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?’
