Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life

by Fernando Morais

  The room seems palatial in comparison with his modest luggage, the contents of which never vary: four black T-shirts, four pairs of coloured silk boxer shorts, five pairs of socks, a pair of black Levi’s, a pair of denim Bermudas and a pack of Galaxy cigarettes (his stock of the latter is regularly topped up by his office in Rio or by kind visitors from Brazil). For formal occasions he adds to his luggage the coat he was wearing when he flew in from France, a shirt with a collar, a tie and his ‘society shoes’–a pair of cowboy boots–again all in black. Contrary to what one might think on first seeing him, his choice of colour has nothing to do with luck, mysticism or spirituality. As someone who often spends two-thirds of the year away from home, he has learned that black clothes are more resistant to the effects of hotel laundries, although on most occasions he washes his own socks, shirts and underpants. In one corner of his case is a small wash bag containing toothbrush and toothpaste, a razor, dental floss, eau de cologne, shaving foam and a tube of Psorex, a cream he uses for the psoriasis he sometimes gets between his fingers and on his elbows. In another corner, wrapped in socks and underpants, are a small image of Nhá Chica, a holy woman from Minas Gerais in Brazil, and a small bottle of holy water from Lourdes.

  Half an hour later, he returns to the hotel lobby freshly shaved and smelling of lavender, and looking as refreshed as if he has just woken from a good night’s sleep; his overcoat, slung over his shoulders, allows a glimpse of a small blue butterfly with open wings tattooed on his left forearm. His last engagement for the day is dinner at the home of an artist in the Buda hills above the city on the right bank of the Danube, with a wonderful view of the old capital, on which, this evening, a fine drizzle is falling.

  In a candlelit room some fifty people are waiting for him, among them artists, writers and diplomats, mostly young people in their thirties. And, as usual, there are a lot of women. Everyone is sitting around on sofas or on the floor, talking or, rather, trying to talk above the noise of heavy rock blasting out from loudspeakers. A circle of people gathers round the author, who is talking non-stop. They soon become aware of two curious habits: every now and then, he makes a gesture with his right hand as if brushing away an invisible fly from in front of his eyes. Minutes later, he makes the same gesture, but this time the invisible fly appears to be buzzing next to his right ear. At dinner, he thanks everyone in fluent English for their kindness and goes on to praise Hungarian cooks, who can transform a modest beef stew into an unforgettable delicacy–goulash. At two in the morning, after coffee and a few rounds of Tokaji wine, everyone leaves.

  At a quarter to ten the following morning, the first journalists invited to the press conference have already taken their places on the thirty upholstered chairs in the Hotel Gellert’s small meeting room. Anyone arriving punctually at ten will have to stand. The person the reporters are interested in woke at 8.30. Had it not been raining he would have taken his usual hour-long morning walk. Since he dislikes room service (‘Only sick people eat in their bedrooms’), he has breakfasted in the hotel’s coffee bar, gone back to his room to take a shower, and is now reading newspapers and surfing the Internet. He usually reads a Rio newspaper and one from São Paulo, as well as the Paris edition of the International Herald Tribune. The remainder of his daily reading will arrive later in the form of cuttings and synopses focusing on the author and his books.

  At exactly ten o’clock he enters the room, which is lit by reflectors and full of journalists, and sits down behind the small table provided, on which stand a bottle of mineral water, a glass, an ashtray and a vase of red roses. His guide, Gergely, takes the microphone, explains the reason for the author’s visit to the country and announces the presence in the front row of his agent, Mônica Antunes. She stands shyly and acknowledges the applause.

  Coelho speaks in English for forty minutes, which includes the time it takes for Gergely to translate each sentence into Hungarian. He recalls his visit to Budapest in 1982, and talks a little about his personal life and his career as a writer. He reveals, for example, that, following the success of The Pilgrimage, the number of pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela rose from 400 a year to 400 a day. In recognition of this, the Galician government has named one of the streets of Santiago ‘Rua Paulo Coelho’. When the meeting is opened up for questions, it becomes clear that the journalists present are fans of his work. Some mention a particular book as ‘my favourite’. The meeting passes without any indiscreet or hostile questions being asked; the friendly atmosphere is more like a gathering of the Budapest branch of his fan club. When Gergely brings the meeting to an end, the reporters reward the author with a round of applause. A small queue forms in front of the table and an improvised signing session exclusive to Hungarian journalists begins. Only then does it become apparent that nearly all of them have copies of his books in their bags.

