feet.”Perhaps it was the mention of Paris that weakened the haughty lady’s defenses, for a telltale smile escaped her lips—one the Devil correctly interpreted as the first direct shot to Katherine’s heart.“But if you reject me, I’ll go straight to hell…”—the Devil was on the verge of putting his foot in his mouth, but his quick reflexes averted disaster—“where I’d be happier than living in this world with no hope of being loved in return!”—he salvaged the situation quite well without resorting to falsehoods.At last, Katherine—defeated and disarmed—could not help but surrender the stronghold she had defended all by herself for more than 28 years against a legion of ardent suitors.A month later, Katherine von Stein, blessed by the emperors, married the Devil, who became prince and elector of a wealthy principality within the Empire. She had half a dozen precious and healthy little devils, and they say she left this world at the age of 102, convinced that she had never lost her charm or beauty, because her wicked devil of a husband never ceased to flatter her.During their long and happy marriage, Prussia enjoyed a prolonged era of peace and prosperity, because the Devil was always busy with his domestic affairs.
7. Napoleon and Josephine Ackermann
On October 27, 1806, just as the “Age of Enlightenment” was coming to a close—and the new century seemed to herald the “age of shadows”— ,” Napoleon Bonaparte, mounted on a slender and agile steed, rode triumphantly through the arches of Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate, amid the mistrust and sadness of the Berliners. The First Franco-Prussian War had ended following the defeat of the Prussian-Saxon coalition at Jena and Auerstedt. He was accompanied by several battalions of his glorious “Grande Armée”—a multinational, partly mercenary force of 600,000 soldiers—and, following the defeat and disintegration of their respective armies, Saxon and Prussian volunteers had joined its ranks, bringing the total number of troops of German origin to 100,000.
One day before his triumphal entry, Napoleon paid tribute at his mausoleum in Potsdam to one of his most admired European leaders, the enlightened monarch Frederick II the Great, who had died without direct descendants.To celebrate the culmination of his Prussian campaign, Napoleon hosted a public ball at the Berlin Palace, which had been abandoned days earlier by King Frederick William III, who had fled to Königsberg along with his beautiful wife, Queen Louise, in the far east of Prussia, under the protection of the Tsar of Russia. Napoleon ordered his valets to search all over Berlin for the most beautiful and attractive young women to accompany him at his triumphal ball and entertain his officers, forcing them to attend.The valets carried out the order to the letter, and in their search they went as far as the bustling Berlin neighborhood of Friedrichshain, in the eastern part of the city, not far from the royal palace.At a market stall, while doing their usual shopping—and as if the occupation of Berlin by French troops had never taken place—they came across a young woman, barely a teenager, who, due to her extraordinary beauty and elegant bearing, struck them as a suitable candidate even to be Napoleon’s own dance partner.The young woman, barely 15 years old, was named Josephine Ackermann, and she was the daughter of Jacobs Ackermann, owner and editor of the small local newspaper *Friedrischshain Blatt*, which was liberal and democratic in its leanings, opposed to the war with France, and persecuted by the police of the new Prussian monarch’s authoritarian regime.The general’s aides briefed her on the situation and worked out the details—attire, time, and protocol for the ball—and at the appointed hour, a carriage came to pick her up at her home in Friedrichshain to take her to the royal palace, lavishly illuminated for such a festive occasion and presided over by a splendid honor guard composed of the most battle-hardened officers of the triumphant “Grande Armée.”“My dear daughter,” her father warned her, “ “Behave with dignity and show the French general that we Prussians are hardworking and prudent people, lovers of peace and democratic freedoms, but we do not approve of war as a means to solve the serious problems afflicting Europe.”The general’s envoys picked up other young women, no less attractive, and at the appointed time, the ball began to the strains of the glorious “Marseillaise.”The French officers , dressed in their full dress uniforms, brimming with triumphalism and virility, chose their respective partners from among the frightened Berlin girls to open the inaugural dance. But first, Napoleon himself—alerted by his aides to Josephine’s beauty and discretion—with a ceremonious yet impetuous air, as was characteristic of his nature, crossed the grand ballroom and reached the spot where the young Berlin woman was already awaiting his invitation.