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:
— One of these days the aspirin will stick in your throat and you'll be running around the office like a beheaded chicken.
One day Macabéa enjoyed a moment of ecstasy. It happened in front of a tree that was so enormous that she couldn't put her arms around its trunk. Yet despite her ecstasy, she did not abide with God. She prayed with total indifference. True. Yet that mysterious God of others sometimes bestowed on her a state of grace. Bliss, bliss, bliss. Her soul almost took flight. She, too, had become a flying saucer. She had tried to confide in Glória but decided against it. She didn't know how to express herself and what was there to confide? The atmosphere? One doesn't confide everything, for everything is a hollow void.
Sometimes, grace descended upon her as she sat at her desk in the office. Then she would go to the washroom in order to be alone. Standing and smiling until it passed. (It strikes me that this God was extremely merciful towards her: He restored what He had taken from her.) Standing and thinking about nothing, a vacant expression in her eyes.
Not even Glória could be called a friend: just a workmate. Glória, who was buxom, white and tepid. Her body exuded a peculiar smell, and it was quite obvious that she didn't wash much. She bleached the hairs on her legs and under the armpits without bothering to shave them. Olímpico wondered: was she bleached down below as well?
Towards Macabéa, Glória felt vaguely maternal. Whenever she saw Macabéa looking more shrivelled than usual, she would chide her:
— Why are you looking like . . . ?
Macabéa, who never lost her temper with anyone, had to control her impatience with Glória, who had
this irritating habit of never finishing a sentence. Glória used an overpowering cologne that smelled of sandalwood, and Macabéa, who had a delicate stomach, always felt queasy when she inhaled the odour. She preferred to say nothing because Glória was now her only remaining contact with the world. A world that consisted of her aunt, Glória, Senhor Raimundo and Olímpico — and more remotely, the girls with whom she stared a room. To compensate, she identified with a portrait of the young Greta Garbo. This surprised me, for I could not imagine any affinity between Macabéa and an actress with a face like Garbo. Although she couldn't explain it, Macabéa was convinced that Garbo was the most important woman in the world. She herself felt no inclination to be like the haughty Greta Garbo, whose tragic sensuality placed her on a solitary pedestal. What Macabéa wanted most of all, as I've already said, was to look like Marilyn Monroe.
She rarely confided in anyone, but one day she made the mistake of telling Glória about her secret ambition. Glória burst out laughing:
— You, Maca, looking like Marilyn Monroe? Have you seen yourself in the mirror?
Glória was terribly smug: in her own estimation, she thought of herself as being really something. Conscious of her mulatta sex appeal, she painted in a beauty spot above her lips, to add a touch of glamour to the bleached hairs around her mouth. Glória was a cunning vixen but none the less good-hearted. Macabéa's situation worried her, but there was little she could do to improve matters. After all, no one forced Macabéa to be quite so foolish? And as Glória reminded herself: she's not my responsibility.
No one can enter another's heart. Macabéa conversed with Glória — without ever opening her heart.
Glória wiggled her bottom in an inviting way and she smoked mentholated cigarettes to keep her breath fresh for those interminable kissing sessions with Olímpico. She was very self-confident, having achieved most of her modest ambitions in life. There was a defiant note in Glória's attitude as if to say: 'Nobody bosses me around.' One day she suddenly began to stare and stare and stare at Macabéa.
Until she couldn't keep silent any longer and, speaking with the slightest trace of Portuguese ancestry in her accent, she said:
— Hey girl, haven't you any face?
— Of course I have a face. It's just that my nose is flat. After all, I'm from Alagoas.
— Tell me something: do you ever think about your future?
The question remained unanswered, for Macabéa had nothing to say.
Very well. Let us return to Olímpico.
In an attempt to impress Glória and play the macho, he bought red hot peppers at the market frequented by North-easterners, and to show his new girl-friend just how tough he was, he bit right into the devil's fruit. He didn't even drink a glass of water to quell the burning sensation. The unbearable pain made him feel tough and a terrified Glória suddenly became submissive. He thought to himself: I'm a conqueror, after all. And he attacked Glória with the ferociousness of a male bee, craving for her honey and that succulent flesh. He felt no remorse for having ditched Macabéa. He was destined to go up in the world and join the privileged. Olímpico was determined to change his life. By associating with Glória, this insignificant metal-worker from the North-east was about to prosper. He would cease to be what he had always been and what he had always refused to acknowledge, ashamed of his own weakness. Even as a child he had been a lonely creature who found it difficult to breathe in space. The man from the backwoods is, above all, patient. I find it easy to forgive him.
Glória, wishing to make amends for having stolen her boy friend, invited Macabéa to tea one Sunday afternoon at her parents' house. Kissing the wound better after biting someone? (This story is so banal that I can scarcely bear to go on writing.)
