Paulo Coelho - Aleph

Just as I’m about to recount my recent conversation with J., my two publishers from Bulgaria come into the café. 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 organize it. All I ask is a party after the afternoon signing session.”

They both look at me aghast.

Chinese bamboo!

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 say, interrupting her, and 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 promotional campaign.

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

Only then do they realize 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 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 meters 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 finally understood 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 e-mails, 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 of 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 apologize 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, he 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 manage to grow only 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.