Complete Stories

by Clarice Lispector

  She knew it by heart because, as a teenager, she’d been very sensitive to words and because she’d desired for herself the same shimmering destiny as Lake TIBERIAS.

  She felt an unexpectedly murderous urge: to kill all the beggars in the world! Just so she, after the massacre, could enjoy her extraordinary well-being in peace.

  No. The world wasn’t whispering.

  The world was scre-am-ing!!! through that man’s toothless mouth.

  The banker’s young wife thought she wasn’t going to withstand the lack of softness being hurled in her impeccably made-up face.

  And what about the party? How would she bring it up at the party, while dancing, how would she tell the partner who’d be in her arms . . . This: look, the beggar has a sex too, he said he had eleven children. He doesn’t go to social gatherings, he doesn’t appear in Ibrahim’s society columns, or in Zózimo’s, he’s hungry for bread not cake, actually all he should eat is porridge since he doesn’t have any teeth for chewing meat . . . “Meat?” She vaguely recalled that the cook had said the price of filet mignon had gone up. Yes. How could she dance? Only if it were a mad and macabre beggars’ dance.

  No, she wasn’t the kind of woman prone to hysteria and nerves and fainting or feeling ill. Like some of her little society “colleagues.” She smiled a little thinking in terms of her little “colleagues.” Colleagues in what? in dressing up? in hosting dinners for thirty, forty people?

  She herself taking advantage of the garden in late summer had thrown a reception for how many guests? No, she didn’t want to think about that, she recalled (why without the same pleasure?) the tables dispersed over the lawn, candlelight . . . “candlelight”? she thought, but am I out of my mind? have I fallen for a scam? Some rich people’s scam?

  “Before I got married I was middle class, secretary to the banker I married and now — now candlelight. What I’m doing is playing at living,” she thought, “this isn’t life.”

  “Beauty can be a great threat.” Extreme grace got mixed up with a bewilderment and a deep melancholy. “Beauty frightens.” “If I weren’t so pretty I’d have had a different fate,” she thought arranging the gold flowers in her jet black hair.

  She’d once seen a friend whose heart got all twisted up and hurt and mad with forceful passion. So she’d never wanted to experience it. She had always been frightened of things that were too beautiful or too horrible: because she didn’t inherently know how to respond to them and whether she would respond if she were equally beautiful or equally horrible.

  She was frightened as when she’d seen the Mona Lisa’s smile, right there, up close at the Louvre. As she’d been frightened by the man with the wound or the man’s wound.

  She felt like screaming at the world: “I’m not awful! I’m a product of I don’t even know what, how can I know anything about this misery of the soul.”

  To shift her feelings — since she couldn’t bear them and now felt like, in despair, violently kicking the beggar’s wound — , to shift her feelings she thought: this is my second marriage, I mean, my previous husband was alive.

  Now she understood why she’d married the first time and was auctioned off: who’ll bid higher? who’ll bid higher? Sold, then. Yes, she’d got married the first time to the man who “bid the highest,” she accepted him because he was rich and slightly above her social class. She had sold herself. And as for her second husband? Her second marriage was on the rocks, he had two mistresses . . . and she putting up with it all because a separation would have been scandalous: her name was mentioned too often in the society pages. And would she go back to her maiden name? Even getting used to her maiden name, that would take a long time. Anyway, she thought laughing at herself, anyway, she tolerated this second one because he gave her great prestige. Had she sold herself to the society pages? Yes. She was discovering that now. If there were a third marriage in store for her — for she was pretty and rich — , if there were, who would she marry? She started laughing a little hysterically because she had the thought: her third husband was the beggar.

  Suddenly she asked the beggar:

  “Sir, do you speak English?”

  The man didn’t have a clue what she’d asked. But, forced to answer since the woman had just bought him with all that money, he improvised:

  “Yes I do. Well aren’t I speaking with you right now, ma’am? Why? Are you deaf? Then I’ll shout: YES.”

  Alarmed by the man’s ear-splitting shouts, she broke into a cold sweat. She was becoming fully aware that up till now she’d pretended there were no starving people, no people who don’t speak any foreign languages and that there were no anonymous masses begging in order to survive. She’d known it, yes, but she’d turned her head and covered her eyes. Everyone, but everyone — knows and pretends they don’t. And even if they didn’t they’d feel a certain distress. How could they not? No, they wouldn’t even feel that.

  She was . . .

  After all who was she?

  No comment, especially since the question lasted a fraction of a second: question and answer hadn’t been thoughts in her head, but in her body.

  I am the Devil, she thought remembering what she’d learned in childhood. And the beggar is Jesus. But — what he wants isn’t money, it’s love, that man has lost his way from humanity just as I too have lost mine.

  She wanted to force herself to understand the world and could only manage to remember snippets of remarks from her husband’s friends: “those power plants won’t be enough.” What power plants, good Lord? the ones that belonged to Minister Galhardo? would he own power plants? “Electric energy . . . hydroelectric”?

  And the essential magic of living — where was it now? In what corner of the world? in the man sitting on the corner?

  Is money what makes the world go round? she asked herself. But she wanted to pretend it wasn’t. She felt so, so rich that she felt a certain pang.

