Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life

by Fernando Morais

  The following morning, the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel is invaded by TV network people waiting for the interviews Mônica has organized. Cameras, tripods, reflectors, cables and batteries are stacked in corners and spread out on tables and sofas. Individual interviews are the privilege of the television reporters; newspaper and magazine journalists have to make do with a press conference. The only exception is Al Ahram, the main Egyptian newspaper–state-run as, it seems, most are–which also has the privilege of being first in line. Once the interview is over, the reporter, Ali Sayed, opens his briefcase and asks the author to sign three books, The Alchemist, Maktub and Eleven Minutes–all of them pirate copies, bought in the street for US$7 each. In the early afternoon, the five go to a restaurant for a quick lunch washed down with Fanta, Coca Cola, tea and mineral water. Although there is wine and beer available, the meal is going to be paid for by Ahmed, a Muslim, and good manners require that no alcohol be drunk.

  Once the engagements with the press are over Coelho takes part in hurried debates at the two writers’ associations. At both, the number of members of the public is two or three times greater than the venues’ capacity and he attends kindly and good-naturedly to the inevitable requests for signings at the end. Before returning to the hotel, he is taken to Mohamed Heikal’s apartment. Heikal is a veteran politician who started his career alongside President Nasser, who governed from 1954 to 1970, and he has so far managed to weather the political upheavals in Egypt. Surrounded by bodyguards, Heikal receives his visitor in a small apartment. The walls are covered in photos of him with great international leaders of the twentieth century, such as the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, Chou En-Lai of China, Jawalarhal Nehru of India and Chancellor Willy Brandt, as well as Leonid Brezhnev and, of course, Nasser himself. Coelho’s meeting with the Nobel Laureate Naguib Mahfouz is also subject to intense vigilance by security guards (years ago Mahfouz narrowly escaped death at his door when he was knifed in the neck by a Muslim fundamentalist who accused him of blaspheming against the Koran). The two speak rapidly in English, exchange signed copies of their books and that’s it. With the day’s agenda over, the evening is reserved for a boat trip on the Nile.

  The following day the morning is free, allowing Coelho to wake later than usual, take his walk without hindrance and give some time to looking at news online. At one o’clock, he goes down to the hotel dining room for the lunch that he has suggested. In spite of the smiles and salaams during the presentations, it is clear that the idea is to set things to rights. Before the food is served and once all the guests are seated, one of the publishers stands up to greet the visitor and makes a point of stating that this is a meeting of friends.

  ‘The author Coelho has proved his commitment to the Arab peoples not only in his work but in brave public statements such as in his letter “Thank you, President Bush”, which clearly condemned the invasion of Iraq by the United States.’

  Someone else speaks, and then it is Coelho’s turn. Beside him at the table are three pirate copies of his books, deliberately placed there in order to provoke unease among the publishers–the elegant men in jackets and ties who are seated before him. He begins gently, recalling that some of his books have found inspiration in both Egyptian and Arabic culture. Then, face-to-face with the pirates themselves, he broaches the thorny topic of piracy, saying: ‘Any author would, of course, love to see his books published in Egypt. My problem is precisely the opposite: I have too many publishers in Egypt.’

  No one finds the joke funny, but he is unperturbed. He glances upwards, as if asking St George for the strength to defend his books, and then adopts a blunter approach.

  He picks up a pirate copy of The Alchemist and waves it in the air. ‘I am here as a guest of Dr Hebba, that is, of the Egyptian people. But I have come here on my own account as well because I want to sort out, once and for all, the problem of the pirate copies of my books being published here.’

  The guests shift uncomfortably in their seats. Some, embarrassed, are doodling on their napkins.

  Coelho knows full well that some are important figures in the Ministry of Culture (which has shares in many of the publishing houses he is accusing of piracy) and he makes the most of this opportunity: ‘The government neither punishes nor condemns piracy, but Egypt is a signatory to international treaties on royalties and must conform to them. I could get the best lawyer money can buy and win the case in international courts, but I’m not here merely to defend material values, I’m defending a principle. My readers here buy books at a cheap price and get cheap editions, and it’s got to stop.’

