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 tha
t 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:
— 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.
The Hour of the Star Page 5