A Warrior's Life Part 4

Sweep out a storeroom? But he was an actor, a writer. Had his father fixed him up with a job as a cleaner? No, this must be some kind of joke, a prank they played on all the new employees on their first day at work. He decided to play the game, rolled up his sleeves and swept the floor until lunchtime, by which time his arms were beginning to ache. When the job was finished, he put on his jacket and, smiling, told his boss that he was ready. Without even looking at the new employee, the man handed him a sales slip and pointed to the door: 'Get twenty boxes of hydrometers from that room and take them to dispatch, on the ground floor, with this sales slip.'

This could only have been done deliberately to humiliate him: his father had found him work as a mere factory hand. Despondently, he did what he had been ordered to do and, after a few days, discovered that the routine was always the same: carrying boxes, packing water and electricity meters, sweeping the floor of the storeroom and the warehouse. Just as when he had worked on the dredger, he again felt like Sisyphus. As soon as he finished one thing, he was given something else to do. Weeks later, he wrote in his diary: 'This is like a slow suicide. I'm just not going to cope with waking up at six every morning, starting work at seven thirty to sweep the floor and cart stuff around all day without even stopping for lunch, and then having to go to rehearsals until midnight.'

He survived only a month and a half in the job and had no need to ask if he could leave. The manager decided to call Pedro and tell him that the boy was no good 'for this type of work'. When he left the building for the last time, Paulo had 30 cruzeiros in his pocketthe wages to which he was ent.i.tled. It was understandable that he couldn't do the work. Apart from performing in Pinocchio Pinocchio, which was on six days a week, he had begun rehearsing another children's play, A Guerra dos Lanches A Guerra dos Lanches [ [The War of the Snacks], which was also directed by Luis Olmedo. 'I've got a role in this new play,' he wrote proudly, 'thanks to my spectacular performance as Batatinha in Pinocchio Pinocchio.' Now he was going to work as a real actor, sharing the stage with his friend Joel Macedo and a pretty brunette called Nancy, the sister of Roberto Mangabeira Unger, the perfect student who had come first in almost every subject at St Ignatius. After the tiring routine of rehearsals, the play had its first night in the middle of April 1966. Seeing how nervous Paulo was, Luis Olmedo kissed him on the forehead and said: 'You can do it, Batatinha!'

Paulo got off to a good start. Dressed as a cowboy, all he had to do was to step on to the stage to provoke roars of laughter from the audience, and so it continued. When the show ended, he was feted as the best actor of the night. As the compliments came flooding in, Luis Olmedo hugged and kissed him (much to the embarra.s.sment of Paulo's parents, who had attended the first night), saying: 'Batatinha, there are no words to describe your performance tonight. You were the hit of the evening, you had the audience eating out of your hand. It was wonderful.'

On the final night of Pinocchio Pinocchio, he repeated his success. Batatinha was the only actoreven though he wasn't really an actorwho 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 cla.s.sical 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 cafes 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 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 cla.s.sification, 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 appet.i.te: '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 Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky; by Dostoevsky; Fear and Trembling Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard; by Kierkegaard; For People Under Pressure: A Medical Guide For People Under Pressure: A Medical Guide by David Harold Fink; by David Harold Fink; Masterpieces of World Poetry Masterpieces of World Poetry, edited by Sergio Milliet; and A Panorama of Brazilian Theatre A Panorama of Brazilian Theatre by Sabato Magaldi. by Sabato 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 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 moresince 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 Teresopolis, 100 kilometres from Rio.

Since, besides being an author, he was also an actor, in the second week of July, Paulo went to Teresopolis with Grupo Destaque, against his parents' orders, naturally. He was excited by the festival and even entered a poem in the festival compet.i.tion, which was to be judged by the poet Ledo Ivo and the critic Walmir Ayala. The play was a disaster and the result of the poetry compet.i.tion 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 earlyhe rarely returned before one in the morninghis 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 Fabiola's home to rehearsals of A Guerra dos Lanches A Guerra dos Lanches, for which the audiences were becoming smaller and smaller. In the evening, he went to the Paissandu to see G.o.dard's latest film, La Chinoise 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 LapaLeblon 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 Fabiola's. Furious, he grabbed a handful of stones and began to break all the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s-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.

CHAPTER 7.

Ballad of the Clinic Gaol.