  Coelho’s suggestion that they call an armistice doesn’t seem to please anyone.

  ‘I’m not interested in the past. Let’s forget what’s happened up to now. I’m not going to claim royalties on the 400,000 books published in a country where I’ve never even had a publisher. But from now on, any book of mine published in Egypt that is not produced by Sirpus or by All Prints will be considered illegal and therefore the subject of legal action.’

  To prove that he’s not bluffing, he announces that there will be a special blitzkrieg in the Dar El Shorouk bookshop, next to the hotel: he will sign the first book produced under the new regime (a pocket version of The Alchemist in Arabic with the Sirpus stamp on it) as well as copies of the English translation of The Zahir. This awkward meeting ends without applause and with the majority of those present looking stony-faced.

  Everything seems to be going as he predicted. The signing is a success and he says to any journalist who hunts him out: ‘I think the publishers have accepted my proposal. From now on, my Egyptian readers will read my books only in official translations published by Sirpus.’ His confidence, however, will prove short-lived, because the only real change in the situation is that now the pirates have another competitor in the market–Sirpus.

  The conference at Cairo University, the following day, the last engagement of his trip to Egypt, goes smoothly. The conference takes place in a 300-seat auditorium and there are exactly 300 people present. The majority are young women who, unlike Hebba, are wearing Western dress–tight jeans and tops revealing bare shoulders and midriffs. After his talk, idolatry gets the better of discipline, and they crowd around him, wanting him to sign copies of his books.

  On the way back to the hotel, Hebba suggests doing something not on the schedule. Readers belonging to the Official Paulo Coelho Fan Club in Egypt who did not manage to get to any of his public appearances want to meet him at the end of the afternoon for a chat. Cheered by what he believes to have been the success of his lunch with the publishers, he agrees without asking for any further details. His response means that Hebba has to go off at once to mobilize the public. The place she has chosen is an improvised open-air auditorium under one of the bridges that cross the Nile. No one knows quite what methods she has used to gather so many people together, but there is general astonishment among the Brazilian contingent when they arrive and find a crowd of more than two thousand people. The venue appears to be a building that has been left half-finished with concrete slabs and bits of iron still visible. The place is packed, with people sitting in between the seats and in the side aisles. It seems quite incredible that so many could have been gathered together on a weekday without any prior announcement in the newspapers, on the radio or television. There are even people perched on the walls and in the trees surrounding the auditorium.

  In the infernal heat, Hebba leads Coelho to a small dais in one corner of the area, where a coffee table and three armchairs await them. When he says his first words in English–‘Good afternoon, thank you all for being here’–a hush descends. He talks for half an hour about his life, his struggle to become a recognized author, his drug-taking, his involvement in witchcraft, the time he spent in mental institutions, about political repression and the critics, and how he finally rediscovered his faith and realized his dream. Everyone watches him entranced, as if they were in the presence not of the author of their favourite boo
ks but of someone who has lessons in life to teach them. Many are unable to hide their feelings and their eyes are filled with tears.

  When he says his final ‘Thank you’ Coelho is crying too. The applause looks set to continue, and, making no attempt to conceal his tears now, Paulo thanks the audience again and again, folding his arms over his chest and bowing slightly. The people remain standing and applauding. A young girl in a dark hijab goes up on to the dais and presents him with a bouquet of roses. Although he is quite used to such situations, the author appears genuinely moved and is at a loss how to react. The audience is still applauding. He turns rapidly, slips behind the curtains for a moment, glances upwards, makes the sign of the cross and repeats for the umpteenth time a prayer of gratitude to St Joseph, the saint who, almost sixty years earlier, watched over his rebirth–because, but for a miracle, Paulo Coelho would have died at birth.

