That’s when I understood her most dangerous ability: to suddenly inspire compassion. Unhappy with his creation, God sent prophets to spread compassion and to preach against the dangers of lust. It was one of their main messages. But it went unheeded because God, master of contradictions, planted in the human heart a wild desire, a spark left by his awesome powers, that humans were destined to battle – God wanted so much to happen – and most were overwhelmed in the face of this power; if only in their dreams, the most pure of heart, committed the sin in their dreams. And although we could not obey the prophets’ words we learned how to act in the face of sin, we learned how to face it down or take flight, if we do not eventually fall prey to it.
Compassion is another story.
Closing the doors on lust, God flung open a door to compassion. We travel easily on the road to compassion, with no doubt in our heart, determined and never afraid.
The enigmatic smile on her face told me she knew the power of compassion. Her compassion was a kind of Trojan Horse – a God’s compassion – and doors were flung open and she rode in with a conscience veiled. All lustful thoughts had been banished.
God wouldn’t say it but I will: ‘Be careful of the compassion of a beautiful woman.’
Some conceal selfishness and beauty with compassion, and they have the power to devastate and destroy.
It was an idea I wanted to include in my new book, a new message from a prophet, and I wanted God to know.
On second thought I realised that if I did a reader might issue his or her own Godly declaration.
‘Mortals, beware the conceit of authors.’
A lust that inspired my conceit, and her compassion.
We were gladiators in the arena. I knew so much. But knowing so much did nothing for me.
I was helpless.
She was wearing a white dress with dark blue polka dots and chic sandals, red nail polish on her toes. I wanted to have her.
Then and there.
My emotions were locked away behind stronger walls but she could portray a range of emotions on her face whenever she wanted. That was something I simply couldn’t do.
And her counterfeit emotions were displayed so brilliantly that hardly anyone could detect the smallest trace of what she was truly feeling.
When she flashed that innocent, vulnerable smile, even the truth behind was blinding.
As she sat down whispers rippled through the garden like a breath of wind. They were trying to work out who I was.
‘I’m starving,’ she said.
She had a beautiful smile.
The waiter hurried over to our table and she ordered nearly everything on the menu.
‘Is all that for both of us?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, I’m just really hungry.’
‘Hard to believe you’re that hungry,’ I said.
‘I love to eat.’
‘Seems so.’
She put her bag down on the chair beside her, a small leather bag with a little golden chain on the handle.
‘Did you read the book?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘It wouldn’t be a sin to say you liked it.’
‘I’m not a real reader. I don’t think my liking it would really mean anything. Does my opinion really matter?’
I wanted to reach out and grab her by the shoulder and say, ‘Tell me.’
‘Did you like it?’ I asked, calmly.
‘I did.’
‘You hesitated. Did you really like it?’
‘I loved it.’
‘Then why don’t you just say it? Say it like you just ordered all that food. You’re allowed to speak about books in the same way, with the same appetite. It’s not bad manners.’
A bashful smile fell over her face and for a moment she looked like a little girl.
‘I really liked it. You write beautifully. And you have a thing about writers and women. You know a lot about them.’
‘What did you like most?’
I wanted to talk about it, her favorite parts, memorable chapters and sentences. I wondered if she had specific comments to make. Did she really think that I was a good writer? Was she a real fan?
I’m not satisfied with light praise.
No writer ever is.
It is easier to accept a flat-out rejection than faint praise, which is much harder to bear.
Beneath a writer’s confident and tough exterior, there’s a fragile heart ready to break when there’s even the slightest absence of excitement in someone’s voice.
I can be with a woman who hasn’t read my work, I’ve been with many; but I could never be with someone who finds my writing mundane; and I certainly couldn’t make love to a woman who felt this way.
‘There were some very touching moments.’
‘Which ones?’
As she looked at me I wondered if she pitied me or if she understood that I valued her opinion deeply. I didn’t know. But she had really read the book.
‘Did you finish it?’
‘I was up all night … I was very impressed. How can you do that?’
I leaned back and felt the stress leave my body. I had become desperate. I desperately needed this woman, who hadn’t read a book in years, to praise my work.
It was pathetic but I was overjoyed to hear what she had to say.
‘I undress, stick my head in the fridge and then I write.’
‘What?’ she said, incredulously, her eyes wide open in surprise.
‘No, that’s not how I write,’ I said, laughing. ‘That’s what Marquez said. But it seems like a terrible method.’
The waiter arrived with our food and soon the table was covered with salads, stuffed mussels, chicken liver, meatballs, pastries and fried aubergine.
‘Are we really going to eat all this?’ I asked.
‘I’m hungry.’
And she really was. She had an incredible appetite. We settled into a comfortable rhythm as we ate. Almost in a whisper, she recounted what she remembered from the book, as if sharing a secret with me, something that had really happened, speaking about the characters like they were real. ‘If you liked it that much, why don’t you read more?’
She leaned over the table and said conspiratorially, ‘I’m too easily swept away. I get the real world and the fantasy world all mixed up. I can’t distinguish what happened here or there. It’s a jumble in my head.’ Then she added, ‘You know, it really scares me sometimes.’
I was beguiled by her innocence and her vulnerability and I felt something like love. But at the time I had no idea what had prompted the feelings. She had the power to erase all the preconceptions I had about her. The moment she stepped into the garden she had made me forget.
She could do that.
‘I read all the classics when I was a kid. My mother encouraged us to read them. I was lost in Anna Karenina. For a while I really believed I was living in a Russian palace.’
It occurred to me that