“Mademoiselle Josephine, s’il vous plaît.” .. I have the honor of inviting you to open this solemn, triumphant ball,” Napoleon asked her courteously.The young woman gladly accepted, and the orchestra, in her honor, played a popular mazurka much to the taste of the Prussians of the time.The dance came alive, and the French officers’ skill in the art of seduction—as effective as their military prowess—became evident. The young women, docile and still trembling, let themselves be swept away, and the dance grew so lively that all the suffering and misfortunes caused by the French up until their arrival in Berlin seemed to be overcome and forgotten. Once the mazurka ended, Napoleon , showing signs of fatigue, left the ballroom, and, accompanied by the young woman, strolled along the banks of the canal. The fresh air there, after the frenzied initial dance, was pleasant to breathe on that autumn night.“Cher Mademoiselle, as a Prussian, you will hate me, but believe me, your descendants will remember me as the man who modernized Europe and freed it from the tyranny of a handful of aristocratic families with little interest in the well-being of their peoples.”“Monsieur Napoleon,” said the young woman, confident in her own opinion and undaunted by the general’s legendary glory, “history will undoubtedly remember you, but it will forget the thousands of dead who, without glory or any cause whatsoever, have been buried on the battlefields across Europe, wherever your “Grande Armée” has marched.“Mon cher petite!” replied the general condescendingly, “War, like revolution, is one of the main driving forces of history. If only you knew how many good things have been created because of wars! The price is high, but the advances and progress in every sense make up for the suffering. I hate war as much as you do, my young Prussian, but when circumstances make it necessary, it must be waged as if it were a work of art, with perfection and mastery. “Do you think, Monsieur Napoleon, that you are the first Frenchman to have invaded us? Before you, Racine, Voltaire, Corneille, and Descartes did so. Their works also changed our history, but without firing a single cannonball. They, too, will be remembered, but they did not lay waste to the lands or the minds they conquered.Napoleon seemed annoyed, but the young woman’s youth and inexperience justified it, and he overlooked her bold opinion.“To each his own, my dear girl!... It seems to be getting cooler; let’s go back to the parlor. I must retire early, but you are young and should take this opportunity to enjoy yourself.”Josephine Ackermann returned to her home in Friedrichshain escorted by two officers from Napoleon’s personal guard.“Thank God you’re back safe and sound, Josephine. Your mother and I have been praying for you, and God has heard us!” her father said with relief. “But tell me, did you see the general?”“Yes, Father; I even danced with him.”“And what is he like? What impression did he make on you?”“He’s a man, just like everyone else! He’s proud, arrogant, selfish, and a bit insecure…” . I don’t think he’ll get very far beyond Berlin...
8. The Disenchanted Princess
Markus W. was a poor wretch, lanky and taciturn. He was as thin as a wicker stick, as tall as a poplar, and as bearded as an old goat. He roamed the streets of Berlin without a single plan . He walked all day, up and down; from east to west. In the morning he could be seen in Wedding and in the afternoon in Steglitz; other times he skirted the Spree River from the Charlottenburg Gardens to Treptow Park.
Sometimes, however, he would stop walking for a few hours, reclining on a sunny bench in one of his favorite parks and idly letting the hours slip by, watching the clouds drift by, the planes taking off from Tegel Airport, or the majestic, slow flight of young swans preparing for their migration.
He had no friends, nor did he want any, but he had a secret love: none other than a mysterious princess. Markus believed, however, that due to magic and enchantment, she was trapped within the coldness of a statue in a popular Berlin park.
Markus was very shy, which is why the first year of his romance with the enchanted princess was not easy.
He would simply sit on a bench in front of the statue and glance at her out of the corner of his eye, but with such discretion and embarrassment that the princess didn’t realize he was referring to her. By the second year, he already felt more self-assured, and since the princess had never taken any notice of him, he dared to look her straight in the eye. But she remained impassive. In the third year, he made his big decision: he would declare his love and let God’s will be done.
It was a Sunday morning in April. He dressed as neatly as he could, picked a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers, and made his way to the park where the princess of his dreams awaited him.
