Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life (2 page)

All this stress and anxiety is repeated every two years, each time Paulo Coelho publishes a new book. On these occasions, he shows himself to be as insecure as a novice. This has always been the case. When he wrote his first book,
O Diário de um Mago
[
The Pilgrimage
], he shared the task of distributing publicity leaflets outside Rio’s theatres and cinemas with his partner, the artist Christina Oiticica, and then went round the bookshops to find out how many copies they had sold. After twenty years, his methods and strategies may have changed, but he has not: wherever he is, be it in Tierra del Fuego or Greenland, in Alaska or
Australia, he uses his mobile phone or his laptop to keep abreast of everything to do with publication, distribution, media attention and where his books are on the best-seller lists.

He has still not yet filled out the inevitable hotel form or gone up to his room, when Lea arrives. A pleasant woman in her fifties, married to the Swiss Minister of the Interior, she is a devoted reader of Coelho’s books, having first met him at the World Economic Forum in Davos. When she learned that he was visiting Budapest, Lea took the train from Geneva, travelling over 4,000 kilometres through Switzerland, Austria and half of Hungary in order to spend a few hours in Budapest with her idol. It is almost eight o’clock when Coelho finally goes up to the suite reserved for him at the Gellert.

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.

‘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.