She didn't confide any of this to Glória because on the whole she told lies: she was ashamed of the truth. A lie was so much more acceptable. Macabéa believed that to be well-educated was the same as knowing how to tell lies. She also lied to herself in daydreams that reflected her envy of her work-mate. Glória, for instance, could be so imaginative. Macabéa watched her saying goodbye to Olímpico. Glória would put her finger-tips to her lips and blow a kiss into the air like someone giving a bird its freedom. Such a gesture would never have occurred to Macabéa.
(This story consists of nothing more than some crude items of primary material that come to me directly before I even think of them. I know lots of things that I cannot express. Besides, where does thinking come into it?)
Glória, perhaps because she was feeling remorseful, said to Macabéa:
— Olímpico is mine, but you are sure to find yourself another boy friend. I know that Olímpico is mine because the fortune-teller told me so. I mustn't ignore what she told me for she's a clairvoyante and never makes mistakes. Why don't you pay for a session and ask her to read your cards?
— Does it cost much?
I have grown weary of literature: silence alone comforts me. If I continue to write, it's because I have nothing more to accomplish in this world except to wait for death. Searching for the word in darkness. Any little success invades me and puts me in full view of everyone. I longed to wallow in the mud. I can scarcely control my need for self-abasement, my craving for licentiousness and debauchery. Sin tempts me, forbidden pleasures lure me. I want to be both pig and hen, then kill them and drink their blood. I think about Macabéa's vagina, minute, yet unexpectedly covered with a thick growth of black hairs — her vagina was the only vehement sign of her existence.
She herself asked for nothing, but her sex made its demands like a sunflower germinating in a tomb. As for me, I feel weary. Perhaps of keeping company with Macabéa, Glória and Olímpico. That doctor made me feel quite sick with his talk about beer. I must interrupt this story for three days.
Now I awaken to find that I miss Macabéa. Let's take up the threads again.
— Is it very dear?
— I'll loan you the money. Madame Carlota has the power to break any spells that might be worrying her clients. She broke mine on the stroke of midnight on Friday the thirteenth of August over at San Miguel, on a pitch where they practise voodoo. They bled a black pig and seven white hens over me and tore my bloodstained clothes to shreds. Can you pluck up enough courage?
— I don't know if I could stomach all that blood.
Perhaps because blood is everyone's secret, that life-giving tragedy. But Macabéa only knew that she could not stomach the sight of blood, the other reflections were mine. I am becoming interested in facts: facts are solid stones. There is no means of avoiding them. Facts are words expressed throughout the world.
Well then.
Faced with this sudden offer of help, Macabéa, who never remembered to ask for anything, asked her boss for time off by pretending she had toothache. She accepted a loan from Glória without having the faintest idea when she would be able to pay her back. This bold decision surprisingly encouraged her to make an even bolder decision (bang): since the money was on loan, she reasoned somewhat perversely, and was not strictly hers, then she was free to spend it. So for the first time in her life she took a taxi and asked to be dropped in Olaria. I suspect that she acted so boldly out of sheer desperation, even though she didn't know that she was desperate. She was at the end of her tether and felt completely worn out.
Tracing Madame Carlota's address turned out to be straightforward: so very straightforward that Macabéa thought of it as being a favourable omen. Madame Carlota's ground-floor apartment was situated on the corner of a cul-de-sac. On the pavement tiny blades of grass sprouted between the flagstones — Macabéa noticed them because she always noticed things that were tiny and insignificant. She thought dreamily, as she rang the doorbell: grass is so easy and simple. Her thoughts were gratuitous and unconnected because, however erratic, she possessed vast reserves of inner freedom.
It was Madame Carlota herself who came to the door. She greeted Macabéa amiably and said:
— My guiding spirit has already informed me of your visit, my dear. What is your name again? Ah, yes! A very pretty name. Come in, my pet. There is a client with me in the other room. If you don't mind waiting in here. Would you care for a coffee, my pet?
