One afternoon a week is set aside for reading correspondence that arrives via ordinary mail. Once a week, he receives packages in the post from his Rio office and from Sant Jordi in Barcelona. These are stacked up on a table on the lawn and opened with a bone-handled penknife, and the letters arranged in piles according to size. From time to time, the silence is broken by a cow mooing or by the distant sound of a tractor. Any manuscripts or disks from aspiring authors go straight into the wastepaper bin, precisely as his various websites say will happen. At a time when letter bombs and envelopes containing poisonous substances have become lethal weapons, Coelho has begun to fear that some madman might decide to blow him up or contaminate him, but in fact he has never yet received any suspect package. However, because of his concern, he now meditates briefly over any parcels arriving from Rio or Barcelona, even when they’re expected, in order to imbue them with positive vibes before they are opened. One cardboard package, the size of a shirt box, from his Rio office, contains replies to readers’ letters that require his signature. The longer ones are printed on the official headed notepaper of the Brazilian Academy of Letters, of which Coelho has been a member since 2002. Shorter replies are written on postcards printed with his name. The session ends with the signing of 100 photos requested by readers, in which the author appears, as usual, in black trousers, shirt and jacket.
After a few telephone calls, he relaxes for an hour in an area in the garden (or in the woods around the house), where he practises kyudo, the Japanese martial art of archery, which requires both physical strength and mental discipline. Halfway through the afternoon, he sits down in front of his computer to write the short weekly column of 120 words that is published in thirty newspapers around the world, from Lebanon (Al Bayan) to South Africa (Odyssey), from Venezuela (El Nacional ) to India (The Asian Age), and from Brazil (O Globo) to Poland (Zwierciadlo).
In other respects, the couple’s day-to-day life differs little from that of the 300 other inhabitants of the village. They have a small circle of friends, none of whom are intellectuals or celebrities or likely to appear in the gossip columns. ‘I can access 500 television channels,’ Coelho declared years ago in an interview with the New York Times, ‘but I live in a village where there’s no baker.’ There’s no baker, no bar, no supermarket and no petrol station. As is the case in the majority of France’s 35,000 communes, there isn’t a single commercial establishment in sleepy Saint-Martin. Tarbes is the nearest place for shops, as long as you get there before five in the afternoon, when the small town starts to shut down. Coelho’s evening programme often consists of a visit to one of the three good restaurants there.
Eventually, it is time for Coelho to return to work. An e-mail from Sant Jordi contains a packed programme for the following three weeks, which, if he agrees to it, will mean a round-the-world trip. On the programme are invitations to the launch of The Zahir in Argentina, Mexico, Colombia, Puerto Rico and Paris. He is also to receive the Goldene Feder prize in Hamburg, and there are signings as well in Egypt, Syria and Lebanon, plus a trip to Warsaw for the birthday of Jolanda, the wife of the President of Poland at the time, Aleksander Kwásniewski. Then on to London to take part with Boris Becker, Cat Stevens and former secretary general of the UN Boutros Boutros Ghali in a fund-raising dinner for the campaign against the use of land-mines. The following day he will return to France for dinner with Lily Marinho, widow of Roberto Marinho, the owner of Organizações Globo. Four days later, he is supposed to attend the launch of The Zahir in Japan and South Korea. On his return to Europe he will stop off in Astana, the capital of Kazakhstan, for the sixty-fifth birthday of the President, Nursultan Nazarhayev. The last engagement on the list cannot be missed: an invitation from Klaus Schwab, creator and president of the World Economic Forum held annually in Davos, for the author to speak at the opening of another of Schwab’s enterprises, the Cultural Festival in Verbier, where young classical musicians from all over the world meet.
Coelho brushes away the invisible fly two or three times and mutters something along the lines of: ‘No human being could possibly do all that.’
Christina hears the complaint and teases him gently: ‘Look, you were the one who chose to be a Formula 1 champion, so get in your Ferrari and drive!’
The remark soothes him. He laughs and agrees that not only did he make that choice but he fought his whole life to become what he is now, and so has no right to complain. ‘But I still can’t take on the whole programme. Some of the events are too close together and on three different continents!’
