The Hour of the Star (2 page)

In writing this story, I shall yield to emotion and I know perfectly well that every day is one more day stolen from death. In no sense an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is like a dank haze. The words are sounds transfused with shadows that intersect unevenly, stalactites, woven lace, transposed organ music. I can scarcely invoke the words to describe this pattern, vibrant and rich, morbid and obscure, its counterpoint the deep bass of sorrow.
Allegro con brio
. I shall attempt to extract gold from charcoal. I know that I am holding up the narrative and playing at ball without a ball. Is the fact an act? I swear that this book is composed without words: like a mute photograph. This book is a silence: an interrogation.

I suspect that this lengthy preamble is intended to conceal the poverty of my story, for I am apprehensive. Before this typist entered my life, I was a reasonably contented chap despite my limited success as a writer. Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.

But the idea of transcending my own limits suddenly appealed to me. This happened when I decided to write about reality, since reality exceeds me. Whatever one understands by reality. Will what I am about to narrate sound mushy? It has that tendency but I am determined to sound dry and severe. At least what I am writing begs no favours or assistance from anyone: so-called sorrow is borne with the dignity of an aristocrat.

It seems that I am changing my style of writing. Not being a professional writer, I please myself what I write about — and I must write about this girl from the Northeast otherwise I shall choke. She points an accusing finger and I can only defend myself by writing about her. I tend to write with bold, severe strokes like a painter. I shall struggle with facts as if they were those impossible stones which I mentioned earlier. How I should love to hear the pealing of bells in order to work up some enthusiasm as I decipher reality: to see angels flutter like transparent wasps around my fevered head, this head that longs to be ultimately transformed into an object-thing, because so much more simple.

Is it possible that actions exceed words? As I write — let things be known by their real names. Each thing is a word. And when there is no word, it must be invented. This God of yours who commanded us to invent.

Why do I write? First of all because I have captured the spirit of the language and at times it is the form that constitutes the content. I write, therefore, not for the girl from the North-east but for the much more serious reason of
force majeure
, or as they say in formal petitions by 'force of law'.

My strength undoubtedly resides in solitude. I am not afraid of tempestuous storms or violent gales for I am also the night's darkness. Even though I cannot bear to hear whistling or footsteps in the dark. Darkness? It reminds me of a former girl friend. She was sexually experienced and there was such darkness inside her body. I have never forgotten her: one never forgets a person with whom one has slept. The event remains branded on one's living flesh like a tattoo and all who witness the stigma take flight in horror.

I now want to speak of the girl from the North-east. It's as follows: like some vagrant bitch she was guided entirely by her own remote control. For she had reduced herself to herself. After successive failures, I have also reduced myself, but I still want to discover the world and its God.

I should like to add some details about the young girl and myself; we live exclusively in the present because forever and eternally it is the day of today, and the day of tomorrow will be a today. Eternity is the state of things at this very moment.

See how apprehensive I have become since putting down words about the girl from the North-east. The question is: how do I write? I can verify that I write by ear, just as I learned English and French by ear. My antecedents as a writer? I am a man who possesses more money than those who go hungry, and this makes me in some ways dishonest. I only lie at the precise hour of lying. But when I write I do not lie. What else? Yes, I belong to no social category, marginal as I am. The upper classes consider me a strange creature, the middle classes regard me with suspicion, afraid that I might unsettle them, while the lower classes avoid me.

No, it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

I am scared of starting. I do not even know the girl's name. It goes without saying that this story drives me to despair because it is too straightforward. What I propose to narrate sounds easy and within everyone's grasp. But its elaboration is extremely difficult. I must render clear something that is almost obliterated and can scarcely be deciphered. With stiff, contaminated fingers I must touch the invisible in its own squalor.

Of one thing I am certain: this narrative will combine with something delicate: the creation of an entire human being who is as much alive as I am. I have taken care of her because my mandate is simply to reveal her presence so that you may recognize her on the street, moving ever so cautiously because of her quivering frailty. And should my narrative turn out to be sad? Later, I shall almost certainly write something more cheerful, but why cheerful? Because I, too, am a man of hosannas and perhaps one day I shall intone praises instead of the misfortunes of the girl from the North-east.