Macabéa was taken aback, never having received so many endearments from anyone. Mindful of her own frail existence, she cautiously sipped the cold coffee which tasted quite bitter. Meantime, she examined with admiration and respect the room in which she was being kept waiting. It all seemed very luxurious. The chairs and settees were covered in yellow plastic. And there were even plastic flowers. Plastic was the last word in luxury. Macabéa sat with her mouth wide open.
Eventually, a young girl emerged from the back room, her eyes red from weeping, and Madame Carlota beckoned Macabéa to enter. (How tiresome to have to grapple with facts. Everyday matters annihilate and I'm not in the mood for writing this story which is merely a form of catharsis. I see that I am writing here and there about myself. I accept no responsibility for what I am writing.)
Let's continue then, however much effort it requires: Madame Carlota was voluptuous; she painted her rosebud mouth a vivid scarlet and dabbed her plump little cheeks with rouge, which became shiny when applied to her greasy complexion. Madame Carlota looked like a large china doll that had seen better days. (I can see that my story lacks depth. I find it exhausting to have to describe things.)
— Don't be frightened, my pet. Anyone at my side is also at the side of Jesus.
Madame Carlota pointed at the coloured print on the wall which represented the Sacred Heart of Jesus in red and gold.
— I'm a fan of Jesus. I'm just mad about Him. He has always helped me. Mind you, in my heyday I had enough class to live the life of a lady. Things were easier then, thanks to Jesus. Later on, when I didn't rate quite so highly on the market, Jesus lost no time in helping me to set up a brothel with a friend. That earned me enough money to buy this ground-floor apartment. I then gave up the brothel for it wasn't easy looking after all those girls who spent most of their time cheating me out of money. Are you interested in what I'm telling you?
— Very.
Wise girl, for I'm not lying. You should become a fan of Jesus, too, because the Saviour truly redeems. The police clamp down on fortune-telling and accuse me of taking advantage of my clients, but as I said before, not even the police can get rid of Jesus. You have seen how Jesus even provided me with money to buy all this expensive furniture?
— Yes, Madame.
— Ah, so you agree? I could tell right away that you're a bright girl, and, just as well, because it was having my wits about me that saved me.
As she spoke, Madame Carlota extracted one chocolate after another from an open box and popped them into her tiny mouth. She made no attempt to offer one to Macabéa. Macabéa who, as I mentioned, tended to notice the smallest detail, observed that inside every chocolate Madame Carlota bit into, there was a thick cream filling. She did not covet Madame Carlota's chocolates for Macabéa had discovered that things belonged to others.
— I was poor, I had nothing to eat, no decent clothes to wear. So I became a prostitute. I quite enjoyed the work for I'm a very affectionate woman, and I became very fond of all my clients. Besides, life was good in the red-light district. There was a great deal of friendship among the prostitutes. We were a closely-knit community, and only very rarely did I fight with any of the other girls. The quarrels were enjoyable, too, for I was a sturdy lass and I enjoyed punching, biting and pulling the hair of anyone who crossed me. Speaking of biting, you can't imagine what lovely teeth I once had, all white and sparkling. Alas, they rotted so badly that I'm left with dentures. Can you tell that my teeth are false?
— No, Madame.
You know, I was very fussy
about my appearance and I never caught any diseases. Well, I did have syphilis once, but a dose of penicillin soon cured me. I was more understanding than the other prostitutes because I'm very kind-hearted. After all, what I was giving was mine to give. I had a man whom I really adored and whom I kept for he was very genteel and didn't want to soil his lovely hands. He was my little luxury, and sometimes I even used to let him give me a good thrashing. Whenever he gave me a thrashing, I could tell that he was genuinely fond of me and I enjoyed being thrashed. With him it was love, with the other men simply a job. After he disappeared, I took up with another woman to try and forget him. To be loved by another woman is really rather nice. It would even be preferable in your case because you're much too delicate to cope with the brutality of men. If you can find yourself a woman friend, you'll soon find out how nice it can be. Love between two women is more affectionate. Is there any chance of you finding yourself a woman friend?
