The Hour of the Star (6 page)

When Olímpico insisted that one day he would become a politician in his native state of Paraíba, she was astounded and thought to herself: when we get married does that mean that I shall be a politician as well? She didn't fancy the idea because the word 'politician' sounded quite unpleasant. (As I explained, this is not a story about abstractions. Later, I shall probably return to the unnamed sensations, perhaps even the sensations of God Himself. But Macabéa's story must be told or else I shall explode.)

On the rare occasion when the couple actually held a conversation, they invariably discussed food: flour, salted beef, dried meat, brown sugar and molasses. These commodities symbolized their past and made them forget their unhappy childhood because in retrospect, memories of childhood are always bitter-sweet and even provoke a certain nostalgia. Olímpico and Macabéa could have been mistaken for brother and sister, a factor — I've only now realized — that would appear to rule out any possibility of their marrying. I'm not sure that they were aware of this factor. Will they get married? I still don't know. All I know is that they were both ingenuous and altogether insignificant.

No, I'm mistaken. It's now clear that Olímpico was by no means ingenuous, however much the universal victim. It's now clear to me that he was wicked to the core. He enjoyed taking his revenge. Revenge gave him an enormous satisfaction and the strength to go on living. He had more strength than Macabéa, whose guardian angel had deserted her.

In the end, what had to happen would happen. Meantime nothing whatsoever happened, for neither of them knew how to invent happenings. They sat on something free of charge: a bench in the public park. Sitting there, they were indistinguishable from the rest of nothingness. For the greater glory of God.

He — Well.

She — Well what?

He — I only said well!

She — But well what?

He — Let's change the subject. You'll never understand.

She — Understand what?

He — Mother of God! Macabéa, let's change the subject  at once!

She — What shall we talk about then?

He — About you.

She — Me!

He — Why the fuss? Aren't you a human being? Human  beings talk about other human beings.

She — Forgive me, but I don't believe that I am all that  human.

He — Everybody's human, dear God!

She — I've never got used to the idea.

He — Never got used to what?

She — I can't explain.

He — So?

She — So what?

He — Look, I'm going. You're a dead loss.

She — I can't help being a dead loss. What do you want  me to do about it?

He — You talk a load of rubbish. Try to talk about  something . . . anything.

She — I don't know what to talk about.

He — You don't know what?

She — Eh?

He — Look, you're getting on my nerves. Let's just  shut up. Agreed?

She — Whatever you say.

He — You're really a hopeless case. As for me, I've been called so many things that I've turned into myself. In the backwoods of Paraíba everybody has heard of Olímpico. And one day the whole world is going to be talking about me.

She — Really?

He — Isn't that what I'm telling you! Don't you believe  me?

She — Of course I believe you, I believe you, I believe you. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.

When she was a little girl, Macabéa had seen a house painted white and pink with a back-yard that boasted a well and water-clock. It was exciting to look down the well. And so this became Macabéa's great ambition: to possess a house one day with its own well. Except that she didn't know how to set about realizing her ambition so she asked Olímpico:

— Can you tell me if anybody can buy a well?

— Look here, hasn't it dawned on you that there aren't any answers to the questions you ask?

She stood there leaning her head to one side like a dove when it's feeling sad.

Once when he talked about getting rich, she asked him:

— Are you sure you're not having visions?

— Go to blazes! You don't trust anybody. Only the fact that you're a virgin stops me from cursing you.

— Don't get upset! They say getting upset can affect your stomach.

— Upset, my foot! Make no mistake, I'm on the way to success. You're the one who should be worrying!

— I don't have any worries. I don't need to be successful. This was the first time she had ever spoken of herself to Olímpico de Jesus, accustomed as she was to forgetting about herself. Macabéa never broke her routine. She was afraid of inventing situations.

— Did I tell you that they said on the radio that a man who was also a mathematician, wrote a book called
Alice in Wonderland
? They also discussed
elgebra
. What does
elgebra
mean?

