Paulo today: Budapest-Prague Hamburg-Cairo

CHAPTER 1

JTS A DREARY, GREY EVENING in May 2005 as the enormous white Air

I France Airbus Ab00 touches down gently on the wet runway ot

Budapest s Fenhegy airport. It is the end of a two-hour flight from Lyons

in the south of France. In the cabin, the stewardess informs the passen-

gers that it's 6.00 p.m. in Hungary's capital city and that the local ternper

ature is 8°C. Seated beside the window in the front row of business class,

his seat belt still fastened, a man in a black T-shirt looks up and stares at

some invisible point beyond the plastic wall in front of him. Unaware of

the other passengers' curious looks, and keeping his eyes fixed on the

same spot, he raises the forefinger and middle finger of his right hand as

though in blessing and remains still for a moment.

After the plane stops, he gets up to take his bag from the overhead

locker. He is dressed entirely in black - canvas boots, jeans and T-shirt

(Someone once remarked that, were it not for the wicked gleam in his

eye, he could be mistaken for a priest.) A small detail on his woollen

jacket, which is also black, tells the other passengers- at least those who

are French-that their fellow traveller is no ordinary mortal, since on his

lapel is a tiny gold pin embossed in red, a litle larger than a computer

chip, indicating to those around him that he is a Chevalier of the Legion

or Honour. This is the most coveted of French decorations, created in 1802 by Napoleon Bonaparte and granted only at the P he

etent or the Republie The award, which was given to the tavetler a

e enest of Jacques Chirae, is not, however, the oniy ng at marke

him out lis thinning, close-cropped whitee

e or hia neck, a small white ponytail some 10 cenuiettes long Thia

a AAE, IUhe lock of hair worn by Brahmans, orthodox Findus and Hare

ASna monks His neat white moustacihe and goatee Deard are the final

uch on a lean, strong tanned face. At 1.69 metres he s fairly short, but

scular and with not an ounce of fat on his body

With his rucksack on his back and dying for a cigarette, he joins the

air ends in a tutt atbove the

queue of passengers in the airport corridor, with an unlit, Brazilian-made

Galaxy Light between his lips. In his hand is a lighter ready to be flicked

0n as soon as it's allowed, which will not, it seems, be soon. Even for

someone with no Hungarian, the meaning of the words"Tilos adohanyzas

is clear, since it appears on signs everywhere, alongside the image of a

ighted cigarette with a red line running through it. Standing beside the

baggage carousel, the man in black looks anxiously over at the glass wall

separating international passengers from the main concourse. His black

case with a white heart chalked on it is, in fact, small enough for him to

have taken it on board as hand luggage, but its owner hates carrying

ything

After going through customs and passing beyond the glass wall, the

man in black is visibly upset to find that his name does not appear on any

of the boards held up by the drivers and tour reps waiting for passengers

on his flight. Worse still, there are no photographers, reporters or televi-

Sion cameras waiting for him. There is no one. He walks out on to the

pavement, looking around, and even before lifting the collar of his jacket

against the cold wind sweeping across Budapest, he lights his cigarette

and consumes almost half of it in one puff. The other Air France passen

gers go their separate ways in buses, taxis and private cars, leaving the

pavement deserted. The man's disappointment gives way to anger. He

lights another cigarette, makes an international call on his mobile phone

and complains in Portuguese and in a slightly nasal voice: "There's no one

waiting for me in Budapest! Yes! That's what I saidl' He repeats this,

hammering each word into the head of the person at the other end: That's right - there s no one waiting Jor me here in Budapest. No one. I said no one!

He rings off without saying g00dlbye, stubs out his cigarette and starts

to smoke a third. pacing cisconsolately up and down. Fifteen interminable

minutes after disermbarking he hears a familar sound. He turns towards

it, and his eyes light up. An enormous smile appears on his face. The

reason for his joy is only a few metres away: a crowd of reporters, photog

raphers, cameramen and paparazzi are running towards him calling his

name, neary all of them holding a microphone and a recorder. Behind

them is a stll larger group - his fans.

Mister Cole-ro! Mister Paulo Cole-ro!

