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