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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
“‘Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you,’ said the
wisest of wise men. ‘The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels
of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.’”
The shepherd said nothing. He had understood the story the old
king had told him. A shepherd may like to travel, but he should
never forget about his sheep.
The old man looked at the boy and, with his hands held together,
made several strange gestures over the boy’s head. Then, taking his
sheep, he walked away.
AT THE HIGHEST POINT IN TARIFA THERE IS AN OLD FORT, built by the
Moors. From atop its walls, one can catch a glimpse of Africa.
Melchizedek, the king of Salem, sat on the wall of the fort that
afternoon, and felt the levanter blowing in his face. The sheep
fidgeted nearby, uneasy with their new owner and excited by so
much change. All they wanted was food and water.
Melchizedek watched a small ship that was plowing its way out
of the port. He would never again see the boy, just as he had never
seen Abraham again after having charged him his one-tenth fee.
That was his work.
The gods should not have desires, because they don’t have
Personal Legends. But the king of Salem hoped desperately that the
boy would be successful.
It’s too bad that he’s quickly going to forget my name, he
thought. I should have repeated it for him. Then when he spoke
about me he would say that I am Melchizedek, the king of Salem.
He looked to the skies, feeling a bit abashed, and said, “I know
it’s the vanity of vanities, as you said, my Lord. But an old king
sometimes has to take some pride in himself.”
HOW STRANGE AFRICA IS, THOUGHT THE BOY.
He was sitting in a bar very much like the other bars he had seen
along the narrow streets of Tangier. Some men were smoking from
a gigantic pipe that they passed from one to the other. In just a few
hours he had seen men walking hand in hand, women with their
faces covered, and priests that climbed to the tops of towers and
chanted—as everyone about him went to their knees and placed
their foreheads on the ground.
“A practice of infidels,” he said to himself. As a child in church, he
had always looked at the image of Saint Santiago Matamoros on his
white horse, his sword unsheathed, and figures such as these
kneeling at his feet. The boy felt ill and terribly alone. The infidels
had an evil look about them.
Besides this, in the rush of his travels he had forgotten a detail,
just one detail, which could keep him from his treasure for a long
time: only Arabic was spoken in this country.
The owner of the bar approached him, and the boy pointed to a
drink that had been served at the next table. It turned out to be a
bitter tea. The boy preferred wine.
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 14</h5>
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