This is how Hungarians pronounce the surname of the Brazilian

author Paulo Coelho, the man in black who has just arrived in Budapest

as guest of honour at the International Book Festival. The invitation was

a Russian initiative, rather than a Brazilian one (Brazil doesn't even have

a stand), Russia being the guest country at the 2005 festival. Coelho is

the most widely read author in Russia, which, with 143 million inhabi-

tants, is one of the rmnost populous countries in the world. Along with the

reporters come people bearing copies of his most recent success, The

Zahir, all open at the title page, as they step over the tangle of cables on

the ground and face the hostility of the journalists, simply to get his auto-

graph. The flashbulbs and the bluish glow from the reflectors cast a

strange light on the shaven head of the author, who looks as if he were

on the strobe-lit dance floor of a 1970s disco. Despite the crowd and the

discomlort, he wears a permanent, angelic smile and, even though he's

drowning in a welter of questions in English, French and Hungarian, he

appears to be savouring an incomparable pleasure: world fame. He is in

his element. Mister Cole-ro with his sparkling eyes and the sincerest

possible smile is once again Paulo Coelho, superstar and a member ot

the Brazilian Academy of Letters, whose books have been translated into

66 languages and dialects across 160 countries. He is a man accustomed

to receiving a pop stars welcome from his readers. He tells the journal-

1sts that he has been to Hungary only once, more than twenty years

betore. T'm just afraid that fifteen years of capitalist tounsm may have

done Budapest more harm than the Russians did in half a century, hesays provocatively, relerning to the period wnen t p

the former Soviet Union

nat same day, the author had another opporun ur pa

recognition. While waiting for the plane at Lyon port he

approached by a fellow Brazilian, who told nim that ne had read

admired his work. On being caled to take the Dus to the plane

walked together to the gate, but the other Brazila, wnen asked

gh

he

proauce his boara.ng pass, couldn't find it Anxious that the other pan

gers would grow impatient as the man searched clumsily throuph

things, the Air France employee moved nim to one side, and the que.

aten

moved o

Out of kindness, Paulo Coelho stood beside his fellow countrym

but was told: "Really, you don't need to wait. 1'1| tind t in a minute

All the other passengers were now seated in the bus, and the Ai

France employee was threatening to close the door. 'Tm sorry, but if you

haven t got a boarding pass, you cant board the plane.

The Brazilian began to see his holiday plans falling apart, but he

wasn't going to give up that easily. "But I know I've got it. Only a few

rninutes ago I showed it to the author Paulo Coelho, who was with me

because I wanted to know if we were going to be sitting next to each

other

The Frenchman stared at him. 'Paulo Coelho? Do you mean that man

s Paulo Coelho? On being assured that this was so, he ran over to the bus,

where the passengers were waiting for the problem to be resolved, and

shouted, Monsieur Paulo Coelho!" Once the author had stood up and

confirmed that he had indeed seen his fellow Brazilian's boarding pass, the

Frenchman, suddenly all politeness and cordiality, beckoned to the cause

of the hold-up and allowed him to board the bus.

Night has fallen in Budapest when a tall, thin young man announces

that there are to be no more photos or questions. To the protests of both

journalists and fans, Paulo Coelho is now seated in the back of a

Mercedes, its age and impressive size suggesting that it may once have

carried Hungary's Communist leaders. Also in the car are the men whoo

are to be his companions for the next three days: the driver and body-

guard, Pal Szabados, a very tall young man with a crew cut, and GergelyHuszti, who freed him rom the reporters clutches and who is to be his

guide. Both men were appointed by the author's publisher in Hungary.

Athenäum.

When the car sets oft, and even before Gergely has introduced

himself, Paulo asks for a moment's silence and, as he did in the plane, he

gazes into the distance, raises his forefinger and middle finger, and fora

few seconds prays. He performs this solitary ceremony at least three

times a day-when he wakes, at six in the evening and at midnight-and

repeats it in planes when taking off and landing and in cars when driving

off, regardless of whether he is on a long-haul flight or a short trip in a cab.

On the way to the hotel, Gergely reads out the planned programmne

a debate followed by a signing session at the book festival; a visit to the

Budapest underground with the prefect, Gabor Demszky; five individual

interviews for various television programmes and major publications; a

press conference; a photo shoot with Miss Peru, one of his readers (who

is in Hungary for the Miss Universe contest); two dinners; a show at an

open-air disco.

Coelho interrupts Gergely in English. 'Stop there, please. You can cut

out the visit to the underground, the show and Miss Peru. None of that

was on the programme.

The guide insists: "I think we should at least keep the visit to the

underground, as it's the third oldest in the world.. And the prefect's wife

is a fan of yours and has read all your books.

Forget it. I'l sign a book especially for her, but I'm not going to the

underground.

