The Hour of the Star Read Online Free

infatuated.
    — Please forgive all the trouble I've caused. Senhor Raimundo Silveira, who had already turned his back on her, looked round surprised by the girl's politeness, and something in her docile expression forced him to speak less harshly, and grudgingly concede:
    — Well, you needn't leave right away. Let's see how things work out.
    After receiving this warning, the girl went to the lavatory where she could be alone, for she felt quite shaken. She examined herself mechanically in the mirror above the filthy hand basin that was badly cracked and full of hairs: the image of her own existence. The dark, tarnished mirror scarcely reflected any image. Perhaps her physical existence had vanished? This illusion soon passed and she saw her entire face distorted by the tarnished mirror; her nose had grown as huge as those false noses made of papier maché donned by circus clowns. She studied herself and mused: so young and yet so tarnished.
    (There are those who have. And there are those who have not. It's very simple: the girl had not. Hadn't what? Simply this: she had not. If you get my meaning that's fine. If you don't, it's still fine. But why am I bothering about this girl when what I really want is wheat that turns ripe and golden in summer?)
    When she was a little girl, her aunt, in order to frighten her, insisted that the vampire — the one that sucks human blood by biting its victims in the flesh of the neck — casts no reflection in the mirror. She reckoned that it might not be such a bad thing being a vampire, for the blood would add a touch of pink to her sallow complexion. For she gave the impression of having no blood unless a day might come when she would have to spill it.
    The girl had drooping shoulders like those of a darning-woman. She had learned to darn as a child, and she might have made more of her life had she devoted herself to the delicate task of mending, perhaps even with silken threads. Or even more luxurious: shiny satin, a kiss of souls. The darning-needle turned mosquito. A granule of sugar carried on an ant's back. She was as light-headed as an idiot, only she was no idiot. She wasn't even aware that she was unhappy. The one thing she had was faith. In what? In you? It isn't necessary to have faith in anyone or in anything — it is enough to have faith. This often endowed her with a state of grace. For she had never lost faith.
    (The girl worries me so much that I feel drained. She has drained me empty. And the less she demands, the more she worries me. I feel frustrated and annoyed. A raging desire to smash dishes and break windows. How can I avenge myself? Or rather, how can I get satisfaction? I've found the answer: by loving my dog that consumes more food than she does. Why does she not fight back? Has she no pluck? No, she is sweet and docile.)
    Her eyes were enormous, round, bulging and inquisitive — she had the expression of someone with a broken wing— some deficiency of the thyroid gland — questioning eyes. Whom was she questioning? God? She did not think about God, nor did God think about her. God belongs to those who succeed in pinning Him down. God appears in a moment of distraction. She asked no questions. She divined that there were no answers. Was she foolish enough to ask? Only to get a blunt no in reply? Perhaps she thought about this futile question so that no one could ever accuse her one day of never having asked. Not knowing who to turn to, she appeared to have answered her own question: it is so because it is so. Could there be some other answer? If anyone knows of a better one, let him speak up for I have been waiting for years.
    Meanwhile, the clouds are white and the sky is blue. Why is there so much God? At the expense of men.
    She had been born with a legacy of misfortune, a creature from nowhere with the expression of someone who apologizes for occupying too much space. Lost in thought, she examined the blotches on her face in the mirror. In Alagoas they