The Hour of the Star (7 page)

— I'm all wet because I sat on a damp bench.

He showed no reaction. She prayed mechanically, she felt so grateful. It wasn't gratitude to God. Macabéa was only repeating what she had learned as a child.

— The giraffe is so graceful, don't you think?

— Rubbish. You can't talk about animals being graceful. How she wished she could reach high up into the air like the giraffe. When she realized that her remark about the animals displeased Olímpico, she tried to change the topic of conversation:

— On Radio Clock they used a word that worried me: mimetism.

Olímpico eyed her disapprovingly:

— That's not a nice word for a virgin to be using. Why do you have to keep on asking questions about things that don't concern you? The brothels in the Mangue are full of women who asked far too many questions.

— Is the Mangue a district?

— It's an evil place frequented only by men. This won't sink in, but I'm going to tell you something. A chap can still get a woman on the cheap. You've only cost me a coffee so far. That's your lot. I won't be wasting any more money buying you things. Is that clear?

Macabéa thought to herself: he's right. I don't deserve anything from him because I've wet my knickers.

After their walk in the rain through the Zoological Gardens, Olímpico was no longer the same: he was in a foul temper. Forgetting that he himself was rather silent, as one would expect of someone as virile as Olímpico, he bellowed at her:

— Holy smoke! When are you going to open your mouth to say something?

Deeply wounded, Macabéa replied:

— Did you know that the Emperor Charlemagne was called Carolus in his native land! Did you also know that a fly travels so fast that if it were to fly in a straight line it would travel the whole universe in twenty-eight days?

— That's a downright lie!

— No it's not, I swear before God that the announcer said so on Radio Clock.

— Well, I don't believe you.

— May I drop dead this minute if I'm telling a lie. May my father and mother burn in hell, if I were to deceive you.

— You'd better watch out or you will drop dead. Listen to me: are you playing dumb or are you just plain stupid?

— I don't know what I am. I think I'm a little . . . how can I put it? — Honestly, I don't know what I am.

— At least you know that you're called Macabéa?

— That's true. But I don't know what's inside my name. The only thing I know for certain is that I've never had much to offer . . .

— Well, you'd better get it into your thick skull that my name will be in all the papers one day and I'll be famous.

She asked Olímpico:

— Did I tell you that in the street where I live there's a cockerel that sings?

— Why do you have to tell so many lies?

— I swear it, may my mother drop dead if it isn't true!

— Isn't your old girl already dead?

— Oh, so she is . . . How awful. . .

(But what about me? Here I am telling a story about events that have never happened to me or to anyone known to me. I am amazed at my own perception of the truth. Can it be that it's my painful task to perceive in the flesh truths that no one wants to face? If I know almost everything about Macabéa, it's because I once caught a glimpse of this girl with the sallow complexion from the North-east. Her expression revealed everything about her. As for the youth from Paraíba, I must have had his face imprinted on my mind. When one registers a face spontaneously without any preconceptions, that face reveals everything.)

I am now about to efface myself once more and return to my two characters who were transformed by circumstances into two semi-abstract human beings.