Wednesday, 20 July08:00 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 doc.u.ments 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 sadnessthe 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, n.o.body 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 July08:00 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. Flavio, 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 thingsa way of calculating someone's age, a voltmeter, etc. Flavio 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 s.e.x and s.e.xual aberrations. My room-mate is lying down, staring into s.p.a.ce, 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 G.o.d, my G.o.d, 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 Teresopolis, where we put on my play Timeless Youth 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 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 prospectthe 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 July11.50 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 The Leopard by Lampedusa. 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 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, Flavio?''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 Munic.i.p.al.''Oh, come on Flavio, 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, Flavio.''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, Flavio. 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.Flavio is crying.15:00 The patients here can sometimes be very funny. apio, 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. Flavio is crying.Sat.u.r.day, 23 July10:00 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 b.u.t.ted 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.Luis 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. Luis came. He raised my spirits a little. I phoned Rennie and spouted more nonsense.Sunday, 24 JulyIt'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 JulyI 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 Luis and Ricardo on the phone. They'll come and see me on Tuesday. I know it's an effort for them. Luis'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 JulyYesterday, I read the whole of Our Man in Havana 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. 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 July13:00 At this hour on this day, in this hospital, I have just received the news that in the poetry compet.i.tion run by the newspaper Diario de Noticias Diario de Noticias, 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 Tata 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.Sat.u.r.day, 6 AugustRennie, 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.Sunday, 7 AugustConversation with Dr Benjamim:'You've no self-respect. After your first admission, I thought you'd never be back, that you'd do all you could to become independent. But, no, here you are again. What did you achieve in that time? Nothing. What did you get from that trip to Teresopolis? What did you get out of it? Why are you incapable of achieving anything on your own?''No one can achieve anything on their own.''Maybe, but tell me, what did you gain by going to Teresopolis?''Experience.''You're the sort who'll spend the rest of his life experimenting.''Doctor, anything that is done with love is worthwhile. That's my philosophy: if we love what we do, that's enough to justify our actions.''If I went and fetched four schizophrenics from the fourth floor, I mean real schizoids, even they would come up with a better argument than that.''What did I say wrong?''What did you say wrong?! You spend your whole time creating an image of yourself, a false image, not even noticing that you're failing to make the most of what's inside you. You're a nothing.''I know. Anything I say is pure self-defence. In my own eyes, I'm worthless.''Then do something! But you can't. You're perfectly happy with the way things are. You've got used to the situation. Look, if things go on like this, I'm going to forget my responsibilities as a doctor and call in a medical team to give you electroconvulsive therapy, insulin, glucose, anything to make you forget and make you more biddable. But I'm going to give you a bit more time. Come on, be a man. Pull yourself together!'Sunday, 14 AugustFather's DayGood morning, Dad. Today is your day.For many years, this was the day you'd wake up with a smile on your faceand, still smiling, accept the present I brought to your room,and, still smiling, kiss me on the forehead and bless me.Good morning, Dad, today is your day,and I can neither give you anything nor say anythingbecause your embittered heart is now deaf to words.You're not the same man. Your heart is old,your ears are stuffed with despair,your heart aches. But you still know how to cry. And I think you're cryingthe timid tears of a strict, despotic father:you're weeping for me, because I'm here behind bars,you're weeping because today is Father's Day and I'm far away,filling your heart with bitterness and sadness.Good morning, Dad. A beautiful sun is coming up,today is a day of celebration and joy for many,but you're sad. And I know that I am your sadness,that somehow I became a heavy crossfor you to carry on your back, lacerating your skin,wounding your heart.At this very moment, my sister will be coming into your roomwith a lovely present wrapped in crepe paper,and you'll smile, so as not to make her sad too. But inside you,your heart is crying,and I can say nothing except dark words of revolt,and I can do nothing but increase your suffering,and I can give you nothing but tears and the regretthat you brought me into the world.Perhaps if I didn't exist, you'd be happy now,perhaps you'd have the happiness of a man who only ever wanted one thing:a quiet life,and now, on Father's Day,you receive the reward for your struggle, in the form of kisses,trinkets bought with the small monthly allowancethat has remained untouched for weeks in a drawerso that it could be transformed into a present,which, however small, a.s.sumes vast proportions in the heart of every father.Today is Father's Day. But my Dad had me admittedto a hospital for the insane. I'm too far awayto embrace you; I'm far from the family,far from everything, and I know thatwhen you see other fathers surrounded by their children,showering them with affection, you'll feel a pangin your poor embittered heart. But I'm in hereand haven't seen the sun for twenty days now,and if I could give you something it would be the darknessof someone who no longer aspires to anything or yearns for anything in life.That's why I do nothing. That's why I can't even say:'Good morning, dear father, may you be happy;you were a man and one night you engendered me;my mother gave birth to me in great pain,but now I can give you a little of the treasureplaced in my heartby your hard-working hands.'I can't even say that. I have to stay very stillso as not to make you even sadder,so that you don't know that I'm suffering, that I'm unhappy in here,in the midst of this quietness, normally only to be found in heaven,if, of course, heaven exists.It must be sad to have a son like me, Dad.Good morning, Dad. My hands are empty,but I give you this rising sun, red and omnipotent,to help you feel less sad and more content,thinking that you're right and I'm happy.Tuesday, 23 August.i.t's dawn, the eve of my birthday. I'd like to write a message full of optimism and understanding in this notebook: that's why I tore out the previous pages, so devoid of compa.s.sion and so sad. It's hard, especially for someone of my temperament, to withstand thirty-two days without going out into the courtyard and seeing the sun. It's really hard, believe me. But, deep down, I know I'm not the most unfortunate of men. I have youth flowing in my veins, and I can start all over again thousands of times.It's the eve of my birthday. With these lines written at dawn, I would like to regain a little self-confidence.'Look, Paulo, you can always do your university entrance exams next year: you've still got many years ahead of you. Make the most of these days to think a little and to write a lot. Rosetta, your typewriter, your loyal companion-at-arms, is with you, ready to serve you whenever you wish. Do you remember what Salinger wrote: "Store away your experiences. Perhaps, later, they'll be useful to someone else, just as the experiences of those who came before were useful to you." Think about that. Don't think of yourself as being alone. After all, to begin with, your friends were a great support. Being forgotten is a law of life. You'd probably forget about one of your friends if they left. Don't be angry with your friends because of that. They did what they could. They lost heart, as you would in their place.'Thursday, 1 SeptemberI've been here since July. Now I'm becoming more and more afraid. I'm to blame for everything. Yesterday, for example, I was the only one to agree to having an injection to help me sleep, and I was the only one to obey the nurse and lie down; the others, meanwhile, continued kicking up a ruckus. One of the nuns who help out here took a dislike to my girlfriend and so she's not allowed to visit me any more. They found out I was going to sell my shirts to the other patients and they wouldn't let me: I lost an opportunity to earn some money. But I managed to persuade my friends to bring me a gun, a Beretta. If I need to, I'll use it.Interruption for a hair cut.Right, my hair's all gone. Now I'm left with a baby face, feeling vulnerable and mad as h.e.l.l. Now I feel what I feared I might feel: the desire to stay here. I don't want to leave now. I'm finished. I hadn't cut my hair since February, until the people in this hospital gave me an option: cut your hair or stay here for good. I preferred to cut my hair. But then came the feeling that I'd destroyed the last thing remaining to me. This page was going to be a kind of manifesto of rebellion. But now I've lost all will. I'm well and truly screwed. I'm finished. I won't rebel again. I'm almost resigned.Here ends this ballad and here ends me.With no messages to send, nothing, no desire to win,a desire that had its guts ripped out by human hatred.It was good to feel this. Total defeat.Now let's start all over again.

