Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life

by Fernando Morais

  14:10 I’m waiting for Rennie. My doctor came to my room to bring me an anthology of French poets. That’s good, because I’m starting to learn French. He remarked on the fact that I seemed calm, that I appeared to be enjoying myself. And sometimes I do enjoy it here. It’s a world apart, where one just eats and sleeps. That’s all. But there always comes a moment when I remember the world outside and then I feel like leaving. Not so much now. I’m getting used to it. All I need is a typewriter.

  I know that my girlfriend will come (or try to come) today. She must be curious to find out what’s happening to me. She’ll visit another two or three times and then she’ll forget about me. C’est la vie. And I can do nothing about it. I’d like her to come every day to cheer me up as only she can, but that won’t happen. I don’t even know if they’ll let her visit me today. Still, it’s a pleasant prospect–the enjoyable suspense of waiting.

  14:45 It’s a quarter to three and she hasn’t arrived. She won’t come now. Or perhaps they wouldn’t let her in.

  Friday, 22 July

  11.50 Rennie came yesterday. She brought me a load of photos of her in the States and promised to write a dedication on one of them for me. I like Rennie. I feel sad to think that I haven’t treated her as well as I should. I was cold and distant. And she was so affectionate.

  So far, the rest of my things from home haven’t arrived. As soon as my typewriter gets here, I’m going to have to type out an essay on psychiatry that Dr Benjamim set me. I’ve finished the anthology of French poets he lent me. Now I’m going to read The Leopard by Lampedusa.

  It’s odd, I’m starting to get used to the idea of staying here.

  12:00 I’m beginning to allow sleep to overwhelm me. A heavy, dreamless sleep, sleep-as-escape, the sleep that makes me forget that I’m here.

  14:00 I’ve stopped reading The Leopard. It’s one of the most boring books I’ve ever read. Monotonous, stupid and pointless. I abandoned it on page 122. It’s a shame. I hate leaving anything half-finished, but I couldn’t stand it. It makes me sleepy. And I must avoid sleep at all costs.

  14:30 It’s not good to leave something half-done.

  14:45 Conversation with my room-mate:

  ‘I don’t want to live here, in Flamengo, in Copacabana, or in any of those places.’

  ‘So where do you want to live, Flávio?’

  ‘In the cemetery. Life has lost all meaning for me since Carnival in 1964.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The person I loved most in the world didn’t want to go with me to the Carnival ball at the Teatro Municipal.’

  ‘Oh, come on Flávio, don’t be so silly. There are plenty more fish in the sea. [Pause.] Do you still love her?’

  ‘Him. He was a boy. Now he’s doing his entrance exams to study medicine and I’m stuck in here, waiting for death.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Flávio.’

  ‘He phoned me yesterday. He’s a bit effeminate. It would make me so happy if he came to see me. I attempted suicide because of him. I drank ether spray mixed with whisky on the night of the ball. I ended up in the Emergency Department. Now he’s out there and I’m in here, waiting for death.’

  He’s a strange guy, Flávio. He seems totally schizoid, but sometimes he talks perfectly normally, like now. I feel sad and powerless. He’s made several suicide attempts in here. He’s often spoken to me about the bohemian life he used to lead, and I’ve noticed a certain pride in his voice when he did so. I know from my own experience that all bohemians feel proud of being bohemian.

  Flávio is crying.

  15:00 The patients here can sometimes be very funny. Ápio, for example, who’s fifty-six, told me yesterday that the Bolshevik Revolution was financed by the Americans. And there’s a young man, the only other patient who’s about the same age as me, who makes everybody laugh.

  I can’t write any more. Flávio is crying.

  Saturday, 23 July

  10:00 Last night, I managed to phone Rennie, who told me that she was still my girlfriend and still loved me very much. That made me so happy, and I probably said a load of silly things. I’m a sentimental fool. When I stopped talking, the telephonist butted in and I couldn’t say anything else. Rennie’s coming here on Monday. I hope I don’t spend all the time complaining. It’s awful, I feel inferior.

