Mr. Santoro wants to get to know his son 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
