Читать книгу Aleph - Пауло Коэльо, Paulo Coelho - Страница 9

Chinese Bamboo

Sitting in this train travelling from Paris to London, on my way to the Book Fair, is a blessing to me. Whenever I visit England, I remember 1977, when I left my job with a Brazilian recording company determined, from then on, to make my living as a writer. I rented a flat in Bassett Road, made various friends, studied vampirology, discovered the city on foot, fell in love, saw every film being shown and, before a year had passed, I was back in Rio, incapable of writing a single line.

This time I will only be staying in London for three days. There will be a signing session, meals in Indian and Lebanese restaurants, and conversations in the hotel lobby about books, bookshops and authors. I have no plans to return to my house in Saint Martin until the end of the year. From London I will get a flight back to Rio, where I can again hear my mother tongue spoken in the streets, drink acai juice every night and gaze tirelessly out of my window at the most beautiful view in the world: Copacabana beach.

Shortly before we arrive, a young man enters the carriage carrying a bunch of roses and starts looking around him. How odd, I think, I’ve never seen flower-sellers on Eurostar before.

‘I need twelve volunteers,’ he says. ‘Each person will carry a single rose and present it to the woman who is the love of my life and whom I’m going to ask to marry me.’

Several people volunteer, including me, although, in the end, I’m not one of the chosen twelve. Nevertheless, when the train pulls into the station, I decide to follow the other volunteers. The young man points to a girl on the platform. One by one, the passengers hand her their red roses. Finally, he declares his love for her, everyone applauds, and the young woman turns scarlet with embarrassment. Then the couple kiss and go off, their arms around each other.

One of the stewards says:

‘That’s the most romantic thing I’ve seen in all the time I’ve been working here.’

The scheduled book-signing lasts nearly five hours, but it fills me with positive energy and makes me wonder why I’ve been in such a state all these months. If my spiritual progress seems to have met an insurmountable barrier, perhaps I just need to be patient. I have seen and felt things that very few of the people around me will have seen and felt.

Before setting out to London, I visited the little chapel in Barbazan-Debat. There I asked Our Lady to guide me with her love and help me identify the signs that will lead me back to myself. I know that I am in all the people surrounding me, and that they are in me. Together we write the Book of Life, our every encounter determined by fate and our hands joined in the belief that we can make a difference in this world. Everyone contributes a word, a sentence, an image, but in the end, it all makes sense: the happiness of one becomes the joy of all.

We will always ask ourselves the same questions. We will always need to be humble enough to accept that our heart knows why we are here. Yes, it’s difficult to talk to your heart, and perhaps it isn’t even necessary. We simply have to trust and follow the signs and live our Personal Legend; sooner or later, we will realise that we are all part of something, even if we can’t understand rationally what that something is. They say that in the second before our death, each of us understands the real reason for our existence and out of that moment Heaven or Hell is born.

Hell is when we look back during that fraction of a second and know that we wasted an opportunity to dignify the miracle of life. Paradise is being able to say at that moment: ‘I made some mistakes, but I wasn’t a coward. I lived my life and did what I had to do.’

However, there’s no need to anticipate my particular hell and keep going over and over the fact that I can make no further progress in what I understand to be my ‘Spiritual Quest’. It’s enough that I keep trying. Even those who didn’t do all they could have done have already been forgiven; they had their punishment while they were alive by being unhappy when they could have been living in peace and harmony. We are all redeemed and free to follow the path that has no beginning and will have no end.

I haven’t brought anything with me to read. While I’m waiting to join my Russian publishers for supper, I leaf through one of those magazines that are always to be found in hotel rooms. I skim-read an article about Chinese bamboo. Apparently, once the seed has been sown, you see nothing for about five years apart from a tiny shoot. All the growth takes place underground, where a complex root system reaching upwards and outwards is being established. Then, at the end of the fifth year, the bamboo suddenly shoots up to a height of 25 metres. What a tedious subject! I decide to go downstairs and watch the comings and goings in the lobby.

I have a cup of coffee while I wait. Mônica, my agent and my best friend, joins me at my table. We talk about things of no importance. She’s clearly tired after a day spent dealing with people from the book world and monitoring the book-signing over the phone with my British publisher.

We started working together when she was only twenty. She was a fan of my work and convinced that a Brazilian writer could be successfully translated and published outside Brazil. She abandoned her studies in chemical engineering in Rio, moved to Spain with her boyfriend and went round knocking on publishers’ doors and writing letters, telling them that they really needed to read my work.

When this brought no results at all, I went to the small town in Catalonia where she was living, bought her a coffee and advised her to give the whole thing up and think about her own life and future. She refused and said that she couldn’t go back to Brazil a failure. I tried to persuade her that she hadn’t failed; after all, she had shown herself capable of surviving (by delivering leaflets and working as a waitress) as well as having had the unique experience of living abroad. Mônica would still not give up. I left that café in the firm belief that she was throwing her life away, but that I would never be able to make her change her mind because she was too stubborn. Six months later, the situation had changed completely, and six months after that, she had earned enough money to buy an apartment.

