He dove in violently. The cold water saturated his senses. He swam submerged for as many minutes as his lungs allowed. But he found not a single pearl. It seemed as if all the oysters with pearls had emigrated.

He emerged from the sea disconsolate. An old, bearded beachcomber with a huge belly watched him pass saying, in perfect English:

“Without learning, the wise become foolish; by learning, the foolish become wise.”

He took off his wetsuit, looked at him and said, “I’m sorry, old man, I don’t understand English.”

The following day he dove in another place where they told him there were pearls. Again desolation at finding the oysters without pearls.

Sad, he walked along the beach but, when he got to the pier, an old man who appeared to be blind confronted him, saying:

“To write a poem is a bit of magic. The instrument of this magic, language, is abundantly mysterious. In a poem, the cadence and atmosphere of a word can weigh more than its meaning.”

“Forgive me,” said the pearl diver, “but I don’t understand poetry.”

On the third day, he decided to dive again. His vacation was ending and, really, he had almost nothing to show his friends. Once again, the riches of the deep were denied him. Furious, he submerged again and again, until his lungs threatened to burst. He abandoned his zeal. His search had been in vain.
Back on shore he met a man who told him, in Portuguese:

“The value of things is not in the time that they last,
but in the intensity with which they happen.
That is why unforgettable moments, inexplicable things and incomparable persons exist.”

That was the last straw. Wearied by the people he had met and convinced that he would never find pearls there, he left for Trishanku.

English translation by Peter Lownds