— Macabéa.
— Maca what?
— Béa, she had to finish.
— Sorry but that sounds like a disease, a skin disease.
— I think it’s strange too but my mother gave it to me because of a promise to Our Lady of the Good Death if I survived, I didn’t have a name till I was one, I’d rather have been called nothing instead of a name that nobody has but it seems to work — she stopped for a moment to catch her lost breath and added dispirited and with modesty — because as you see, sir, I survived . . . anyway . . .
— In the backlands of Paraíba a promise is also a great question of honor.
They didn’t know how to take a walk. They walked through the heavy rain and stopped in front of a hardware store where the window display featured piping, tin cans, large bolts and nails. And Macabéa, afraid that the silence might already mean separation, said to her new boyfriend:
— I just love bolts and nails, what about you, sir?
The second time they met a soft drizzle was falling that soaked them to the bone. Without even holding hands they walked in the rain that on Macabéa’s face looked like flowing tears.
The third time they met — wouldn’t you know it was raining? — the guy, irritated and losing the light varnish of politeness that his stepfather had taught him with great effort, said:
— All you ever do is rain!
— I’m sorry.
But she already loved him so much that she could no longer do without him, she was desperately in love.
Once when they met she finally asked his name.
— Olímpico de Jesus Moreira Chaves — he lied because his only last name was de Jesus, name of those who have no father. He’d been raised by a stepfather who taught him smooth ways of dealing with people in order to take advantage of them and how to pick up girls.
— I don’t understand your name — she said. — Olímpico?
Macabéa feigned enormous curiosity hiding from him that she never understood anything very well and that was just how it was. But he little fighting cock that he was, bristled at the stupid question to which he didn’t know the answer. He said annoyed:
— I know but I don’t want to tell you!
— It doesn’t matter , it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter . . . we don’t need to know what our names mean.
She knew what desire was — though she didn’t know she knew. It was like this: she was starving but not for food, it was a kind of painful taste that rose from the pit of her stomach and made her nipples quiver and her arms empty without an embrace. She got all dramatic and living hurt. That’s when she grew a little nervous and Glória gave her sugared water.
Olímpico de Jesus worked in a metals factory and she didn’t even notice that he didn’t call himself a “worker” but a “metallurgist." Macabéa was pleased with his social position because she was also proud of being a typist, even though she earned less than minimum wage. But she and Olímpico were somebody in the world. “Metallurgist and typist” were a classy pair. Olímpico’s work had the taste you get when you smoke a cigarette you’ve lit on the wrong end, on the filter. His job was taking metal rods coming off the top of the machine and putting them below, on a conveyor belt. He’d never wondered why you put the bars down there. His life wasn’t so bad and he even managed to save some money: he slept for free in a gatehouse at a demolition site because his friend was the watchman.
Macabéa said:
— Good manners are the best inheritance.
— Well I think the best inheritance is lots of money. But one day I’ll be very rich — said he who had a demonic grandeur: his strength was bursting.
One thing he wanted to be was a bullfighter. Once he’d gone to the movies and shivered from head to toe when he saw the red cape. He didn’t feel sorry for the bull. What he liked was seeing blood.
In the northeast he’d saved week after week to have a perfect tooth pulled and traded for a tooth of shimmering gold. This tooth gave him a position in life. Moreover, killing had made him a man with a capital M. Olímpico had no shame, he was what they call in the northeast an old goat. But he didn’t know that he was an artist: in his off-hours he sculpted figures of saints and they were so lovely that he didn’t sell them. He put in all the details and, with all due respect, sculpted everything on the Christ Child. He thought that the way things are is the way things are, and Christ had been besides a saint a man like him, though without the gold tooth.
Public affairs interested Olímpico. He loved listening to speeches. That he had his opinions, there was no doubt about that. He’d squat with a cheap cigarette in his hand and think. The way he’d squat on the ground back in Paraíba, sitting on zero, meditating. He said out loud and by himself:
— I’m very intelligent, I’ll end up a congressman.
And who can deny that he was good at speeches? He had the singsong tone and the oily phrases, just right for someone who opens his mouth and speaks demanding and determining the rights of men. In the future, which I don’t get into in this story, did he or didn’t he end up in Congress? And forcing other people to call him doctor.
Macabéa was actually a medieval figure whereas Olímpico de Jesus thought of himself as a key player, the kind that opens any door. Macabéa simply wasn’t technical, she was just her. No, I don’t want to have sentimentality and so I’m going to get rid of the patheticness implicit in this girl. But I should note that Macabéa had never received a letter in her life and the office phone only rang for the boss and Glória. Once she asked Olímpico to call her at the office. He said:
— Call to hear your crap?
