Oneiron

  “What will happen to Gwandma now?” Melinda asked, holding back tears, and her mother didn’t understand why, why a girl who was normally so emotional tried to keep her face steady, lips pursed tight. Even she wasn’t trying to contain herself and just let the tears blind her. “Next we’ll go to the funeral parlor,” Melinda’s mother said to her daughter, in a voice thick with emotion. “We’ll choose Grandma a coffin and make the other practical arrangements.” “We aren’t taking her with us?” “No, of course not, dear. Grandma will stay here in hospital for just a bit longer.” “In that bed?” “I suppose they’ll give the bed to someone else, someone who’s still alive and needs a bed more than Grandma now.” “Where will they put Gwandma then?” “Well, they’ll take her to the morgue.” “What’s a mawgue?” “It’s a place where dead people are put for a little while.” “Oh, a gwave?” “No, graves are dug in the ground. A morgue is a little like a refrigerator.” “Why are they putting Gwandma in a wefwigewator?” “Do you remember, Melinda, when we talked about decomposing bacteria a little while ago . . . ?” “The ones that are smawller than the spots on a ladybird?” “Yes, those. We don’t want them to start their work yet, right? That’s why Grandma is being put in the morgue. The bacteria will be frozen there. They’ll hibernate. Like bears.” “And then they start moving again when Gwandma is in her gwave?” “Yes, exactly! Now let’s collect Grandma’s things to take with us. You unplug the lava lamp from the wall.” “No.” “Please.” “I don’t want to.” “Do you intend to leave it here?” “Yes.” “It’s such a nice lamp, though. Come along, please unplug it.” “I don’t want it.” “Melinda, stop! Unplug the lamp from the wall right now. Do you hear me?”

  Explaining to her mother, who didn’t understand anything about spirits, why they couldn’t take the lamp was pointless. The electric blue wax bubbles that floated upwards had once been calming, and the blue shimmer of the lamp had been the only light that guarded Melinda’s nightmare-prone dreams, but now everything was irrevocably different. What if an oval set of eyes suddenly appeared in one of the bubbles, staring through the glass, blinking and begging: Help me, help me, help me . . .

  In the afternoon, a few hours after Melinda and Melinda’s mother had visited the funeral parlor on Katerdijk Street, a man named Christoffel Dijkstra drove a hearse into the back courtyard of the hospital. He pushed an oak coffin on wheels into the basement morgue and quickly found the correct locker with the aid of the attendant. How much does she weigh? Funeral parlor workers always posed these questions in the present tense. The deceased only fell under sway of the past tense following the burial. The question had surprised Melinda’s mother; she didn’t have a clue about Wlibgis’s weight. She was an average-sized woman who had been ravaged by cancer, a little shorter than herself. Was that enough? And how would you like her dressed? Often the next-of-kin wanted the deceased to be dressed in clothing they believed she loved, for example a wedding dress, a favorite skirt, an oriental dressing gown, a Hawaiian shirt. Christoffel Dijkstra had even arranged one corpse in a ski outfit. Yes, arranged, because you didn’t actually dress a corpse. Not like the living are dressed. The deceased was dressed after being placed in the casket. The clothing was cut open and the cuts were hidden under the body as if the clothing continued around behind. It was just a facade, and for whom if no one was ever going to look at the body again! But Christoffel did not ponder this. The deceased were supposed to have clothing, draped on top like paper dolls. If a woman had been happy in her lacy little black dress, then they cut it open and put it on her and that was that. Dressing with rigor mortis arms crammed into sleeves, with the head wriggled through the neck hole, so that the clothing was on all the way underneath and everywhere—that was too difficult, and needlessly messy. Corpses leaked. Dead bodies were usually full of liquid, which dribbled out of every possible opening. Christoffel always prepared for casketing with a bag of paper tissues. He wiped the filth from the face and neck, combed the hair, removed the bandage around the jaw and the paper pads from the eyes. Wlibgis was one corpse among many. Not any messier than normal, actually easier than average, because the woman who had made the order had bought her a cotton shirt that would be easy for the funeral parlor to put on.