— No, Madame.
— You ought to do something about your appearance, dearie. Without a touch of glamour, you don't stand a chance. How I miss the red-light district. I knew the Mangue when it was at its best and frequented by real gentlemen. I earned lots of tips, in addition to the fixed rate. They tell me the Mangue is finished and that there are only about six brothels left. I used to stand in the doorway wearing nothing except panties and a bra made of transparent lace. Later on, when I put on weight and started losing my teeth, I decided to run my own brothel. Do you know what the word brothel means? I always use that word because I've never been frightened of words. There are some people who get all worked up if you mention certain words. Are you frightened of words, my pet?
— Yes, Madame, I am.
Don't worry, dear. I'll try not to shock you with swear words. They tell me that the Mangue smells something terrible these days. In my time, people burned incense to make the place smell nice. The brothel used to smell like the inside of a church. And people were decent and very devout. When I was on the game, I saved quite a bit of money. The woman who managed the brothel took her percentage, of course. Now and then, there were ugly scenes and even gun fights, but I was never involved. Tell me, flower, am I boring you with the story of my life? No? Are you sure? Have you the patience to wait just a little longer before I start reading your fortune?
— Of course, Madame Carlota.
Madame Carlota then went on to tell her how prettily she had decorated the walls of her little cubicle in the brothel in the Mangue.
— Have you ever been told what a nice smell men have, my pet? It's good for one's health. Have you ever experienced a man's smell?
— No, Madame Carlota.
Finally, after licking her lips, Madame Carlota ordered Macabéa to divide the cards with her left hand. With your left hand, is that clear, my little one?
Macabéa divided the pack with a trembling hand: for the first time in her life, she was about to know her destiny. Madame Carlota (bang) was to be the climax of her existence. The vortex of her life as it was about to be channelled into that voluptuous odalisque whose complexion shone like plastic under the bright rouge. Madame Carlota opened her eyes wide.
— Poor little Macabéa, what a terrible life you have! May my friend Jesus have pity on you, my child! How awful!
Macabéa turned pale: it had never occurred to her that her life was so awful.
Madame Carlota divined everything about Macabéa's past, and even revealed that she had never really known her own father and mother and that she had been brought up by a relative who had been as wicked as any stepmother. Macabéa was horrified by these revelations. She had always believed that her aunt had treated her badly for her own good. Madame Carlota went on to say:
— As for your immediate future, my child, that's miserable as well. You're about to lose your job just as you've already lost your boy-friend, you poor little thing. If you haven't got the money to pay me, don't you worry. I'm a woman of some means.
Macabéa, unaccustomed as she was to receiving any favours, turned down this generous offer but with a grateful heart.
Whereupon (bang) something happened out of the blue: Madame Carlota's face suddenly lit up:
— Macabéa! I have some wonderful news for you! Listen carefully, my flower, because what I'm about to tell you is of the greatest importance. It is something very serious and very cheerful: your life is about to change completely! And something else: it will change the very minute you leave this house! You will feel like a new person. And you can be sure, my little one, that even your boy-friend will come back to you and ask you to marry him, for he now regrets having left you! And your boss is about to inform you that he's thought matters over and no longer has any intention of giving you the sack!
Macabéa had never had the courage to cherish hopes. Yet she now listened to Madame Carlota as if she were listening to a fanfare of trumpets coming from heaven — her heart beating furiously. Madame was right: at long last, Jesus was taking some interest in her. Macabéa's eyes opened wide as she felt a sudden hunger for the future (bang). And I, too, am beginning to cherish hope at last.
— Oh, there is something else! You are about to come in for a great fortune that a foreign gentleman will bring to you in the night. Do you know any foreign gentleman?
— No, Madame Carlota — Macabéa replied, beginning to feel disheartened.