— Only queers are interested in things like that, men who've turned into pansies. Excuse the word queer. That's something no decent girl should know about.

— On the radio they discuss 'culture' and use difficult words. For instance, what does 'electronic' mean?

Silence.

— I know what it means but I'm not telling you.

— I love to hear the pings as the minutes pass: tic-tac-tic-tac-tic-tac. Radio Clock says that it broadcasts the correct time, culture and commercials. What does culture mean?

— Culture is culture, he replied grudgingly. Why don't you get off my back?

— There are so many things I don't understand. What does 'income per head' mean?

— That's easy, it has something to do with medicine.

— What does Count of Bonfim Street mean? What's a Count? Is that the same as a prince?

— A Count is a Count, for God's sake! Besides, I don't need to know the correct time. I wear a watch.

What he didn't tell Macabéa was that he'd stolen it in a washroom at the factory: another worker had left it over the sink while he was washing his hands. Nobody suspected that Olímpico was very skilful when it came to stealing: needless to say, he didn't wear the watch at work.

— Do you know the best thing I've learned? They said on Radio Clock that we should be glad to be alive. And I am. I also heard some lovely music and I almost wept.

— Was it a samba?

— I believe it was. It was sung by a man called Caruso who they said died a long time ago. His voice was so gentle that it was almost painful to listen to. The music was called
Una Furtiva Lacrima
. I don't know why they couldn't say
lágrima
the way it's said in Brazil.

Una Furtiva Lacrima
had been the only really beautiful thing in Macabéa's life. Drying her tears, she tried to sing what she had heard. But Macabéa's voice was as rough and tuneless as the rest of her body. When she heard her own voice, she began to weep. She was weeping for the first time and had never imagined that there was so much water in her eyes. She wept and blew her nose, no longer knowing why she was weeping. She wasn't weeping because of the way she lived: never having known any other way of life, she accepted the fact that her life was 'so' — just like Macabéa's herself.

I also believe she was weeping because the music helped her to perceive that there were other ways of feeling; that there were more delicate forms of existence and certain spiritual refinements. She perceived lots of things that she could not understand. Did the word
aristocracy
, for example, mean some grace that had been granted? Most likely. If that were the case, so be it. She penetrated the vast world of music that required no understanding. Her heart exploded. In the company of Olímpico she suddenly became courageous and, plunging into the mysterious depths of her own being, she said:

— I'm sure I can sing that music. La-la-la-la-la.

— You look like a deaf-mute trying to sing. Your voice is like a broken reed.

— That's because I'm singing for the first time in my life. She was sure that
lacrima
instead of the Portuguese
lágrima
was an error on the part of the programme announcer. The existence of another language had never occurred to Macabéa, and she was convinced that in Brazil one could only speak Brazilian. Apart from the cargo ships that she could watch on the waterfront every Sunday, she only possessed this music. The ultimate substratum of the music was her only vibration.

The flirtation with Olímpico remained lukewarm. He told her:

— After my sainted mother died, there was nothing to keep me in Paraíba.

— What did she die of?

— Of nothing. Her health gave out.

Olímpico concerned himself with important things but Macabéa only noticed unimportant things such as herself. Just as she noticed a gate that was rusting, twisted, creaking and with its paint peeling off; a gate that led to a number of outhouses that all looked alike and were grouped around a villa. She had observed all this from the bus. The villa was numbered 106 and on a plaque she read the name 'Sunrise'. An attractive name that inspired confidence.

Macabéa found Olímpico very knowledgeable about things. He told her things that she had never heard of before. Once he told her:

— A person's face is the most important thing because the face betrays what that person is thinking: your face is that of somebody who has just tasted a sour apple. I can't abide sad faces. Stop looking so mournful — then he came out with a difficult word — he said: try to change your
demeanour.

She replied in dismay:

— I can't do anything about my face. But it's only my face that's sad, because I'm really quite happy inside. It's wonderful to be alive, don't you think?

— Sure! But the good life is only for the privileged. I'm one of them. I may look small and skinny but I'm really quite strong and I could lift you off the ground with one arm. Let me show you.