  Luís said he’d come at midday.

  Beside me is a boring guy called Marcos. He’s been here since I got out, that’s a year ago now. He keeps taking my radio so that he can listen to the football.

  I diplomatically expelled him from my room.

  20:30 It’s half past eight at night, but it feels much later here. Luís came. He raised my spirits a little. I phoned Rennie and spouted more nonsense.

  Sunday, 24 July

  It’s Sunday morning. I’m listening to the radio and I’m filled by a terrible sense of solitude, which is slowly killing me. It’s Sunday morning, a sad, dull Sunday. I’m here behind bars, not talking to anyone, immersed in my solitude. I like that phrase: immersed in my solitude.

  It’s Sunday morning. No one is singing; the radio is playing a sad song about love and weeping. A day with few prospects.

  Rennie is far away. My friends are far away. Probably sleeping off a night of partying and fun. I’m all alone here. The radio is playing an old-fashioned waltz. I think about my father. I feel sorry for him. It must be sad for someone to have a son like me.

  On this Sunday morning, I feel my love for Rennie die a little. I’m sure her love for me must be dying too. My hands are empty, I have nothing to offer, nothing to give. I feel powerless and defenceless, like a swallow without wings. I feel bad, wicked, alone. Alone in the world.

  Everything here is at once monotonous and unpredictable. I cling fearfully to my photos of Rennie, my money and my cigarettes. They are the only things that can distract me a little.

  Monday, 25 July

  I long for you and the nearer the time gets to your visit, the more I long to see you. Yesterday, on the phone, you said that you were still my girlfriend, and I’m very glad to have a girlfriend. It makes me feel less alone in here, the world seems a nicer place, even from behind bars. And it will be even nicer when you arrive. And so this morning, I open myself entirely to you, my love, and give you my heart. I feel a bit sad because you’re far away and can’t be with me all the time, but I’m a man now and have to survive this ordeal alone.

  It’s funny, I feel possessive. Yesterday, I talked to Luís and Ricardo on the phone. They’ll come and see me on Tuesday. I know it’s an effort for them. Luís’s father is in hospital and Ricardo has to study. But they’ll come. And that makes me glad. I’ve learned that people can get happiness and joy out of the saddest things. I’ve learned that I’m not as alone as I thought. There are people who need me and care about me. I feel a bit nostalgic, but happy.

  Tuesday, 26 July

  Yesterday, I read the whole of Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene. I haven’t yet had time (ha, ha, ha) to write anything about the book. But it distracted me. I enjoyed it.

  Sunday, 31 July

  13:00 At this hour on this day, in this hospital, I have just received the news that in the poetry competition run by the newspaper Diário de Notícias, I came ninth out of 2,500 entries in the general category and second in the honourable mention category. My poem will probably appear in the anthology they’re going to publish.

  I’m happy. I wish I was outside, telling everyone, talking to everyone. I am very, very happy.

  Here, behind bars, I wonder if Tatá still remembers me, her first boyfriend. I don’t know if she’s grown a lot, if she’s thin or fat, if she’s an intellectual or a member of high society. She might have been crippled or lost her mother, she might have moved into a mansion. I haven’t seen her for eight years, but I’d like to be with her today. I haven’t heard from her once since then. The other day, I phoned and asked if she used to go out with a guy called Coelho. She just said ‘Yes’ and hung up.

  Saturd
ay, 6 August

  Rennie, my love, I feel a terrible need to speak to you. Now that Dr Benjamim has threatened me with insulin and electroconvulsive therapy, now that I’ve been accused of being a drug addict, now that I feel like a cornered animal, utterly defenceless, I want so much to talk to you. If this was the moment when my personality was about to be completely transformed, if in a few moments’ time the systematic destruction of my being was about to begin, I would want you by my side, Rennie.

