Almir Ghiaronni, a frequent reader of this column, sends in an interesting story, pointing out that he doesn’t know its author.
Almir Ghiaronni, a frequent reader of this column, sends in an interesting story, pointing out that he doesn’t know its author. “The inland bell-ringer reminds me of several things that happened to me in my life, which I faced as defeats at the time — which however turned into true blessings in the passing of the years.”
I give a concrete example: When The Alchemist was offered to the big publishing groups in France, none of them were interested. A small publisher, which had just opened its doors, decided to analyse the contract with that unknown Brazilian author, put all its efforts into a good distribution, and the book would become one of the French market’s bestselling books of all times, breaking the records of permanence on the lists of the country’s most sold.
Today, knowing the international market better, I am sure that if it had been published by one of these great conglomerates, my chances would be almost nill, as it would be competing with other great and renowned authors in its catalogues. But I was published by a beginner publisher, filled with enthusiasm (Anne Carriere, who later wrote a book about it) and this made all the difference.
And the story sent by Mr Ghiaronni is more or less about that.
A humble man, with no education whatsoever, worked in a church at a small city in Brazil’s inland. His task was to ring the bells at the times the priest established.
But the laws changed: the region’s bishop decided to require that all workers at the parishes under his control had finished at least elementary school. He thought that this way he was stimulating public education; but for the old bell-ringer, who was illiterate and too old to start all over again, it was the end of his job.
He was granted a small reparation, thank you words and a letter terminating his activities at the church.
The following morning, as he had nothing to do, he sat at the main square’s bench to prepare his straw cigarette when he noticed that his tobacco was finishing. He borrowed a little from his pensioned friends who were around, but all of them had the same problem: it was necessary to go to the neighbouring city to buy more tobacco.
“You have spare time,” said one of his friends. “You can go buy it and we pay you a commission.”
The ex-bell-ringer began doing it regularly, but with time he noticed that many other things were missing in his small city and he began bringing lighters, newspapers and was even compelled to open a small shop, once people started ordering more and more products.
As he was a good man and interested in his clients’ satisfaction, his shop prospered and he expanded his business, ending up being one of the most respected entrepreneurs in the region.
But he dealt with much money and one day it became necessary for him to open a bank account.
The manager received him with open arms, the old man took out a bag full of bills, his file was filled out and at the end he was asked to sign it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t write.”
The manager was stunned. “So you attained all that by being illiterate ”
“I attained that with effort and dedication.”
“Congratulations! And all that without visiting school! Imagine what would be of you if you had been able to go to school!”
The old man smiled. “I can imagine it very well. If I had gone to school I would still be ringing the bells at that small church you can see from your window.”
Translated by Bettina Dungs
