Oneiron

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,