When Rosa woke up the next time, Lula was gone. There was no sign of foxes or suns. There was the familiar strange body with seven hoses coming out of it. The upper body was supported tightly with pillows, and thin, transparent plastic tubes protruded from it. Two drips were connected to the left arm, one dosing medication, the other providing nutrient fluid. The chest was attached by wires to a monitor with the new heart’s ECG, like a hyperactive green-light creature running on a mountain range.
So somewhere under the blankets and wires it was beating. The grotesque, anticipated interloper. Because of which the body’s immune defenses had to be destroyed. Because of which the entire system had to be filled with immunosuppressants. They even stole from other species. Some of the antibodies came from bunnies. In order to negotiate a permanent peace between the transplant and its new mistress.
So a warm welcome to worms, parasites, viruses, and fungi. Welcome to shaking, numbness, convulsive attacks of chills, hair loss, and headaches. Come right on in, most honored guests: diabetes, osteoporosis, renal deterioration, and cancer. Come in, come in, even the least of you, shingles and painful cold sores that spread all the way to the esophagus. Because a transplant will never learn to behave without making its homecoming comfortable! This is a small price for a new life, is it not, Rosa Imaculada?
“Rosa, you’ve had your operation now,” the doctor said and patted Rosa’s arm. “Everything went very well, and now you need to start focusing on your recovery.” And so Rosa did. She listened to how her body felt. Despite the powerful pain medicine, she felt as if the new heart beat somehow more deeply and more on the left than the previous resident of her chest. Where the old one ticked, the new one hammered, galloping so fast she felt she might fall off. Was it even a human heart? What if it was from a lion! How could she treasure up her secrets in it then? It would instantly make mincemeat of them! A terrible, insatiable thirst tormented her. The heart demanded to eat fresh fruit flesh. Mango papaya kiwi kumquat. Give me carambola. Peel an orange. Rosa opened her mouth and mumbled. The feeling of thirst made her feel sick. The nurse gave her water mixed with honey. Rosa opened her mouth and tried to ask but couldn’t form the words.
Is death gone now for sure? Can someone promise me?
ESTÊVÃO SANTORO COMES CALLING
Death did indeed stay away. But Rosa Imaculada was warned: death will always be hard on your heels now. It will be like a violent ex-husband who wants to come to visit despite the restraining order, who flops down on the couch and casually asks for a beer, and, after drinking his beer, says like a punch to the gut: “I’m coming back, baby . . .” But you can’t let it move in! You can’t even let it get to the door. You have to keep death at a distance, and you probably can get it to stay far enough away with a few simple precautions, which you should follow for at least the next six months: avoid crowds; stay away from public events; no herds of children; hygiene; carry disinfectant with you at all times. And you can forget about working in the salon for a while.
All of this Rosa recorded obediently in her mind. But where would she get money to live? The loan was running out, and everything had been more expensive than she ever could have known. As she lay in her bedroom, Rosa glanced questioningly at Lula, but Lula just smiled his gray-bearded senior smile and didn’t say anything.
But then one day, when Rosa was padding around the house in sandals and a red and white striped negligee, occasionally going to stir her palm oil and orange bean stew, which Davi was waiting for, drumming his spoon on the table, a knock came at their door. Three times.
Rosa turned the heat on the stove down and went to answer. At the door was a sturdy man who was strangely hunched for his size, who filled the entire doorway but still seemed to shrink into his legs. If you had to choose a fruit, you might say his face resembled a pear; his jaw was robust and his cheeks round, but his forehead was a significantly less impressive sight. He wore a vermilion BOW TIE. Red, of course, Rosa realized later. The silk tie practically blazed against his creamy white shirt. In the left pocket of his saffron-yellow double-breasted suit was a rust-red silk handkerchief folded in a triangle and wet with sweat, and, it must be said, without that startling, flirtatiously feline BOW TIE and slightly clumsily matched rust-red pocket triangle, he would have looked like a perfectly normal gentleman with an appreciation for old-world style, but that vermilion BOW TIE and the conservative handkerchief that emphasized the jauntiness of the BOW TIE with the saffron-yellow and double-breasted suit coat made for a very eccentric overall impression. Based on his outfit, the large, hunched man looked if not like a cockscomb at least like someone seeking to be peculiar, who was nevertheless strangely embarrassed by his choice of dress, like a woman dressed too boldly for her temperament might regret the fripperies she has on once she’s already on the