The pair of swans were still rebuilding their nest for the annual clutch and were quite busy hauling all sorts of twigs. The flowerbeds were beginning to come to life, and he could already feel the vigor of spring in the new shoots of petunias and daisies. Love, God of Love, armed with his infallible quiver of arrows and keeping watch over the little park where the princess was, never took his eyes off him. The goddess Venus, standing on the other side of the garden, seemed to be giving him lessons in romance. It was, therefore, a perfect morning for love.
Since he was still quite naive, he believed in fairy tales and enchanted princesses; for this reason, he was convinced that with a simple kiss, the princess would awaken from her enchantment and he himself would be transformed into a handsome Prince Charming. But how could he dare to kiss her? Simply by asking her politely.
He approached the statue, coughed nervously, glanced to one side and then to the other to make sure no one was listening, and said to her:
“Excuse me, Miss Princess, but as you must already know, the only way to break the spell is for me to give you a kiss of love. I hope you don’t take this as a rudeness, because it’s the norm in these cases.”
“Dear Markus,” ,” the statue replied, leaving the poor young man barely able to stand from the shock. “To tell you the truth, and after observing you for the past two years, if you don’t mind, I’d rather remain enchanted—because if you kiss me, I’ll be a truly disenchanted princess!”
Markus didn’t quite catch the hint, but since she was quite polite and had asked him so kindly and courteously, he gave up on his endeavor.
He roamed the parks of Berlin once more to see if he could find another enchanted princess, but one with fewer expectations than that one. He tried his luck with another two dozen statues, but at the last moment, they all told him the same thing. And so he spent the remaining 48 years of his life.
“I won’t ask the next one!” he told himself one day before his death.
9. The Little Witch of Spandau
Many years ago—so many that it’s a miracle I still remember—in the woods near the small town of Spandau, a place known for charcoal and poisonous mushrooms, there lived a surly little witch, because there’s practically not a single one who’s friendly.
But first of all, I’d like to clarify something extremely important, especially for my young readers. Witches have undoubtedly existed, but the prejudices of ordinary people—who can’t even look at an old woman without mistaking her for a witch—have distorted the true nature of these good people.
The truth is that they were the widows of charcoal burners or woodcutters, who were reluctant to leave their huts, where they had lived their entire lives with their respective charcoal burners or woodcutters (their only mistake in this life being to marry such professionals).
The origin of their potions lies in the circumstances of their precarious existence, since they were not very skilled at hunting and even less so at gardening and raising poultry. So, in order to put a bowl of hot soup on the table, they had no choice but to boil anything that might yield some substance—from a toad to a cockroach. They usually messed up, and as a result of such concoctions, their hair would fall out, they’d develop warts, or their noses would grow longer; but only in exceptional cases did they stumble upon a potion with positive health effects.
It’s also true that they used to keep a raven as a pet, but the fact is that in these parts, parrots and canaries aren’t very common, and in the absence of a canary, a raven will do. As for the black cat, it was meant to match the raven— which was also black.
Having clarified that, our witch had a good day and stumbled upon one of those brilliant potions (like the Coca-Cola formula) and discovered the elixir of youth. But she failed to find the ingredient of eternity, so the magical effect only lasted between a week and fifteen days.
“Darn it all! My mother already told me that in this forest they were very stingy with magic!” lamented the poor lady.
But luckily, she had prepared a good cauldronful, and since it was winter, it kept quite well. So as soon as she realized the wonderful effect of her new potion, she made serious plans for her new future.
“This time I’m skipping the coal miners—I’m going for a prince!”
Luckily, princes were plentiful in this part of the Empire—the proof is that there are thousands of fairy tales featuring princes, and there’s one available for everyone—and by selling half a liter of her potion to a local shopkeeper, she was able to bathe and dress in fine women’s clothing. There’s no need to describe the woman after her metamorphosis because you’ve probably already imagined her—that’s what stories are for. Despite her lack of skill at manual labor, she acquired a spinning wheel, which was customary among women of good standing, and waited patiently for a handsome prince to pass by her cottage . She didn’t have to wait long, as I mentioned earlier, and the first one who passed by was obviously captivated by her extraordinary beauty—for some reason, princes have good taste when it comes to choosing their consorts—and he declared his love instantly:
“Will you be my wife?” the prince asked her, practically without dismounting from his horse.