When Olímpico told her he’d end up a congressman from the State of Paraíba, her jaw dropped and she thought: when we get married will that make me a congresswoman? She didn’t want to, since congresswoman sounded like an ugly name. (As I said, this is not a story about thoughts. Later I’ll probably go back to the unnamed feelings, even feelings about God. But Macabéa’s story has to come out or I’ll burst.)
The couple’s rare conversations touched on flour, beef jerky, dried beef, brown sugar, molasses. Because this past belonged to both of them and they had forgotten the bitterness of childhood because childhood, once it’s over, is always bittersweet and even makes you nostalgic. They could have passed for brother and sister, something which — I’m only realizing it now — rules out getting married. But I don’t know if they knew that. Will they get married? I still don’t know, I just know that they were somehow innocent and cast little shadow upon the ground.
No, I lied, now I see it all: he wasn’t innocent in the least, even though he was a general victim of the world. He had, I just discovered, inside of him the hard seed of evil, he liked taking revenge, this was his great pleasure and what gave him his strength in life. More life than her, who didn’t have a guardian angel.
Anyway whatever was going to happen, would happen. And for the time being nothing was happening, the two of them didn’t know how to invent happenings. They sat on something free: a bench in the public park. And sitting there, nothing distinguished them from the rest of nothing. For the great glory of God.
He: — Anyway.
She: — Anyway what?
He: — I only said anyway!
She: — But “anyway” what?
He: — Let’s change the subject since you don’t understand me.
She: — Understand what?
He: — Mother of God, Macabéa, let’s change the subjec
t this second!
She: — And talk about what?
He: — For example, about you.
She: — Me?!
He: — What’s the matter? Aren’t you someone? People talk about people.
She: — Sorry but I don’t think I’m really people.
He: — But everyone’s people, my God!
She: — I just never got used to it.
He: — Never got used to what?
She: — Ah, I can’t explain.
He: — And so?
She: — So what?
He: — Look, I’m leaving because you’re impossible!
She: — But all I know how to do is be impossible. What can I do to become possible?
He: — Stop talking because all you say is crap! Say whatever you want.
She: — I think I don’t know what to say.
He: — You don’t know what?
She: — Huh?
He: — Look, I’m sighing in agony. Let’s not talk about anything, okay?
She: — Yes, fine, whatever you like.
He: — Yeah, there’s no solution for you. As for me, people called my name so many times that I became myself. In the backlands of Paraíba everybody knows who Olímpico is. And one day the whole world will know about me.
— Really?
— That’s what I’m telling you! You don’t believe me?
— Of course I do, I believe you, I believe you, I believe you, I don’t want to offend you.
When she was a girl she’d seen a house painted pink and white with a yard where there was a well and everything. It was good to look inside. So her ideal became this: to have a well just for her. But she didn’t know how and so she asked Olímpico:
— Do you know if you can buy a hole?
— Look, haven’t you noticed, none of your questions have answers?
She sat there leaning her head on her shoulder the way a dove gets sad.
When he talked about getting rich, once she said to him:
— Couldn’t it just be a vision?
— Go to hell, all you do is mistrust me. The only reason I don’t use bad words is because you’re a virgin.
— Careful with your worries, they say it hurts your stomach.
— What worries, since I know for sure I’m going to conquer. Well, and do you have worries?
— No, not at all. I think I don’t need to conquer in life.
It was the only time she spoke of herself to Olímpico de Jesus. She was used to forgetting about herself. She never broke her habits, she was afraid of inventing.
— Did you know that on Clock Radio they said that a man wrote a book called “Alice in Wonderland” and that he was also a mathematician? They also talked about “elgebra." What does “elgebra” mean?
— Knowing that stuff is for queers, for men who become women. Sorry I said queer because that’s a bad word for a decent girl.
— On that station they say this thing about “culture” and difficult words, for example: what does “electronic” mean?
Silence.
— I know but I don’t want to tell you.
— I just love hearing the drops of the minutes of time like this: tic-tac-tic-tac-tic-tac. Clock Radio says that it gives the correct time, culture and ads. What does culture mean?
— Culture is culture, he continued sulking. You like putting my back against the wall.
— Because there are so many things I don’t understand. What does “per capita income” mean?
— Oh, that’s easy, it’s something for doctors.
— What does Count of Bonfim Street mean? What’s a count? Is that a prince?
— A count is a count, for God’s sake. I don’t need the correct time because I’ve got a watch.
He didn’t tell her that he’d stolen it in the factory washroom: another worker had left it by the sink while he was washing his hands. Nobody found out, he was a true technician of theft: he didn’t wear the wristwatch to work.
— You know what else I learned? They said you should be glad to be alive. So I am. I also heard a pretty song, I even cried.
— A samba?