  The writer, who rarely lunches, has a quick snack in the hotel restaurant–toast with liver pâté, a glass of orange juice and an espresso. He makes use of a free half-hour before his next appointment to glance at the international news in Le Monde and El País. He’s always interested in what’s going on in the world and he’s always well informed about any wars and crises that hit the headlines. It’s quite usual to hear him speaking confidently (but without ever appearing to be dictatorial or superior) on matters as various as the growing crisis in Lebanon or the nationalization of oil and gas in Bolivia. He publicly defended the exchange of hostages held by Marxist guerrillas in Colombia for political prisoners being held by the Colombian government, and his protest letter in 2003 entitled ‘Thank you, President Bush’, in which he castigated the American leader for the imminent invasion of Iraq, was read by 400 million people and caused much debate.

  Once he has read the newspapers, he gets back to work. Now it is time for Marsi Aniko, the presenter of RTL Club’s Fokusz2, which regularly tops the Sunday evening ratings. The unusual thing about Fokusz2 is that, at the end of each programme, the interviewee is given a Hungarian dish prepared by Marsi Aniko herself. In a small, improvised studio in the hotel, the face-to-face interview again holds no surprises, apart from the way she blushes when a cheerful Coelho decides to start talking about penetrative sex. At the end, he receives a kiss on each cheek, a tray of almásrétes–a traditional Hungarian tart filled with poppy petals that Aniko swears she has made with her own fair hand–and a bottle of Pálinka, a very strong local brandy. Within minutes, the set has been removed to make way for another jollier, more colourful one, for an interview with András Simon from Hungarian MTV. An hour later, once the recording is over, the journalist hands the author a stack of seven books to sign.

  With a few minutes’ break between each interview–time enough for the author to drink an espresso and smoke a cigarette–these interviews continue into the late afternoon. When the last reporter leaves the hotel, it is dark.

  Coelho declares that he is not in the least tired. ‘On the contrary. Talking about so many different things in such a short space of time only increases the adrenalin. I’m just getting warmed up…’

  Whether it is professionalism, vanity or some other source of energy, the fact is that the author, who is about to turn sixty, is on enviably good form. A shower and another espresso are all it takes for him to reappear at 8.30 in the hotel lobby, gleefully rubbing his hands. Mônica, Lea (who has managed to attach herself to the group), the silent bodyguard Szabados and Gergely are waiting for him. There is one more engagement before the end of the day: a dinner with writers, publishers and journalists at the home of Tamás Kolosi, who owns the publishing house Athenäum and is one of the people behind Coelho’s visit to Hungary. When Gergely asks Coelho if he’s tired after all the day’s activities, the author roars with laughter.

  ‘Certainly not! Today was just the aperitif. The real work begins tomorrow.’

  After dinner with the publisher, Mônica uses the ten minutes in the car journey back to the hotel to tell him what she has organized with Gergely for the following day.
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  ‘The opening of the book festival is at two in the afternoon. You’ve got interviews at the hotel in the morning, so there’ll be no time for lunch, but I’ve booked a restaurant on the way to the book festival so that we can grab a sandwich and some salad.’

  Coelho’s mind is elsewhere. ‘I’m worried about the Israeli publisher. He doesn’t like the title The Zahir and wants to change it. Call him tomorrow, will you, and tell him I won’t allow it. Either he keeps the title or he doesn’t get to publish the book. It was bad enough them changing the name of the shepherd Santiago in The Pilgrimage to Jakobi.’

  He was equally stubborn before he became famous. Mônica recalls that the US publisher of The Alchemist wanted to re-name it The Shepherd and His Dreams, but the author refused to sanction the change.