“Just like that, without any preamble or battles with dragons?”
“Well, this is a short story, and there’s no time for that.”
“I accept, but on one condition,” said the cunning witch.
“
I’ll agree to whatever you ask!
“That when I’m an old woman—decrepit and wrinkled—you’ll still desire me as you do now.”
“I’ll sign!”—of course, the prince had no idea what he was signing.
The wedding was celebrated with the traditional folk dances and feasts (the only time his subjects ate meat), and they enjoyed a brief honeymoon at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin (Oops! Sorry, it hadn’t been built yet), and when they returned to their palace in Spandau, the good woman realized she didn’t have even half a liter of the elixir of youth left.
Taking advantage of the castle’s resources, she set to work with all the technical advances she could get her hands on. To test the effects, she gave her potions to the cat to drink, and the poor thing would end up with the head of a who could recite Hamlet’s soliloquy off the cuff. But to no avail—she just couldn’t get the potion right!
One day, upon returning from the grove after desperately searching for new ingredients, she came across an old, ailing man sitting in the palace’s throne chair. As she entered the hall, the man shifted uneasily in his regal seat, not knowing how to explain his presence. Finally, he confessed his identity:
“It’s me, your husband; and I’m not a prince but a mere count—and a ruined one at that!” The woman couldn’t get over her astonishment. “I have to confess something horrendous to you. I was so captivated by your youth and beauty that I bought an elixir of youth from a local shopkeeper with the entire count’s treasure, but the potion must have been past its expiration date...”
“Well, you’ve really done it now , kid!” replied the good woman angrily; at that very moment—and no doubt due to her distress—the effects of the elixir wore off for her as well.
Those were difficult days for the couple, but thank God they soon found a shared hobby that saved their marriage: the vial.
Ever since then, they’ve been seen at all hours gathered around a steaming cauldron, trying to discover the elusive formula for eternal youth. He no longer wears shoes, because he’s grown hooves, and she, fortunately, with her new eagle-like beak, can no longer speak and has stopped complaining.
“You forgetful witch!” he constantly reproaches her.
10. Every cloud has a silver lining
This is a true story, though somewhat hard to believe. I’ve heard about it because it’s been the talk of my neighborhood. Perhaps the gossips are exaggerating a bit, so I take no responsibility for any harm this might cause to a young, marriageable woman who isn’t entirely convinced of the wisdom of her marriage.
It’s the story of Christine Schneider,
a young sales clerk at a Schelecker franchise in the Alt Leitzow neighborhood—which used to be a small, charming village and is now part of Willmersdorf.
The young woman was short, friendly, and nearsighted, but with contact lenses, she was quite attractive. Unfortunately, her fish-eye glasses slightly distorted her petite, charming face, and with that, an intelligent and imaginative reader must already have formed a rough idea of her appearance and character.
Christine had a boyfriend who enjoyed an excellent job, as he was employed by the city as a sewer maintenance specialist; however, given his youth, he was currently responsible for what we might call “minor sewers,” but he had not yet earned the trust necessary to handle those running beneath the major avenues and other high-stakes urban areas, such as the embassy district.
Since a junior sewer worker’s salary wasn’t exactly lavish—and hers wasn’t much better, after taxes and social security were deducted—the days and years passed without the couple deciding to take the plunge into marriage. But on the very day Hans (the sewer worker boyfriend) turned 38, he received the happy news of his promotion, and from then on he would be responsible for certain sewers near the Reichstag and the federal government. In a few more years, and if he earned enough merit, he might see his dream come true of moving about with ease beneath the country’s highest seat of government. So the wedding was set.
Christine’s mother, a sensible and thrifty woman, one of those who had lived through the postwar years of hardship , suggested to her daughter that, since the distance between their home and the magistrate’s court was barely 50 meters, it wasn’t worth renting a car, and they could easily make the trip on foot. With the money saved, the good woman calculated that it would be enough for the wedding cake and a case of medium-quality champagne—but French.