CHAPTER 8.

Shock treatment.

ONE SUNDAY IN SEPTEMBER 1966, Paulo was wandering along the corridors of the clinic after lunch. He had just been re-reading 'The Ballad of the Clinic Gaol', which he had finished writing the day before, and he felt proud of the thirty-five typewritten pages that he had managed to produce in a month and a half at the mental asylum. In fact, it was not so very different from the work that had inspired him, Oscar Wilde's 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol', written in 1898, after his release from prison, where he had served two years for h.o.m.os.e.xual offences. Paulo's final sentence on the last page'Now let's start all over again'might seem like mere empty words, a rather glib ending. Starting all over again meant only one thing: to get out of the h.e.l.l that was the clinic as quickly as possible and restart his life. However, a terrifying idea was daily becoming more of a reality: if it was up to the doctors or his parents, he would continue to rot on the ninth floor for a long time. 1966, Paulo was wandering along the corridors of the clinic after lunch. He had just been re-reading 'The Ballad of the Clinic Gaol', which he had finished writing the day before, and he felt proud of the thirty-five typewritten pages that he had managed to produce in a month and a half at the mental asylum. In fact, it was not so very different from the work that had inspired him, Oscar Wilde's 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol', written in 1898, after his release from prison, where he had served two years for h.o.m.os.e.xual offences. Paulo's final sentence on the last page'Now let's start all over again'might seem like mere empty words, a rather glib ending. Starting all over again meant only one thing: to get out of the h.e.l.l that was the clinic as quickly as possible and restart his life. However, a terrifying idea was daily becoming more of a reality: if it was up to the doctors or his parents, he would continue to rot on the ninth floor for a long time.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he hardly noticed the two male nurses who came over to him and asked him to go with them to another part of the building. They led him to a cubicle with tiled floor and walls, where Dr Benjamim was waiting. In the centre of the room was a bed covered with a thick rubber sheet and, to one side, a small machine that looked like an ordinary electric transformer with wires and a handle, much like the equipment used clandestinely by the police to torture prisoners and extract confessions.

Paulo was terrified: 'Do you mean I'm going to have shock treatment?'

Kindly and smiling as ever, the psychiatrist tried to calm him: 'Don't worry, Paulo. It doesn't hurt at all. It's more upsetting seeing someone else being treated than receiving the treatment yourself. Really, it doesn't hurt at all.'

