The Hour of the Star Read Online Free PDF Page A

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