“If the weather’s nice, my dear, it’ll even be pleasant to take this little stroll.
“But Mom, the train on my dress will get all ruined!”
“We’ll figure something out, dear—you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. You’ve clearly never lived through a war!”
Everything was agreed upon and set for Friday of the first week of May, exactly three days before Hans was set to inaugurate his new, more prestigious sewer route.
The appointed day arrived, but Mother Nature wasn’t cooperating, and dawn broke on a cold, damp day that threatened rain. To make matters worse, it had poured the day before, and the streets were still flooded. In vain or the poor Christine complained to her mother, arguing that her wedding dress was more important than the cake or the cheap French champagne, but her mother insisted:
“But it’s only fifty meters, woman! What are umbrellas for?”
There was nothing to be done, and the thrifty mother got her way. Once in the elevator, they encountered their first difficulties, but those were nothing compared to what awaited them. The first serious setback came as they passed under a leafy linden tree in the garden, which, due to an untimely gust of wind, dumped all the water accumulated on its leaves onto the unfortunate bride—and she had no umbrella! They cautiously stepped out onto the street, and would you believe it—the boy from the fourth floor just had to be playing ball at that very moment, and poor Christine took a solid hit from the ball right on her backside, leaving a perfectly round mud stain on that part of her dress. The girl nearly had a heart attack,
but her mother, determined to have her way, remarked:
“If you tuck the skirt over it, you won’t even see it!”—and they continued on their way.
They crossed the street just as a van belonging to a painter-wallpaperer well-known in the neighborhood was passing by, loaded with his usual tools of the trade, and so as not to run over the poor girl—who, naturally, was walking with a certain clumsiness, he swerved sharply, and one of the paint cans flew through the air and landed right at the unfortunate girl’s feet. The can burst open, and some of the paint—red!—decorated her pretty bridal shoes, as well as slightly staining the hem of her dress, but the mother insisted:
“It looks like it’s part of the dress’s design! Don’t worry, dear, in half an hour you’ll be married and it won’t matter anymore!”—and they continued on their painful journey.
They hadn’t walked even ten meters along the sidewalk when the typical hooligan drove by in his yellow BMW convertible at full speed, “splashing through puddles,” and one of them—probably the biggest one—was right in front of the pair of unfortunate women when the hooligan sped right through it. The mother, who wasn’t stupid and had anticipated such a possibility, didn’t even get wet, because she was walking on the opposite side of the street and her daughter was completely shielding her. But poor Christine was simply a total mess.
“I’m not getting married, Mom; I’m soaked right down to my headband, my dress is a total mess, and my shoes are stuck to the ground because of the paint! I’m not getting married, and I’m going straight back home right now!”
“Don’t be so irresponsible, daughter! What’s your Hans going to think? Do Do you think there’s no shortage of suitors for a nearsighted, short, and insignificant girl like you? Come on, keep going—it’s only thirty more meters. You’ll marry the sewer worker and be done with it!”
Soaked, upset, half-limping, whimpering, but also putting on a brave face, the two women continued their painful journey toward the courthouse.
The dozen guests were already visible in the courthouse’s small gardens, and the groom was among them, when the inevitable happened—for in that state, the poor girl had serious trouble staying on her feet, and as she tried to cross the street, just a few meters from her future husband’s arms, she took a fatal misstep as she stepped off the sidewalk and literally fell on her butt into a huge, muddy puddle! It had been less than two minutes since the local street sweeper had left his little pile of trash right there, intending to pick it up later, but that was no longer necessary—it had soaked into her beautiful dress, which had definitively ceased to be white and taken on a slimy, indescribable hue.
Ridiculously perched on the puddle, missing a contact lens and with one of her red shoes nowhere to be found, poor Christine burst into hysterical tears, kicking her legs and waving her arms about in a frenzy.
“Mom, Mom; this means I won’t get married after all, and that’s that!” the girl shouted.
The groom, who heard the screams, ran to her aid.
He pulled her to safety from further misfortune and, shaking out her dress with a certain revulsion at the ice-cream wrappers and bits of salami stuck to it, could think of nothing better than to scold her:
“Aren’t you ashamed to show up looking like this on your wedding day!”