Lying on the bed, he watched a nurse putting a plastic tube in his mouth so that his tongue wouldn't roll back and choke him. The other nurse stood behind him and stuck an electrode that looked like a small cardiac defibrillator to each of his temples. While he stared up at the peeling paint on the ceiling, the machine was connected. A session of electroconvulsive therapy was about to begin. As the handle was turned, a curtain seemed to fall over his eyes. His vision was narrowing until it was fixed on one point; then everything went dark.

At each subsequent turn of the handle his body shook uncontrollably and saliva spurted from his mouth like white foam. Paulo never knew how long each session lastedMinutes? An hour? A day? Nor did he feel any sickness afterwards. When he recovered consciousness he felt as though he were coming round after a general anaesthetic: his memory seemed to disappear and he would sometimes lie for hours on his bed, eyes open, before he could recognize and identify where he was and what he was doing there. Apart from the pillowcase and his pyjama collar, which were wet with dribble, there was no sign in the room of the brutality to which he had been subjected. The 'therapy' was powerful enough to destroy his neurones, but the doctor was right: it didn't hurt at all.

Electroconvulsive therapy was based on the idea that mental disturbance resulted from 'electrical disturbances in the brain'. After ten to twenty sessions of electric shocks applied every other day, the convulsions caused by the succession of electric charges would, it was believed, 'reorganize' the patient's brain, allowing him to return to normal. This treatment was seen as a great improvement on other treatments used at the time such as Metazol and insulin shock: it caused retrograde amnesia, blocking any memory of events immediately prior to the charges, including their application. The patient would therefore have no negative feelings towards the doctors or his own family.

After that first session, Paulo woke late in the afternoon with a sour taste in his mouth. During the torpor that dulled both mind and body after the treatment, he got up very slowly, as if he were an old man, and went over to the grille at the window. He saw that it was drizzling, but he still did not recognize his room, where he had been taken following the treatment. He tried to remember what lay beyond the door, but couldn't. When he went towards it, he realized that his legs were trembling and his body had been weakened by the shocks. With some difficulty, he managed to leave his room. There he saw an enormous, empty corridor and felt like walking a little through that cemetery of the living. The silence was such that he could hear the sound of his slippers dragging along the white, disinfected corridor. As he took his first steps, he had the clear impression that the walls were closing in around him as he walked, until he began to feel them pressing on his ribs. The walls were enclosing him so tightly that he could walk no farther. Terrified, he tried to reason with himself: 'If I stay still, nothing will happen to me. But if I walk, I'll either destroy the walls or I'll be crushed.'

What should he do? Nothing. He stayed still, not moving a muscle. And he stayed there, for how long, he doesn't know, until a female nurse led him gently by the arm, back to his room, and helped him to lie down. When he woke, he saw someone standing beside him, someone who had apparently been talking to him while he slept. It was Luis Carlos, the patient from the room next door, a thin mulatto who was so ashamed of his stammer that he would pretend to be dumb when meeting strangers. Like everyone else there, he also swore that he wasn't mad. 'I'm here because I decided to retire,' he would whisper, as though revealing a state secret. 'I asked a doctor to register me as insane, and if I manage to stay here as a madman for two years, I'll be allowed to retire.'

Paulo could not stand hearing such stories. When his parents visited, he would kneel down, weep and beg them to take him away, but the answer was always the same: 'Wait a few more days. You're almost better. Dr Benjamim is going to let you out in a few days.'

His only contacts with the outside world were the ever-more infrequent visits from the friends who managed to get through the security. By taking advantage of the comings and goings at the gate, anyone with a little patience could get through, taking in whatever he or she wanted. So it was that Paulo managed to get a friend to smuggle in a loaded 7.65 automatic revolver, hidden in his underpants. However, once rumours began to spread among the other patients that Paulo was walking around armed, he quickly stuffed the Beretta into Renata's bag, and she left with the gun. She was his most frequent visitor. When she couldn't get through security, she would leave notes at the gate to be given to him.

The fool in the lift knows me now and today he wouldn't let me come up. Tell the people there that you had a row with me, and maybe that band of t.o.s.s.e.rs will stop messing you around.I feel miserable, not because you've made me miserable, but because I don't know what to do to help you.[...] The pistol is safe in my wardrobe. I didn't show it to anyone. Well, I did show it to Antonio Claudio, my brother. But he's great; he didn't even ask whose it was. But I told him.[...] I'll deliver this letter tomorrow. It's going to be a miserable day. One of those days that leave people hurting inside. Then I'm going to wait for fifteen minutes down below looking up at your window to see if you've received it. If you don't appear, it will be because they haven't given you the letter.[...] Batata, I'm so afraid that sometimes I want to go and talk to your mother or Dr Benjamim. But it wouldn't help. So if you can, see if you can sit it out. I mean it. I had a brilliant idea: when you get out, we'll take a cargo ship and go to Portugal and live in Oportogood idea?[...] You know, I bought a pack of your favourite cigarettes because that way I'll have a little bit of the taste of you in my mouth.

