Read Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life Online
Authors: Fernando Morais
Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life (16 page)
On the final night of
Pinocchio
, he repeated his success. Batatinha was the only actor–even though he wasn’t really an actor–who merited an extra round of applause. If it weren’t for the total absence of money, he would have been leading the kind of life he had always dreamed of. He had several girlfriends, he was reasonably successful as an actor, and he had also learned to play the classical guitar and now went everywhere with the instrument on his shoulder, just like his bossa nova idols. However, as had been happening for some time now, his waves of happiness were always cut short by bouts of deep depression. For example, this diary entry, written after reading a biography of Toulouse-Lautrec, dates from that apparently happy and exciting period of his life:
I’ve just this minute finished one of the most moving real-life stories I’ve ever read. It’s the biography of a wealthy, talented artist, from an aristocratic family, who had achieved fame in his youth, but who, despite this, was the unhappiest man in the world, because his grotesque body and his incredible ugliness meant that he was never loved. He died of drink in the prime of life, his body worn down by his excesses. He was a man who, in the dark, noisy cafés of Montmartre, spent time with Van Gogh, Zola, Oscar Wilde, Degas, Debussy, and from the age of eighteen lived the kind of life all intellectuals aspire to. A man who never used his wealth and social position to humiliate others, but, on the other hand, his wealth and social position never brought a crumb of sincere love to a heart hungry for affection. In some ways, this man is very like me. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, whose life is brilliantly described by Pierre La Mure, in the 450 pages of
Moulin Rouge
. I’ll never forget this book.
He continued reading a lot, but now, as well as making a note in his diary of each book he read, as he had always done, he would give each book a classification, like that given by professional critics. One star, bad; two, good; three, very good; four, brilliant. On one page in June, he wrote of his surprise at his own voracious literary appetite: ‘I’ve beaten my record: I’m reading five books at the same time. This really can’t go on.’ And he wasn’t reading lightweight stuff either. That day, he had on his bedside table
Crime and Punishment
by Dostoevsky;
Fear and Trembling
by Kierkegaard;
For People Under Pressure: A Medical Guide
by David Harold Fink;
Masterpieces of World Poetry
, edited by Sérgio Milliet; and
A Panorama of Brazilian Theatre
by Sábato Magaldi.
In that same month in 1966, Paulo finally got up the courage to show Jean Arlin the first play he had written as an adult: a three-act play,
Juventude sem Tempo
[
Ageless Youth
]. This was, in fact, a miscellany of poetry, speeches and texts by various authors: Bertolt Brecht, Carlos Lacerda, Morris West, Manuel Bandeira, Vinicius de Moraes, Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Jean-Paul Sartre and, of course, Paulo Coelho. Arlin found it interesting, fiddled with it here and there and decided to try it out. And there was more–since it was a simple play with hardly any scenery or props, he decided to put it on at the first Festival de Juventude, which was going to be held during the holidays in Teresópolis, 100 kilometres from Rio.
Since, besides being an author, he was also an actor, in the second week of July, Paulo went to Teresópolis with Grupo Destaque, against his parents’ orders, naturally. He was excited by the festival and even entered a poem in the festival competition, which was to be judged by the poet Lêdo Ivo and the critic Walmir Ayala. The play was a disaster and the result of the poetry competition wouldn’t be announced until a month later, but what mattered was that he’d had the courage to try.
The atmosphere at home hadn’t changed at all. Besides continuing to nag him about getting home early–he rarely returned before one in the morning–his parents were now insisting that he have his hair cut, something he hadn’t done for six months. When he arrived back late at night, he could rely on having to listen to a half-hour lecture before he could go to bed.
On one such night, Pedro was waiting for him at his bedroom door, looking very threatening: ‘Once again you’ve overstepped the mark. As from tomorrow, we’re going back to the old regime: the doors of this house will be locked at eleven at night; anyone left outside then can sleep in the street.’
Paulo spent the following day going from his ‘studio’ in Fabíola’s home to rehearsals of
A Guerra dos Lanches
, for which the audiences were becoming smaller and smaller. In the evening, he went to the Paissandu to see Godard’s latest film,
La Chinoise
; although he didn’t much like the director, he was interested in attending the debate on the film that was to be held afterwards. There he met Renata and at the end of the evening the two went out to supper together. There was hardly anyone else in the restaurant when they finally asked for the bill and set off towards Leblon. Hand in hand, they walked almost 3 kilometres along the beach to Rua Rita Ludolf, where Renata lived. Exhausted, Paulo hoped desperately that a bus on the Lapa–Leblon route would come by, and it must have been almost four in the morning when he put his key in the front door, except that the key wouldn’t go in. It was only then that he realized that his father must have had the lock changed.
At that hour in the morning, he couldn’t possibly go to Joel’s or Fabíola’s. Furious, he grabbed a handful of stones and began to break all the glass in windows and doors at the front of the house. Woken by the noise, his parents at first decided to ignore him, but fearing that the neighbours would call the police, Pedro went downstairs and opened the door to his son. Making no secret of the fact that he had drunk too much, Paulo stalked across the glass-strewn drawing room and went upstairs without listening to a word his father was saying.