Christine mustered her courage, regained her composure, held onto a streetlamp with one hand so as not to lose her balance, and with the other delivered a resounding slap to her thoughtless fiancé. Then, with a resolute air and her head held high—as befits someone who is completely in the right and has just made a major decision—she turned on her heel, intending to head back home.
But such haughtiness, combined with the fact that she was missing a shoe and a contact lens, prevented her from seeing the Mercedes convertible that, at that very moment, was driving down the same street toward the courthouse, and before she knew it, the inevitable collision occurred. The scene unfolded as follows: The Mercedes was traveling at a slow speed, so it was able to brake in time. Christine stumbled into one of the doors, did a somersault in the air, and literally landed in the driver’s arms without the slightest scratch or bruise. Instinctively, the girl threw her arms around him, and he found himself with a bride in his arms, completely unexpected and unanticipated. At first, there was some confusion, but then, little by little, the scene began to sink in, and before long, the onlookers were laughing themselves silly. Christine and her young, handsome, and wealthy future husband—who, it must be said, were laughing the hardest of all—and they continued to laugh throughout their long and happy life together!
As for Hans, the thoughtless boyfriend, given his good job, he soon found a girlfriend—a self-proclaimed fan
of the sewers, with whom he tours the city’s most important ones every weekend, while he, entranced, explains the highlights of each drain or manhole to her, along with other technical details of lesser importance. As I said, the story is hard to believe, but that’s how it was told to me!
11. The Poetess of Novalis Street
In Berlin’s central Mitte district, specifically on Novalis Street, lived Cornelia Schumann, a young aspiring poetess. Her choice of this street as her home was no accident, for she felt an irresistible passion for this ill-fated poet of German Romanticism.
“What living being, endowed with senses, does not love,
above all the wonders of the space
that surrounds it, that which brings joy to all, the Light
—with its colors, its rays, and its waves;
its sweet omnipresence—
when it is the dawn that breaks?”
This stanza, from his “Hymns to the Night,” was her absolute favorite. Cornelia also felt that it was in the Light where the magic lay from which good poems spring. After reading and rereading the works of Novalis himself, of Hoffmann, of Hölderlin, and of so many other Romantic poets, she decided she was ready to try writing her first poems, and she set to work:
“
In the flower-filled valley, illuminated by the pale moonlight...”
—No, too corny!
“Your eyes are two morning stars...”
—How awful; what nonsense! Okay, let’s start over...
“With the first light of the uncertain dawn...”
—Forget it, I don’t know how to write a poem! But how do you write a poem?
—“With your soul, dear girl!” said someone whose presence she hadn’t noticed. At first she was alarmed and was about to call the police, but when she saw her interlocutor—strangely dressed in clothes that reminded her of the engravings in Goethe’s books—she calmed down.
“Who are you?”
“ Who else could it be? Friedrich von Hardenberg, alias “Novalis”! And don’t be alarmed—things like this happen every day to budding poets.
“I’m not alarmed, and it’s not the first time I’ve imagined houses that seem real...” . But anyway, since you’re here, tell me: how does a poem come about?
Novalis hadn’t expected to be accepted so naturally, coming from where he came from and showing up so unexpectedly, but given the girl’s warmth, he felt emboldened and solemnly presented his case:
“Poetry, my dear, is like a stormy night. During the day, the heat and humidity in the air charge the clouds with electricity, and there comes a moment when a spark flies and torrential rain falls. It’s brief, but powerful, and sweeps away everything in its path… do you understand?
“That’s a bit of an old-fashioned explanation… so romantic! Does nature always have to come into it?”
“Romantic? What’s that?”
“Good question for the founder of Romanticism!”
“I didn’t know our era was going to be called ‘Romantic’!”
—Well then, why did you, Hoffmann, Hölderlin, Goethe, and so many other artists of your era decide to break with the classics and return to idealistic utopias and nature?
