there is just a small group of outstanding students, who practise for nearly forty hours a week. Scouts from big orchestras visit the music schools in search of new talent, who are then invited to turn professional. That’s what happened to me.’
‘It would seem that you found your vocation,’ says the ambassador. ‘We’re not all so lucky.’
‘It wasn’t exactly my vocation. I started practising a lot because I was sexually abused when I was ten.’
All conversation around the table stops. The ambassador tries to change the subject and makes some comment about Brazil negotiating with Russia on the export and import of heavy machinery, but no one, absolutely no one, is interested in my country’s trade balance. It falls to me to pick up the thread of the story.
‘Hilal, if you wouldn’t mind, I think everyone here would be interested to know what relation there is between being a young sex abuse victim and becoming a violin virtuoso.’
‘What does your name mean?’ asks the ambassador’s wife, in a last desperate attempt to take the conversation off in another direction.
‘In Turkish it means new moon. It’s the symbol on our national flag. My father was an ardent nationalist. Actually, it’s a name more common among boys than girls. It has another meaning in Arabic apparently, but I don’t quite know what.’
I refuse to be sidetracked.
‘To go back to what we were talking about, would you mind explaining? We’re among family.’
Family?! Most of the people here met for the first time over supper.
Everyone seems suddenly very preoccupied with their plates, cutlery and glasses, pretending to be concentrating on the food, but longing to know the rest of her story. Hilal speaks as if what she was talking about were the most natural thing in the world.
‘It was a neighbour, whom everyone thought of as gentle and helpful, a good man to have around in an emergency. He was married and had two daughters my age. Whenever I went to his house to play with them, he would sit me on his knee and tell me nice stories. While he was doing this, however, his hand would be wandering all over my body, and at first I took this as a sign of affection. As time passed, though, he began touching me between my legs and asking me to touch his penis, things like that.’
She looks at the other five women around the table and says:
‘It’s not at all uncommon, unfortunately. Wouldn’t you agree?’
No one answers, but my instinct tells me that at least one or two would have experienced something similar.
‘Anyway, that wasn’t the only problem. The worst thing was that I started to enjoy it, even though I knew it was wrong. Then, one day, I decided not to go back there, despite my parents telling me that I ought to play with our neighbour’s daughters more. At the time I was learning the violin and so I told them that I wasn’t getting on well in my classes and needed to practise more. I started playing compulsively, desperately.’
No one moves. No one knows quite what to say.
‘And because I carried all that guilt around inside me, because victims always end up considering themselves to be the culprits, I decided to keep punishing myself. So, in my relationships with men, I’ve always sought suffering, conflict and despair.’
She looks straight at me, and the whole table notices.
‘But that’s going to change now, isn’t that right?’
Having been in charge of the situation up to that point, I suddenly lose control. All I can do is mutter ‘Yes, well, I hope so’ and quickly steer the conversation round to the beautiful building that houses the Brazilian embassy in Russia.
When we leave, I ask where Hilal is staying and check with my industrialist friend if he would mind taking her home before dropping me off at my hotel. He agrees.
‘Thank you for the violin music, and thank you for sharing your story with a group of perfect strangers. Now, each morning, when your mind is still empty, devote a little time to the Divine. The air contains a cosmic force for which every culture has a different name, but that doesn’t matter. The important thing is to do what I’m telling you now. Inhale deeply and ask for all the blessings in the air to enter your body and fill every cell. Then exhale slowly, projecting happiness and peace around you. Repeat this ten times. You’ll be helping to heal yourself and contributing to healing the world as well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Just do the exercise. You’ll gradually eradicate your negative feelings about love. Don’t let yourself be destroyed by a force that was placed in our hearts in order to make everything better. Breathe in, inhaling whatever exists in the heavens and on earth. Breathe out beauty and fecundity. Believe me, it will work.’
‘I didn’t come here to learn an exercise I could find in any book on yoga,’ says Hilal angrily.
Outside, Moscow is parading past us. What I would really like is to wander the streets and have a coffee somewhere, but it’s been a long day and I have to get up early tomorrow for a series of engagements.
‘So I can come with you, then?’
Can she talk of nothing else? I met her less than 24 hours ago – if you can call such a strange encounter a meeting. My friend laughs. I try to remain serious.
‘Look, I took you to the ambassador’s supper. Isn’t that enough? I’m not making this journey to promote my books,’ I hesitate. ‘I’m doing it for personal reasons.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Something about the way she says this makes me feel that she really does know, but I choose not to trust my instincts.
‘I’ve made many men suffer and I’ve suffered greatly too,’ Hilal goes on. ‘The light of love flows out of my soul, but it can go nowhere because it’s blocked by pain. I could inhale and exhale every morning for the rest of my life, but that wouldn’t solve anything. I’ve tried to express my love through the violin, but that’s not enough either. I know that you can heal me and that I can heal what you’re feeling. I’ve lit a fire on the mountain opposite yours, you can count on me.’
Why was she saying this?
‘What hurts us is what heals us,’ she said. ‘Life has been very hard on me, but, at the same time, it has taught me a great deal. You can’t see it, but my body is covered in open wounds that are constantly bleeding. I wake each morning wanting to die before the day is out, but I continue to live, suffering and fighting, fighting and suffering, clinging on to the certainty that it will all end one day. Please, don’t leave me alone here. This journey is my salvation.’
My friend stops the car, puts his hand in his pocket and hands Hilal a wad of notes.
‘He doesn’t own the train,’ he says. ‘Take this; it should be more than enough for a second-class ticket and three meals a day.’
Then turning to me, he says:
‘You know the pain I’m going through at the moment. The woman I love has died, and I, too, could inhale and exhale for the rest of my life, but I’m never going to be truly happy again. My wounds are open and bleeding too. I understand exactly what this young woman is saying. I know you’re making this journey for entirely personal reasons, but don’t leave her alone like this. If you believe in the words you write, allow the people around you to grow with you.’
‘OK, fine,’ I say to her. ‘He’s right, I don’t own the train, but I just want you to know that I’m going to be surrounded by people most of the time, so there won’t be many opportunities to talk.’
My friend starts the engine again and drives for another fifteen minutes in silence. We reach a leafy square. She tells him where to park, jumps out and says goodbye. I get out of the car and accompany her to the door of the house where she’s staying with friends.
She