That night he went straight to sleep, but he had a dreadful nightmare. He dreamed that there was a doctor sitting on the edge of his bed taking his blood pressure and two male nurses standing at the door of the room holding a straitjacket. It was only then that he realized with horror that this was no dream. His father had called the emergency services of the mental asylum to admit him again. This time by force.
Ballad of the Clinic Gaol
Wednesday, 20 July
08:00 I was woken up to have my blood pressure taken. Still groggy with sleep, I thought it was a dream, but gradually, the reality of the situation began to sink in. It was the end. They told me to get dressed quickly. Outside the house stood a car from the Emergency Psychiatric Service. I had never imagined how depressing it would be to get into such a car.
A few neighbours watched from a distance as the thin youth with long hair bowed his head to get into the car. Yes, bowed his head. He was defeated.
09:30 All the necessary bureaucratic documents have been filled out. And here I am again on the ninth floor. How fast things happened! Yesterday, I was happily walking with my girlfriend, a little worried, but certainly not expecting this. And here I am again. If I’d stayed out all night rather than gone home, I wouldn’t have had that scene with my parents. I think of my girlfriend sometimes. I miss her.
Here everyone is sad. There are no smiles. Eyes stare into emptiness, seeking something, perhaps an encounter with the self. My room-mate is obsessed with death. To tease him, I play the Funeral
March on the guitar. It’s good to have my guitar here. It brings a little joy into this atmosphere laden with sadness–the profound sadness of those who aspire to nothing in life and want nothing. The only thing that consoles me is that they still know how to sing.
15:00 I was talking to a young man who has been in here for two years now. I told him I couldn’t bear it and wanted to get out. And he said in all sincerity: ‘Why? It’s great here. You don’t have to worry about anything. Why struggle? Deep down, nobody cares about anything anyway.’ I felt afraid, afraid that I might start thinking like him. I now feel real anguish, the anguish of not knowing when I will stop seeing the world through bars. It’s indescribable. The anguish of the man sentenced to life imprisonment, knowing that one day he’ll be given parole. But when will that day come? In a month? Three months? A year? Never?
17:00 Never?
19:20 I can’t leave this floor, I can’t phone anyone or write letters. A little while ago, I tried (in secret) to phone my girlfriend. She couldn’t come to the phone, she was having supper. But what if she hadn’t been having supper? What would I have said to her? Would I have complained about my lot, got angry? What would I have said? Who would I have been saying it to? Can I still speak?
I’m shocked at how calmly people accept being shut up in here. I’m afraid I might come to accept it too. If every man is an incendiary at 20 and a fireman at 40, then I reckon I must be 39 years and eleven months old. I’m on the brink of defeat. I felt this when my mother was here this afternoon. She looks down on me. This is only the first day, and yet I already feel half-beaten. But I must not let myself be beaten.
Thursday, 21 July
08:00 Yesterday they gave me a really powerful drug to make me sleep and I’m only just coming to. During the night, for no apparent reason, my room-mate woke me to ask if I was in favour of masturbation. I
said I was and turned over. I really don’t understand why he would ask me that. Or perhaps I dreamed it, but it was certainly strange. Flávio, my room-mate, normally spends long periods in complete silence. When he does speak, he always asks the same question: How are things outside? He still wants to maintain contact with the outside world. Poor thing. He’s proud of his bohemian lifestyle, but now he’s in here and admits that he’s ill.
I wil never do that. I’m fine.
11:30 I’ve just realized that they’ve emptied my wallet. I can’t buy anything. Rennie, my girlfriend, promised to visit me today. I know it’s forbidden, but I need to talk to her. I spoke to her on the phone, but I kept the tone light, to disguise my depression.
The people here like to show me new things. I’m fond of them really. Roberto is always showing me things–a way of calculating someone’s age, a voltmeter, etc. Flávio is obsessed with knowing important people. There are endless interesting cases here. One man is always sniffing his food, another doesn’t eat anything for fear of getting fat, a third talks only about sex and sexual aberrations. My room-mate is lying down, staring into space, looking fed up. They’re playing a love song on the radio. I wonder what he’s thinking about. Is he desperately searching for himself or is he just drifting aimlessly, lost and defeated?
I talk to some of the other patients. Some have been here for three months, others nine; still others have been here for years. I won’t be able to bear this.
‘Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying: My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’
Music, the sun beyond the barred windows, dreams, all of this brings with it a terrible melancholy. I remember the theatre at Teresópolis, where we put on my play
Timeless Youth
. It flopped, but it was still a great experience. Those were happy days, when I was free to see the sun come up, go horseback riding, to kiss my girlfriend and to smile.
Not any more. Not any more. Sleep dulls the ability to reason, and I’ll end up like everyone else in here.
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.
Saturday, 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.