—Ah, you mean that! My dear child, everything in this world has a logical explanation. In my time, the reality around us was ugly, depressing, and deeply unjust. Constant wars produced hundreds of wounded , and when their wounds became infected, it was necessary to cauterize them or amputate limbs. The streets were a horrifying spectacle of disfigured and battered people. There were dozens of endemic diseases, such as tuberculosis or syphilis, and few suitable places to treat them. The wealthy bourgeoisie paid no attention to the destitute, and you couldn’t walk down a street or through a square without being accosted by dozens of ragged children or decrepit old women begging for alms. Young girls—poor creatures—were frequently raped, and unwanted children were so common that it wasn’t hard to find their little corpses
in the garbage heaps. I could tell you dozens of stories, each more horrifying than the last. And what did the oblivious and bored aristocracy and the upper middle class do to alleviate their suffering? Nothing! That’s why some of us rebelled against the established order and decided to do things our own way, breaking away from the classical norms of our strict parents! Is that what you’ve called “Romanticism”?
—I hadn’t thought of it that way, because the social movements came quite a while after your death... According to this biography, you...—Hold on, my dear, let me see that book. You say it’s my biography? Hmm… it exaggerates a bit… To tell the truth, what we were doing was more of a pose. We were just as bourgeois as everyone else and worried about our future. Goethe, whom you mentioned, always kept his lucrative job as a forester, and I finished my mining studies before my early death, just as my strict father wished. I don’t know if they say it that way anymore, but it was actually a fad. Do you understand?—Yes, but it’s a little depressing to hear you say that. And what about your romantic affair with the teenage Sophie von Kühn?—Yes, it was a heavy blow. But death was an everyday, familiar occurrence. All my siblings died of consumption. Tuberculosis was the disease of the bourgeois class, very common among young women due to their poor dietary and urban habits.—So, wasn’t it the death of young Sophie that inspired your best poems?—It certainly was, but I couldn’t tell you which of the many deaths of loved ones inspired me more than another... And what’s that contraption?—This isn’t a contraption—it’s a laptop!—What’s it for?—For writing and surfing the Internet! Of course, you don’t know what the Internet is...—And where’s the pen and ink?—There’s no pen or ink! Look, you press this button—click—see?—and a letter appears on the screen, then another and another until you make a word. If you don’t like it, you delete it, and if you do, you save it in its memory...—“And with that contraption, you intend to write a good poem?”—“What’s wrong with that? But if you don’t tell me how to write a good poem, I’ll never manage it, neither with a pen nor with a computer!—My dear girl, remember what you said about the storm! And now, I’m sorry to have to leave you, because there are a dozen new poets in this very neighborhood who need my help.Novalis vanished just as he had appeared, and Cornelia Schumann, remembering what he’d said about the storm, felt inspired to write her first poem:“BerlinHas wide avenues and a certain angelic smile.It has suffered, and you can see it in its new skin,almost freshly washed of the dirty smoke from the Allied bombs.It has a zoo with a little white bearthat’s no longer funny because it’s grown upand the children long for its innocence.It has long trams, yellow as canaries,discreet as old retirees,just a “cling, cling” every now and then, and they pass by.It has big newspapers, where people, amazed at who they are,hide their everyday lives, and drink coffee with milkin large cups, in small sips.It has a legion of bicycles coming and going aimlessly,skirting the river to feel the breeze on their faces,with the wrinkles of youths weighed down by the years, and they’re content with that.It has boats carrying anxious tourists,who wish time would stand still,just as their smiles of admiration for the great willows and the old beech trees do.It has serious universities full of young people worried about the future,without knowing what the future holds,precisely because they are young.It has Turkish neighborhoods, almost Latin ones, old and new.With a neighborhood feel—neighborhood cafés, neighborhood shops, neighborhood kids, neighborhood dogs, discreet and polite moms, also from the neighborhood—and every neighborhood is happy to be a neighborhood.It takes pride in not being important,but in being beautiful, welcoming, tolerant,and discreetly frustrated by its great smallness.It has a Blue Angel, the memory of Dietrich,the 1920s and so many other years,the charming cabaret, and the chorus girls decked out in feathers from head to toe.Berlin has, in a nutshell,the charm of the humanand the mystery of the divine.”He reread it twice and thought it was like a good downpour. Novalis was right about the storm!