Usually, the stress of travel is caused not by the engagements themselves, but by the misery of modern air travel, especially since 9/11, when the consequent increase in vigilance and bureaucracy has created even longer delays for passengers. He faces the same queues, delays and overbookings as his millions of readers, and one of the problems with the programme suggested by Sant Jordi is that it will have to be undertaken entirely on commercial flights. Coelho prints out the list and, pen in hand, starts by cutting out any engagements that entail intercontinental flights, which means putting off Latin America, Japan and South Korea, and the birthday party in Kazakhstan. Syria and Lebanon also go, but Egypt remains. Warsaw is replaced by Prague, where he wants to fulfil a promise made twenty years earlier. Finally, he decides that his first stop, in the Czech Republic, will be followed by Hamburg, where he will receive his prize and from where he will fly on to Cairo. However, the problem, once again, is flights. There are no connections that will allow him to stick to the timetables for Germany and Egypt. The Germans refuse to change the programme, which has already been printed and distributed, but they suggest an alternative: the private plane of Klaus Bauer, president of the media giant Bauer Verlagsgruppe, which sponsors the Goldene Feder prize, will take him and those in his party from Hamburg to Cairo as soon as the ceremony is over.
Hours later, when the programme has been agreed by all concerned, he telephones Mônica and jokes: ‘Since we’re going to Prague, what about putting on a “blitzkrieg” there?’
‘Blitzkrieg’ is the name Coelho gives to book signings that take place unannounced and with no previous publicity. He simply walks into a bookshop chosen at random, greets those present with ‘Hi, I’m Paulo Coelho’ and offers to sign copies of his books for anyone who wants him to. Some people say that these blitzkriegs are basically a form of exhibitionism, and that the author loves to put them on for the benefit of journalists. This certainly appeared to be the case when the reporter Dana Goodyear was travelling with him in Italy, where a blitzkrieg in Milan bore all the marks of having been deliberately staged for her benefit. In Prague, in fact, he is suggesting a middle way: to tell the publisher only the night before so that while there is no time for interviews, discussions or chat shows to be set up, there is time to make sure, at least, that there are enough books for everyone should the bookshop be crowded.
However, the objective of this trip to the Czech Republic has nothing to do with selling books. When he set out on the road back to Catholicism in 1982, after a period in which he had entirely rejected the faith and become involved in Satanic sects, Coelho was in Prague with Christina during a long hippie-style trip across Europe. They visited the church of Our Lady Victorious in order to make a promise to the Infant Jesus of Prague. For some inexplicable reason, Brazilian Christians have always shown a particular devotion to this image of the child, which has been in Prague since the seventeenth century. The extent of this devotion can be judged by the enormous number of notices that have been published over the years in newspapers throughout Brazil, containing a simple sentence, followed by the initial of the individual: ‘To the Infant Jesus of Prague, for the grace received. D.’ Like millions of his compatriots, Coelho also came to make a request, and by no means a small one. He knelt at the small side altar where the image is displayed, said a prayer and murmured so quietly that even Christina, who was beside him, could not hear: ‘I want to be a writer who is read and respected worldwide.’
He realized that this was quite a request, and that he would need to find a comparable gift to give in return. As he was praying, he noticed the moth-eaten clothes worn by the image, which were copies of the tunic and cloak made by Princess Policena Loblowitz in 1620 for the first known image of the Infant Jesus of Prague. Still in a whisper, he made a promise which, at the time, seemed somewhat grandiose: ‘When I’m a well-known author, respected worldwide, I will return and bring with me a gold-embroidered cloak to cover your body.’
Three decades later the idea of the blitzkrieg is really an excuse to revisit Prague and repay the grace he has been granted. Made exactly to fit the image, which is about half a metre high, the red velvet cloak, embroidered with fine gold thread, is the result of weeks of work by Paula Oiticica, Christina’s mother.