With the underground, the disco and Miss Peru serapped, the author

approves the schedule, showing no signs of fatigue in spite of the fact

that he has had an exhaustng week. With the launch of The Zahir he has

given interviews to reporters from the Chilean newspaper El Mercuro,

the French magazine Paris Match, the Dutch daily De Telegraaf, the mag

21ne produced by Maison Cartier, the Polish newspaper Fakt and tne

Norwegian womens magazine Kvinner 0g Klaær. At the request ot a inena,

an aide to the Saudi royal family, he also gave a long statement to Nigel

Dudiey and Sarah Macinnes from the magazine Think, a British Dusiness

publication

Half an hour after leaving the airport, the Mercedes stops

Paulo embraces a beautiful dark-haired woman whoO has just arrived s

he boy

dbe

Danube, one of the oldest spa hotels in Central Europe. Before

hand is a chubby, blue-eyed little boy She 1s MOnica Antunes and the h.

1s her son. Although she acts as Paulc coeln0 S iterary agent, it would

Barcelona and has been waiting for him in the notel 1obby. Holdinp

a mistake to consider her, as people olten do, as merely that, becauge:

accounts lor only a small part ot the work she has been doing since

se it

the

Some people in the literary jet set say that behind her beautiful face

soft voice and shy smile lies a ferocious guard dog, 1or she is known and

feared for the ruthlessness with which she treats anyone who threatens

her author's interests. Many publishers reler to her- behind her back of

course- as the witch of Barcelona, a relerence to the city where she

lives and from where she controls everything to do with the professional

life of her one client. Mônica has become the link between the author

and the publishing world. Anything and everything to do with his literary

work has to pass through the modern, seventh-storey office that is home

to Sant Jordi Asociados, named in Catalan after the patron saint of books,

ace,

end of the 1980s.

St George.

While her Peruvian nanny keeps an eye on her son in the hotel lobby.

Mönica sits down with the author at a cormer table and opens her brief-

case, full of computer printouts produced by Sant Jordi. Today, it's all

good news: in three weeks The Zahir has sold 106,000 copies in Hungary.

In Italy, over the same period, the figure was 420,000. In the Italian best-

seller lists the book has even overtaken the memoirs of the recently

deceased John Paul II. The author, however, doesn't appear to be

pleased.

That's all very well, Mönica, but I want to know how The Zahir has

done in comparison with the previous book in the same period.

She produces another document. In the same period, Eleven Minutes

sold 328,000 copies in Italy. So The Zahir is selling almost 30 per cent

more. Now are you happy?

Yes, of course. And what about Germany? There 7he Zahir 1s in secona place on Der Spiegel's best-seller list,

after 7he LDa Vinci Code

As well as Hungary, taly and Germany, the author asks for informa-

tion about sales in RUssia and wants to know whether Arash Hejazi, his

Iranian publisher, has resolved the problems of censorship, and what is

happening regarding pirate copies being sold in Egypt. According to

Monica's figures, the author is beating his own records in every country

where the book has come out. A week after its launch in France, The Zahir

topped all lists, including the most prized, that of the weekly news maga

zine L'Express. In Russia, sales have passed the 530,000 mark, while in

Portugal, they stand at 130,000 (whereas Eleven Minutes had sold only

80,000 copies six months after its launch). In Brazil, The Zahir has sold

160,000 copies in less than a month (60 per cent more than Eleven Minutes

in the same period). And while Coelho is appearing in Hungary, 500,000

copies of the Spanish translation of The Zahir are being distributed

throughout the southern states of America to reach the Spanish-

speaking commurniies there- and throughout eighteen Latin-American

countries.

The only surprise Is the last piece of news: the previous day, an armed

gang stopped a lorry in a Buenos Aires suburb and stole the entire

precious cargo- 2,000 copies of The Zahir that had just left the printer's

and were on their way to bookshops in the city. Some days later, a liter

ary cntic in the Diano de Navarra in Spain suggested that the robbery had

been a publicity stunt dreamed up by the author as a way of selling more

Copies.

