The alchemist Part one 08

The boy was surprised, and then irritated. He didn’t need to seek
out the old woman for this! But then he remembered that he wasn’t
going to have to pay anything.
“I didn’t need to waste my time just for this,” he said.
“I told you that your dream was a difficult one. It’s the simple
things in life that are the most extraordinary; only wise men are able
to understand them. And since I am not wise, I have had to learn
other arts, such as the reading of palms.”
“Well, how am I going to get to Egypt?”
“I only interpret dreams. I don’t know how to turn them into reality.
That’s why I have to live off what my daughters provide me with.”
“And what if I never get to Egypt?”
“Then I don’t get paid. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
And the woman told the boy to leave, saying she had already
wasted too much time with him.
So the boy was disappointed; he decided that he would never
again believe in dreams. He remembered that he had a number of
things he had to take care of: he went to the market for something to
eat, he traded his book for one that was thicker, and he found a
bench in the plaza where he could sample the new wine he had
bought. The day was hot, and the wine was refreshing. The sheep
were at the gates of the city, in a stable that belonged to a friend.
The boy knew a lot of people in the city. That was what made
traveling appeal to him—he always made new friends, and he didn’t
need to spend all of his time with them. When someone sees the
same people every day, as had happened with him at the seminary,
they wind up becoming a part of that person’s life. And then they
want the person to change. If someone isn’t what others want them
to be, the others become angry. Everyone seems to have a clear
idea of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his
or her own.
He decided to wait until the sun had sunk a bit lower in the sky
before following his flock back through the fields. Three days from
now, he would be with the merchant’s daughter.
He started to read the book he had bought. On the very first page
it described a burial ceremony. And the names of the people
involved were very difficult to pronounce. If he ever wrote a book, he
thought, he would present one person at a time, so that the reader
wouldn’t have to worry about memorizing a lot of names.
When he was finally able to concentrate on what he was reading,
he liked the book better; the burial was on a snowy day, and he
welcomed the feeling of being cold. As he read on, an old man sat
down at his side and tried to strike up a conversation.
“What are they doing?” the old man asked, pointing at the people
in the plaza.
“Working,” the boy answered dryly, making it look as if he wanted
to concentrate on his reading.
Actually, he was thinking about shearing his sheep in front of the
merchant’s daughter, so that she could see that he was someone
who was capable of doing difficult things. He had already imagined
the scene many times; every time, the girl became fascinated when
he explained that the sheep had to be sheared from back to front. He
also tried to remember some good stories to relate as he sheared
the sheep. Most of them he had read in books, but he would tell
them as if they were from his personal experience. She would never
know the difference, because she didn’t know how to read.
Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a
conversation. He said that he was tired and thirsty, and asked if he
might have a sip of the boy’s wine. The boy offered his bottle, hoping
that the old man would leave him alone.
But the old man wanted to talk, and he asked the boy what book
he was reading. The boy was tempted to be rude, and move to
another bench, but his father had taught him to be respectful of the
elderly. So he held out the book to the man—for two reasons: first,
that he, himself, wasn’t sure how to pronounce the title; and second,
that if the old man didn’t know how to read, he would probably feel
ashamed and decide of his own accord to change benches.
“Hmm . . .” said the old man, looking at all sides of the book, as if
it were some strange object. “This is an important book, but it’s really
irritating.”
The boy was shocked. The old man knew how to read, and had
already read the book. And if the book was irritating, as the old man
had said, the boy still had time to change it for another.