He goes to the toilet as if for a pee, but once there he stands and stares into space, praying silently. Then he asks God to make sure that everything goes well during the day. ‘Now it’s up to You.’
God appears to have listened. Protected by the three bodyguards, and by Szabados, who has orders never to let him out of his sight, Paulo Coelho arrives in the Béla Bártok room lit by the lights of television crews and the flashlights of photographers. All the seats are taken and even the passageways, aisles and galleries are filled to capacity. The audience is equally divided between men and women, but most are young. He is escorted to the stage by the security guards and he acknowledges the applause, his hands pressed to his chest. The harsh lights and the crush of people mean that the heat is unbearable. The author speaks for half an hour in fluent French, talking about his life, his beliefs and the struggle to realize his dream to become a writer, all of which is then translated into Hungarian by a young woman. After this a small number of people are selected to ask questions, at the end of which the writer stands up to thank everyone for their welcome.
The audience don’t want him to leave. Waving their books in the air, they yell: ‘Ne! Ne! Ne!’
In the midst of the uproar, the interpreter explains that ‘ne’ means ‘no’ – those present do not want the author to leave without signing their books. The problem is that the security people are also saying ‘ne’. There are simply too many people. The cries of ‘Ne! Ne!’ continue unabated. Coelho pretends not to have understood what the security people are saying, takes a pen out of his pocket and returns, smiling, to the microphone. ‘If you can get yourselves in some kind of order, I’ll try and sign a few.’
Dozens of people immediately start pushing forward, climbing on to the stage and surrounding the author. Fearing a stampede, the security guards decide to step in. They lift Coelho bodily off the floor and carry him through the curtains and from there to a secure room. He bursts out laughing.
‘You could have left me there. I’m not frightened of my readers. What I fear is creating panic. In 1998, in Zagreb, a security man with a pistol at his waist tried to break up the queue and you can imagine how dangerous that was! My readers would never harm me.’
With two bodyguards in front of him and two behind, and under the curious gaze of onlookers, the author is accompanied down the corridors of the convention centre to the Athenäum stand, where copies of The Zahir await him. The queue of 500 people has become a crowd too large to organize. The 150 voucher holders wave their numbered cards in the air, surrounded by the majority, who have only copies of Paulo Coelho’s books as their passport to an autograph. He is, however, used to such situations and immediately takes command. Speaking in French with an interpreter on hand, he raises his arms to address the multitude – and yes, this really is a multitude: 1,500? 2,000? It’s impossible to know who is there to get his autograph or to get a glimpse of their idol and who has simply been attracted by the crowd. Finding it hard to be heard, he shouts: ‘Thank you for coming. I know lots of you have been here since midday and I’ve asked the publisher to provide water for you all. We’re going to have two queues, one for those who’ve got a voucher and the other for those who haven’t. I’m going to try to deal with everyone. Thank you!’
Now comes the hard work. While waiters circulate with trays of cold mineral water, the author tries to create some order out of the chaos. He signs thirty books for those in the queue and then another thirty for those who have had to wait outside. Every fifty or sixty minutes he pauses briefly to go to the toilet or to a small area outside, the only place in the entire conference centre where he can smoke, and which he has named ‘bad boy’s corner’. On his third visit, he comes across a non-smoker, book in hand, waiting out of line for an autograph. He is Jacques Gil, a twenty-year-old Brazilian from Rio who has moved to Hungary to play for the oldest football club there, Újpest. Coelho quickly signs the book and takes four or five drags on his cigarette. He then hurries back to the stand, where the crowd is waiting patiently.
By the time the last of the fans reach the table, it is dark, and with the official programme at an end, it is time to relax. The original group – with the addition of half-a-dozen young men and women who refuse to leave – agree to meet after dinner in the hotel foyer for an evening’s entertainment. At ten, everyone goes to a karaoke bar in Mammut, a popular shopping centre. The young Hungarians accompanying the author are disappointed when they learn that the sound system isn’t working.
‘That’s too bad,’ one complains to the manager. ‘We managed to persuade Paulo Coelho to sing for us …’
The mention of Coelho’s name again opens doors, and the manager whispers something to a shaven-headed man, who immediately picks up a motorcycle helmet from the table and rushes off. The manager returns to the group, smiling. ‘There’s no way we’re going to miss a performance by Paulo Coelho just because we’ve no karaoke equipment. My partner has gone to borrow some from another club. Please, take a seat.’
The motorcyclist takes so long to come back that the much-hoped-for performance becomes what musicians might call an ‘impromptu’ and a fairly modest one at that. Coelho sings Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ with Andrew, a young American student on holiday in Hungary. He follows this up with a solo version of ‘Love Me Tender’, but declines to give an encore.
Everyone returns to the hotel at midnight, and the following morning, the members of the group go their separate ways. Mônica returns with her son and Juana to Barcelona, Lea goes back to Switzerland, and the author, after an hour’s walk through the centre of Budapest, is once again sitting in the back of the Mercedes driven by Szabados. Next to him is a cardboard box full of his books. He opens one at the first page, signs it and hands it to Gergely, who is in the front seat. In the last two books, he writes a personal dedication to his driver and his guide. An hour later, he is sitting in business class in another Air France plane, this time bound for Paris, and again he is saying his silent prayer.
When the plane has taken off, a beautiful young black woman with her hair arranged in dozens of tiny plaits approaches him with a copy of The Pilgrimage in Portuguese. Her name is Patrícia and she is secretary to the famous Cape Verdean singer Cesária Évora. She asks him to sign the book. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for Cesária, who’s sitting back there. She’s a big fan of yours, but she’s really shy.’
Two hours later in Paris, at Charles de Gaulle airport, Coelho has yet another short but unexpected signing and photo session, when he’s recognized by a group of Cape Verdean Rastafarians who are waiting for the singer. Their excitement attracts the attention of other people, who immediately recognize the author and ask to be allowed to take some photos as well. Although he’s clearly tired, he cheerfully deals with all of them. At the exit, a chauffeur is waiting with a Mercedes provided by Coelho’s French publisher. Although a suite costing 1,300 euros a day has been reserved for him at the Hotel Bristol, one of the most luxurious hotels in the French capital, he prefers to stay at his own place, a four-bedroom apartment in the smart 16th arrondissement with a wonderful view of the Seine. The problem is getting there. Today marks the anniversary of the massacre of the Armenians by the authorities of the Ottoman Empire, and a noisy demonstration is being held outside the Turkish Embassy, which is right near the apartment building. On the way, the Mercedes passes newspaper stands and kiosks displaying a full-page advertisement for Feminina, the weekly women’s supplement with a circulation of 4 million, which is offering its readers an advance chapter from The Zahir. An enormous photo of the author fills the front page of the Journal du Dimanche, advertising an exclusive interview with him.
By dint of driving on the pavement and going the wrong way down one-way streets, Georges, the chauffeur, finally manages to park outside the apartment block. Despite having bought the place more than four years ago, Coelho is so unfamiliar with it that he still hasn’t managed to learn the six-digit code needed to open the main door. Christina is upstairs waiting for him, but she has no mobile with her and, besides, he can’t remember the phone number of the apartment. There are two alternatives: he can wait until a neighbour arrives or shout up to Christina for her to throw down the