  CHAPTER 2

  Childhood

  PAULO COELHO DE SOUZA was born on a rainy night on 24 August 1947, the feast of St Bartholomew, in the hospital of São José in Humaitá, a middle-class area of Rio de Janeiro. The doctors had foreseen that there might be problems with the birth, the first for twenty-three-year-old Lygia Araripe Coelho de Souza, married to a thirty-three-year-old engineer, Pedro Queima Coelho de Souza. The baby would be not only their first child but a first grandchild for the four grandparents and a first nephew for uncles and aunts on both sides. Initial examination had shown that the child had swallowed a fatal mixture of meconium–that is, his own faeces–and amniotic fluid. He was not moving in the womb and showed no inclination to be born, and finally had to be delivered by forceps. As Paulo was pulled into the world, at exactly 12.05 a.m., the doctor must have heard a slight crack, like a pencil snapping. This was the baby’s collarbone, which had failed to resist the pressure of the forceps. Since the baby, a boy, was dead, this was hardly a problem.

  Lygia was a devout Catholic and, in a moment of despair, the first name that came to her lips was that of the patron saint of the maternity hospital: ‘Please bring back my son! Save him, St Joseph! My baby’s life is in your hands!’

  The sobbing parents asked for someone to come and give the last rites to their dead child. Only a nun could be found, but just as she was about to administer the sacrament, there was a faint mewing sound. The child was, in fact, alive, but in a deep coma. He had faced his first challenge and survived it.

  He spent his first three days in an incubator. During those decisive seventy-two hours, his father, Pedro, remained with him all the time. On the fourth day, when Paulo was taken out of the incubator, Pedro finally managed to get some sleep, and was replaced in his vigil by his mother-in-law, Maria Elisa or Lilisa, as she was known. Six decades later, Paulo would state without hesitation that his earliest memory was of seeing a woman come into the room and knowing that she was his grandmother. In spite of weighing only 3.33 kilos at birth and measuring 49 centimetres, the child seemed healthy. According to Lygia’s notes in her baby album, he had dark hair, brown eyes and fair skin, and looked like his father. He was named after an uncle who had died young from a heart attack.

  Apart from a bout of whooping cough, Paulo had a normal, healthy childhood. At eight months, he said his first word, at ten months, his first teeth appeared and at eleven months, he began to walk without ever having crawled. According to Lygia, he was ‘gentle, obedient, extremely lively and intelligent’. When he was two, his only sister, Sônia Maria, was born; he was always fond of her and, apparently, never jealous. At three, he learned to make the sign of the cross, a gesture that was later accompanied by requests to God for the good health of his parents, grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts.

  Until he was thirteen, he and his family lived on an eleven-house estate built by his father in Botafogo, a pleasant middle-class area of Rio. The best of the houses–the only one with a garden–was reserved for Pedro’s in-laws, Lilisa and Tuca, who owned the land. Another of the houses, a modest, two-storey affair, was given to Pedro in payment for his work and the remaining nine were let, sold or occupied by relatives. The Coelhos were so concerned about security that, although the estate was protected by high gates, all the windows and doors in the house were kept shut. Paulo and the other children could play freely as long as they did so within the confines of the estate; although it was only a few blocks from Botafogo beach, they knew nothing of life beyond its walls. Friendship with children from ‘outside’ was unthinkable.

  From a very young age, Paulo showed that he had an original way of thinking. When, at the age of three, Lygia caught him behaving badly, he said: ‘Do you know why I’m being naughty today, Mama? It’s because my guardian angel isn’t working. He’s been working very hard and his battery has run out.’

  One of his greatest pleasures was helping his grandfather Tuca repair his enormous Packard car. His father felt that this was clear proof that his son would turn out to be an engineer like him. Pedro also had a car–a Vanguard–but it rarely left the garage. As far as Pedro Coelho was concerned, if the family could take the bus into the city, there was no reason to spend money on petrol.

