Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho Page B

exactly what she did, though, he was just trying out a hunch, but she had to give him an answer.
    'Well, I can't think of anything duller than painting; a
     static thing, a movement frozen in time, a photograph that is never faithful to the original. A dead thing that is no
     longer of any interest to anyone, apart from painters, who are people who think they're important and cultivated, but
     who haven't evolved with the rest of the world. Have you ever
     heard of Joan Miro? Well, I hadn't until an Arab in a
     restaurant mentioned the name, but knowing the name didn't change anything in my life.'
    She wondered if she had gone too far, but then the drinks arrived and the conversation was interrupted. They sat saying nothing for a while. Maria thought it was probably time to leave, and perhaps Ralf Hart thought the same. But before
     them stood those two glasses full of that disgusting drink, and that was a reason for them to continue sitting there together.
    'Why the book on farm management?'
    'What do you mean?'
    'I've been to Rue de Berne. When you said you worked in a nightclub, I remembered that I'd seen you before in that very expensive place. I didn't think of it while I was painting, though: your “light” was so strong.'
    Maria felt the floor beneath her feet give way. For the
     first time, she felt ashamed of what she did, even though she had no reason to; she was working to keep herself and her family. He was the one who should feel ashamed of going to
     Rue de Berne; all the possible charm of that meeting had suddenly vanished.
    'Listen, Mr Hart, I may be a Brazilian, but I've lived in Switzerland for nine months now. I've learned that the reason the Swiss are so discreet is because they live in a
     very small country where almost everyone knows everyone else, as we have just discovered, which is why no one ever asks
     what other people do. Your remark was both inappropriate and very rude, but if your aim was to humiliate me in order to make yourself feel better, you're
     wasting your time. Thanks for the anisette, which is disgusting, by the way, but which I will drink to the last drop. I will then smoke a cigarette, and, finally, I'll get up and leave. But you can leave right now, if you want; we can't have famous painters sitting at the same table as a
     prostitute. Because that's what I am, you see. A prostitute.
    I'm a prostitute through and through, from head to toe, and I don't care who knows. That's my one great virtue: I refuse to deceive myself or you. Because it's not worth it, because you don't merit a lie. Imagine if that famous chemist over there were to find out what I am.'
    She began to speak more loudly.
    'Yes, I'm a prostitute! And do you know what? It's set me free - knowing that I'll be leaving this godawful place in exactly ninety days' time, with loads of money, far better
     educated, capable of choosing a good bottle of wine, with my handbag stuffed with photographs of the snow, and knowing all there is to know about men!'
    The waitress was listening, horrified. The chemist seemed not to notice. Perhaps it was just the alcohol talking, or
     the feeling that soon she would once more be a woman from the interior of Brazil, or perhaps it was the sheer joy of being able to say what she did and to laugh at the shocked
     reactions, the critical looks, the scandalised gestures.
    'Do you understand, Mr Hart? I'm a prostitute through and through, from head to toe - and that's my one great quality, my virtue!'
    He said nothing. He didn't even move. Maria felt her confidence returning.
    'And you, sir, are a painter with no understanding of your models. Perhaps the chemist sitting over there, dozing, lost
     to the world, is really a railway worker. Perhaps none of the other people in your painting are what they seem. I can't understand otherwise how you could possibly say that you
     could see a “special light” in a woman who, as you discovered while you were painting, IS NOTHING BUT A