Dear Mr. President,
Please accept our deepest greetings and well-wishes.
I hope you can look past the nasty nicknames we gave you. I am still your most loyal servant.
Old Quitéria: Nala has some business today, so I'll be leading the poetry reading.
A stir runs through the gathered elders.
Elder I: Where's Nala?
Elder II: Yeah, it won't be the same without her! She loves reading poetry, and we love listening to her. Why wouldn't she be here?
Old Quitéria: Quiet down, everyone, quiet down.
Elder II: Is she still out with those soldiers? Did she ditch us to go to the club?
Old Quitéria: No! Of course not! It's nothing like that!
Old Quitéria: Now come on, let's get back to the reading.
Old Quitéria: "Inhabiting this pitiful land, dwelling among beasts."
Old Quitéria starts the poetry to stop the chatter, and the elders have no choice but to follow along.
"Pitiful man and pitiful beast, together dwelling in this ravine of life.
Sorrowful freedom binds you, mutating you into a beast."
"Friend, oh friend, kisses and caresses, when did their faces change?
Family, oh family, the warm bonfire turns into a man-eating demon."
...
But before long, the whispers return.
Elder I: I heard Nala might leave us for good.
Elder II: No way, where did you hear that?!
Old Quitéria: Ahem! What is it that has got you whispering this time?
Elder I: They, they said—
Old Quitéria: What did they say?
The elder darts his eyes around the room and clears his throat.
Elder I: They say Nala's leaving us.
The room roars into loud debate.
Old Quitéria: Who said that?
Elder I: The soldiers, they said the captain and Nala have been out together a lot.
Elder I: Now they're saying Captain Moacir's offered Nala a new job—something in the capital with him, a government desk job, or maybe working for the newspaper.
Elder II: No matter what, Nala is leaving. She's starting a new life.
The clock chimes three times, and the room goes silent.
Old Quitéria: Nonsense.
Old Quitéria sets down the poetry book and summons up her strength to straighten out her back.
Her real name is Gintalia, but she prefers to go by Quitéria.
Old Quitéria: Everyone, listen.
Her voice is strong.
In the past 65 years, she'd delivered 267 babies with her own two hands.
Old Quitéria: Twenty years ago, I found her in a run-down corner of this city. I'll care for her as long as I still draw breath.
...
Old Quitéria: I know that all of you feel the same way.
It was her hands, her scent, and her voice that welcomed each one of those children into the world.
Anjo Nala: ♪♫♪ Hmm hmm hmm hmm ... ♪♫♪
There is a knock on the door.
Anjo Nala: Quitéria! There you are! I found some star anise; maybe I can add a little to the seasoning. What do you think?
Old Quitéria: Have you prepared your things?
Anjo Nala: We're still in need of a cover! I had been thinking of sewing our old socks together. They're durable enough, and we can use them as a tablecloth after.
Old Quitéria looks at Nala with staring eyes.
Old Quitéria: I don't mean for the procession.
Old Quitéria: I mean your own things.
Anjo Nala: Me? I promise I haven't snuck any food away this time. Not even a single piece of chocolate is out of place!
Old Quitéria simply joins her and begins helping her organize.
Old Quitéria: You know, toothbrushes need to be replaced every three months, and if you go dancing, please dress modestly, and you must remember to always say please and thank you, and as much as you love it, don't give people nicknames!
Old Quitéria: Most importantly, don't be too quick to trust others.
Anjo Nala: Why are you saying this?
Quitéria doesn't respond. She just opens the drawer and helps her pick out clothes.
Anjo Nala: He-he, you're like the Pachamama from my dreams right now.
Old Quitéria: If you aren't careful, people lead you astray.
Anjo Nala: Oh, stop. I'm not some old fool like Flayer. Why are you treating me like I'm clueless?
Old Quitéria pinches her nose, takes a deep breath, and looks up into her eyes.
Anjo Nala: …?
Anjo Nala: Quitéria?
Old Quitéria: Remember that story I told you? About the sun god who ended the great flood, causing the first rainbow to appear in the sky?
Old Quitéria: You never know if something beautiful brings a blessing or a curse. A rainbow to some is salvation, but others see it as an omen of death.
Old Quitéria: You know I ... I used to make a living interpreting dreams. They'd pay, and I'd divine.
Old Quitéria: But each time I looked into the future, I saw things I hoped would never occur. I hoped those omens were just shadows.
Old Quitéria: Still, every outcome can be beautiful in its own right.