On his birthday, it was Renata who turned up with a bundle of notes and letters she had collected from his friends with optimistic, cheerful messages, all of them hoping that Batatinha would soon return to the stage. Among this pile of letters full of kisses and promises to visit there was one message that particularly excited him. It was a three-line note from Jean Arlin: 'Batatinha my friend, our play Timeless Youth Timeless Youth is having its first night on 12 September here in Rio. We're counting on the presence of the author.' is having its first night on 12 September here in Rio. We're counting on the presence of the author.'

The idea of running away surfaced more strongly when Paulo realized that with his newly cropped hair he was unrecognizable, even to his room-mate. He spent two days sitting on a chair in the corridor pretending to read a book but in fact watching out of the corner of his eye the movements of the liftthe only possible escape route, since the stairs were closed off with iron grilles. One thing was sure: the busiest time was Sunday, between midday and one in the afternoon, when the doctors, nurses and employees changed shift and mingled with the hundreds of visitors who were getting in and out of the packed lift.

In pyjamas and slippers the risk of being caught was enormous. But if he were dressed in 'outdoor clothes' and wearing shoes, it would be possible to merge unnoticed with the other people crowding together so that they wouldn't miss the lift; then he could leave the building complex. Concealed behind his open book, Paulo mentally rehea.r.s.ed his escape route dozens, hundreds of times. He considered all the possible obstacles and unexpected incidents that might occur and concluded that the chances of escaping were fairly high. It would have to be soon, though, before everyone got used to his new appearance without his usual shoulder-length curly mane.

He spoke of his plan to only two people: Renata and Luis Carlos, his 'dumb' neighbour in the clinic. His girlfriend not only urged him on but contributed 30 cruzeirosabout US$495 todayfrom her savings in case he should have to bribe someone. Luis Carlos was so excited by the idea that he decided to go too, as he was fed up with being stuck in the clinic. Paulo asked whether this meant he was giving up his idea of using mental illness as a way of retiring, but his fellow inmate replied: 'Running away is part of the illness. Every mad person runs away at least once. I've run away before, and then I came back of my own accord.'

Finally the long-awaited day arrived: Sunday, 4 September 1966. Duly dressed in 'normal people's clothes', the two friends thought the lift ride down, stopping at every floor, would never end. They kept their heads lowered, fearing that a doctor or nurse they knew might get in at any moment. It was a relief when they reached the ground floor and went up to the gate, not so fast as to arouse suspicion, but not so slowly as to be easily identified. Everything went exactly to plan. Since there had been no need to bribe anyone, the money Renata had given Paulo was enough to keep them going for a few days.

Still with Luis Carlos, Paulo went to the bus station and bought two tickets to Mangaratiba, a small town on the coast, a little more than 100 kilometres south of Rio. The sun was starting to set when the two of them hired a boat to take them to an island half an hour from the mainland. The tiny island of Guaiba was a paradise as yet unspoiled by people. Heloisa Araripe, 'Aunt Heloi', Paulo's mother's sister, had a house on Tapera beach, and it was only when he arrived there, still with the 'dumb' man in tow, that he felt himself safe from the wretched clinic, the doctors and nurses.

The place seemed ideal as a refuge, but hours after getting there, the two realized that they wouldn't be able to stay there for long, at least not the way things were. The house was rarely used by Aunt Heloi, and had only a clay filter half full with waterand this of a highly suspicious green colour. The caretaker, a man from Cananeia who lived in a cabin a few metres from the house, showed no interest in sharing his dinner. They were by now extremely hungry, but the only relief for their rumbling stomachs was a banana tree. When they woke the following day, their arms and legs covered in mosquito bites, they had to go to the same banana tree for breakfast, lunch and, finally, dinner. On the second day, Luis Carlos suggested that they should try fishing, but this idea failed when they discovered that the stove in the house had no gas and that there was no cutlery, oil or salt in the kitchennothing. On the Tuesday, three days after their arrival, they spent hours in the depot waiting for the first boat to take them back to the mainland. When the bus from Mangaratiba left them at the bus station in Rio, Paulo told his fellow fugitive that he was going to spend a few days in hiding until he had decided what to do with his life. Luis Carlos had also concluded that their adventure was coming to an end and had decided to go back to the clinic.

The two said goodbye, roaring with laughter and promising that they would meet again some day. Paulo took a bus and knocked on the door of Joel Macedo's house, where he hoped to remain until he had worked out what to do next. His friend was delighted to receive him, but he was worried that his house might not be a good hiding-place, as Lygia and Pedro knew that Paulo used to sleep there when he stayed out late. If he were to leave Rio, the ideal hiding-place would be the house that Joel's father had just finished building in a condominium at Cabo Frio, a town 40 kilometres from Araruama. Before setting out, Joel asked Paulo to have a bath and change his clothes, as he didn't fancy travelling with a friend who hadn't washed or had clean clothes for four days. A few hours later, they set off in Joel's estate car, driven by Joel (after the trauma of the accident, Paulo hadn't even touched a steering wheel).

