Meantime, I want to walk naked or in rags; I want to experience at least once the insipid flavour of the Host. To eat communion bread will be to taste the world's indifference, and to immerse myself in nothingness. This will be my courage: to abandon comforting sentiments from the past.
There is little comfort now. In order to speak about the girl I mustn't shave for days. I must acquire dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep: dozing from sheer exhaustion like a manual labourer. Also wearing threadbare clothes. I am doing all this to put myself on the same footing as the girl from the North-east. Fully aware that I might have to present myself in a more convincing manner to societies who demand a great deal from someone who is typing at this very moment.
Yes, all this, for history is history. But knowing beforehand so as never to forget that the word is the fruit of the word. The word must resemble the word. To attain the word is my first duty to myself. The word must not be adorned and become aesthetically worthless; it must be simply itself. It is also true that I have attempted to acquire a certain refinement of feeling and that this extreme refinement should not break into a perpetual line. At the same time, I have attempted to imitate the deep, raw, dense sound of the trombone, for no good reason except that I feel so nervous about writing that I might explode into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I want to accept my freedom without reaching the conclusion like so many others: that existence is only for fools and lunatics: for it would seem that to exist is illogical.
The action of this story will result in my transfiguration into someone else and in my ultimate materialization into an object. Perhaps I might even acquire the sweet tones of the flute and become entwined in a creeper vine.
But let us return to today. As is known, today is today. No one understands my meaning and I can obscurely hear mocking laughter with that rapid, edgy cackling of old men. I also hear measured footsteps in the road. I tremble with fear. Just as well that what I am about to write is already written deep inside me. I must reproduce myself with the delicacy of a white butterfly. This idea of the white butterfly stems from the feeling that, should the girl marry, she will marry looking as slender and ethereal as any virgin dressed in white. Perhaps she will not marry? To be frank, I am holding her destiny in my hands and yet I am powerless to invent with any freedom: I follow a secret, fatal line. I am forced to seek a truth that transcends me. Why should I write about a young girl whose poverty is so evident? Perhaps because within her there is seclusion. Also because in her poverty of body and soul one touches sanctity and I long to feel the breath of life hereafter. In order to become greater than I am, for I am so little. I write because I have nothing better to do in this world: I am superfluous and last in the world of men. I write because I am desperate and weary. I can no longer bear the routine of my existence and, were it not for the constant novelty of writing, I should die symbolically each day. Yet I am prepared to leave quietly by the back door. I have experienced almost everything, even passion and despair. Now I only wish to possess what might have been but never was.
I seem to know the most intimate details about this girl from the North-east because I live with her. And since I have discovered almost everything about her, she has clung to my skin like some viscous glue or contaminating mud. When I was a child, I read the story of the old man who was afraid to cross the river. Whereupon a youth appeared who also wished to cross to the other side. The old man seized the opportunity and begged him:
— Please take me with you. You can carry me on your back.
The youth agreed and once they were safely across he said to the old man:
— We've arrived. You can get down now.
But the old man, who was very sly and astute, replied:
— Oh no! It's so comfortable up here that I intend to stay put!
The typist doesn't want to get off my back. I now realize that poverty is both ugly and promiscuous. That's why I cannot say whether my narrative will be — will be what? I can reveal nothing for I still haven't worked up enough enthusiasm to write the story. Will there be a plot? Yes, there will. But what plot? That, too, I cannot reveal. I am not trying to cause anguished and voracious expectancy: I simply do not know what awaits me. I have a restless character on my hands who escapes me at every turn and expects me to retrieve her.
I forgot to mention that everything I am now writing is accompanied by the emphatic ruffle of a military drum. The moment I start to tell my story — the noise of the drum will suddenly cease.
I see the girl from the North-east looking in the mirror and — the ruffle of a drum — in the mirror there appears my own face, weary and unshaven. We have reversed roles so completely. Without a shadow of doubt she is a physical person. And what is more: she is a girl who has never seen her naked body because she is much too embarrassed. Embarrassed because she is a prude or because she is ugly? I ask myself how I am going to cope with so many facts without coming to grief. The figurative suddenly appeals to me. I create human action and tremble. Suddenly I crave the figurative like the painter who only uses abstract colours but wants to prove that he does so deliberately and not because he has no talent for drawing. In order to draw the girl, I must control my emotions. In order to capture her soul, I must nourish myself frugally on fruit and drink chilled white wine because it is stifling in this cubby-hole where I have locked myself away and where I feel a sudden urge to see the world. I've also had to give up sex and football. And avoid all human contact. Shall I go back one day to my former way of life? I seriously doubt it. I should also mention that I read nothing these days for fear that I might adulterate the simplicity of my language with useless refinements. For as I explained, the word is my instrument and must resemble the word. Or am I not a writer? More actor than writer, for with only one system of punctuation at my disposal, I juggle with intonation and force another's breathing to accompany my text.
I forgot to mention that the record that is about to begin — for I can no longer bear the onslaught of facts — the record that is about to begin is written under the sponsorship of the most popular soft drink in the world even though it does not earn me anything; a soft drink that is distributed throughout the world. It is the same soft drink that sponsored the recent earthquake in Guatemala. Despite the fact that it tastes of nail polish, toilet soap and chewed plastic. None of this prevents people from loving it with servility and subservience. Also because — and I am now going to say something strange that only I can understand — this drink which contains coca is today. It allows people to be modern and to move with the times.
As for the girl, she exists in an impersonal limbo, untouched by what is worst or best. She merely exists, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling. Why should there be anything more? Her existence is sparse. Certainly. But why should I feel guilty? Why should I try to relieve myself of the burden of not having done anything concrete to help the girl? This girl — I see that I have almost started telling my story — this girl who slept in cheap cotton underwear with faint but rather suspicious bloodstains. In an effort to fall asleep on cold wintry nights, she would curl up into a ball, receiving and giving out her own scant warmth. She slept with her mouth wide open because of her stuffed-up nostrils, dead to the world from sheer exhaustion.
I must add one important detail to help the reader understand the narrative: it is accompanied from start to finish by the faintest yet nagging twinge of toothache, caused by an exposed nerve. The story will also be accompanied throughout by the plangent tones of a violin played by a musician on the street corner. His face is thin and sallow as if he had just died. Perhaps he is dead. I have explained these details at great length for fear of having promised too much and offering too little. My story is almost trivial. The trick is to begin suddenly, like plunging into an icy sea and bearing its intense coldness with suicidal courage. I am about to begin in the middle by telling you that —
— that she was inept. Inept for living. She had no idea how to cope with life and she was on
ly vaguely aware of her own inner emptiness. Were she capable of explaining herself, she might well confide: the world stands outside me. I stand outside myself. (It's going to be difficult to tell this story. Even though I have nothing to do with the girl, I shall have to write everything through her, trapped as I am by my own fears. The facts are sonorous but among the facts there is a murmuring. It is the murmuring that frightens me.)
The girl had no way of coping. So much so, (bang) that she made no protest when the boss of her firm which distributed pulley equipment bluntly warned her (a blunt-ness she seemed to provoke with that foolish expression on her face as if begging to be slapped) that he was only prepared to keep on her workmate Glória. He told her he was fed up with her typing mistakes and those blots she invariably made on the paper. The girl felt that she ought to say something to show respect for this boss with whom she was secretly infatuated.
— Please forgive all the trouble I've caused. Senhor Raimundo Silveira, who had already turned his back on her, looked round surprised by the girl's politeness, and something in her docile expression forced him to speak less harshly, and grudgingly concede:
— Well, you needn't leave right away. Let's see how things work out.
After receiving this warning, the girl went to the lavatory where she could be alone, for she felt quite shaken. She examined herself mechanically in the mirror above the filthy hand basin that was badly cracked and full of hairs: the image of her own existence. The dark, tarnished mirror scarcely reflected any image. Perhaps her physical existence had vanished? This illusion soon passed and she saw her entire face distorted by the tarnished mirror; her nose had grown as huge as those false noses made of papier maché donned by circus clowns. She studied herself and mused: so young and yet so tarnished.
(There are those who have. And there are those who have not. It's very simple: the girl had not. Hadn't what? Simply this: she had not. If you get my meaning that's fine. If you don't, it's still fine. But why am I bothering about this girl when what I really want is wheat that turns ripe and golden in summer?)
When she was a little girl, her aunt, in order to frighten her, insisted that the vampire — the one that sucks human blood by biting its victims in the flesh of the neck — casts no reflection in the mirror. She reckoned that it might not be such a bad thing being a vampire, for the blood would add a touch of pink to her sallow complexion. For she gave the impression of having no blood unless a day might come when she would have to spill it.
The girl had drooping shoulders like those of a darning-woman. She had learned to darn as a child, and she might have made more of her life had she devoted herself to the delicate task of mending, perhaps even with silken threads. Or even more luxurious: shiny satin, a kiss of souls. The darning-needle turned mosquito. A granule of sugar carried on an ant's back. She was as light-headed as an idiot, only she was no idiot. She wasn't even aware that she was unhappy. The one thing she had was faith. In what? In you? It isn't necessary to have faith in anyone or in anything — it is enough to have faith. This often endowed her with a state of grace. For she had never lost faith.
(The girl worries me so much that I feel drained. She has drained me empty. And the less she demands, the more she worries me. I feel frustrated and annoyed. A raging desire to smash dishes and break windows. How can I avenge myself? Or rather, how can I get satisfaction? I've found the answer: by loving my dog that consumes more food than she does. Why does she not fight back? Has she no pluck? No, she is sweet and docile.)
Her eyes were enormous, round, bulging and inquisitive — she had the expression of someone with a broken wing— some deficiency of the thyroid gland — questioning eyes. Whom was she questioning? God? She did not think about God, nor did God think about her. God belongs to those who succeed in pinning Him down. God appears in a moment of distraction. She asked no questions. She divined that there were no answers. Was she foolish enough to ask? Only to get a blunt no in reply? Perhaps she thought about this futile question so that no one could ever accuse her one day of never having asked. Not knowing who to turn to, she appeared to have answered her own question: it is so because it is so. Could there be some other answer? If anyone knows of a better one, let him speak up for I have been waiting for years.
Meanwhile, the clouds are white and the sky is blue. Why is there so much God? At the expense of men.
She had been born with a legacy of misfortune, a creature from nowhere with the expression of someone who apologizes for occupying too much space. Lost in thought, she examined the blotches on her face in the mirror. In Alagoas they had a special name for this condition — it was commonly believed to be caused by the liver. The girl concealed her blotches with a thick layer of white powder which gave the impression that she had been whitewashed but it was preferable to looking sallow. Her general appearance was grimy for she rarely washed. During the day she wore a blouse and skirt, at night she slept in her underwear. Her room-mates didn't have the courage to tell her about her stale body odour. And since she herself seemed to be oblivious of the fact, they were afraid of hurting her feelings. There was nothing irridescent about her, although the parts of her skin unaffected by the blotches had the subtle glow of opals. Not that it mattered. No one paid any attention to her on the street, for she was as appetizing as cold coffee.
And so her days passed. The girl blew her nose on the hem of her petticoat. She lacked that elusive quality known as charm. I am the only person who finds her charming. As the author, I alone love her. I suffer on her account. And I alone may say to her: 'What do you ask of me weeping, that I would not give you singing?' The girl did not know that she existed, just as a dog doesn't know that it's a dog. Therefore she wasn't aware of her own unhappiness. The only thing she desired was to live. She could not explain, for she didn't probe her situation. Perhaps she felt there was some glory in living. She thought that a person was obliged to be happy. So she was happy. Before being born was she an idea? Before being born was she dead? And after being born was she about to die? What a thin slice of water melon.
There are few facts to relate and I am still not sure how this story will develop.
Now (bang) with a few rapid strokes I shall delineate the girl's previous history up to the moment when she stood before the mirror in the lavatory.
She was hopelessly rachitic at birth, the inheritance of the backwoods — the legacy of misfortune I mentioned earlier.
When she was two years old, her parents died of typhoid fever in the backwoods of Alagoas, in that region where the devil is said to have lost his boots. Much later she went to live in Maceió with her maiden aunt, a sanctimonious spinster, and the girl's only surviving relative in the whole wide world. On occasion the girl would recall some incident from her time there. For instance, her aunt rapping her on the head because the old woman believed that the crown of the head was the vital part of one's body. Her aunt would use her knuckles to rap that head of skin and bones which suffered from a calcium deficiency. She would thrash the girl not only because she derived some sensuous pleasure from thrashing her — the old girl found the idea of sexual intercourse so disgusting that she had never married — but also because she considered it her duty to see that the girl did not finish up like many another girl in Maceió standing on street corners with a lit cigarette waiting to pick up a man. So far the girl had shown no signs of becoming a prostitute one day. Even puberty seemed alien to her destiny. Puberty was slow in coming but even among weeds there exists a need for sunlight. The girl soon forgot those thrashings. If you wait patiently, the pain soon passes. But what pained her more was to be denied her favourite dessert: guava preserve with cheese, the only real passion in her life. Her sly old aunt enjoyed punishing her in this way. The girl didn't dare ask why she was always being punished. One doesn't have to know everything and not knowing became an important factor in her life.
Not knowing sounds awful, but it was not so awful for the girl knew lots of things just as a dog knows how to wag its
tail or a beggar how to feel hungry: things happen and you suddenly know. No one would teach her how to die one day: yet one day she would surely die as if she had already learned by heart how to play the starring role. For at the hour of death you become a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.
When she was tiny, the girl dearly longed to possess a pet animal. Her aunt, however, decided that an animal in the house would simply mean one more mouth to feed. The girl resigned herself, convinced that she was only fit for breeding fleas and that she didn't deserve a dog's affection. Her aunt's constant reproaches had taught her to keep her head lowered. The old girl's sanctimonious ways, however, had failed to influence her. Once her aunt was dead, the girl never again set foot inside a church. She had no religious feeling and the divinities made no impression.
Life is like that: you press a button and life lights up. Except that the girl didn't know which button to press. She wasn't even aware that she lived in a technological society where she was a mere cog in the machine. One thing, however, did worry her: she no longer knew if she had ever had a father or mother. She had forgotten her origins. If she had thought hard, she might have concluded that she had sprouted from the soil of Alagoas inside a mushroom that soon rotted. She could speak, of course, but had little to say. No sooner do I succeed in persuading her to speak, than she slips through my fingers.
Notwithstanding her aunt's death, the girl was certain that for her things would be different. She would never die. (It's my obsession to become the other man. In this case, the other woman. Pale and feeling weak, I tremble just like her.)
The Hour of the Star Page 2