  Listening to her now, he says, smiling: ‘I was a complete nobody and they were HarperCollins, but I stuck to my guns and said “No way,” and they respected me for that.’

  The following morning it is sunny enough to encourage the author to take his usual hour-long walk–this time along the banks of the Danube. Then after a shower, a quick glance at the Internet, breakfast and two interviews, he’s ready for the second part of the day: the opening of the book festival. On the way there, they stop at the place reserved by Mônica, a snack bar, where all the other customers seem to have been driven away by the incredibly loud music coming from an ancient jukebox.

  Coelho walks over, turns down the volume, puts 200 florins into the machine and selects a 1950s hit, ‘Love Me Tender’ by Elvis. He goes back to the table smiling as he imitates the rock star’s melodious tones: ‘“Love me tender, love me true…” I adore the Beatles, but this man is the greatest and will be around for ever…’

  Gergely wants to know why he’s so happy, and Coelho flings wide his arms.

  ‘Today is the feast of St George, the patron saint of books. Everything’s going to be just fine!’

  The International Book Festival in Budapest takes place every year at a convention centre located in a park–which, today, is still powdered with winter snow–and brings in hundreds of thousands of visitors. Coelho is welcomed at a private entrance by three burly bodyguards and ushered into the VIP lounge. When he learns that there are almost five hundred people waiting at the publisher’s stand to have their books signed, he says:

  ‘We said that only 150 vouchers were to be handed out.’

  The manager of the publishing house explains that they have no means of getting rid of the readers and fans. ‘I’m sorry, but when the vouchers ran out, the other people in the queue simply refused to leave. There were even more people originally, but some of them have gone over to the auditorium where you’re due to speak. The problem is that it only seats 350, and there are now 800 waiting to get in. We’ve had to erect screens outside for them.’

  Mônica goes quietly out of the room to the Athenäum stand and returns five minutes later, shaking her head and looking worried. ‘It’s just not going to work. It’s going to be bedlam.’

  The security people say there’s no danger, but suggest that Mônica’s son and the nanny remain in the VIP lounge until the end of the programme.

  Now, however, the news that the festival is crammed with fans and readers appears to have dispelled Coelho’s initial feelings of irritation. He gets up smiling, claps his hands and makes a decision: ‘So there are too many people? The more the merrier! Let’s go and meet the readers. Just give me five minutes alone.’

  He goes to the toilet as if for a pee, but once there he stands and stares into space, praying silently. Then he asks God to make sure that everything goes well during the day. ‘Now it’s up to You.’

  God appears to have listened. Protected by the three bodyguards, and by Szabados, who has orders never to let him out of his sight, Paulo Coelho arrives in the Béla Bártok room lit by the lights of television crews and the flashlights of photographers. All the seats are taken and even the passageways, aisles and galleries are filled to capacity. The audience is equally divided between men and women, but most are young. He is escorted to the stage by the security guards and he acknowledges the applause, his hands pressed to his chest. The harsh lights and the crush of people mean that the heat is unbearable. The author speaks for half an hour in fluent French, talking about his life, his beliefs and the struggle to realize his dream to become a writer, all of which is then translated into Hungarian by a young woman. After this a small number of people are selected to ask questions, at the end of which the writer stands up to thank everyone for their welcome.

  The audience doesn’t want him to leave. Waving their books in the air, they yell: ‘Ne! Ne! Ne!’

  In the midst of the uproar, the interpreter explains that ‘ne’ means ‘no’–those present do not want the author to leave without signing their books. The problem is that the security people are also saying ‘ne’. There are simply too many people. The cries of ‘Ne! Ne! ’ continue unabated. Coelho pretends not to have understood what the security people are saying, takes a pen out of his pocket and returns, smiling, to the microphone. ‘If you can get yourselves in some kind of order, I’ll try and sign a few.’

  Dozens of people immediately start pushing forward, climbing on to the stage and surrounding the author. Fearing a stampede, the security guards decide to step in. They lift Coelho bodily off the floor and carry him through the curtains and from there to a secure room. He bursts out laughing.