  We’d talk about the most ordinary things in the world. You’d leave smiling, hoping to see me again in a few days’ time. You would know nothing and I would pretend that everything was fine. As we stood at the door to the lift, you’d see my eyes fill with foolish tears, and I’d say it was because our conversation had been so boring it had made me yawn. And downstairs, you’d look up and see my hand through the bars waving goodbye. Then I’d come up to my room and cry my heart out thinking about what was and what should have been and what can never be. Then the doctors would come in with the black bag, and the electric shocks would enter me and fill my whole body.

  And in the solitude of the night, I would pick up a razor blade and look at your photo next to the bed, and the blood would flow; and I would say to you softly, as I looked at your smiling face: ‘This is my blood.’ And I would die without a smile on my face, without shedding a tear. I would simply die, leaving many things undone.

  Sunday, 7 August

  Conversation with Dr Benjamim:

  ‘You’ve no self-respect. After your first admission, I thought you’d never be back, that you’d do all you could to become independent. But, no, here you are again. What did you achieve in that time? Nothing. What did you get from that trip to Teresópolis? What did you get out of it? Why are you incapable of achieving anything on your own?’

  ‘No one can achieve anything on their own.’

  ‘Maybe, but tell me, what did you gain by going to Teresópolis?’

  ‘Experience.’

  ‘You’re the sort who’ll spend the rest of his life experimenting.’

  ‘Doctor, anything that is done with love is worthwhile. That’s my philosophy: if we love what we do, that’s enough to justify our actions.’

  ‘If I went and fetched four schizophrenics from the fourth floor, I mean real schizoids, even they would come up with a better argument than that.’

  ‘What did I say wrong?’

  ‘What did you say wrong?! You spend your whole time creating an image of yourself, a false image, not even noticing that you’re failing to make the most of what’s inside you. You’re a nothing.’

  ‘I know. Anything I say is pure self-defence. In my own eyes, I’m worthless.’

  ‘Then do something! But you can’t. You’re perfectly happy with the way things are. You’ve got used to the situation. Look, if things go on like this, I’m going to forget my responsibilities as a doctor and call in a medical team to give you electroconvulsive therapy, insulin, glucose, anything to make you forget and make you more biddable. But I’m going to give you a bit more time. Come on, be a man. Pull yourself together!’

  Sunday, 14 August–Father’s Day

  Good morning, Dad. Today is your day.

  For many years, this was the day you’d wake up with a smile on your face

  and, still smiling, accept the present I brought to your room,

  and, still smiling, kiss me on the forehead and bless me.

  Good morning, Dad, today is your day,

  and I can neither give you anything nor say anything

  because your embittered heart is now deaf to words.

  You’re not the same man. Your heart is old,

  your ears are stuffed with despair,

  your heart aches. But you still know how to cry. And I think you’re crying

  the timid tears of a strict, despotic father:

  you’re weeping for me, because I’m here behind bars,

  you’re weeping because today is Father’s Day and I’m far away,

  filling your heart with bitterness and sadness.

  Good morning, Dad. A beautiful sun is coming up,

  today is a day of celebration and joy for many,

  but you’re sad. And I know that I am your sadness,

  that somehow I became a heavy cross

  for you to carry on your back, lacerating your skin,

  wounding your heart.

  At this very moment, my sister will be coming into your room

  with a lovely present wrapped in crêpe paper,

  and you’ll smile, so as not to make her sad too. But inside you,

  your heart is crying,

  and I can say nothing except dark words of revolt,

  and I can do nothing but increase your suffering,

  and I can give you nothing but tears and the regret

  that you brought me into the world.

  Perhaps if I didn’t exist, you’d be happy now,

  perhaps you’d have the happiness of a man who only ever wanted one thing:

  a quiet life,

  and now, on Father’s Day,

  you receive the reward for your struggle, in the form of kisses,

  trinkets bought with the small monthly allowance

  that has remained untouched for weeks in a drawer

  so that it could be transformed into a present,

  which, however small, assumes vast proportions in the heart of every father.