This invitation (small bang) caused Macabéa to open her eyes wide. In the foul disorder of a third-class surburban bourgeoisie one could still count upon eating well, for most of their money was spent on food. Glória lived in a street named after some General or other. It gave her enormous satisfaction to be able to say that she lived in a street that commemorated a military leader. This made her feel much more secure. In Glória's house there was even a telephone. This was probably one of the few occasions when Macabéa realized why there was no place for her in this world and why Glória was being so generous. A cup filled to the brim with piping hot chocolate mixed with real milk, a selection of sugared buns and even a small cake. While Glória was out of the room, Macabéa furtively ate a biscuit. She then asked to be forgiven by the Abstract Being, the Giver and Taker of all things. She felt she had been forgiven. The Abstract Being had shown mercy.
On the following day, which was a Monday, perhaps because the chocolate had affected her liver or because of her nervousness about drinking something intended for the rich, Macabéa felt unwell.
With an act of will-power, she prevented herself from vomiting in her determination not to squander that delicious chocolate. Some days later, when she received her wages, she summoned enough courage for the first time in her life (bang) to make an appointment with a doctor recommended by Glória, who didn't charge much. He examined her, examined her a second time, and then a third time.
— Are you dieting to lose weight, my girl? Macabéa didn't know how to reply.
— What do you eat?
— Hot dogs.
— Is that all?
— Sometimes I eat a mortadella sandwich.
— What do you drink? Milk?
— Only coffee and soft drinks.
— What do you mean by soft drinks? — He probed, not quite knowing how to proceed. He questioned her at random:
— Do you sometimes have fits of vomiting?
— Oh, never! — she exclaimed in a panic, for she was not a fool to go wasting food, as I've explained. The doctor took a good look at her and felt sure that she didn't diet to lose weight. Nevertheless, he found it easier to go on insisting that she shouldn't diet to lose weight. He knew how things stood and that he was the poor man's doctor. That was what he muttered to himself as he prescribed a tonic that Macabéa wouldn't even bother to buy: she believed it was sufficient to consult a doctor in order to be cured. He snapped at her without being able to account for his sudden outburst of annoyance and indignation:
— This tale about a diet of hot dogs is pure neurosis. What you need is a psychiatrist!
She had no idea what he was talking about but felt that the doctor expected her to smile. So she smiled.
The doctor, who was corpulent and given to perspiring, suffered from a nervous tic that caused him to purse his lips at regular intervals. As a result, he looked like a pouting infant about to burst into tears.
This doctor had no ambition whatsoever. He saw medicine simply as a means of earning a living. It had nothing to do with dedication or concern for the sick. He was negligent and found the squalor of his patients utterly distasteful. He resented having to deal with the poor whom he saw as the rejects of that privileged society from which he himself had been excluded. It had not escaped him that he was out of touch with the latest trends in medicine and new clinical methods, but he had all the training he was likely to need for treating the lower orders. His dream was to earn enough money to do exactly what he pleased: nothing.
When the doctor told Macabéa that he was about to give her a medical examination, she said:
— I've been told you have to take your clothes off when you visit a doctor, but I'm not taking anything off.
He gave her an X-ray and said:
— You're in the early stages of pulmonary tuberculosis. Macabéa didn't know if this was a good or a bad thing.
But being ever so polite she simply said:
— Many thanks.
The doctor resisted any temptation to be compassionate. He advised her: when you can't decide what you should eat, make yourself a generous helping of Italian spaghetti.
With a mere hint of kindness in his voice, since he, too, had been treated unjustly by fate, he added:
— It doesn't cost that much . . .
— I've never heard of the food you've just mentioned. Is it good?
— Of course, it is! Just look at this paunch! It comes from eating big helpings of spaghetti and drinking lots of beer. Forget the beer. You had better avoid alcohol.
She repeated wearily:
— Alcohol?
— Shall I tell you something? I wish you'd get the hell out of here!
Yes, I adore Macabéa, my darling Maca. I adore her ugliness and her total anonymity for she belongs to no one. I adore her for her weak lungs and her under-nourished body. How I should like to see her open her mouth and say:
— I am alone in the world. I don't believe in anyone for they all tell lies, sometimes even when they're making love. I find that people don't really communicate with each other. The truth comes to me only when I'm alone.
Maca, however, never expressed herself in sentences, first of all, because she was a person of few words. She wasn't conscious of herself and made no demands on anyone. Maca even thought of herself as being happy. She was no idiot yet she possessed the pure happiness of idiots. She did not think about herself: she lacked self-awareness. (I can see that I've tried to impose my own situation on Maca: I need several hours of solitude every day, otherwise I die.)
Speaking for myself, I am only true when I'm alone. As a child, I always feared that I was about to fall off the face of the earth at any minute. Why do the clouds keep afloat when everything else drops to the ground? The explanation is simple: the gravity is less than the force of air that sustains the clouds. Clever, don't you think? Yes, but sooner or later they fall in the form of rain. That is my revenge.
The Hour of the Star Page 6