Packed in an acrylic box so that it can be transported safely, the gift creates a small incident at Charles de Gaulle airport, when the police demand that the package be passed through an X-ray machine in order to prove that it doesn’t conceal drugs or explosives; unfortunately, it’s too big for the machine. Coelho refuses to board without the cloak, while the police maintain that, if it can’t be X-rayed, it can’t travel. A superior officer notices the small crowd gathering, recognizes M. Coelho and resolves the deadlock: the cloak is taken on to the plane without being scanned.
When the couple arrive at the church in Prague, some two dozen faithful are there, all apparently foreigners. Since he speaks only Czech and Italian, the Carmelite priest, Anastasio Roggero, appears not to understand quite who this person is and what he is doing in his church holding a red cloak. He listens to what Coelho is saying to him in English, smiles, thanks him and is preparing to stow the box away behind a cupboard in the sacristy when an old French woman recognizes the author.
In an inappropriately loud voice, she tells the members of her group: ‘Look, it’s the writer Paulo Coelho!’
All the tourist groups converge on him, clamouring for his autograph and to have their photo taken with him. Father Anastasio turns, looks again at the cloak he is holding and begins to realize his mistake. He apologizes to Coelho for not having recognized him or the significance of the gift the Infant Jesus has just received. He returns to the sacristy and comes back armed with a digital camera to take photos of the cloak, the tourists and, of course, himself with his famous visitor, whose work he claims to know well.
Once Coelho has settled his account with the Infant Child, the couple spend their free time revisiting the capital and seeing Leonardo Oiticica, Christina’s brother, who is married to Tatiana, a diplomat at the Brazilian embassy in Prague. Two newspapers–Pravó and Komsomólskaia–have now publicized Paulo Coelho’s presence in the city, and so the intended blitzkrieg cannot be a genuinely spontaneous event. By three in the afternoon, an hour before the agreed time, hundreds of people are lined up outside the Empik Megastore, the enormous modern bookshop chosen by Coelho’s Czech publisher, Argo. He arrives at the agreed hour and finds things much as they were in Budapest. This time only 150 readers have managed to get vouchers, but hundreds of people are filling the aisles of the shop and spilling out into Wenceslas Square. They all want an autograph. The author does what he did in Hungary: he asks the bookshop to provide everyone with water, and divides the waiting crowd into those with vouchers and those without. At six in the evening, he looks at his watch and asks to be allowed a toilet break. Instead, he goes behind a screen only a few metres away in order to say his silent prayer. It’s dark by the time he has signed the last book. He ends the evening enjoying Czech nouvelle cuisine in a smart restaurant in the old part of the city with a small group of friends.
The following day he is back in Paris for yet another signing, this time at the Fnac bookshop in the Place des Thermes. Although the shop is expecting only about a hundred people, the news has spread and about three hundred are packed into the small auditorium. Outside, people are trying to get to the display of CDs and DVDs, part of a small exhibition, not only of his books but also of his own literary, musical and cinematographic favourites. Among the books are Albert Camus’ The Outsider, Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, Jorge Luis Borges’ Fictions, Jorge Amado’s Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon and the biography of the matador El Cordobés, I’ll Dress You in Mourning, by Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins. The films on display include Blade Runner (Ridley Scott), Once Upon a Time in the West (Sergio Leone), 2001: A Space Odyssey (Stanley Kubrick), Lawrence of Arabia (David Lean) and The Promise (Anselmo Duarte), while the selection of CDs is even more eclectic: from The Beatles’ Abbey Road to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, from Pink Floyd’s Atom Heart Mother to Chopin’s First Piano Concerto. The French fans are as patient as the Hungarians and Czechs. After giving a half-hour talk and answering questions, the author signs books for all those present before leaving the shop.