Nala is stunned, unable to digest the information.
Old Quitéria: Maybe it really is a new world, a world full of potential for young people, for you.
Old Quitéria pats Nala's head.
Old Quitéria: I'll always be proud of you.
If it rains for another week, the colonel's wheelchair will rust over so badly it'll be just another chair.
The colonel knows this better than anyone, nervously shaking his legs and rolling back and forth in the Heartfelt Home's courtyard.
He holds a thick bundle of letters wrapped in rose-colored paper.
He can't roll this rusty wheelchair all the way to the post office alone.
But soon, his dilemma is interrupted by the sound of sobbing.
Colonel: They say if you cry during the rainy season, the rains will never end.
Anjo Nala: Colonel?! Oh, you're here.
Colonel: I—cough
Anjo Nala: …?
Colonel: I-I could hear you crying. You almost sounded like the mosquitoes in the Amazon, you know.
Anjo Nala: I wasn't crying.
Nala sniffs.
Anjo Nala: I just felt sad, like the rain, like this never-ending rain.
Colonel: Sad, an angel like you? Don't tell me playing sad is a new fad with you young folks?
Anjo Nala: No, it's only Old Quitéria came to me and told me some things. I don't quite understand what she meant by it, but now somehow, I just feel so sad.
Colonel: Oh! Oh! Alright, alright!
The colonel panics, looking at Nala's head, wanting to pat it but instead humming a tune.
Colonel: "A real soldier never wastes a word, is as brave as an eagle, and as strong as a tiger ..."
A song from a bygone era of war, written by a one-eyed poet.
Anjo Nala: hum Ahchoo!
Colonel: See? Sneeze it out, and the sadness goes away.
Nala sniffs and shakes her head. As she raises her eyes, she notices what the colonel is clutching behind his back.
Anjo Nala: …?
Anjo Nala: What's this, Colonel?
Colonel: This, this is … Never mind. Don't look!
Anjo Nala: "Thank you for taking the time to read this."
Anjo Nala: "This letter is once again to inquire about the pension distribution."
Anjo Nala: "The fact is, I submitted our application twenty-five years ago and received confirmation ten years ago."
Anjo Nala: "I do not have high expectations for the amount; my years of waiting and perseverance were for something more valuable than a number."
Anjo Nala: "I just can't stand these day-to-day struggles. Even though I now live in a welfare home, and life here is quite comfortable."
Anjo Nala: Mm-hmm.
Anjo Nala: "But recently, a group of people, acting like bandits, have been brutally seizing our land."
Anjo Nala: Mm-hmm.
Anjo Nala: Is that, did you mention me here?
Anjo Nala: Huh? "Take her away?"
Nala looks up at the colonel, then back at the letter.
Anjo Nala: …?
Anjo Nala: Was I ... leaving?
Colonel: Deus me livre ...
The colonel seems flustered and uneasy.
Colonel: Damn it.
He rocks uncomfortably back and forth in his wheelchair.
Colonel: Just toss it in the fire.
He seizes on an impulsive decision.
Colonel: Look at this. It's all broken sentences, incoherent grammar, and so many typos. This isn't my writing. You know that, Nala.
Colonel: So, help me burn it.
Anjo Nala: ...
Anjo Nala: Of course, of course.
She understands his meaning. It comes to her as clearly as the sounds of night.
Anjo Nala: You were a member of the Literary Society, and there are so many errors. Yes, this couldn't be your writing.
Colonel: Ha … ha-ha!
The colonel snatches the letter back.
Colonel: Oh, damn.
He looks back to the entrance of the Heartfelt Home. It seems so far and distant now.
He meekly returns the letter to Nala.
Colonel: Just burn it.
Nala holds her gaze on the colonel,
with those aconite purple eyes shining in the moonlight.
On the terrace at night, between two pillars, a wire holds up the elders' uniform white cotton shirts.
The embers vanish beneath the puffs of smoke rising from the roasting corn stalks.
They watch the letter burn to ash, its edges curling in the fire.
Anjo Nala: What do you think Old Cinder is doing now?
Anjo Nala: Do you think he's watching us?
Colonel: He's probably busy writing complaints to Heaven's representatives.
All that is left of the paper is ash scattered over the ground.
Anjo Nala: ...
Nala stares intently at the ashes.
Anjo Nala: I'm not leaving, Colonel.
The colonel's mustache twitches.
Colonel: That's your decision to make, not mine.
He struggles to squeeze out the words.