  Wlibgis was ready. Her skin was wiped clean, her red wig was nicely brushed, and her hands were crossed over her chest. Wlibgis under a white sheet. Wearing a white shirt. Peaceful Wlibgis, her spirit already elsewhere.

  Christoffel Dijkstra screwed the coffin lid shut.

  Vaarwel, Wlibgis!

  VERMILION, PURPLE, MAGENTA: THE HEART THAT REJECTED EUCALYPTUS TREES

  Adeus, Rosa Imaculada!

  No sooner has Wlibgis collapsed on her back on the hospital bed, onto herself and instantly disappearing, than the shocked quartet, Polina, Rosa, Ulrike, and Shlomith, realize they are somewhere new again. The white hospital walls recede and blur, and for a vanishing moment everything is black. Gradually red begins to spill into each woman’s field of view, at first only a vague redness until the image comes into sharp focus.

  The room is simple. It would have been austere if the walls had not been painted a sensuous purple. The dark-wood floor and white, translucent curtains, which have been drawn over the three windows, balance the sinful color of the wall. There is no furniture in the room beyond a luxurious rosewood bed with rambling garlands and feeding hummingbirds carved into its high, courtly arching headboard. On the bed lounges a large man—and Rosa Imaculada, with an enraged expression on her face.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for.

  Tell us about it, Rosa.

  What happened to you?

  What horrible thing is that man doing to you?

  Rosa inspects herself. There she sits atop the white bedspread, in front of the man, in a too-tight magenta piqué shirt. Four of five buttons are open, and, even so, the shirt looks like a corset, her breasts like cantaloupes, and under them, on the left, beats the main star of her fate: her heart. What happened to it?

  The time spent in the white emptiness shrinks, draining away like water released from a bath, like a nightmare fading. Finally she can tell! Now they are in her own kingdom—or is it Estêvão Santoro’s kingdom? At least she didn’t die at home. This also means, Rosa suddenly understands, that she won’t ever see her tiny son again. And that her son won’t see her die.

  A lightning-bright wave of despair and relief strikes Rosa Imaculada to her knees, in a strange, almost tortuous pose a little above the surface of the floor. From there, collapsed in a crouch, she begins to speak, haltingly at first. She crumples into a ball the picture of Davi that had filled her mind and with determination begins to spread out bright, well-articulated ideas in its place.

  We’re in the old city of Salvador, in Pelourinho. That man is Estêvão Santoro. He’s the father of my heart donor. The boy whose heart I have in my breast was named Murilo. Mr. Santoro visited me many times. So often that the neighbors began to whisper and ask questions. I told him, “You can’t come here any more.” Then he asked me to come to his home. He sent a white car to pick me up. He lives in this hotel room. His family lives almost three thousand kilometers away in Manaus. I don’t know how long he intends to keep this up . . .

  Not long, since you’re going to die!

  Does he murder you?

  Does he dig his son’s heart out of your chest—

  Stop it! I don’t want to see this . . .

  —and put it in a glass bowl full of surgical alcohol and run away . . . ?

  Rosa, come on, tell us. What are you two doing?

  Although the barriers to conversation have disappeared, although their thoughts flow between each other almost effortlessly, Rosa has a terribly hard time answering this last question, which has come from Ulrike’s direction. Yes, what were they doing—except sitting facing each other on a hotel room bed, clothed, clearly not intending to become intimate in the traditional sense of that phrase?

  Mr. Santoro wants to get to know his so
n through me, with my help. He never got to know Murilo properly while he was alive. They quarreled a lot and never made up. I’m sure you can understand how difficult getting over something like that can be.

  Are you claiming to be some sort of medium, Rosa?

  No, it isn’t that. Murilo doesn’t talk to me. I just know. It’s completely physical.

  And you and this gentleman are in the middle of a session?

  Yes. My guess is that Mr. Santoro just asked me a question. And I’m answering. Look at my expression. Don’t I look furious!

  Something really is happening in the hotel room, but as in Maimuna’s case, the moment is frozen: Estêvão Santoro has closed his mouth and Rosa Imaculada has opened her own; it is as if time is waiting for permission to continue from the Rosa floating on her knees.

  But the floating Rosa is dissatisfied. She senses the flood of questions, the suspicion behind her, the whispers, the doubts, and they injure her.