  The beggar’s thoughts: “Either that woman’s crazy or she stole the money because there’s no way she can be a millionaire,” millionaire was just a word to him and even if he wanted to see a millionaire in this woman he wouldn’t have been able to because: who’s ever seen a millionaire just standing around on the street, people? So he thought: what if she’s one of those high-class hookers who charges their customers a lot and must be keeping some kind of religious vow?

  Then.

  Then.

  Silence.

  But suddenly that screaming thought:

  “How did I never realize I’m a beggar too? I’ve never asked for spare change but I beg for the love of my husband who has two mistresses, I beg for God’s sake for people to think I’m pretty, cheerful and acceptable, and my soul’s clothing is in tatters . . .”

  “There are things that equalize us,” she thought desperately seeking another point of equality. The answer suddenly came: they were equal because they’d been born and they both would die. They were, therefore, brother and sister.

  She felt like saying: look, mister, I’m a poor wretch too, the only difference is that I’m rich. I . . . she thought ferociously, I’m about to undermine money threatening my husband’s credit in the market. I’m about to, any moment now, sit right on the curb. Being born was my worst disgrace. Now that I’ve paid for that accursed event, I feel I have a right to everything.

  She was afraid. But suddenly she took the great leap of her life: courageously she sat on the ground.

  “I bet she’s a communist!” the beggar thought half believing it. “And if she’s a communist I’d have a right to her jewels, her apartments, her money and even her perfumes.”

  Never again would she be the same person. Not that she’d never seen a beggar before. But — even this came at the wrong time, as if someone had jostled her and made her spill red wine all down a white lace dress. Suddenly she knew: that beggar was made of the same substance as she. Simple as t
hat. The “why” was what made the difference. On a physical level they were equal. As for her, she had an average education, and he didn’t seem to know anything, not even who the President of Brazil was. She, however, had a keen capacity for understanding. Could it be that till now she’d possessed a buried intelligence? But what if she had just recently, coming into contact with a wound begging for money in order to eat — started thinking only of money? Money, which had always been obvious for her. And the wound, she’d never seen it so close up . . .

  “Are you feeling bad, ma’am?”

  “Not bad . . . but not good, I don’t know . . .”

  She thought: the body is a thing that, when ill, we carry. The beggar carries himself by himself.

  “Today at the party? you’ll feel better and everything will go back to normal,” said José.

  Really at the party she’d refresh her attractiveness and everything would go back to normal.

  She sat in the backseat of the air-conditioned car, casting before she left a final glance at that companion of an hour and a half. It seemed hard for her to say goodbye to him, he was now her alter ego “I,” he was forever a part of her life. Farewell. She was dreamy, distracted, her lips parted as if a word were hanging there. For some reason she couldn’t have explained — she was truly herself. And just like that, when the driver turned on the radio, she heard that codfish produced nine thousand eggs per year. She could deduce nothing from that statement, she who was in need of a destiny. She remembered how as a teenager she sought a destiny and chose to sing. As part of her upbringing, they easily found her a good teacher. But she sang badly, she herself knew it and her father, an opera lover, pretended not to notice that she sang badly. But there was a moment when she started to cry. Her perplexed teacher asked her what the matter was.

  “It’s just, it’s just, I’m scared of, of, of, of singing well . . .”

  But you sing very badly, the teacher had told her.

  “I’m also scared, I’m also scared of singing much, much, much worse. Baaaaad way too bad!” she wailed and never had another singing lesson. That stuff about seeking art in order to understand had only happened to her once — afterward she had plunged into a forgetting that only now, at the age of thirty-five, through that wound, she needed either to sing very badly or very well — she was disoriented. How long since she had listened to so-called classical music because it might pull her out of the automatic sleep in which she lived. I — I’m playing at living. Next month she was going to New York and she realized the trip was like a new lie, like a daze. Having a wound in your leg — that’s a reality. And everything in her life, since she was born, everything in her life had been soft like the leap of a cat.

  (In the moving car)

  Suddenly she thought: I didn’t even think to ask his name.

  .

  One Day Less

  (“Um dia a menos”)

  I doubt that death will come. Death?

  Could it be that the days, so long, will end?

  That’s how I daydream, calm, quiet. Could it be that death is a bluff? A trick of life? Is it persecution?

  And that’s how it is.

  The day had begun at four in the morning, she’d always risen early, immediately finding the flask of coffee in the little pantry. She drank a lukewarm cup and was about to leave it for Augusta to wash, when she remembered that old Augusta had asked for a month off to see her son.

  She wasn’t feeling up to the long day ahead: no appointments, no chores, neither joys nor sorrows. She sat down, then, in her oldest bathrobe, since she never expected any visitors. But being so badly dressed — in a robe belonging to her late mother — didn’t please her. She got up and put on some silk pajamas with blue and white polka dots that Augusta had given her on her last birthday. That was a big improvement. And things improved still more when she sat in the armchair that had been recently reupholstered in violet (Augusta’s taste) and lit her first cigarette of the day. It was an expensive brand, with that blond tobacco, a long, slim cigarillo, meant for someone of a social class that happened not to be hers. For that matter, she just happened not to be a lot of things. And she just happened to have been born.

  And then?

  Then.

  Then.

  Well anyway.

  That’s how it is.

  Isn’t it?

  Well, anyway well it suddenly became clear: well anyway well that’s how it is. Augusta had told her things would get better later on. That’s how it is had already arrived from that’s how it was.

  She remembered the newspaper that she got delivered to her front door. She went over there a bit excited, you never know what you’re going to read, whether the minister of Indochina will kill himself or the lover threatened by his fiancée’s father will end up getting married.

  But the newspaper wasn’t there: that rascal of a neighbor, her enemy, must have already taken it with him. It was a constant struggle to see who first got to the newspaper that, nonetheless, had her name clearly printed on it: Margarida Flores. Along with her address. Whenever she absentmindedly saw her name written, it recalled her primary-school nickname: Margarida Flores de Enterro.* Why didn’t anyone think to call her Margarida Flores de Jardim?† Because things simply were not on her side. She had a silly thought: even her little face was on its side. At an angle. She didn’t even wonder whether she was pretty or ugly. She was obvious.

  Then.

  Then she didn’t have money issues.

  Then there was the phone. Would she call someone? But whenever she called someone she had the distinct impression that she was bothering them. For instance, interrupting a sexual embrace. Or else she was annoying because she had nothing to say.

  And what if someone called her? She’d have to contain the joyful tremor in her voice at someone finally calling her. She imagined this:

  “Ring-ring-ring.”

  “Hello? Yes?”

  “Is this Margarida Flores de Jardim?”

  Faced with such a suave male voice, she’d answer:

  “Margarida Flores de Bosques Floridos!”‡

  And the melodious voice would ask her to afternoon tea at the Confeitaria Colombo. Just in time she remembered that men these days don’t ask you to tea and toast but instead for a drink. Which would already complicate things: for a drink you definitely had to be dressed more boldly, more mysteriously, more distinctively, more . . . She wasn’t very distinctive. And she made people a little uncomfortable, not a lot.

  And, besides, the phone didn’t ring.

  Then. She was what she saw when she saw herself in the mirror. She rarely ever saw herself in the mirror, as if she already knew herself too well. And she ate too much. She was fat and her fat was extremely pale and flabby.

  Then she decided to arrange her underwear and bra drawer: she was just the sort who arranged underwear and bra drawers, the delicate task gave her a sense of well-being. And if she were married, her husband would have a row of ties perfectly in order, by color, or by . . . By whatever. Since there’s always something to guide you and your arranging. As for herself, she was guided by the fact that she wasn’t married, that she’d had the same maid since birth, that she was a thirty-year-old woman, who wore just a touch of lipstick, drab clothing . . . and what else? She quickly avoided the “what else” because that question would make her fall into a very self-centered and ungrateful feeling: she’d feel lonely, which was a sin because whoever has God is never alone. She had God, since wasn’t that the only thing she had? Besides Augusta.

  So she went to take a bath which gave her such pleasure that she couldn’t help wondering what other bodily pleasures might be like. Being a virgin at the age of thirty, there was nothing for it, unless she got raped by a hoodlum. Once her bath and her thinking were over, talcum powder, talcum powder, lots of talcum powder. And tons and to
ns of deodorant: she doubted anyone in Rio de Janeiro smelled less than she did. She might be the most odorless of creatures. And she emerged from the bathroom, so to speak, in a light minuet.

  Then.

  Then she saw to her great satisfaction, on the kitchen clock, that it was already eleven . . . How time had flown since four in the morning. What a gift for time to pass. As she was warming the pale, flabular chicken from dinner, she turned on the radio and caught a man in the middle of a thought: “flute and guitar” . . . the man said and suddenly she couldn’t stand it and turned the radio off. As if “flute and guitar” were in fact her secret, longed-for, and unattainable way of being. She mustered her courage and said very softly: flute and guitar.

  Once the radio and above all her thinking were turned off, the rooms sank into a silence: as if someone somewhere had just died and . . . But fortunately there was the noise of the pan warming the pieces of chicken that, who knew, might be gaining some color and flavor. She started eating. But immediately she realized her mistake: because she’d taken the chicken out of the fridge and only warmed it slightly, there were parts where the fat was gelatinous and cold, and others where it was burnt and dried out.

  Yes.

  And for dessert? She reheated a little of her breakfast and seasoned it with bitter sweetener so she’d never gain weight. She would take great pride in being practically emaciated.

  Then.

  She remembered apropos of nothing that millions of people were starving, in her country and elsewhere. She felt distress every time she ate.

  Then.

  Then! How had she forgotten about television? Ah, without Augusta she forgot everything. She turned it on, full of hope. But at that hour they were only showing old Westerns constantly interrupted by commercials for onions, maxi pads, red-currant syrup that must be tasty but fattening. She sat there staring. She decided to light a cigarette. That would improve everything since it made her into a painting at an exhibition: Woman Smoking in Front of Television. It was only after a long while that she realized she wasn’t even watching television and was just wasting electricity. She switched it off in relief.