I still haven't filled in all the details about Olímpico. He came from the backwoods of Paraíba. His determination to survive stemmed from his roots in a region noted for its primitive, savage way of life, its recurring spells of drought. Olímpico had arrived in Rio with a tin of perfumed vaseline and a comb, his sole possessions purchased at an open market in Paraíba. He rubbed the vaseline into his hair until it was wet and glossy. It never occurred to him that the girls in Rio might be put off by that lank, greasy hair. He had been born looking more shrivelled and scorched than a withered branch or a stone lying in the sun. Olímpico had a better chance of surviving than Macabéa, for it wasn't by accident that he had killed a rival in the heart of the backwoods: his long, sharp knife had punctured his victim's soft liver with the greatest ease. He had kept this crime a secret, and he enjoyed that sense of power which secrecy can bestow. Olímpico had proved his manliness in combat. Yet he lost all courage when it came to attending funerals: sometimes he attended as many as three funerals a week; the funerals of complete strangers whose names appeared in the obituary columns of
O Dia
. As he read them, his eyes would fill with tears. It showed weakness on his part, but everyone has some weakness or other. A week that passed without a funeral left Olímpico feeling empty. It sounds like madness, but Olímpico knew precisely what he was after. He wasn't the least bit mad. Macabéa, unlike Olímpico, was a crossbreed between one 'quiddity' and another. Truly she seemed to have been conceived from some vague notion in the minds of starving parents. Olímpico at least stole, whenever he had the opportunity, even from the watchman at the factory who provided him with shelter. To have killed someone and to have stolen meant that he was no mere accident of nature. His crimes gave him prestige and made him a man whose honour had already been purged. He had an additional advantage over Macabéa. Olímpico had a considerable talent for drawing instant caricatures of well-known personalities, whose photographs regularly appeared in the press. This was his revenge. His only act of kindness toward Macabéa was his offer to get her a job in the metal factory, should she be given the sack. His offer made her deliriously happy (bang) for in the metal factory she would find her only real connection with the world: Olímpico. Macabéa didn't worry too much about her own future: to have a future was a luxury. She had learned from her favourite radio programme that there were seven billion inhabitants in the world. She felt completely lost. But it was in her nature to be happy so she soon resigned herself: there were seven billion inhabitants to keep her company.

Macabéa had a passion for horror films and musicals. She especially liked films where the women were hanged or shot through the heart with a bullet. It never dawned on her that she herself was a suicide case even though she had never contemplated killing herself. Her life was duller than plain bread and butter. By contrast, Olímpico was a demon of strength and vitality who had fathered children. He possessed the precious semen in abundance. And as was said or left unsaid, Macabéa had ovaries as shrivelled as overcooked mushrooms. Oh, if only I could seize Macabéa, give her a good scrubbing and a plate of hot soup, kiss her on the forehead and tuck her up in bed. So that she might wake up to discover the great luxury of living.

Olímpico — as I now discover — derived little satisfaction from courting Macabéa. Olímpico probably realized that Macabéa lacked substance like most inferior products. However, when he set eyes on Glória, Macabéa's work- mate, he felt at once that here was a girl with real class.

Glória had rich Portuguese wine in her blood and a provocative way of swinging her hips as she walked, no doubt due to some remote strain of African blood. Although she was white, Glória displayed that vitality one associates with a mulatta. She dyed her curly mop of hair bright yellow though the roots remained dark. But even without the peroxide she was fair, and that made her superior as far as Olímpico was concerned. This was a point in her favour no North-easterner could ignore. And when Glória was introduced to him by Macabéa, she assured him: 'I'm
carioca
born and bred!' Olímpico had never heard the expression 'born and bred', an expression that had been popular in Rio when Glória's parents were children. To be
carioca
identified Glória with the privileged class who inhabited Southern Brazil. Looking closely at her, Olímpico perceived at once that, although she was ugly, Glória was well nourished. This was enough to transform her into someone of quality.

In the meantime, his affair with Macabéa waned into a lukewarm routine. Not that one could ever have described it as being warm. More and more often he failed to turn up at the bus stop. But at least he was still her boy-friend. Macabéa anxiously awaited the day when he would finally propose that they should become engaged. And marry.

Olímpico soon learned in a roundabout way that Glória had a father and mother, and that she ate a hot meal at the same hour every day. These details transformed her into someone of first-class quality. Olímpico was thrilled when he found out that Glória's father worked in a butcher's shop. Watching those hips, Olímpico could see that Glória was made for bearing children. Macabéa, by comparison, had all the signs of her own unmistakable doom.

It was quite alarming to observe how the breath of life surged within Macabéa's parched body; expansive and diffused, and as abundant as the breath of a pregnant woman, impregnated by herself, by parthenogenesis: she experienced the weirdest dreams with visions of immense prehistoric animals, as if she were living in some more remote age of this violent territory.

At this point (bang), the affair between Olímpico and Macabéa came to an abrupt end. It had been a curious affair yet was somehow akin to the paler shades of love. Olímpico bluntly informed her that he had met another girl and that the other girl in question was Glória. (Bang) Macabéa saw at once what had happened between Olímpico and Glória: their eyes had met and kissed.

