Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho Page A

evening light?
    'Your personal light,' he said, realising that she didn't know what he was talking about.
    Her personal light. Well, how wrong could he be, that innocent painter, who obviously hadn't learned much about
     life in his thirty-odd years. But then, as everyone
     knows, women mature more quickly than men, and although Maria might not spend sleepless nights pondering her particular philosophical problems, she knew one thing: she did not have what that painter called 'light' and which she took to mean
     'a special glow'. She was just like everyone else, she endured her loneliness in silence, tried to justify everything she did, pretended to be strong when she was feeling weak or weak when she was feeling strong, she had
     renounced love and taken up a dangerous profession, but now, as that work was coming to an end, she had plans for the future and regrets about the past, and someone like that doesn't have a 'special glow'. That must just be his way of keeping her quiet and still and happy to be there, playing
     the fool.
    Personal light, indeed. He could have said something else, like 'you've got a lovely profile'.
    How does light enter a house? Through the open windows.
    How does light enter a person? Through the open door of love. And her door was definitely shut. He must be a terrible painter; he didn't understand anything.
    'I've finished,' he said and started collecting up his things.
    Maria didn't move. She felt like asking if she could see the painting, but that might seem rude, as if she didn't
     trust what he had done. Curiosity, however, got the better of her; she asked and he concurred. He had painted only her
     face; it looked like her, but if, one day, she had seen that painting, not knowing who the model was, she would have said
     that it was someone much stronger, someone full of a
     'light' she didn't see reflected in the mirror.
    'My name's Ralf Hart. If you like, I can buy you another drink.'
    'No, thank you.'
    It would seem that the encounter was now taking a sadly foreseeable turn: man tries to seduce woman.
    'Two more anisettes, please,' he said, ignoring Maria's answer.
    What else did she have to do? Read a boring book about
     farm management. Walk around the lake, as she had hundreds of times before. Or talk to someone who had seen
     in her a light of which she knew nothing, and on the very
     date marked on the calendar as the beginning of the end of her 'experience'.
    'What do you do?'
    That was the question she did not want to hear, the
     question that had made her avoid other encounters when, for one reason or another, someone had approached her (though
     given the natural discretion of the Swiss, this happened only rarely). What possible answer could she give?
    I work in a nightclub.'
    Right. An enormous load fell from her shoulders, and she was pleased with all that she had learned since she had arrived in Switzerland; ask questions (Who are the Kurds? What is the road to Santiago?) and answer (I work in a nightclub) without worrying about what other people might think.
    'I have a feeling I've seen you before.'
    Maria sensed that he wanted to take things further, and she savoured her small victory; the painter who, minutes
     before, had been giving orders and had seemed so utterly sure
     of what he wanted, had now gone back to being a man like any other man, full of insecurity when confronted by a woman he didn't know.
    'And what are those books?'
    She showed them to him. Farm administration. The man seemed to grow even more insecure.
    'Are you a sex worker?'
    He had shown his cards. Was she dressed like a prostitute? Anyway, she needed to gain time. She was watching herself;
    this was beginning to prove an interesting game, and she had absolutely nothing to lose.
    'Is that all men think about?'
    He put the books back in the bag.
    'Sex and farm management. How very dull.'
    What! It was suddenly her turn to feel put on the spot.
    How dare he speak ill of her profession? He still didn't know