— No, no, there are people watching and they'll start laughing at us!

— Don't be such a ninny, nobody's watching us. They walked to the corner of the street. Macabéa was overjoyed. He really could lift her up above his head. She shouted gaily:

— This is like flying in an airplane.

That's right! Suddenly he couldn't support her weight on one arm any longer and she fell on her face in the mud, blood spurting from her nostrils. She was tactful, however, and quickly reassured him:

— Don't worry, it's nothing serious.

Having no handkerchief to wipe the mud and blood off her face, Macabéa rubbed her face with the hem of her skirt. She pleaded with him: Please don't look while I'm cleaning my face. No decent girl ever lifts her skirt when there are people watching.

Olímpico was becoming extremely impatient but made no reply. After this little episode, he didn't make any attempt to see her again for days: his pride had been injured.

They eventually bumped into each other again. For quite different reasons they had wandered into a butcher's shop. Macabéa only had to smell raw meat in order to convince herself that she had eaten. What attracted Olímpico, on the other hand, was the sight of a butcher at work with his sharp knife. He envied the butcher and would dearly have liked to be in the trade himself. To cut into raw meat with a sharp knife never failed to get him excited. Both of them walked out of the butcher's shop feeling deeply satisfied. Even so, Macabéa couldn't help wondering what the taste of meat was like. And Olímpico pondered: how does one train to be a butcher? What was the secret? (Glória's father worked in a well-stocked butcher's shop.)

Macabéa spoke:

— I shall miss myself so much when I die.

— Rubbish, when you're dead, you're dead and that's that.

— That's not what my aunt told me.

— Damn your aunt!

— Do you know what I really want to be? A movie-star. I only go to the cinema when the boss pays me my wages. I prefer third-class cinemas because they're much cheaper. I adore movie-stars. Did you know that Marilyn Monroe was the colour of peaches?

— And you're the colour of mud. What makes you think that you've got the face or the body to become a film star?

— Am I really so awful?

— Take a good look at yourself in the mirror.

— I can't stand the sight of blood when I go to the cinema. Honestly, I can't stand it. It makes me feel like vomiting.

— Vomiting or weeping?

— Up till now, thanks be to God, I've managed not to vomit.

— I'll bet! There isn't much milk in this cow.

It was so difficult to think. She didn't know how one set about thinking. Olímpico, on the other hand, was able to think and to use fine words. She would never forget their first meeting when he addressed her as 'missy', and made her feel that she was somebody. Once she became somebody, she even felt justified in buying herself a pink lipstick. Her conversation always sounded hollow. She was remotely aware that she had never uttered the right word. She never referred to 'love' as love, but settled for some vague expression or other.

— Look, Macabéa . . .

— Look where?

— God Almighty! Not 'look' meaning to see, but 'look' meaning I want you to listen! Are you listening to me?

— Every word, every single word!

— How can you be listening to every word, dear God, if I haven't said anything so far! Look, I'm going to treat you to a coffee at the snack-bar. How's that?

— Can I have a drop of milk in my coffee?

— Sure, if it costs the same. If it costs any extra, you pay the difference.

Macabéa didn't cost Olímpico anything. Except on this occasion when he bought her a coffee with milk, to which she added spoonful after spoonful of sugar. So much sugar that she almost vomited, but she managed to hold it down for fear of disgracing herself. She always added spoonfuls of sugar in order to make sure she got value for her money.

On one occasion they visited the Zoological Gardens and Macabéa paid for her own entrance ticket. She was terrified when she saw the animals in their cages. They terrified her and she couldn't make out what they were: why did they exist? When she spotted the rhinoceros, a solid, compact, black shape that moved in slow motion, she got such a shock that she wet her knickers. The rhinoceros was surely one of God's mistakes, she thought, begging His pardon for such blasphemy. She didn't have any special God in mind, it was simply a way of expressing herself. By some divine intervention, Olímpico didn't appear to notice that anything was wrong. She made up a story: