The Hour of the Star Read Free Page B

myself frugally on fruit and drink chilled white wine because it is stifling in this cubby-hole where I have locked myself away and where I feel a sudden urge to see the world. I've also had to give up sex and football. And avoid all human contact. Shall I go back one day to my former way of life? I seriously doubt it. I should also mention that I read nothing these days for fear that I might adulterate the simplicity of my language with useless refinements. For as I explained, the word is my instrument and must resemble the word. Or am I not a writer? More actor than writer, for with only one system of punctuation at my disposal, I juggle with intonation and force another's breathing to accompany my text.
    I forgot to mention that the record that is about to begin — for I can no longer bear the onslaught of facts — the record that is about to begin is written under the sponsorship of the most popular soft drink in the world even though it does not earn me anything; a soft drink that is distributed throughout the world. It is the same soft drink that sponsored the recent earthquake in Guatemala. Despite the fact that it tastes of nail polish, toilet soap and chewed plastic. None of this prevents people from loving it with servility and subservience. Also because — and I am now going to say something strange that only I can understand — this drink which contains coca is today . It allows people to be modern and to move with the times.
    As for the girl, she exists in an impersonal limbo, untouched by what is worst or best. She merely exists, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling. Why should there be anything more? Her existence is sparse. Certainly. But why should I feel guilty? Why should I try to relieve myself of the burden of not having done anything concrete to help the girl? This girl — I see that I have almost started telling my story — this girl who slept in cheap cotton underwear with faint but rather suspicious bloodstains. In an effort to fall asleep on cold wintry nights, she would curl up into a ball, receiving and giving out her own scant warmth. She slept with her mouth wide open because of her stuffed-up nostrils, dead to the world from sheer exhaustion.
    I must add one important detail to help the reader understand the narrative: it is accompanied from start to finish by the faintest yet nagging twinge of toothache, caused by an exposed nerve. The story will also be accompanied throughout by the plangent tones of a violin played by a musician on the street corner. His face is thin and sallow as if he had just died. Perhaps he is dead. I have explained these details at great length for fear of having promised too much and offering too little. My story is almost trivial. The trick is to begin suddenly, like plunging into an icy sea and bearing its intense coldness with suicidal courage. I am about to begin in the middle by telling you that —
    — that she was inept. Inept for living. She had no idea how to cope with life and she was only vaguely aware of her own inner emptiness. Were she capable of explaining herself, she might well confide: the world stands outside me. I stand outside myself. (It's going to be difficult to tell this story. Even though I have nothing to do with the girl, I shall have to write everything through her, trapped as I am by my own fears. The facts are sonorous but among the facts there is a murmuring. It is the murmuring that frightens me.)
    The girl had no way of coping. So much so, (bang) that she made no protest when the boss of her firm which distributed pulley equipment bluntly warned her (a blunt-ness she seemed to provoke with that foolish expression on her face as if begging to be slapped) that he was only prepared to keep on her workmate Glória. He told her he was fed up with her typing mistakes and those blots she invariably made on the paper. The girl felt that she ought to say something to show respect for this boss with whom she was secretly