Then you are about to meet one. He is fair, with eyes that could be blue or green or brown or black. And were it not for the fact that you are in love with your former boy friend, this foreigner would fall in love with you. No! No! No! I can see something else (bang) and though I cannot see it very clearly, I can also hear the voice of my guiding spirit: this foreigner is apparently called Hans, and he is the man whom you will marry! He has lots of money, but then all foreigners are rich. Unless I'm mistaken, and I never make mistakes, he is going to show you a great deal of affection: and you, my poor little orphan, you will be dressed in satin and velvet, and you will even be presented with a fur coat!
Macabéa began (bang) to tremble all over, for there is a painful side to a surfeit of happiness. The only answer she could think of:
— I don't need a fur coat in this climate.
— Well, you're going to have one just the same. There's nothing like a fur coat to make a girl look chic. It's a long time since I've read such good cards. I'm always frank with my clients. For example, I've just told that girl you saw leaving that she's going to be knocked down on the road. She wept buckets. Didn't you notice how red her eyes were? I'm going to give you a charm that you must wear tucked into your bra and against your skin. You've no bust, poor thing, but you'll start to fill out. Until you put on a little weight, stuff some cotton-wool into your bra to give the impression that you've got some shape. Listen, pet, I'm afraid I must charge you for the charm in the name of Jesus, because all my earnings as a fortune-teller are donated to an orphanage. But if you haven't got the money on you, don't worry, you can pay me when all the things I've foreseen finally came true.
— No, I'd rather pay you right away. You've guessed everything about me, you're . . .
Macabéa felt almost inebriated and could scarcely gather her thoughts. It was as if someone had delivered a sharp blow to that head of lank hair. Macabéa felt totally confused as if some great misfortune had befallen her.
Most of all, she was experiencing for the first time what other people referred to as passion: she was passionately in love with Hans.
— What can I do to get my hair to grow? — she bravely asked Madame Carlota, now that she was feeling like a new person.
— That's asking too much. But let me see: wash your head with a good shampoo and never use hard soap. There's no charge for that advice.
This as well? (bang) Macabéa's heart thumped furiously at the thought of seeing her hair grow. She had put Olímpico from her mind and could only think of the foreign gentleman: it was almost too good to be true that she should find herself a man with eyes that were blue or green or b
rown or black. She couldn't go wrong. The range of possibilities was endless.
— And now — said Madame Carlota — you must go off in search of that wonderful destiny. I have another client waiting outside. Besides, I've given you extra time, dearie, but it was worth it!
In a moment of impulse (bang) that was both eager and awkward, Macabéa planted a resounding kiss on Madame Carlota's rouged cheek. Once again, she sensed that her life was suddenly taking a turn for the better. As a little girl, because she had no one to kiss, she often used to kiss the wall. Embracing the wall was like embracing herself.
Madame Carlota had guessed everything and Macabéa was horrified. Only now did she recognize that her life had been miserable. She felt like weeping as she perceived the other side. For as I've already stated, until this moment, Macabéa had thought of herself as being happy.
She walked out of Madame Carlota's apartment in a daze, paused in the cul-de-sac that was already darkening in the twilight — the twilight that belongs to no one. Her eyes dimmed over as if the dying light was a stain of blood and gold already turning to black. The atmosphere seemed charged with riches and the face of descending night — oh, yes — appeared deep and magnificent. Macabéa stood there in bewilderment, uncertain whether she should cross the street now that her life had been transformed. Transformed, moreover, by words — since the time of Moses the word had been acknowledged as being divine.
Even when it came to crossing the street, Macabéa was already a new person. A person enriched with a future. She felt within a hope more fierce than any anguish she had ever known. If she was no longer herself, this signified a loss that counted as a gain. Just as there was sentence of death, the fortune-teller had decreed sentence of life. Everything suddenly became so abundant and overwhelming, Macabéa felt like weeping. But she didn't weep: her eyes glistened like the setting sun.
The moment she stepped off the pavement, Destiny (bang) swift and greedy, whispered: now, quickly, for my hour has come!