— I think so. And sung by a man named Caruso who they said already died. His voice was so gentle it even hurt to hear it. The song was called “Una furtiva lacrima." I don’t know why they didn’t say lágrima.
“Una furtiva lacrima” had been the only really beautiful thing in her life. Wiping away her own tears she tried to sing what she heard. But her voice was as crude and out of tune as she was. When she heard it she started to cry. It was the first time she’d ever cried, she didn’t know she had so much water in her eyes. She cried, blew her nose no longer knowing what she was crying about. She wasn’t crying because of the life she led: because, never having led any other, she’d accepted that with her that was just the way things were. But I also think she was crying because, through the music, she might have guessed there were other ways of feeling, there were more delicate existences and even a certain luxury of soul. She knew that there were a lot of things she didn’t know how to understand. Did “aristocracy” mean an answered prayer? Probably. If that’s the way things are, that’s how they should be. The plunge into the vastness of the musical world that didn’t need to be understood. Her heart shot. And with Olímpico she suddenly became courageous and plunging into the unknown parts of herself said:
— I even think I can sing that song. La-la-la-la-la.
— You sound like a mute trying to sing. You’ve got a voice like a split cane.
— It must be because it’s the first time I’ve ever sung.
She thought that lacrima instead of lágrima was the radio man’s mistake. It had never occurred to her that there was any other language and she thought that in Brazil people spoke Brazilian. Besides the cargo ships on Sundays, this song was all she had. The last substratum of the song was her only vibration.
The relationship remained strained. He said:
— After my sainted mother died, there was nothing to keep me in Paraíba.
— What did she die of?
— Of nothing. Her health gave out.
He talked big but she paid attention to things that were as insignificant as she was. That’s why she noticed a rusted, twisted, creaking, peeling gate that led to a row of identical workers houses. She’d seen it from the bus. The alleyway besides having the number 106 had a plaque where the name was written. It was called “Sunrise." A pretty name that also augured good things.
She’d thought Olímpico knew a lot about things. He said things she’d never heard. Once he said:
— Your face is more important than your body because your face shows what you’re thinking. You have the face of somebody who ate something and didn’t like it, I don’t like sad faces, try to change — and he said a difficult word — try to change your “expression."
She said all upset:
— It’s the only face I’ve got. But I’m only sad on my face because inside I’m actually happy. It’s so good to be alive, don’t you think?
— Sure! But living well is only for the privileged. I’m one of them and I may look small and skinny but I’m strong and I could lift you off the ground with a single arm. Wanna see?
— No, no, people are watching and they’ll curse us!
— Nobody looks at a girl like you.
And they walked to the corner. Macabéa was very happy. He really lifted her into the air, over his head. She said euphori
c:
— This must be what it’s like to fly in an airplane.
Right. But suddenly he couldn’t bear the weight on a single arm and she fell face down in the mud, her nose bleeding. But she was polite and immediately said:
— Don’t worry, it was just a little fall.
Since she didn’t have a handkerchief to clean off the mud and blood, she wiped her face with her skirt, saying:
— Don’t look at me while I’m cleaning myself up, please, because it’s not allowed to lift your skirt.
But he’d suddenly started sulking and didn’t say another word. He didn’t turn up for several days: his manliness had been wounded.
He ended up coming back to her. For different reasons they went into a butcher’s shop. For her the smell of raw meat was a perfume that levitated her as if she’d eaten. As for him, what he wanted to see was the butcher and his sharp knife. He envied the butcher and wanted to be one himself. Sticking a knife into meat turned him on. Both left the butcher’s satisfied. Though she wondered: what would that meat taste like? And he wondered: how do you get to be a butcher? What was the secret? (Glória’s father worked in a gorgeous butcher’s.) She said:
— I’ll miss myself so bad when I die.
— Bullshit, once you’re dead you’re dead.
— That’s not what my aunt taught me.
— To hell with your aunt.
— You know what I want more than anything else in the world? To be a movie star. I only go to the movies on payday. I prefer a little theater, it’s cheaper. I love movie stars. Did you know that Marylin was all pink?
— And you’re all dirt. You don’t have the face or the body to be a movie star.
— You don’t think so?
— It’s all over your face.
— I don’t like to see blood at the movies. Look, I really can’t see it because it makes me want to throw up.
— Throw up or cry?
— Up till now thank God I’ve never thrown up.
— Yeah, there’s no milk in this cow.
Thinking was so hard, she didn’t know how you were supposed to think. But Olímpico not only thought, he even used fancy words. She’d never forget that when they first met he’d called her “missy," he’d made her a somebody. Since she was a somebody, she’d even bought a pink lipstick. Her dialogue was always hollow. She was remotely aware that she’d never said a true word. And “love” she didn’t call love, she called it I-don’t-know-what.
The Hour of the Star () Page 5