  . . . does she really . . .

  truly

  . . . ludicrous! . . . seriously . . .

  crazy is as crazy does

  . . . autosuggestion . . .

  But then a voice rises in her defense. Polina. A gift from God!

  Why couldn’t it be possible?

  Polina is a good person. Polina silences Shlomith and Ulrike. Polina believes her!

  Skin remembers touch, bodies remember experiences. Why couldn’t a heart remember feelings?

  Dear God, Polina, feelings aren’t in the heart!

  Where are they, then?

  In the brain, you idiot!

  Now you’re wrong, Shlomith. Feelings are everywhere.

  Stop it already. Or don’t even start.

  You get startled, and your heart races . . .

  Without a brain, there isn’t anything. Your mouth doesn’t think, even if it does state your thoughts!

  Cellular memory is a miraculous thing, and research about it is just getting going . . .

  Autosuggestion.

  What?

  Autosuggestion. Rosa has convinced herself that she knows things about the organ donor.

  Poor Rosa. Dying is clearly more agonizing than anyone had imagined. If there had been physical pain at the moment of departure, fortunately the women don’t remember it. But perhaps reliving the pain would have been a lesser evil than this constant doubt and discord.

  Shlomith! Do you really want what happened with Wlibgis to happen here?

  Rosa Imaculada has sprung to her feet. She turns her face to the trio waiting behind, glancing in thanks at Polina and glaring angrily at Ulrike, then even more angrily at Shlomith. Rosa’s eyes spark. Her thoughts are bright, sharp, and diamond hard.

  Shlomith! Do you want to ruin my final moments?

  No, Shlomith doesn’t want that. She blanches. Ulrike, who at least had the sense to stay in the background when Polina and Shlomith began their argument, is also deeply sorry for her thoughts, once again: Crazy is as crazy does. But it doesn’t go that way. There, when faced with a direct question, they both understand that their job is to help, not to judge or question. There simply isn’t time for their pointed exchange of views. Although their faith might be tried, they have to stop arguing. Each has to swallow what she would like to say. Do they have any other option?

  Pardon me, Rosa.

  I’m sorry.

  How can we help you?

  Rosa is mollified. The situation is in control again. She has only one hope and need: she wants to tell what happened to her. She wants to get someone, even just one, even just herself, to understand what an unfathomable thing happened to her.

  I have an idea.

  Rosa closes her eyes and gathers her energy. Then in her mind she begins to express, clearly, slowly, and emphatically the idea she is developing. Take care now, she thought, my idea isn’t easy to carry out. It won’t necessarily work at all, but I want to try. This is my final wish.

  Take care now! Before I leave, regardless of where or how I go, I want to return to one of our sessions. To Murilo and Estêvão Santoro’s meeting, which happened through me. I think that I can remember it exactly the way it happened. It was here, in this room, within these purple walls. I want you, Polina, Shlomith, and Ulrike, to come with me. It won’t necessarily work, but I want to try at least. This is my final wish. Close your eyes.

  The trio is silent for a moment without a hint of a thought. And then:

  Rosa, what do we do?

  It comes as if from one brain. A confused, utterly helpless question: what do we do now that we’ve closed our eyes?

  Rosa Imaculada doesn’t know the answer. But she has an intuition, and it spurs her forward, to express her wish. Her intuition had sometimes spoken with the voice of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, which later went silent, and now it urges her to continue: You will find the solution by singing if no other way. By singing, Rosa, by singing, as you did with Ninjuška!

  Then Polina’s ecstatic cry comes and fills everything.

  Shlomith, Ulrike, do you see?

  What?

  Just DON’T open your eyes!

  What are we meant to see?

  I see LIGHT!

  Polina is sure the light is a good sign. It is a classic sign. The light at the end of the tunnel. This time she doesn’t intend to struggle. She doesn’t intend to drag her heels as she did the first time, in the yellow, when they were pulled out of the white, when they were transported toward the desert, toward Maimuna’s world, from where she had forced them all back to the starting point, for a reason she couldn’t even understand herself any more. She isn’t a coward. Yet even so she had opened her eyes and her mouth, and sabotaged everything. She had prolonged the consummation of fate, not just of Maimuna’s but each of theirs. Now she definitely wouldn’t resist!