The friends spent the days drinking beer, walking along the beach and reading Joel's latest pa.s.sion, the plays of Maxim Gorki and Nikolai Gogol. When the last of Renata's money had gone, Paulo thought it was time to return. It was a week since he had run away and he was tired of just wandering about with nowhere to go. He went to a telephone box and made a reverse-charge call home. On hearing his voice, his father didn't sound angry, but was genuinely concerned for his physical and mental state. When he learned that his son was in Cabo Frio, Pedro offered to come and fetch him in the car, but Paulo preferred to return with Joel.

Lygia and Pedro had spent a week searching desperately for their son in mortuaries and police stations, and this experience had changed them profoundly. They agreed that he should not return to the clinic and even said that they were interested in his work in the theatre; and they appeared to have permanently lifted the curfew of eleven o'clock at night. Paulo distrusted this offer. 'After a week of panic, with no news of me,' he was to say later, 'they would have accepted any conditions, and so I took advantage of that.' He grew his hair again, as well as a ridiculous beard, and no one told him off. In his very limited free time, he devoted himself to girls. Besides Renata and Fabiola (Marcia was not around much), he had also taken up with Genivalda, a rather plain, but very intelligent girl from the northeast of Brazil. Geni, as she preferred to be called, didn't dress well, she didn't live in a smart part of town and she didn't study at the Catholic university in Rio or at one of the smart colleges. However, she seemed to know everything and that ensured her a place in the Paissandu circle.

Paulo's growing success with women was due notas with Fabiolato any surgical intervention but to a change in fashion. The 'counterculture' revolution that was spreading across the world was transforming not only political patterns and behaviour but also people's idea of what was attractive. This meant that men who had always been considered ugly up until then, such as the rock star Frank Zappa or, in Brazil, the musician Caetano Veloso, had overnight become ideals of modern beauty. The new criterion for beauty demanded that the virile, healthy and carefully shaven man be replaced by the dishevelled, ill-dressed and physically frail variety.

As a beneficiary of this new trend, Paulo had only one problem: finding a place where he could make love. He was eager to make up for lost time, and as well as his long-standing girlfriends, there were various others whom he chanced to meet. At a time when motels did not exist and morality demanded a marriage certificate when registering in a hotel, there were few alternatives for the young who, like him, did not have a bachelor pad. Not that he could complain, though, since as well as the lenient att.i.tude of Fabiola's mother and grandmother, who shut their eyes and ears to what was going on in the newspaper-plastered 'studio', he could count on the a.s.sistance of Uncle Jose, in Araruama, whose door was always open to whomever Paulo might bring back at the weekends or on holidays.

Even so, when he made an unexpected conquest, he always managed to find a solution to suit the situation. On one occasion, he spent hours indulging in amorous preliminaries with a young aspiring actress in a pedalo on Lake Rodrigo de Freitas. After visiting numerous dives and by then feeling pretty highon alcohol, since neither took any drugsPaulo and the girl ended up having s.e.x in the apartment where she lived with a great-aunt. As it was a one-room apartment, they enjoyed themselves before the astonished eyes of the old woman, who was deaf, dumb and senilean experience he was to repeat several times. On another occasion, he confessed to his diary that he had had s.e.x in still more unusual circ.u.mstances: I invited Maria Lucia for a walk on the beach with me; then we went to the cemetery to talk some more. That's why I'm writing today: so that, later, I'll remember that I had a lover for one day. A young girl completely devoid of preconceptions, in favour of free love, a young girl who's a woman too. She said that she could tell from my physical type that I would be hot stuff in bed. And the two of us, with a few interruptions due to exhaustion or a burial taking place, made love the whole afternoon.

Weeks after he ran away from the clinic, however, the problem of having to find somewhere to make love was resolved. Thanks to the mediation of his maternal grandfather, Tuca, Paulo's parents gave him permission to try an experiment: living alone for a while. His new home was one offered by his grandfather: a small apartment that he owned in the Marques de Herval building on Avenida Rio Branco, right in the commercial centre of Rio.

