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 dramatically 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 . . .
ROSA IMACULADA (alarmed): Mr. Santoro! You must understand.
ESTÊVÃO SANTORO (collects himself and then speaks with emphatic calmness): This liquid is safe. It will help reveal the truth. (He unscrews the cap all the way, takes a small swig himself, and grins.) There. I didn’t die. What if we continue our investigation now?
ROSA IMACULADA (hesitantly): Well, I imagine—
Rosa!
Shhhhhhhhh!!!
—Rosa takes the bottle and empties it. Only with effort does she hold down the vomit. After she’s heaved and retched enough, after she’s wiped her mouth on the rust-red handkerchief Estêvão Santoro kindly handed her, she straightens up and casts him a grim gaze.
ROSA IMACULADA: Are you satisfied now?
ESTÊVÃO SANTORO (appeased): Thank you, Rosa. You can’t know how much this means to me. I’ll compensate your sacrifice handsomely. If we get to the end of this today, I’ll pack my bags and go home.
ROSA IMACULADA (formally, a little mechanically): Do we proceed as before? Do you want to start with questions?
ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: I propose that I start by describing a certain situation. Something happened between Murilo and me a little before the accident. You chime in as soon as you know what I’m talking about.
ROSA IMACULADA: OK.
ESTÊVÃO SANTORO: Close your eyes.
Rosa closes her eyes. Mr. Santoro also closes his eyes. They take each other by the hand.
ESTÊVÃO SANTORO (pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts before beginning): I’m sitting at home on the terrace. It’s