  Polina! Come out of there right now!

  What?

  You’re in the wrong place. Come out!

  Have you all opened your eyes?

  No! Can’t you hear Rosa singing?

  Rosa isn’t singing.

  But Rosa is singing. In her thoughts Rosa croons that familiar lullaby to them, transporting Shlomith and Ulrike with its strains toward her own story. Nigue, nigue, ninhas, tão bonitinhas . . . Rosa sings and thinks intently of a BOW TIE, the vermilion BOW TIE that Mr. Santoro wore every time they met. She concentrates only and exclusively on the BOW TIE, tying her mind inextricably to its knot with all the power of the words of the song. Ê ê ê ê, imbê, tumbelá!

  Polina, drive the light out of your mind NOW!

  Where are you?

  We’re in the red!

  Red?

  Polina! Polina!

  Hear how beautifully Rosa sings!

  You have to come out of there right now or you’ll be damned!

  Startled, Polina nearly opens her eyes, but instinct demands that she still keep them squeezed shut tight. Polina listens to her instincts. She squeezes, squeezes, and suddenly the light disappears. And then, gradually, she begins to see the red: first as orange, then crimson, and finally their mixture, vermilion. As soon as the vermilion appears, it begins to take shape, the color shrinking into a magnificent knot, with one wing and then a second blossoming from it. When the BOW TIE is finished, Polina finally hears a familiar voice: Nigue, nigue, ninhas, tão bonitinhas, macamba viola di pari e ganguinhas . . .

  Rosa’s song has found her!

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: Rosa, I’m sorry about what happened last time.

  ROSA IMACULADA: It was nothing. (Although it was something: Grandmother had been forced to come and remove Mr. Santoro’s hand, which had cramped in place as he squeezed the skin under Rosa’s left breast, leaving fingernail marks that remained visible for three days. After that, Mr. Santoro wasn’t welcome in their house any more, even though he appeased Grandmother with an even larger wad of cash than normal.)

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: No, I’m serious. I’m really sorry. But what you said shocked me. (Mr. Santoro sits up straighter, setting his hand dram
atically on his chest and shouting the words Rosa had spoken.) “Dad, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

  ROSA IMACULADA: Mr. Santoro, I’m the one who should be sorry. That shout just came out. I couldn’t help it.

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: So Murilo never forgave me.

  ROSA IMACULADA: What did he never forgive you for?

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: You’ll know if Murilo really is influencing you.

  ROSA IMACULADA (taken aback): Do you really doubt that?

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: No, of course not. (More gently) I just want to know how much influence Murilo has through you. How much is left in that heart. This is important to me.

  ROSA IMACULADA: I see. (A little anxious) Should I take that powder again?

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: This time I have something to drink. (From his pocket he takes a small glass vial and begins to screw open the metal cap; in the vial is a dense, dark mixture.) I got a tip about another vendor.

  ROSA IMACULADA (more anxious): Do I dare take it? The powder made me feel ill. (Pause. Then in a very quiet voice) So what’s in the bottle?

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: The old ekeji swore that it works. It doesn’t have any side effects.

  ROSA IMACULADA (louder): But what is it? I’m not taking it if I don’t know what it is!

  ESTÊVÃO SANTORO (agitated): Of course she didn’t tell me! But she’s been making it for a long time. And she understood immediately when I told her what it was for.

  ROSA IMACULADA (firmly): Mr. Santoro, I don’t dare put that in my mouth. I have to be careful.

  Estêvão Santoro squeezes the glass vial in his large fist and flexes his arm as if he wants to throw the bottle against the wall. He’s furious. He’s—

  Rosa, don’t drink it!

  Shhhhhhh!!! Polina, don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you!

  —disappointed, not because he paid a significant sum for the stuff in the bottle, which was presumably a mixture of moonshine, powdered chicken foot or rooster wattle, and a pinch of secret narcotic herbs, but rather because he really does want to know right now, without wasting another moment, whether any secrets were transplanted along with the heart. He wants to know if it’s possible or if this woman is just making things up to swindle money from him . . .