Meantime, I want to walk naked or in rags; I want to experience at least once the insipid flavour of the Host. To eat communion bread will be to taste the world's indifference, and to immerse myself in nothingness. This will be my courage: to abandon comforting sentiments from the past.

There is little comfort now. In order to speak about the girl I mustn't shave for days. I must acquire dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep: dozing from sheer exhaustion like a manual labourer. Also wearing threadbare clothes. I am doing all this to put myself on the same footing as the girl from the North-east. Fully aware that I might have to present myself in a more convincing manner to societies who demand a great deal from someone who is typing at this very moment.

Yes, all this, for history is history. But knowing beforehand so as never to forget that the word is the fruit of the word. The word must resemble the word. To attain the word is my first duty to myself. The word must not be adorned and become aesthetically worthless; it must be simply itself. It is also true that I have attempted to acquire a certain refinement of feeling and that this extreme refinement should not break into a perpetual line. At the same time, I have attempted to imitate the deep, raw, dense sound of the trombone, for no good reason except that I feel so nervous about writing that I might explode into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I want to accept my freedom without reaching the conclusion like so many others: that existence is only for fools and lunatics: for it would seem that to exist is illogical.

The action of this story will result in my transfiguration into someone else and in my ultimate materialization into an object. Perhaps I might even acquire the sweet tones of the flute and become entwined in a creeper vine.

But let us return to today. As is known, today is today. No one understands my meaning and I can obscurely hear mocking laughter with that rapid, edgy cackling of old men. I also hear measured footsteps in the road. I tremble with fear. Just as well that what I am about to write is already written deep inside me. I must reproduce myself with the delicacy of a white butterfly. This idea of the white butterfly stems from the feeling that, should the girl marry, she will marry looking as slender and ethereal as any virgin dressed in white. Perhaps she will not marry? To be frank, I am holding her destiny in my hands and yet I am powerless to invent with any freedom: I follow a secret, fatal line. I am forced to seek a truth that transcends me. Why should I write about a young girl whose poverty is so evident? Perhaps because within her there is seclusion. Also because in her poverty of body and soul one touches sanctity and I long to feel the breath of life hereafter. In order to become greater than I am, for I am so little. I write because I have nothing better to do in this world: I am superfluous and last in the world of men. I write because I am desperate and weary. I can no longer bear the routine of my existence and, were it not for the constant novelty of writing, I should die symbolically each day. Yet I am prepared to leave quietly by the back door. I have experienced almost everything, even passion and despair. Now I only wish to possess what might have been but never was.

I seem to know the most intimate details about this girl from the North-east because I live with her. And since I have discovered almost everything about her, she has clung to my skin like some viscous glue or contaminating mud. When I was a child, I read the story of the old man who was afraid to cross the river. Whereupon a youth appeared who also wished to cross to the other side. The old man seized the opportunity and begged him:

— Please take me with you. You can carry me on your back.

The youth agreed and once they were safely across he said to the old man:

— We've arrived. You can get down now.

But the old man, who was very sly and astute, replied:

— Oh no! It's so comfortable up here that I intend to stay put!

The typist doesn't want to get off my back. I now realize that poverty is both ugly and promiscuous. That's why I cannot say whether my narrative will be — will be what? I can reveal nothing for I still haven't worked up enough enthusiasm to write the story. Will there be a plot? Yes, there will. But what plot? That, too, I cannot reveal. I am not trying to cause anguished and voracious expectancy: I simply do not know what awaits me. I have a restless character on my hands who escapes me at every turn and expects me to retrieve her.

I forgot to mention that everything I am now writing is accompanied by the emphatic ruffle of a military drum. The moment I start to tell my story — the noise of the drum will suddenly cease.

I see the girl from the North-east looking in the mirror and — the ruffle of a drum — in the mirror there appears my own face, weary and unshaven. We have reversed roles so completely. Without a shadow of doubt she is a physical person. And what is more: she is a girl who has never seen her naked body because she is much too embarrassed. Embarrassed because she is a prude or because she is ugly? I ask myself how I am going to cope with so many facts without coming to grief. The figurative suddenly appeals to me. I create human action and tremble. Suddenly I crave the figurative like the painter who only uses abstract colours but wants to prove that he does so deliberately and not because he has no talent for drawing. In order to draw the girl, I must control my emotions. In order to capture her soul, I must nourish 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.)