The apartment, which was a few blocks from the red light district, could not have been worse. During the day, the area was a noisy tumult of street vendors, traders, beggars and sellers of lottery tickets, with buses and cars travelling in every direction. From seven in the evening, there was a complete change of scene. As the brightness of day gave way to darkness, the day workers were replaced by prost.i.tutes, layabouts, transvest.i.tes, pimps and drug traffickers. It was entirely unlike the world Paulo came from, but it didn't matter: it was his home, and he, and no one else, was in charge. As soon as he contacted his friends in the Grupo Destaque, Paulo learned that the promised production of Timeless Youth Timeless Youth in Rio had been cancelled for lack of funds. Some of the group who had been in in Rio had been cancelled for lack of funds. Some of the group who had been in Pinocchio Pinocchio and and A Guerra dos Lanches A Guerra dos Lanches were now engaged on another venture, in which Paulo immediately became involved: a play for adults. For some weeks, under the auspices of the Teatro Universitario Nacional, the group had been rehearsing an adaptation of were now engaged on another venture, in which Paulo immediately became involved: a play for adults. For some weeks, under the auspices of the Teatro Universitario Nacional, the group had been rehearsing an adaptation of Capites da Areia Capites da Areia [ [Captains of the Sands], a novel written thirty years before by the Brazilian writer Jorge Amado. Blond, blue-eyed and tanned, the director and adapter, Francis Palmeira, looked more like one of the surfers who spent their time looking for waves in Arpoador; but, as a precocious fifteen-year-old, he had already had one play, Ato Inst.i.tucional Ato Inst.i.tucional, banned by the censors. Jorge Amado was so thrilled to see this group of young people putting on drama by established writers that he not only authorized the adaptation but also wrote a foreword for the programme: I have entrusted the students with the adaptation of my novel Capites da Areia Capites da Areia and have done so confidently and gladly: students nowadays are in the vanguard of everything that is good in Brazil. They are the untiring fighters for democracy, for the rights of man, for progress, for the advance of the Brazilian people, against dictatorship and oppression. In the novel on which they have based their play, I also conveyed my faith in the Brazilian people and registered my protest against all forms of injustice and oppression. The first edition of and have done so confidently and gladly: students nowadays are in the vanguard of everything that is good in Brazil. They are the untiring fighters for democracy, for the rights of man, for progress, for the advance of the Brazilian people, against dictatorship and oppression. In the novel on which they have based their play, I also conveyed my faith in the Brazilian people and registered my protest against all forms of injustice and oppression. The first edition of Capites da Areia Capites da Areia was published a week before the proclamation of the 'Estado Novo', a cruel and ignorant dictatorshipwhich seized and banned the book. The novel was a weapon in the struggle. Today it has taken on a new dimension: the stage, which makes contact with the public all the more immediate. I can only wish the students of the Teatro Universitario Nacional the greatest success, certain that they are, once again, working for the good of democracy and of Brazil. was published a week before the proclamation of the 'Estado Novo', a cruel and ignorant dictatorshipwhich seized and banned the book. The novel was a weapon in the struggle. Today it has taken on a new dimension: the stage, which makes contact with the public all the more immediate. I can only wish the students of the Teatro Universitario Nacional the greatest success, certain that they are, once again, working for the good of democracy and of Brazil.

It was obvious that there would be problems. The first was with the Juizado de Menores (the Juvenile Court), which acted in the interests of minors and threatened to ban the rehearsals unless those under eighteen were able to show that they had permission from their parents. This meant all the young people in the group, starting with the show's director. Then, just a few days before the first night, the rehearsals were interrupted by the arrival of Edgar Facanha, Member of Parliament and the head of censorship in Rio, together with a member of the Servico Nacional de Informaces, or SNI, who wanted to see a certificate from the censor's office, without which the play could not be performed. When it became clear that no such certificate existed, during the ensuing argument the police arrested one of the actors, Fernando Resky, and left a warning that if they wanted to open on 15 October 1966, as planned, they should submit a copy of the script to the censor as soon as possible. Days later, the script was returned with certain words deleted'comrade', 'dialogue', 'revolution' and 'freedom'and one entire sentence cut: 'All homes would be open to him, because revolution is a homeland and a family for all.' As they had already had such difficulty putting on the play, the group thought it best to accept the cuts without protest or appeal.

Although there were thirty actors in the play, Paulo had a reasonably prominent part. He was Almiro, the h.o.m.os.e.xual lover of Barando, who dies of smallpox at the end of the play. Jorge Amado had promised to be at the preview, but as he was in Lisbon for the launch of his most recent novel, he asked no less a figure than 'Volta Seca', one of the street boys from Salvador who had been the inspiration for the main characters in the book, to represent him. The news in the Rio papers that Capites da Areia Capites da Areia had been censored proved a magnet to audiences. On the first night, all 400 seats in the Teatro Serrador in the centre of Rio were filled. Only two of the people Paulo had invited were missing: Renata and Dr Benjamim. had been censored proved a magnet to audiences. On the first night, all 400 seats in the Teatro Serrador in the centre of Rio were filled. Only two of the people Paulo had invited were missing: Renata and Dr Benjamim.

After his second period at the clinic, Paulo had formed a strange relationship with the psychiatrist. It wasn't just affection, despite all that Paulo had been through there: it was more that being close to the doctor and being able to talk to him about his doubts gave him a sense of security he hadn't felt before. At the time, such a relationship between doctor and patient was considered one of the side effects of retrograde amnesia. Many years later, however, Paulo himself diagnosed it as what came to be called Stockholm Syndrome, the sudden and inexplicable feelings of emotional dependence some hostages feel towards their hostage-takers. 'I established the same relationship of hostage and hostage-taker with Dr Benjamim,' he said in an interview. 'Even after leaving the clinic, during the great crises of my youth and problems with my love life, I would go and talk to him.'