All this stress and anxiety 15 repeated every two years, each ume

Paulo Coelho publishes a new bcok. 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 Diärio 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. Ater

wenty years, his nethods and strategies may have changed, but he nas

THot wherever he is, be it in Tierra del Fuego or Greenland, in Alaska

Or Australha, he uses his mobile phone or his laptop to keep abreast of

everyihin to do with publicaton, distnbution, medla attenton and w

p to

whe

e

He has still not yet filled out the inevitable hotel orm or gone up d to

his room, whien Lea arrives. A pleasant woman in her irtes, married ho's

the Swiss Minister of the Interior, she is a devoted reader of Coelh vOs.

his books are on the best-seller lists.

books, having first met him at the Worid Economic Forum in Davos

When she learned that he was visiting Budapest, Lea took the train fron

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 oelno inally goes up to the sulte reserved

for him at the Gellert

The room seems palatial in comparison with his modest luggage, the

contents of which never vary: tour 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 regu

larly topped up by his office in Rio or by kind visitors from Brazil). For

fornal 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 under

pants. In one cormer of his case is a small wash bag containing tooth-

brush 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 buttertly with open wings tattooed on his leftforearm His fast g day 1s Cinner at the home of an artist

in the Buda hills above the ciy on he rignt bank of the Danube, with a

wonderful view ot the otd capital, On wnich, this evenin8. a fine drizzle is

falling

In a candlelit room some ntty people are waldng tor 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 Hungarnan cooks, ho

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 conterence 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 wil

arrive later in the form of cuttings and synopses tocusing on the author

and his books.

At exacty ten o'clock he enters the room, which is lit by reflectors

and full of journalists, and sits down behind tte small table provided, on

which stand a bottle of mineral water, a glass, an ashtray and a vase or

red roses. His guide, Gergely, takes the microphone, explains the reasotin the

front row of his agent, Monica Antunes. She stands snyiy and ackno

amei

for the author's visit to the country and announces he preence i

edges the appiatise

Coelho speaks in Engish for forty minutes, which incluides the tim

VESIt to Budapest in 1982, and talks a little about his personal life and

career as a writer He eveals, for example, that, following the success

rose

takes for Gengely to translate each sentence into fHunganan. He recalls

The PNgrimage, the number of pilgims to Santiago de Compostela rose

from 400 a year to 400 a day In recognition ot this, the Galician gover

ment has named one of the streets of Santhago kua Paulo Coelho. When

the meeting is opened up for questions, t becomes clear tnat the jour.

nalists present are fans of his work. Some menton a particular book as

my favourite'. The meeting passes without any indiscreet or hostile ques

tions being asked; the tmendiy atmosphere 1sS more ike a gathernng of the

Budapest branch of his fan club. When Gergely brings the meeting to an

end, the reporters reward the author with a round ot applause. A smal

queue forms in front of the table and an improvised signing session exclu-

sive to Hungartan jourmalists begns. Only then does it become apparent

that nearly all of them have copies of his books in their bags.

The wnter, who rarely lunches, has a quick snack in the hotel restau-

rant-toast with liver pate, a glass of orange juice and an espresso. He

makes use of a free half-hour betore his next appointment to gilance at the

international news in Le Monde and El Pais. 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 speak-

ing confidently (but without ever appearing to be dictatonal or Supenor)

on matters as various as the growing crisis in Lebanon or the national-

ization 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 Cub's Fokusz2, which regularlytops the Sunday evening atng ne uusual thing about Fokusz2 is that,

at the end of eacth programne, the ntervieWee 1s given a Hungarian dish

prepared by Marsi AniKO nerselt. In a small, improvised studio in t

hotel, the face-to-lace interView agaln noias o Surpises, apart irorm the

way she blushes when a cheertul Coelho decides to start talking about

penetrative sex. At the end, he receives a iss on each cheek, a tray of

almásrétes-a tradinnal iunganan tart hlled with p0ppy petals that Aniko

he

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 lor another jollier, more colourful one, for an interview with

András Simon rom Hungarian MTV An hour later, once the recording is

over, the jourmalist hands the author a stack of seven books to sign.

With a tew minutes break between each interview-time enough tor

the author to dnnk 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 adrenain. I m just getting warmed up..

Whether it is professionalism, vanity or some other source ot ener8y

the fact 1s that the author, who is about to turn sixty, Is on enviably go0d

form. A Shower and another espresso are all it takes tor him to reappear

at 8.30 in the hotel lobby, gleefully rubbing his hands, Mönica, Lea (who

has managed to attach herself to the group), the silent bodyguard

Szabados and Gergely are waiting for him. There is one more engage

ment before the end of the day: a dinner with wnters, publishers and jour-

nalists at the home of Tamás Kolosi, who owns the publishing house

Athenaum 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 aperitir. 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.