  Today is Father’s Day. But my Dad had me admitted

  to a hospital for the insane. I’m too far away

  to embrace you; I’m far from the family,

  far from everything, and I know that

  when you see other fathers surrounded by their children,

  showering them with affection, you’ll feel a pang

  in your poor embittered heart. But I’m in here

  and haven’t seen the sun for twenty days now,

  and if I could give you something it would be the darkness

  of someone who no longer aspires to anything or yearns for anything in life.

  That’s why I do nothing. That’s why I can’t even say:

  ‘Good morning, dear father, may you be happy;

  you were a man and one night you engendered me;

  my mother gave birth to me in great pain,

  but now I can give you a little of the treasure

  placed in my heart

  by your hard-working hands.’

  I can’t even say that. I have to stay very still

  so as not to make you even sadder,

  so that you don’t know that I’m suffering, that I’m unhappy in here,

  in the midst of this quietness, normally only to be found in heaven,

  if, of course, heaven exists.

  It must be sad to have a son like me, Dad.

  Good morning, Dad. My hands are empty,

  but I give you this rising sun, red and omnipotent,

  to help you feel less sad and more content,

  thinking that you’re right and I’m happy.

  Tuesday, 23 August

  It’s dawn, the eve of my birthday. I’d like to write a message full of optimism and understanding in this notebook: that’s why I tore out the previous pages, so devoid of compassion and so sad. It’s hard, especially for someone of my temperament, to withstand thirty-two days without going out into the courtyard and seeing the sun. It’s really hard, believe me. But, deep down, I know I’m not the most unfortunate of men. I have youth flowing in my veins, and I can start all over again thousands of times.

  It’s the eve of my birthday. With these lines written at dawn, I would like to regain a little self-confidence.

  ‘Look, Paulo, you can always do your university entrance exams next year: you’ve still got many years ahead of you. Make the most of these days to think a little and to write a lot. Rosetta, your typewriter, your loyal companion-at-arms, is with you, ready to serve you whenever you wish. Do you remember what Salinger wrote: “Store a
way your experiences. Perhaps, later, they’ll be useful to someone else, just as the experiences of those who came before were useful to you.” Think about that. Don’t think of yourself as being alone. After all, to begin with, your friends were a great support. Being forgotten is a law of life. You’d probably forget about one of your friends if they left. Don’t be angry with your friends because of that. They did what they could. They lost heart, as you would in their place.’

  Thursday, 1 September

  I’ve been here since July. Now I’m becoming more and more afraid. I’m to blame for everything. Yesterday, for example, I was the only one to agree to having an injection to help me sleep, and I was the only one to obey the nurse and lie down; the others, meanwhile, continued kicking up a ruckus. One of the nuns who help out here took a dislike to my girlfriend and so she’s not allowed to visit me any more. They found out I was going to sell my shirts to the other patients and they wouldn’t let me: I lost an opportunity to earn some money. But I managed to persuade my friends to bring me a gun, a Beretta. If I need to, I’ll use it.

  Interruption for a hair cut.

  Right, my hair’s all gone. Now I’m left with a baby face, feeling vulnerable and mad as hell. Now I feel what I feared I might feel: the desire to stay here. I don’t want to leave now. I’m finished. I hadn’t cut my hair since February, until the people in this hospital gave me an option: cut your hair or stay here for good. I preferred to cut my hair. But then came the feeling that I’d destroyed the last thing remaining to me. This page was going to be a kind of manifesto of rebellion. But now I’ve lost all will. I’m well and truly screwed. I’m finished. I won’t rebel again. I’m almost resigned.

  Here ends this ballad and here ends me.

  With no messages to send, nothing, no desire to win,

  a desire that had its guts ripped out by human hatred.

  It was good to feel this. Total defeat.