Then, somewhere something began a deep kettledrum beat like a giant heart. And so it came to pass that suddenly, after forming their circle, the women felt themselves begin to throb as well. They felt the rhythm within them; the pulse pounded in their hands and fingers, which were clutched, unfeeling, in other hands and fingers.
Then they had a rhythm, a subfrequency pulse, and it urged them to depart. So they closed their eyes and said, each in her own way, out loud or just moving her lips: Oooon . . . ei-ron.
And nothing prevented them from saying it through to the end any more: Oooon . . . ei-ron.
And no one curled up halfway through the word. And no one turned tail. And no one decided she wanted something else. Oooon . . . ei-ron.
Hands disengaged from hands at the final syllable: ron.
Fingers straightened, springing open: ron.
And there was no going back.
Each of them left in her own way, as Rosa Imaculada had left in her own way: like a maple leaf fallen from a tree and tossed by the wind, eyes closed, zigzagging sideward. Maimuna, who seemed to be in a hurry, appeared to plunge head first. Very quickly she began to fade, to sink, to recede from the others, who were still moving; only the soles of her feet were visible for a moment, turning ever whiter.
Polina stiffly jerked into motion, shaking in place. Wlibgis curled up like a silverfish and trembled before disappearing by degrees. Ulrike slid, legs straight, turning around her axis a couple of times. Nina evaporated like a sweater unraveling. Progressively she thinned as her outline dwindled on one side like a stitch had slipped, followed by another and yet another, stitch after stitch; then she was gone.
Finally the motion took Shlomith. Was she keeping the brakes on somehow after all? Did she doubt? For a moment, for a millionth of a second we hoped that she would open her eyes or her mouth, that she would snap awake and remain with us. In vain.
Shlomith sank until prone, fully extended on the white, and then she mechanically lifted her upper body and froze in a position the yogis would call the cobra. Unlike the other women, Shlomith began to fall apart. Piece by piece. The left leg from the knee down began to disappear, then the right arm up to the elbow. One thigh, the other thigh, both shoulders. The torso and finally the head, with the hair last of all.
If someone had come on the scene afterwards, in the center of the great emptiness she would have seen a rectangle outlined by shoes and clothing, within it a large, sable fur coat and a red wig surrounded by a collection of small objects. She might begin collecting the articles of clothing, perhaps wondering which pieces belonged to which outfits. Wondering what story they had once contained, until it disappeared, and whether she could trace it now.
The women are gone, away from the whiteness. Now they’re in yellow, again at full strength, seven in all. Maimuna is at the center of the row, an arcing trio to either side: soldiers Wlibgis, Nina, and Rosa Imaculada to the left, soldiers Polina, Ulrike, and Shlomith to the right. And Maimuna on the ground—Maimuna is also on the ground. Before the seven, her mouth in the sand, her yellow skirt crumpled under her buttocks, coffee-bean-colored gazelle legs pressed into the burning sand, a rifle barrel against the back of her head.
Maimuna in the air. Maimuna on the sand.
From somewhere come ideas, but not words, like whispers but silent. Awarenesses containing questions containing other intertwined awarenesses and new questions, all of which rotate around one of them.
Mai . . .
. . . muna . . .
Maimuna?
Are you . . .
afraid,
Maimuna?
Are you . . .
afraid?
. . . they
done . . .
. . . have they . . .
Bad?
Maimuna!
At first it’s only chaos, worse than chaos. The chaos could be suppresed if someone could shout SHUT UP, at which point they would all shake their heads, startled by the shout, keep their minds in check, and be quiet. But shouting isn’t possible. Speaking quietly isn’t even possible. And their heads are so full of thoughts. Strange thoughts. Wonder, expectant emptiness. Preparedness to act, will. And then it comes to pass that suddenly a strange hope smashes in amongst the wonder. Maimuna, I’d like to go down to the ground and straighten your dress. Your behind is showing. And then it comes to pass that the onlookers take fright and an alarmed WHAT! encroaches everywhere.
The picture has stopped. The whining of the jeep engine still echoes for a moment, the patter of the sand on the hood, and then quiet.
The women glance at each other in confusion. An alarmed WHAT! swirls within them, hounding them, blurring their thoughts. It breaks the firm impression that has overcome them all: they all want to go down to the
