Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

Some days are so arid and empty that I would give years of my life in exchange for a few minutes’ grace.

I know I am in danger of scandalizing both my female and male readers. And for some curious reason, more likely my male than female readers.

Let me start at the beginning. And the beginning is rather shocking. So be prepared. I decided to interview the proprietress of a hostel for women of dubious reputation.

There now, I have confessed. There is no need to feel nervous, I assure you. My motives were and remain quite harmless. I am innocent.

I am not allowed to say how I discovered the address and telephone number of this woman whom I shall refer to as ‘Madame X’. I have no intention of naming her and getting her into trouble with the police, that is if they even bother about such establishments. Once in possession of the number, I telephoned her.

At the outset of our conversation, I sensed a note of mistrust on the part of Madame X: she was not quite sure what I wanted, and God alone knows what she thought I wanted. But soon she was saying to me: ‘Well, of course, dearie.’ I explained that I was anxious to arrange a meeting and asked if we could have a drink together, wherever she preferred. She suggested I should go to the hostel. But Dearie preferred not to. Nor can I imagine why she chose to meet me in front of the Jaci Pharmacy in José de Alencar Square. She could not have chosen a worse spot: men pass in droves and no need to ask what they must have thought on seeing a woman standing there on her own.

Why did I want to interview Madame X? Well, as an adolescent I was bewildered and confused and there was one silent but nagging question bothering me: ‘What is the world like? And why this world?’ Later, I was to learn lots of things. But that question from my adolescence continued to bother me, silent and persistent.

So what did I learn on Earth in order to open these narrow eyes of mine just a little? I recognized that the problem of prostitution is one of a social order. But there is also a deeper problem: the fact that lots of men prefer to pay, precisely in order to humiliate women and be humiliated in turn. This rejection of love is a sad reality. Men pay in order to avoid love. There are even married men who like to maintain a home in order to transform their wives into possessions for which they have paid.

Now then, I telephoned Madame X in the morning before setting out to meet her. But she explained she had an appointment to see her doctor. I asked her what was wrong. She had what every Madame running a hostel for women was bound to have: a weak heart. I said I would telephone her later. What a business trying to get through. Her number was constantly engaged. God knows why, and so do we. Her hostel is very private and secluded, as she was careful to point out, so any meetings had to be arranged by telephone. I finally managed to get through and Madame X announced: ‘I feel much worse and I really must lie down. Ring me again at four o’clock.’ I thought to myself: I wonder if the old girl is going to die on me before I get to meet her.

No, no, this was no easy assignment. When we first made contact by telephone, I had a violent headache and it only passed after I realized it had been brought on by the thought that I was committing a sin. That same night I had a nightmare in which Madame X confided she was suffering from leprosy. I was terrified of touching her and woke up in a panic. Why then did I insist on seeing her? Because I had to find some irrefutable reply.

I waited for one hour and a half in front of the Jaci Pharmacy. No sign of Madame X. I went back home and telephoned. She assured me she had waited half an hour for me. I lost all interest. Weeks passed, and I had almost forgotten all about her. But I am one of those people who do not give up easily. I telephoned her again. And once more, she arranged to meet me in front of the Jaci Pharmacy. This time she asked me to be there at ten because she would be very busy in the afternoon.

I did not have long to wait. At that hour in the morning, the only passers-by are women carrying their shopping. She arrived wearing the outfit she had described to me. And how elegant she looked. Certainly much more elegant than me who has no need to be elegant.

She explained at once that her hostel was a family business. The widowed brother-in-law who looked after her affairs also had other business interests. I asked her if the hostel made money. She replied in the negative. Liar! We retired to a nearby café which was just opening and I ordered the same thing as Madame: grape juice.

How insipid, dear God. Madame X has a daughter who studies ballet. Lost for conversation, we began discussing the horrors of fire. She told me she had experienced several fires but had always managed to throw the blazing mattress out of the window before it could do much damage.

The amusing thing is that she took a liking to me. She suggested: ‘Now that we’ve got to know each other, telephone me when you have a spare moment so we can have a little chat.’ I thought to myself: Not on your life, I am not interested.

She told me: ‘Men, poor things! They need a place where they can feel safe. Thank goodness that Red Light district has disappeared. It was awful. Really awful.’

What more is there to tell? Nothing. She was in no hurry to leave nor was I. But I was the first to make a move. And she let me pay for the drinks. I lost any appetite for lunch that day.

What had I expected in the end? Had the question which nagged me in adolescence died? Is the world insipid? Or is it me? Or is it Madame X who is insipid? Probably all three of us. I felt that my day had been ruined.

When I told a friend of mine about the interview, his only comment was to calmly suggest: That’s where the writer comes in. But I am not a writer. I am a person who is curious about the world. But who stopped being curious, at least on that day. I did not even feel hungry.

Full of indignation, Madame X also told me that the girls who take up this kind of work can think of nothing except getting rich. Who can blame them?

And here ends the interview which turned out to be a fiasco. But we all have our little fiascos.

In Rio there was a place with an open hearth. And when she saw that it was not only cold but raining in the trees, she could not believe she had been given so much. The world awakening with something she did not even realize she needed, as if she were suffering from hunger. It was raining, raining. The flames wink at her and her man. He takes care of the things she takes for granted. He pokes the fire in the hearth as if it were his duty from birth. While she — who is ever restless and busying herself trying out this and that — never so much as remembers to poke the fire. That is not her job. After all, what does she have a man for? If he is a man, then let him carry out his mission. All she is prepared to do is to coax him: ‘That piece of wood,’ she tells him, ‘still hasn’t caught fire.’ And before she can finish saying what she has to say, the man has seen the piece of wood for himself and is already poking at it. Not because she ordered him to, for she is the man’s wife and he would lose his authority if she were to start giving him orders. His other hand, which is free, is within reach. She knows but does not take it. His hand is there for the taking if she so desires and that is all she asks.

Ah, to think all this will end! For it cannot last by itself. No, no, she is not referring to the fire, she is referring to what she feels. What she feels never lasts, what she feels always comes to an end, perhaps never to return. So she savours this moment, consumes its fire, and the sweet fire burns, burns and glows. Then she who knows that everything must end, reaches out and, as she takes the man’s free hand in hers, she sweetly burns, burns and glows.