Paulo Coelho: A Warrior's Life Read Free Page B

getting warmed up…’
    Whether it is professionalism, vanity or some other source of energy, the fact is that the author, who is about to turn sixty, is on enviably good form. A shower and another espresso are all it takes for him to reappear at 8.30 in the hotel lobby, gleefully rubbing his hands. Mônica, Lea (who has managed to attach herself to the group), the silent bodyguard Szabados and Gergely are waiting for him. There is one more engagement before the end of the day: a dinner with writers, publishers and journalists at the home of Tamás Kolosi, who owns the publishing house Athenäum and is one of the people behind Coelho’s visit to Hungary. When Gergely asks Coelho if he’s tired after all the day’s activities, the author roars with laughter.
    ‘Certainly not! Today was just the aperitif. The real work begins tomorrow.’
    After dinner with the publisher, Mônica uses the ten minutes in the car journey back to the hotel to tell him what she has organized with Gergely for the following day.
    ‘The opening of the book festival is at two in the afternoon. You’ve got interviews at the hotel in the morning, so there’ll be no time for lunch, but I’ve booked a restaurant on the way to the book festival so that we can grab a sandwich and some salad.’
    Coelho’s mind is elsewhere. ‘I’m worried about the Israeli publisher. He doesn’t like the title The Zahir and wants to change it. Call him tomorrow, will you, and tell him I won’t allow it. Either he keeps the title or he doesn’t get to publish the book. It was bad enough them changing the name of the shepherd Santiago in The Pilgrimage to Jakobi.’
    He was equally stubborn before he became famous. Mônica recalls that the US publisher of The Alchemist wanted to re-name it The Shepherd and His Dreams , but the author refused to sanction the change.
    Listening to her now, he says, smiling: ‘I was a complete nobody and they were HarperCollins, but I stuck to my guns and said “No way,” and they respected me for that.’
    The following morning it is sunny enough to encourage the author to take his usual hour-long walk–this time along the banks of the Danube. Then after a shower, a quick glance at the Internet, breakfast and two interviews, he’s ready for the second part of the day: the opening of the book festival. On the way there, they stop at the place reserved by Mônica, a snack bar, where all the other customers seem to have been driven away by the incredibly loud music coming from an ancient jukebox.
    Coelho walks over, turns down the volume, puts 200 florins into the machine and selects a 1950s hit, ‘Love Me Tender’ by Elvis. He goes back to the table smiling as he imitates the rock star’s melodious tones: ‘“Love me tender, love me true…” I adore the Beatles, but this man is the greatest and will be around for ever…’
    Gergely wants to know why he’s so happy, and Coelho flings wide his arms.
    ‘Today is the feast of St George, the patron saint of books. Everything’s going to be just fine!’
    The International Book Festival in Budapest takes place every year at a convention centre located in a park–which, today, is still powdered with winter snow–and brings in hundreds of thousands of visitors.Coelho is welcomed at a private entrance by three burly bodyguards and ushered into the VIP lounge. When he learns that there are almost five hundred people waiting at the publisher’s stand to have their books signed, he says:
    ‘We said that only 150 vouchers were to be handed out.’
    The manager of the publishing house explains that they have no means of getting rid of the readers and fans. ‘I’m sorry, but when the vouchers ran out, the other people in the queue simply refused to leave. There were even more people originally, but some of them have gone over to the auditorium where you’re due to speak. The problem is that it only seats 350, and there are now 800 waiting to get in. We’ve had to erect