She believed in the impossible and, for that reason, won a battle that everyone, including myself, considered to be lost. That is what marks out the warrior: the knowledge that willpower and courage are not the same thing. Courage can attract fear and adulation, but will-power requires patience and commitment. Men and women with immense willpower are generally solitary types and give off a kind of coolness. Many people mistakenly think that Mônica is rather a cold person, when nothing could be further from the truth. In her heart there burns a secret fire, as intense as it was when we met in that Catalonian café. Despite all she has achieved, she’s as enthusiastic as ever.

Just as I’m about to recount my recent conversation with J., my two publishers from Bulgaria come into the lobby. A lot of people involved in the Book Fair are staying in the same hotel. We talk about this and that, then Mônica turns the conversation to the subject of my books. Eventually, one of the publishers looks at me and asks the standard question:

‘So when are you going to visit our country?’

‘Next week if you can organise it. All I ask is a party after the afternoon signing session.’

They both look at me aghast.

C HINESE B AMBOO !

Mônica is staring at me in horror as she says:

‘We’d better look at the diary …’

‘… but I’m sure I can be in Sofia next week,’ I burst in, adding in Portuguese: ‘I’ll explain later.’

Mônica sees that I’m serious, but the publishers are still unsure. They ask if I wouldn’t prefer to wait a little, so that they can mount a proper promotion campaign.

‘Next week,’ I say again. ‘Otherwise we’ll have to leave it for another occasion.’

Only then do they realise that I’m serious. They turn to Mônica for more details. And at that precise moment my Spanish publisher arrives. The conversation at the table breaks off, introductions are made, and the usual question is asked:

‘So, when are you coming back to Spain?’

‘Straight after my visit to Bulgaria.’

‘When will that be?’

‘In two weeks’ time. We can arrange a book-signing in Santiago de Compostela and another in the Basque Country, followed by a party to which some of my readers could be invited.’

The Bulgarian publishers start to look uneasy again, and Mônica gives a strained smile.

‘Make a commitment!’ J. had said.

The lobby is starting to fill up. At all such fairs, whether they’re promoting books or heavy machinery, the professionals tend to stay in the same two or three hotels, and most deals are sealed in hotel lobbies or at suppers like the one due to take place tonight. I greet all the publishers and accept any invitations that begin with the question ‘When are you going to visit our country?’ I try to keep them talking for as long as possible to avoid Mônica asking me what on earth is going on. All she can do is note down in her diary the various visits I’m committing myself to.

At one point, I break off my discussion with an Arab publisher to find out how many visits I’ve arranged.

‘Look, you’re putting me in a very awkward position,’ she replies in Portuguese, sounding very irritated.

‘How many?’

‘Six countries in five weeks. These fairs are for publishing professionals, you know, not writers. You don’t have to accept any invitations, I take care of—’

Just then my Portuguese publisher arrives, so we can’t continue this private conversation. When he doesn’t say anything beyond the usual small talk, I ask the question myself:

‘Aren’t you going to invite me to Portugal?’

He admits that he overheard my conversation with Mônica.

‘I’m not joking,’ I say. ‘I’d really love to do a book-signing in Guimarães and another in Fátima.’

‘As long as you don’t cancel at the last moment.’

‘I won’t cancel, I promise.’

He agrees, and Mônica adds Portugal to the diary: another five days. Finally, my Russian publishers – a man and a woman – come over and we say hello. Mônica gives a sigh of relief. Now she can drag me off to the restaurant.

While we’re waiting for the taxi, she draws me to one side.

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘Oh, I went mad years ago. Do you know anything about Chinese bamboo? It apparently spends five years as a little shoot, using that time to develop its root system. And then, from one moment to the next, it puts on a spurt and grows up to twenty-five metres high.’

‘And what has that got to do with the act of insanity I’ve just witnessed?’

‘Later on, I’ll tell you about the conversation I had a month ago with J. What matters now, though, is that this is precisely what has been happening to me: I’ve invested work, time and effort; I tried to encourage my personal growth with love and dedication, but nothing happened. Nothing happened for years.’

‘What do you mean “nothing happened”? Have you forgotten who you are?’

The taxi arrives. The Russian publisher opens the door for Mônica.

‘I’m talking about the spiritual side of my life. I think I’m like that Chinese bamboo plant and that my fifth year has just arrived. It’s time for me to start growing again. You asked me if I’d gone mad and I answered with a joke. But the fact is, I have been going mad. I was beginning to believe that nothing I had learned had put down any roots.’

For a fraction of a second, immediately after the arrival of my Bulgarian publishers, I had felt J.’s presence at my side and only then did I understand his words, although the insight itself had come to me during a moment of boredom, after leafing through a magazine on gardening. My self-imposed exile, which, on the one hand, had helped me discover important truths about myself, had another serious side-effect: the vice of solitude. My universe had become limited to a few friends locally, to answering letters and emails and to the illusion that the rest of my time was mine alone. I was, in short, leading a life without any of the inevitable problems that arise from living with other people, from human contact.