Capites da Areia ran for two months. Apart from that first night, it wasn't a wild success, but the takings were large enough to pay the expenses and there was even some money left over to be shared out among the actors and technicians. There was also praise from respected critics. ran for two months. Apart from that first night, it wasn't a wild success, but the takings were large enough to pay the expenses and there was even some money left over to be shared out among the actors and technicians. There was also praise from respected critics.

After the euphoria of the production, Paulo once again became depressed. He felt empty and lost, and frequently kicked to pieces anything that got in his way in his grandfather's apartment. Alone in that hostile, unfamiliar neighbourhood, with no one to turn to during his periods of melancholy and no one to share his rare moments of joy, he would often fall into despair. When these crises arose, he poured out his heart to his diary. Once, he sat up all night filling page after page with something he called 'Secrets of a Writer': 'Suddenly my life has changed. I've been left high and dry in the most depressing place in Brazil: the city, the commercial centre of Rio. At night, no one. During the day, thousands of distant people. And the loneliness is becoming such that I've begun to feel it's like something alive and real, which fills every corner and every street. I, Paulo Coelho, aged nineteen, am empty-handed.'

His proximity to the red light district meant that he became a regular client in the brothels that lined the streets from the bottom of the Lapa to Mangue. It didn't matter that these women weren't very elegant and bore no physical resemblance to the rich girls he fancied. He could talk about anything to a prost.i.tute and realize all his secret fantasies without scandalizing anyoneeven when these fantasies meant doing absolutely nothing, as he recorded in his diary: Yesterday I went with the oldest woman in the areaand the oldest woman I've slept with in my whole life (I didn't screw her, I just paid to look). Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s looked like a sack with nothing in it and she stood there in front of me, naked, stroking her c.u.n.t with her hand. I watched her, unable to understand why she made me feel both pity and respect. She was pure, extremely kind and professional, but she was a really old woman, you can't imagine just how old. Perhaps seventy. She was French and had left a copy of France Soir France Soir lying on the floor. She treated me with such care. She works from six in the evening to eleven o'clock at night; then she catches a bus home and there she's a respectable old lady. No one says, Oh my G.o.d! I can't think of her naked because it makes me shudder and fills me with such a mixture of feelings. I'll never forget this old woman. Very strange. lying on the floor. She treated me with such care. She works from six in the evening to eleven o'clock at night; then she catches a bus home and there she's a respectable old lady. No one says, Oh my G.o.d! I can't think of her naked because it makes me shudder and fills me with such a mixture of feelings. I'll never forget this old woman. Very strange.

While sometimes he would pay and not have s.e.x, on other occasions he would have s.e.x and pay nothing, or almost nothing ('Yesterday I was on inspired form and I managed to get a prost.i.tute without paying anythingin the end she took a sweater that I'd pinched from a friend'). Then, for weeks on end, he devoted every page in his diary to his crazed love for a young prost.i.tute. One day, the woman disappeared with another client, without telling him, and once again he went crazy. He may have been an adult, but only the innocence of a boy in matters of love could explain his jealousy at having been betrayed by a prost.i.tute. 'I wanted to cry as I've never cried before, because my whole being resided in that woman,' he moaned. 'With her flesh I could keep loneliness at bay for a while.' On hearing that his loved one had returned and that she was revealing intimate facts about him to all and sundry, he wrote: 'I've heard that she's slandering me...I've realized that as far as she's concerned, I'm a n.o.body, a nothing. I'm going to give away the name of the woman to whom I gave everything that was pure in my putrefied being: Tereza Cristina de Melo.'

During the day, Paulo continued to live the life of his dreams: girlfriends, rehearsals, study groups, debates about cinema and existentialism. Although he had hardly set foot in his new college, he had managed to move up a year, which allowed him to think of taking the entrance exam for a degree. On the few occasions when he appeared at the family homeusually in order to scrounge a meal or ask for moneyhe made up stories in order to shock his parents, saying that he had been in the most outlandish places in Rio. 'I read in the newspapers about the places frequented by free-living young people and lied, saying that I had been there, just to shock my father and mother.' Although he almost never played his guitar, he took it with him everywhere, 'just to impress the girls!'

When night fell, though, the bouts of melancholy and loneliness returned. There came a time when he could take them no more. For three months, night after night, he had done battle with a constant nightmare, and he felt he had to take a step back. He packed up all his belongings in a box and, sad and humiliated, he asked his parents to have him back in the house to which he had never imagined he would return.

CHAPTER 9.

The great escape.

THE EASE WITH WHICH HE MIXED with women of all cla.s.ses, from prost.i.tutes in Mangue to elegant young