Eleven Minutes. Пауло Коэльо

She picked up her two

       The church was completely

       Heidi waited until the

       When Maria opened her eyes

       Afterword

       The Alchemist

       By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

       The Fifth Mountain

       The Pilgrimage

       The Valkyries

       Veronika Decides to Die

       The Devil and Miss Prym

       Manual of the Warrior of Light

       About the Author

       Also by Paulo Coelho

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Poem

      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, 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.

      For the rest of the day, she couldn’t concentrate on her lessons, tormented by her own absurd behaviour, but, at the same time, relieved, because she knew that the boy had noticed her too, and that the pencil had just been an excuse to start a conversation, because when he came over to her, she had noticed that he already had a pen in his pocket. She waited for the next time, and during that night – and the nights that followed – she went over and over what she would say to him, until she found the right way to begin a story that would never end.

      But there was no next time, for although they continued to walk to school together, with Maria sometimes a few steps ahead, clutching a pencil in her right hand, and at other times, walking slightly behind him so that she could gaze at him tenderly, he never said another word to her, and she had to content herself with loving and suffering in silence until the end of the school year.

      During the interminable school holidays that followed, she woke up one morning to find that she had blood on her legs and was convinced she was going to die. She decided to leave a letter for the boy, telling him that he had been the great love of her life, and then she would go off into the bush and doubtless be killed by one of the two monsters that terrorised the country people round about: the werewolf and the mula-sem-cabeça (said to be a priest’s mistress transformed into a mule and doomed to wander the night). That way, her parents wouldn’t suffer too much over her death, for, although constantly beset by tragedies, the poor are always hopeful, and her parents would persuade themselves that she had been kidnapped by a wealthy, childless family, but would return one day, rich and famous, while the current (and eternal) love of her life would never forget her, torturing himself each day for not having spoken to her again.

      She never did write that letter because her mother came into the room, saw the bloodstained sheets, smiled and said:

      ‘Now you’re a young