  One of Coelho’s earliest memories is of his father’s tight grip on domestic finances. Engineer Pedro Queima Coelho de Souza’s dream was to build not just a modest house for his family, like those on the estate, but a really large house with drawing rooms, a conservatory, verandahs and several bathrooms. The first step towards building this cathedral was a present from his father-in-law, Tuca: a 400-square-metre plot in Rua Padre Leonel Franca in the smart district of Gávea. From then on all non-essential expenditure for the family was cut in favour of the house in Gávea. ‘If we’re going to build a house for everyone,’ declared Dr Pedro, as he was known, ‘then everyone is going to have to cut back on spending.’ No new clothes, no birthday parties, no presents, no unnecessary trips in the car. ‘At the time,’ the author recalls, ‘we had nothing, but we didn’t lack for anything either.’ Christmas was saved for the children by the German electric trains and French dolls that their maternal grandparents gave them.

  The dream house in Gávea caused the family a further problem. Instead of placing his savings in a bank, Pedro preferred to invest it in building materials and, since he had no shed in which to store these treasures, he kept everything in the house until he had enough capital to begin the construction work. As a result, both Coelho and his sister recall spending their childhood among lavatory bowls, taps, bags of cement and tiles.

  The cutbacks did not, however, impoverish Coelho’s intellectual life. Although his father no longer bought any new records, he nevertheless listened to classical music every night. And anyone pressing his ear to the front door of No. 11 would have heard Bach and Tchaikovsky being played by Lygia on the piano that had been with her since before she was married. The house was also full of books, mainly collected by Lygia.

  At the beginning of 1952, when he was four and a half, Coelho’s parents enrolled him in kindergarten, where he spent two years. Then, in 1954, intending eventually to send their son to a Jesuit secondary school, St Ignatius College, his parents moved him to Our Lady Victorious School, which was seen as the best route to St Ignatius–the most traditional school of its kind in Rio, and one of the most respected educational establishments for boys in the city. St Ignatius was expensive, but it guaranteed the one thing that the Coelhos regarded as essential: strict discipline.

  It was certainly true that, at least in Paulo’s case, the cordon sanitaire placed around the estate to protect the children from the evil world outside had no effect. At five, he was already viewed by his adult neighbours as a bad influence on their children. As there were two other children on the estate called Paulo (his cousins, Paulo Arraes and Paulo Araripe), he was simply called ‘Coelho’. To Lygia and Pedro’s horror, suspicions that it was ‘Coelho’ who was responsible for many of the odd things that were happening in the small community began to be confirmed. First, there was the discovery of a small girl bound hand and foot t
o a tree so that she appeared to be hugging it and who was too afraid to tell on the culprit. Then came the information that, at dead of night, the boys were organizing chicken races, which ended with all the competitors, apart from the winner, having their necks wrung. One day, someone replaced the contents of all the cans of hair lacquer belonging to the young girls on the estate with water. It was one of the victims of this last jape–Cecília Arraes, an older cousin–who worked out who the culprit was. She found a satchel in one of the boys’ hiding places containing papers that revealed the existence of a ‘secret organization’ complete with statutes, the names of the leaders and the minutes of meetings. This was the Arco Organization, its name being taken from the first two letters of the surnames of the chief perpetrators, Paulo Araripe and Paulo Coelho.

  Cecília collared the future author and said: ‘So what’s this Arco business? What does the organization do? If you don’t tell me, I’m going to your parents.’

  He was terrified. ‘It’s a secret organization, so I’m forbidden to tell you anything.’ When his cousin continued to threaten him, he said: ‘No, really, I can’t tell you. The only thing I can say is that Arco is an organization specializing in sabotage.’ He went on to explain that both the water in the girls’ hair lacquer and the girl being tied to the tree were punishments for their having crossed the chalk frontier scratched on the ground to mark the borders of Arco territory, beyond which lay an area ‘forbidden to girls’.

  When evidence of Paulo’s involvement in the matter reached his parents, they were in no doubt that, when he was old enough, the boy should definitely be placed in the stern, wise hands of the Jesuits. While at Our Lady Victorious, he became accustomed to the regime that he would find at St Ignatius, for, unlike at other schools, the pupils had classes on Saturdays and were free on Wednesdays. This meant that Paulo only had Sunday to play with his friends on the estate. On Saturdays, when they were all off, he had to spend the day at school. On Wednesdays, when he was free but had no companions, he had no alternative but to stay at home reading and studying.