Is that what I’m looking for? A life without challenges? But where is the pleasure in looking for God outside people?

I know many who have done just that. I once had a serious and at the same time comical talk with a Buddhist nun, who had spent twenty years alone in a cave in Nepal. I asked her what she had achieved. ‘Spiritual orgasm,’ she replied, to which I replied that there were far easier ways to achieve orgasm.

I could never follow that path; it’s simply not on my horizon. I cannot and could not spend the rest of my life in search of spiritual orgasms or contemplating the oak tree in my garden, waiting for wisdom to descend. J. knows this and encouraged me to make this journey so that I would understand that my path is reflected in the eyes of others and that, if I want to find myself, I need that map.

I apologise to the Russian publishers and say that I need to finish a conversation with Mônica in Portuguese. I start by telling her a story:

‘A man stumbles and falls into a deep hole. He asks a passing priest to help him out. The priest blesses him and walks on. Hours later, a doctor comes by. The man asks for help, but the doctor merely studies his injuries from afar, writes him a prescription and tells him to buy the medicine from the nearest pharmacy. Finally, a complete stranger appears. Again, the man asks for help, and the stranger jumps into the hole. “Now what are we going to do?” says the man. “Now both of us are trapped down here.” To which the stranger replies: “No we’re not. I’m from around here and I know how to get out.”’

‘Meaning?’ asks Mônica.

‘That I need strangers like that,’ I explain. ‘My roots are ready, but I’ll only manage to grow with the help of others. Not just you or J. or my wife, but people I’ve never met. I’m sure of that. That’s why I asked for a party to be held after the book-signings.’

‘You’re never satisfied, are you?’ Mônica says in a tone of complaint.

‘That’s why you love me so much,’ I say with a smile.

In the restaurant, we speak about all kinds of things; we celebrate a few successes and try to refine certain details. I have to stop myself from interfering, because Mônica is in charge of everything to do with publishing. At one point, though, the same question is asked:

‘And when will Paulo be visiting Russia?’

Mônica starts explaining that my diary has suddenly got very crowded and that I have a series of commitments starting next week. I break in:

‘You know, I have long cherished a dream, which I’ve tried to realise twice before and failed. If you can help me achieve my dream, I’ll come to Russia.’

‘What dream is that?’

‘To cross the whole of Russia by train and end up at the Pacific Ocean. We could stop at various places along the way for signings. That way we would be showing our respect for all those readers who could never make it to Moscow.’

My publisher’s eyes light up with joy. He had just been talking about the increasing difficulties of distribution in a country so vast that it has nine different time zones.

‘A very romantic, very Chinese bamboo idea,’ laughs Mônica, ‘but not very practical. As you well know, I wouldn’t be able to go with you because I have my son to look after now.’

The publisher, however, is enthusiastic. He orders his fifth coffee of the night, says that he’ll take care of everything, that Mônica’s assistant can stand in for her, and that she needn’t worry about a thing, it will all be fine.

I thus fill up my diary with two whole months of travelling, leaving along the way a lot of very happy, but very stressed-out people who are going to have to organise everything at lightning speed; a friend and agent who is now looking at me with affection and respect; and a teacher who isn’t here, but who knows that I’ve now made a commitment, even though I didn’t understand what he meant at the time. It’s a cold night and I choose to walk back alone to the hotel, feeling rather frightened at what I’ve done, but happy too, because there’s no turning back.

That is what I wanted. If I believe I will win, then victory will believe in me. No life is complete without a touch of madness, or to use J.’s words, what I need to do is to re-conquer my kingdom. If I can understand what’s going on in the world, I can understand what’s going on inside myself.

At the hotel, there is a message from my wife, saying that she’s been trying to contact me and asking me to phone her as soon as possible. My heart starts pounding, because she rarely phones me when I’m travelling. I return her call at once. The seconds between each ring seem like an eternity.

Finally, she picks up the phone.

‘Véronique has had a serious car accident, but, don’t worry, she’s not in any danger,’ she says nervously.

I ask if I can phone Véronique now, but she says not. She’s still in hospital.

‘Do you remember that clairvoyant?’ she asks.

Of course I do! He made a prediction about me as well. We hang up and I immediately phone Mônica’s room. I ask if, by any chance, I’ve arranged a visit to Turkey.

‘Can’t you even remember which invitations you accepted?’

No, I say. I was in a strange state of euphoria when I started saying ‘Yes’ to all those publishers.

‘But you do remember the commitments you’ve taken on, don’t you? There’s still time to cancel, if you want to.’

I tell her that I’m perfectly happy with the commitments, that’s not the problem. It’s too late to start explaining about the clairvoyant, the predictions, and Véronique’s accident. I ask Mônica again if I have arranged a visit to Turkey.

‘No,’ she says. ‘The Turkish publishers are staying in a different hotel. Otherwise …’

We both laugh.

I can sleep easy.