  ‘You could have left me there. I’m not frightened of my readers. What I fear is creating panic. In 1998, in Zagreb, a security man with a pistol at his waist tried to break up the queue and you can imagine how dangerous that was! My readers would never harm me.’

  With two bodyguards in front of him and two behind, and under the curious gaze of onlookers, the author is accompanied down the corridors of the convention centre to the Athenäum stand, where copies of The Zahir await him. The queue of 500 people has become a crowd too large to organize. The 150 voucher holders wave their numbered cards in the air, surrounded by the majority, who have only copies of Paulo Coelho’s books as their passport to an autograph. He is, however, used to such situations and immediately takes command. Speaking in French with an interpreter on hand, he raises his arms to address the multitude–and yes, this really is a multitude: 1,500? 2,000? It’s impossible to know who is there to get his autograph or to get a glimpse of their idol and who has simply been attracted by the crowd. Finding it hard to be heard, he shouts: ‘Thank you for coming. I know lots of you have been here since midday and I’ve asked the publisher to provide water for you all. We’re going to have two queues, one for those who’ve got a voucher and the other for those who haven’t. I’m going to try to deal with everyone. Thank you!’

  Now comes the hard work. While waiters circulate with trays of cold mineral water, the author tries to create some order out of the chaos. He signs thirty books for those in the queue and then another thirty for those who have had to wait outside. Every fifty or sixty minutes he pauses briefly to go to the toilet or to a small area outside, the only place in the entire conference centre where he can smoke, and which he has named ‘bad boy’s corner’. On his third visit, he comes across a non-smoker, book in hand, waiting out of line for an autograph. He is Jacques Gil, a twenty-year-old Brazilian from Rio who has moved to Hungary to play for the oldest football club there, Újpest. Coelho quickly signs the book and takes four or five drags on his cigarette. He then hurries back to the stand, where the crowd is waiting patiently.

  By the time the last of the fans reach the table, it is dark, and with the official programme at an end, it is time to relax. The original group–with the addition of half-a-dozen young men and women who refuse to leave–agree to meet after dinner in the hotel foyer for an evening’s entertainment. At ten, everyone goes to a karaoke bar in Mammut, a popular shopping centre. The young Hungarians accompanying the author are disappointed when they learn that the sound system isn’t working.

  ‘That’s
too bad,’ one complains to the manager. ‘We managed to persuade Paulo Coelho to sing for us…’

  The mention of Coelho’s name again opens doors, and the manager whispers something to a shaven-headed man, who immediately picks up a motorcycle helmet from the table and rushes off. The manager returns to the group, smiling. ‘There’s no way we’re going to miss a performance by Paulo Coelho just because we’ve no karaoke equipment. My partner has gone to borrow some from another club. Please, take a seat.’

  The motorcyclist takes so long to come back that the much-hoped-for performance becomes what musicians might call an ‘impromptu’ and a fairly modest one at that. Coelho sings Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ with Andrew, a young American student on holiday in Hungary. He follows this up with a solo version of ‘Love Me Tender’, but declines to give an encore.

  Everyone returns to the hotel at midnight, and the following morning, the members of the group go their separate ways. Mônica returns with her son and Juana to Barcelona, Lea goes back to Switzerland, and the author, after an hour’s walk through the centre of Budapest, is once again sitting in the back of the Mercedes driven by Szabados. Next to him is a cardboard box full of his books. He opens one at the first page, signs it and hands it to Gergely, who is in the front seat. In the last two books, he writes a personal dedication to his driver and his guide. An hour later, he is sitting in business class in another Air France plane, this time bound for Paris, and again he is saying his silent prayer.

  When the plane has taken off, a beautiful young black woman with her hair arranged in dozens of tiny plaits approaches him with a copy of The Pilgrimage in Portuguese. Her name is Patrícia and she is secretary to the famous Cape Verdean singer Cesária Évora. She asks him to sign the book. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for Cesária, who’s sitting back there. She’s a big fan of yours, but she’s really shy.’