In marked contrast to this relaxed atmosphere, the Goldene Feder award ceremony, the following day, is organized with almost military precision. Hamburg has been in a permanent state of alert (and tension) since the discovery that the people behind the 9/11 attacks in the United States had been part of an Al Qaeda terrorist cell active there. Of the twenty men directly involved in the attack, nine lived in an apartment on the edge of the city, among them the leader of the group, the Egyptian Mohammed Atta. Judging by the number of private security guards present, the ceremony is clearly considered a prime target. Bankers, industrialists, businessmen, publishers and the famous have arrived from all corners of Europe to be here. In order to avoid any problems, the organizers of the event have allowed only five minutes for the press to photograph the guests and prize-winners (prizes are also being given to a scientist, a professor, a businesswoman and a priest). During the presentation ceremony, the reporters, along with the security guards and chauffeurs, are relegated to a canteen where they can watch everything on TV monitors.
Five hours later, the writer and his rucksack are in the VIP lounge at Hamburg airport, ready to take a Falcon jet to Cairo. His arrival in Egypt coincides with a visit to Cairo by the First Lady of the United States, Laura Bush, which means that security measures are even tighter. Friends have expressed their concern for Coelho’s safety, given the frequency with which tourists in Egypt have been the victims of terrorist attacks by radical Islamic groups. ‘What if some group of religious fanatics kidnapped you and demanded the release of 100 political prisoners in exchange?’ they ask. He, however, appears unconcerned. This is not only because he has previously consulted the oracles but because he knows that during his visit he will be protected by Hebba Raouf Ezzar, the woman who invited him to speak at Cairo University. This forty-year-old Muslim mother of three, and visiting professor at Westminster University in London, is a charismatic political scientist who has overcome the prejudices of a society wedded to machismo and has become a major influence in the battle for human rights and the promotion of dialogue between Islam and other faiths. Being in Egypt at her invitation means being able to circulate freely–and safely–among a wide variety of political and religious groups.
There are other reasons, too, for Coelho to visit Egypt. The country is possibly the world champion when it comes to producing pirate editions of his books. Even though almost half the population is illiterate, it has been estimated that more than four hundred thousand illegal copies of his books–some 5 per cent of all pirate copies of his work worldwide–are available here. You can find Arabic translations of everything from The Pilgrimage to The Zahir in the windows of smart bookshops and on the pavements of Cairo, Alexandria and Luxor. And there are pirated editions for every pocket, from crude home-made versions to hardback editions printed on good-quality paper and produced by established publishers, some of them state-run. The author receives almost nothing in royalties from Egypt, but the real loser is the reader, who ends up buying copies either with chapters missing or in the wrong order, or that are translations intended for other Arab-speaking countries and not necessarily comprehensible to Egyptians. T
he pirate producers enjoy total immunity from prosecution; indeed, at the last International Book Fair in Cairo, Paulo Coelho’s works topped the best-seller lists, as if they had been produced by publishers complying with internationally agreed laws.
Keen to put a stop to the problem, Coelho lands in Cairo, accompanied by Mônica Antunes and Ana Zendrera, the proprietor of Sirpus in Spain, which specializes in Arabic publications destined for the Middle East and North Africa. Since May 2005, only two companies, All Prints in Lebanon and Sirpus, have been legally authorized to publish his books in Egypt.
At the airport, which is full of soldiers carrying sub-machine guns, the three are greeted by Hebba and her husband, the activist Ahmed Mohammed. He is dressed in Western clothes, but she is wearing a beige hijab. They all speak English, which is Egypt’s second language. The small group goes straight to the Four Seasons Hotel, where a suite has been reserved for the author on the top floor with a view of Giza at the edge of the Sahara.
Hebba has drawn up a packed programme of events: interviews and TV appearances, visits to the famous (among them the Nobel Laureate Naguib Mahfouz, who is ninety and losing his sight, but determined to receive the author in his apartment for a cup of tea), a seminar at Cairo University and two talks, one at the Egyptian Association of Authors and the other at its rival, the Union of Egyptian Authors. At Paulo’s request, Hebba has arranged a lunch in one of the dining rooms of the Four Seasons to which the principal publishers and booksellers in the country have been invited, along with representatives of the Ministry of Culture. It is here that the author is hoping to ram home his point about defending the rights of the author. He tells Hebba: ‘You know perfectly well, Hebba, that when a warrior takes out his sword, he has to use it. He can’t put it back in its sheath unbloodied.’
Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life Page 4