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“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 th
e 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.”