Confronted with Macabéa's vacant expression, Olímpico was almost tempted to offer some words of comfort before saying goodbye. As he was about to take his leave, he quipped:

— Macabéa, you're like a hair in one's soup. It's enough to make anyone lose their appetite. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you might as well know the truth. Are you offended?

— No, no, no! Please leave me alone! Say goodbye and go!

It is better not to speak of happiness or unhappiness — such words provoke that vague nostalgia suffused in lilac, the perfume of violets, those gelid tidal waters that send spray over the sands. I have no desire to provoke any of these things for they are painful.

I forgot to mention that Macabéa had one unfortunate trait: she was sensual. How could there be so much sensuality in a body as withered as hers, without her even suspecting its presence? A mystery. At the outset of her affair with Olímpico, she had asked him for a small photograph, three by four centimetres, which showed him smiling broadly and showing off his gold tooth. She was so excited when he gave it to her that she said three Our Fathers and two Hail Marys to recover her composure.

When Olímpico told her the affair was over, her reaction (bang) was immediate and totally unexpected: she suddenly started laughing. She laughed because she had forgotten how to weep. Surprised and puzzled, Olímpico went into hoots of laughter.

The two of them stood there laughing. At that moment, Olímpico had an intuition, that came close to being an act of kindness: he asked Macabéa if she was laughing because she felt nervous. She stopped laughing, and suddenly feeling very, very tired, she replied: I don't really know . . .

Macabéa, however, knew one thing: Glória was the embodiment of vigorous existence. This was probably due to the fact that Glória was buxom. Macabéa had always secretly longed to be buxom, after hearing a young man in Maceió say to a girl who was passing by; 'You're a buxom beauty!' From that moment onwards, she had studied ways and means of putting on some flesh. She even summoned enough courage to ask her aunt to buy her some cod liver oil. (Already addicted to advertisements, she had read about cod liver oil.) Her aunt rebuked her: Who do you think you are, some rich man's daughter, accustomed to luxuries?

Since it was not in her nature to be downhearted, she tried to carry on after Olímpico abandoned her as if nothing had happened. (She felt no despair, etc. etc.) Besides, what else could she do? She was a lost cause. And even sadness was the privilege of the rich, of those who could afford it, of those who had nothing better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

I should also mention that on the day after Olímpico abandoned her, Macabéa had an idea. Since nobody wanted to give her a treat, much less become engaged to her, she would give herself a treat. The treat would consist of buying a new lipstick she didn't really need: not pink like the one she was using, but this time bright red. In the washroom at the office she painted her lips lavishly beyond their natural outline, in the hope that she might achieve that stunning effect seen on the lips of Marilyn Monroe. When she had finished, she stood staring at herself in the mirror, at a face which stared back in astonishment. The thick lipstick looked like blood spurting from a nasty gash, as if someone had punched her on the mouth and broken her front teeth (small bang). When she went back to her desk Glória chuckled:

— Have you taken leave of your senses, girl? What are you up to, wearing all that war-paint? You could be mistaken for a tart.

— I'm a virgin! You won't find me going out with soldiers or sailors.

— Excuse my asking: is it painful being ugly?

— I've never really thought about it, I suppose it's a little painful. How do you feel about it being ugly yourself?

— I am not ugly! — Glória howled at her.

Peace was soon restored between them, and Macabéa continued to be happy thinking about nothing. Empty, empty. As I said before, she had no guardian angel. But she made the best of things. Beyond that, she was almost impersonal. Glória probed:

— Why are you always asking me for aspirin? I don't grudge you the odd aspirin, but pills cost money.

— To stop the pain.

— What do you mean? Eh? Are you in pain?

— I'm in pain all the time.

— Where?

— Inside. I can't explain it.

More and more, she was finding it difficult to explain. She had transformed herself into organic simplicity. She had contrived a way of finding grace in simple, authentic things. She liked to feel the passage of time. She did not possess a watch, and perhaps for that very reason, she relished the infinity of time. Her life was supersonic. Yet no one noticed that she had crossed the sound barrier with her existence. For other people, she didn't exist. Her only advantage over others was to know how to swallow pills at one go, without any water. Glória, who supplied her with aspirin, was full of admiration and this kindled a pleasing warmth in Macabéa's heart. Glória warned her: