The definable is making me a little weary. I prefer truths that carry no prophecies. When I eventually rid myself of this story, I shall withdraw to the more arbitrary realm of vague prophecies. I did not invent this girl. She forced her being upon me. She was by no means mentally retarded: she was as helpless and trusting as any fool. At least the girl didn't have to beg for food. (There were others who were even more abandoned and starving.) I alone love her.
Then — who knows for what reason — she arrived in Rio, the incredible Rio de Janeiro, where her aunt had found her a job. Then her aunt had died, and the girl was on her own, lodging in a bedsitter with four other girls who worked as shop-assistants at a well-known department store.
The bedsitter was in an old, colonial-style tenement in Acre Street, a red-light district near the docks inhabited by women who picked up seamen in the streets between the depots of charcoal and cement. Those polluted docks made the girl yearn for some future. (What's happening? It's as if I were listening to a lively tune being played on the piano — a sign perhaps that the girl will have a brilliant future? I am consoled by this possibility and will do everything in my power to make it come to pass.)
Acre Street. What a slum. The plump rats of Acre Street. I keep well away from the place. To be frank, I am terrified of that dark hole and its depraved inhabitants.
From time to time, the girl was lucky enough to hear a cockerel welcome the dawn. Then she would remember the backwoods of Alagoas with nostalgia. Where could there be room for a cockerel to crow in that warren of warehouses storing goods for export and import? (If the reader is financially secure and enjoys the comforts of life, he must step out of himself and see how others live. If he is poor, he will not be reading this story because what I have to say is superfluous for anyone who often feels the pangs of hunger. Here I am acting as a safety-valve for you and the tedious bourgeoisie. I know that it is very frightening to step out of oneself, but then everything which is unfamiliar can be frightening. The anonymous girl of this story is so ancient that she could be described as biblical. She was subterranean and had never really flowered. I am telling a lie: she was wild grass.)
Throughout the torrid summers, the oppressive heat of Acre Street made her sweat, a sweat that gave off an appalling stench. A sweat, I couldn't help feeling, that stemmed from sinister origins. Difficult to say if the girl was tubercular. I rather think not. In the night shadows a man was whistling; there were heavy footsteps and the howling of an abandoned mongrel. There were silent constellations, and that space known as time which has nothing to do with her or with us. And so the days passed. The cockerel's crowing in the blood-red dawn gave a new meaning to her withered existence. As day broke, a flock of birds chirped noisily in Acre Street: life sprouted from the ground, jubilant between the paving stones.
Acre Street for living, Lavradio Street for working, the docks for excursions on Sundays. Now and then the lingering sound of a cargo ship's signal that strangely made the heart beat faster, and in between each signal, the consoling though somewhat melancholy cries of the cockerel.
The cockerel belonged to the never-never land. Its cries came from the infinite right up to her bedside, filling her with gratitude. She slept lightly. For the past twelve months she had been suffering from a persistent cold. In the early hours each morning, she was seized by a fit of hoarse coughing, which she tried to smother with her limp pillow. Her room-mates — Maria da Penha, Maria Aparecida, Maria José and plain Maria — paid no attention. They were too exhausted to complain, worn out by an occupation that was no less taxing simply because it was anonymous. One of the girls sold Coty face powder. What a curious occupation! They turned on to their other sides and went back to sleep. The girl's coughing actually lulled them into an even deeper sleep. Is the sky above or below? The girl from the North-east was wondering. As she lay there, she couldn't decide. Sometimes before falling asleep she felt the pangs of hunger and became quite giddy as she visualized a side of beef. The solution was to chew paper into pulp and swallow it. Honestly! I'm getting used to her but I still feel uneasy. Dear God! I feel happier with animals than with people. When I watch my horse cantering freely across the fields— I am tempted to put my head against his soft, vigorous neck and narrate the story of my life. When I stroke my dog on the head — I know that he doesn't expect me to make sense or explain myself.
Perhaps the girl from the North-east has already come to the conclusion that life is troublesome, a soul that doesn't quite match its body, even a delicate soul like hers. Being very superstitious, the girl imagined that if she should ever begin to enjoy life, the spell would be broken. She would cease to be a princess and become transformed into an insect. Because, however awful her situation might be, she had no wish to be deprived of herself. She wanted to be herself. She feared that she would incur some terrible punishment and even be sentenced to death if she began to experience pleasure. So she shielded herself from death by living below par, by consuming her life sparingly so that it shouldn't come to an abrupt ending. This economy provided some reassurance, for the person who falls can only hit the floor. Did she feel that she had nothing to live for? I have no way of knowing, but I think not. Only once did she ask herself that traumatic question: Who am I? The question frightened her to such an extent that her mind became paralysed. I feel, without becoming her, that I have nothing to live for. I am gratuitous, and I pay my bills for electricity, gas and telephone. As for the girl, she would sometimes buy a rose when the boss paid out her wages.
These events belong to the present and I shall only finish this awkward narrative when I am too exhausted to struggle any longer. I am no deserter.
Sometimes the girl remembered the disturbing words of a French ballad. She had heard it sung out of tune by a group of young girls who danced in a circle, joining hands — she had listened without being able to participate because her aunt was calling her to come and sweep the floor. With their, long, wavy hair in pink ribbons, the girls sang: 'Give me one of your daughters . . . maré-marré-deci.' 'I chose your daughter . . . maré-marré.' A pale spectre, the music hovered like a rose of reckless beauty. Yet transient. Pale and transient, the girl was now the sweet and horrifying spectre of a childhood without games or dolls. At such moments, she would pretend that she was running along corridors clutching a doll to her chest and chasing a ball with much laughter and amusement. Her laughter was terrifying because it belonged to the past and it was only revived by a malign imagination, a yearning for what might have been but never was. (I gave you fair warning that this is what is known as popular literature despite my reluctance to betray any emotion.)
It must be said that the girl is not conscious of my presence. Were it otherwise, she would have someone to pray for and that would mean salvation. But I am fully conscious of her presence: through her I utter my cry of horror to existence. To this existence I love so dearly.
To return to the girl: the one luxury she permitted herself was a few sips of cold coffee before going to bed. She paid for this luxury by waking up with heartburn.
She rarely spoke (having little or nothing to say) but she loved sounds. Sounds were life. The night's silence made her feel nervous. It was as if night were about to pronounce some fatal word. At night, cars seldom passed through Acre Street. When they did, the louder their horns the more she liked it. As if these fears were not enough, she was also terrified of catching some dreadful disease down below — that was something her aunt had taught her. Although her tiny ovules were all shrivelled. So hopelessly shrivelled. Her life was so monotonous that by the end of the day she could no longer remember what had happened that same morning. She mused in silence and the thought came to her: since I am, the solution is to be. The cockerel I mentioned earlier heralded yet another day. It sang of weariness. Speaking of poultry, the girl sometimes ate a hard-boiled egg in a snackbar. Her aunt had always insisted that eggs were bad for the liver. That being so, she obediently became ill and suffered pains on the left side opposi
te the liver. For the girl was most impressionable. She believed in everything that existed and in everything non-existent as well. But she didn't know how to embellish reality. For her, reality was too enormous to grasp. Besides, the word reality meant nothing to her. Nor to me, dear God.
As she slept, she often dreamed that her aunt was rapping her on the head. More surprisingly, she often dreamed about sex, she, who to all appearances was completely asexual. When she finally woke up, she was overcome by feelings of guilt without being able to explain why. Perhaps because everything that is pleasurable should be forbidden. Guilty and contented. Her doubts confirmed her sense of guilt and she mechanically recited three Hail Marys, Amen, Amen, Amen. She prayed but without God. She did not know Him, therefore He did not exist.
Leaving God aside, I have just discovered that reality made little sense to the girl. She felt much more at ease with the unreality of everyday life. She lived in slo-o-ow motion, a hare le-e-eaping through the a-a-air over hi— i— ill and da-a-ale, obscurity was her earth, obscurity was the inner core of nature.
She found consolation in being sad. Not desperate, for she was much too modest and simple to indulge in despair, but that indefinable quality associated with romantics. It goes without saying that she was neurotic. Neurosis sustained her. Dear God, neurosis counted for something: almost as good as crutches. Occasionally she wandered into the more fashionable quarters of the city and stood gazing at the shop windows displaying glittering jewels and luxurious garments in satin and silk — just to mortify the senses. The truth is that she needed to find herself and a little mortification helped.
On Sundays, she always woke up early in order to be able to spend more time doing absolutely nothing. The worst moment of all was late on Sunday afternoons when she would lapse into anxious meditation, the emptiness of barren Sunday. She sighed. She recalled her childhood with nostalgia — dried mandioca — and believed that she had been happy. In truth, no matter how bad one's childhood may have been, it always sounds enchanted in recollection — how awful. The girl never complained about anything. She accepted things as they are — after all, who was responsible for organizing the land inhabited by men? Surely one day she would gain a place in the paradise reserved for misfits. Besides, in her case it simply isn't a question of gaining Paradise. She is a misfit even in this world. I swear that nothing can be done for her. Believe me, I would help her if I could. I realize that in saying that my typist has a diseased body, I am saying something much more offensive than any obscenity.
(It's as good as saying that a healthy dog is worth more.)
At this point, I must record one happy event. One distressing Sunday without mandioca, the girl experienced a strange happiness: at the quayside, she saw a rainbow. She felt something close to ecstasy and tried to retain the vision: if only she could see once more the display of fireworks she had seen as a child in Maceió. She wanted more, for it is true that when one extends a helping hand to the lower orders, they want everything else; the man on the street dreams greedily of having everything. He has no right to anything but wants everything. Wouldn't you agree? There were no means within my power to produce that golden rain achieved with fireworks.
Should I divulge that she adored soldiers? She was mad about them. Whenever she caught sight of a soldier, she would think, trembling with excitement: is he going to murder me?
If the girl only knew that my own happiness stems from the deepest sorrow and that sorrow is an abortive form of happiness. Certainly, she was a contented creature despite the neurosis. The neurosis of battle.
Apart from her monthly visit to the cinema, she enjoyed another luxury. She lacquered her nails a bright scarlet. Unfortunately, she had bitten her nails to such an extent that most of the lacquer had disappeared, revealing the grime underneath.
And when she woke up? When she woke up, she no longer knew her own identity. Only later did she reflect with satisfaction: I am a typist and a virgin, and I like coca-cola. Only then did she get dressed, and spend the rest of the day passively enacting the role of being.
Perhaps I could enhance this story if I were to introduce some difficult technical terms? But that is the problem: this story has no technique, not even in matters of style. It has been written at random. Nothing would persuade me to contaminate with brilliant, mendacious words, a life as frugal as that of my typist. During the day, like everyone else, I make gestures that are unobserved even by me. One of my most unobserved gestures is this story, which comes out as it will, independent of me.
The typist lived in a kind of limbo, hovering between heaven and hell. She had never given any thought to the concept: 'I am, therefore, I am.' I suspect that she felt she had no right to do so, being a mere accident of nature. A foetus wrapped up in newspaper and thrown on to a rubbish dump. Are there thousands of others like her? Yes, thousands of others who are mere accidents of nature. And if one thinks about it carefully, aren't we all mere accidents of nature? I have only escaped from a similar fate because I am a writer. Any action is also a fact. When I make contact with my spiritual forces, I find your God within myself. Why do I write? Can I explain? I simply don't know. In fact, I sometimes think that I am not me. I seem to belong to a remote planet, I am such a stranger unto myself. Can this be me? I am horrified by this encounter with myself.
As I've already said, the girl from the North-east did not believe in death. She couldn't believe in death — after all — was she not alive? She had long since forgotten the names of her father and mother, for her aunt had never mentioned them. (I am exploiting the written word with the utmost ease. This alarms me, for I am afraid of losing my sense of order and of plunging into an abyss resounding with cries and shrieks: the Hell of human freedom. But I shall continue.)
To continue:
Every morning she switched on the transistor radio loaned by one of her room-mates, Maria da Penha. She switched it on as low as possible so as not to disturb the others, and she invariably tuned into Radio Clock, a channel that broadcast the correct time and educational programmes.
There was no music, only a constant ping like drops of falling rain — a drop for every minute that passed. This channel took advantage of the pauses between each ping to broadcast commercials. She adored commercials.
It was the ideal programme for between each ping the announcer gave snippets of information that one day might stand her in good stead. This was how the girl learned, for example, that the Emperor Charlemagne was known as Carolus in his native land. Admittedly, she had never had any opportunity to make use of this information. But you never know. Patience always pays off in the end. Listening to the same programme, she also learned that the only animal that doesn't crossbreed with its own offspring, is the horse.
— That's filth! she muttered to the transistor radio.
On another occasion, she heard the message: 'Repent in Christ and He will give you great joy.' So she decided to repent. Not quite knowing what she had to repent of, the girl from the North-east repented of everything. The preacher added that vengeance is a deadly sin. So she sought no revenge.
Yes, patience always pays off in the end. Seriously? The girl possessed what is known as inner life without knowing that she possessed it. She was nourished by her own entity, as if she were feeding off her own entrails. When she travelled to work, she behaved like a harmless lunatic. As the bus sped along, she daydreamed aloud and voiced the most extravagant dreams. Her dreams were empty on account of all that inner life, because they lacked the essential nucleus of any prior experience of— of ecstasy, let's say. Most of the time, she possessed, without knowing it, the emptiness that replenishes the souls of saints. Was she a saint? It would seem so. The girl didn't know that she was meditating, for the word meditation was unknown to her. I get the impression that her life was one long meditation about nothingness. Except that she needed others in order to believe in herself, otherwise she would become lost in the continuous, spiralling vacuum inside her. She tended to meditate whi
le she typed, and this caused her to make even more mistakes than usual.
She indulged in certain little pleasures. On wintry nights, shivering from head to foot under a thin cotton sheet, she would read by candle-light the advertisements that she had cut out of old newspapers lying around the office. She collected newspaper advertisements, and pasted them into an album. The advertisement she treasured most of all was in colour: it advertised a face cream for women with complexions so very different from her own sallow skin. Blinking furiously (a fatal tic that she had recently acquired), she imagined the pleasure of possessing such luxuries. The cream looked so appetizing that, were she to find enough money to buy it, she wouldn't be foolish. Never mind her skin! She would eat the cream, she would, in large spoonfuls straight from the jar. She was needing to put on some flesh, for her body was drier than a half-empty sack of toasted breadcrumbs. With time, she had become transformed into mere living matter in its primary state. Perhaps this was her protection from the enormous temptation to be unhappy and to feel sorry for herself. (When I consider that I might have been born her — and why not? — I shudder. The fact that I am not her strikes me as being a cowardly escape. I feel remorse, as I explained in one of my titles for this book.)
In any case, the future looked brighter. The future, at least, had the advantage of not being the present, and the worse can always take a turn for the better. There wasn't a trace of human misery in the girl. She carried within her an aura of innocence. For, strange though it may seem, she had faith. Composed of fine organic matter, she existed. Pure and simple. And what about me? The only thing that can be said about me is that I am breathing.
Even though all she possessed within was that tiny essential flame: the breath of life. (I am having a hellish time with this story. May the Gods never decree that I should write about a leper, for then I should become covered in leprosy.) (I am delaying the events that I can vaguely foresee, simply because I need to make several portraits of this girl from Alagoas. Also because if anyone should read this story, I'd like them to absorb this young woman like a cloth soaked in water. The girl embodies a truth I was anxious to avoid. I don't know whom I can blame, but someone is to blame.)
The Hour of the Star Page 3