The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector Read Free Book Online

how it came about, I shall reply: I simply do not know. I've lost the thread of my plot.
    May, the month of brides, transformed into butterflies floating in white tulle. Her exclamations could have been a premonition of what was about to occur in the late afternoon of that same day. In a downpour of rain, she met (bang) the first boy-friend of any kind she had ever known, her heart beating furiously as if she had swallowed a little bird that continued to flutter inside her. The boy and the girl stared at each other in the rain and recognized each other as native North-easterners, creatures of the same species with that unmistakable aura. She stared at him, drying her wet face with her hands. The girl only had to see the youth in order to transform him immediately into her guava preserve with cheese.
    He. . .
    He approached her and spoke with the singsong intonation of the North-easterner that went straight to her heart. He said
    — Excuse me, missy, but would you care to come for a walk?
    — Yes, she replied in confusion and haste, before he could change his mind.
    — If you don't mind my asking, what's your name?
    — Macabéa.
    — Maca — what?
    — Béa, she was forced to repeat.
    — Gosh, it sounds like the name of a disease ... a skin disease.
    — I agree but it's the name my mother gave me because of a vow she made to Our Lady of Sorrows if I should survive. For the first year of my life, I wasn't called anything because I didn't have a name. I'd have preferred to go on being called nothing instead of having a name that nobody has ever heard of, yet it seems to suit me — she paused for a moment to catch her breath before adding shyly and a little downhearted— for as you can see, I'm still here. . . so that's that.
    — Even in the backwoods of Paraíba, fulfilling a vow is a question of honour.
    Neither of them knew much about walking out together. They walked under the heavy rain and lingered in front of an ironmongers that boasted a wide selection of metal tubes, containers, nuts and bolts. Macabéa, afraid that the silence between them might be a warning of imminent separation, remarked to her newly-found boy-friend:
    — I love nuts and bolts. What about you?
    The second time they met, the rain had settled into a steady drizzle and soaked them to the skin. Without even as much as holding hands, they walked under the drizzle, the water streaming like tears down Macabéa's face.
    The third time they met - Well now, if it isn't raining? The youth, suddenly dropping that superficial veneer of politeness that his stepfather had inculcated with some effort, snapped at her:
    — All you seem to bring is the rain!
    — I'm sorry.
    She was already so infatuated, however, that she could no longer do without him in her hunger for love.
    On one of the occasions they met, she finally plucked up enough courage to ask him his name.
    — Olímpico de Jesus Moreira Chaves — he lied, because his real surname was simply Jesus, a clear indication that he was illegitimate. The youth had been brought up by his stepfather, who had taught him how to ingratiate himself with people in order to get his own way and how to pick up girls.
    — I don't understand your name — she said.
    — Olímpico?
    Macabéa pretended to be very inquisitive while concealing the fact that she had never understood anything the first time round. Aggressive as a fighting cock, Olímpico bristled at her foolish questions, to which he could provide no answers. He retorted impatiently:
    — I know what it means, but I'm not telling you!
    — That's all right, that's all right, that's all right. . . people don't have to understand what names mean. She understood what desire meant — although she didn't know that she understood. That was how it was: she was starving but not for food, it was a numb sort of pain that rose from her lower abdomen, making the nipples of her breast quiver and her empty arms starved of any embrace came out in goose-pimples. She