Eleven Minutes

Shortly after writing this (#litres_trial_promo)

It wasn’t theatre this time (#litres_trial_promo)

The minutes became hours (#litres_trial_promo)

It isn’t his house (#litres_trial_promo)

She started the day by (#litres_trial_promo)

Nyah, the only one of her work (#litres_trial_promo)

She picked up her two (#litres_trial_promo)

The church was completely (#litres_trial_promo)

Heidi waited until the (#litres_trial_promo)

When Maria opened her eyes (#litres_trial_promo)

Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)

The Alchemist (#litres_trial_promo)

By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept (#litres_trial_promo)

The Fifth Mountain (#litres_trial_promo)

The Pilgrimage (#litres_trial_promo)

The Valkyries (#litres_trial_promo)

Veronika Decides to Die (#litres_trial_promo)

The Devil and Miss Prym (#litres_trial_promo)

Manual of the Warrior of Light (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Paulo Coelho (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Poem (#ulink_0b0d26a1-28f8-5f26-9196-895db9e16fdc)

For I am the first and the last

I am the venerated and the despised

I am the prostitute and the saint

I am the wife and the virgin

I am the mother and the daughter

I am the arms of my mother

I am barren and my children are many

I am the married woman and the spinster

I am the woman who gives birth and she

who never procreated

I am the consolation for the pain of birth

I am the wife and the husband

And it was my man who created me

I am the mother of my father

I am the sister of my husband

And he is my rejected son

Always respect me

For I am the shameful and the magnificent one

Hymn to Isis, third or fourth century BC, discovered in Nag Hammadi

Once upon a time (#ulink_3cedd7c0-7b5e-5e08-b7a2-a7c2f2f4b785), there was a prostitute called Maria. Wait a minute. ‘Once upon a time’ is how all the best children’s stories begin and ‘prostitute’ is a word for adults. How can I start a book with this apparent contradiction? But since, at every moment of our lives, we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss, let’s keep that beginning.

Once upon a time, there was a prostitute called Maria.

Like all prostitutes, she was born both innocent and a virgin, and, as an adolescent, she dreamed of meeting the man of her life (rich, handsome, intelligent), of getting married (in a wedding dress), having two children (who would grow up to be famous) and living in a lovely house (with a sea view). Her father was a travelling salesman, her mother a seamstress, and her hometown, in the interior of Brazil, had only one cinema, one nightclub and one bank, which was why Maria was always hoping that one day, without warning, her Prince Charming would arrive, sweep her off her feet and take her away with him so that they could conquer the world together.

While she was waiting for her Prince Charming to appear, all she could do was dream. She fell in love for the first time when she was eleven, en route from her house to school. On the first day of term, she discovered that she was not alone on her way to school: making the same journey was a boy who lived in her neighbourhood and who shared the same timetable. They never exchanged a single word, but gradually Maria became aware that, for her, the best part of the day were those moments spent going to school: moments of dust, thirst and weariness, with the sun beating down, the boy walking fast, and with her trying her hardest to keep up.

This scene was repeated month after month; Maria, who hated studying and whose only other distraction in life was television, began to wish that the days would pass quickly; she waited eagerly for each journey to school and, unlike other girls her age, she found the weekends deadly dull. Given that the hours pass more slowly for a child than for an adult, she suffered greatly and found the days far too long simply because they allowed her only ten minutes to be with the love of her life and thousands of hours to spend thinking about him, imagining how good it would be if they could talk.

Then it happened.

One morning, on the way to school, the boy came up to her and asked if he could borrow a pencil. Maria didn’t reply; in fact, she seemed rather irritated by this unexpected approach and even quickened her step. She had felt petrified when she saw him coming towards her, terrified that he might realise how much she loved him, how eagerly she had waited for him, how she had dreamed of taking his hand, of walking straight past the school gates with him and continuing along the road to the end, where – people said – there was a big city, film stars and television stars, cars, lots of cinemas, and an endless number of fun things to do.