The first rays of dawn break through the clouds, signaling the day of the procession, and some hope, the end of the rainy season.
Old Quitéria: You say Old Jorge's clothes don't fit? This is the only set we have. He'll have to wear what he's got.
Old Quitéria: Everyone must have a candle. Place it firmly in the holder, and don't let the rain put it out.
Old Quitéria: Don't drink so much. They'll be plenty after the procession.
The drunkard's cup is spilled over with intent, as Old Quitéria moves among the elders.
Outside the Heartfelt Home, a chaotic scene is forming at the entrance, with men hoisting the statue, people holding candle stands, elders and estate owners putting on their robes.
The colonel's mustache is perfectly still today, even a tornado would fail to ruffle a hair on it.
Colonel: When does the procession end?
Old Quitéria: Good heavens, you're thinking of the end before it's even begun. Saints above, I hope they'll forgive you for this irreverence!
Colonel: Fine, fine, and if I'm good and devout, will I get an extra piece of cornmeal cake for lunch?
Old Quitéria: If you don't cause trouble, you can have as much as you want.
The colonel sinks back into his wheelchair contented, glancing sideways at the nearby soldiers.
Soldier I: You know, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. Please, might I take your hand?
Vendor: Oh dear, but please don't say that! My hands are covered in fish guts!
Soldier I: Even so, they are still the gentlest I have ever held.
Colonel: Tsk.
The colonel sneers, looking for someone.
Moacir stands in the corner, amused by the scene unfolding.
Colonel: What's that bastard hiding in his coat?
He squints, and then abruptly starts wheeling back to the chapel.
Old Quitéria: What are you doing, Bastos?
Old Quitéria blocks his path.
Colonel: None of your damn business.
Old Quitéria: The procession is exactly my business, Colonel. Now please, get back into line.
Anjo Nala: Colonel! Ah—Watch out!
Nala rushes out from the home, carrying her microphone, tripping up into a tangled mess of cables.
Quitéria steadies her.
Old Quitéria: Don't worry too much, dear. I know today is your first time leading the procession.
Old Quitéria untangles the wires and hands the microphone back to her.
Anjo Nala: Oh! Me, worry? Over this trifling thing. I'm hardly nervous at all!
Old Quitéria: Haha, that's good.
Anjo Nala: Well, just a tad worried. There are some sentences in the speech you wrote down that I don't know that I understand, and I still have yet to memorize everything perfectly.
Old Quitéria: No problem. I'll hold the script for you. Just watch my lips. I'll say a line, you repeat it.
Anjo Nala: Great!
Old Quitéria: Ei! Who brought these geese here? How's the procession supposed to move?
The neighbor driving the geese shoos them, but the gray-and-white geese seem to have their own plans.
Poultry Farmer: They're acting real strange. They won't listen at all!
He shouts at Old Quitéria, who waves him off, signaling him to handle it.
Golden ornaments, towering statues, red robes, purple headpieces, blue macaws, and the mingling scents of meat and osmanthus fill the air.
Everyone around has been utterly absorbed by the pageantry.
Nala walks through the crowd, crouches down, and picks up a white goose.
Anjo Nala: Shh, it's okay, it's okay. Be a good goose, and come with me.
She holds the white goose, and the other geese obediently line up behind her.
The clock strikes the hour, and everyone turns to look at the distant bell tower commemorating Saint George, the Dragon Slayer.
The procession begins.
Elder I: I've never seen such a spectacle. The last time there were this many people was five years ago at the cockfight!
Elder II: That shows how many people want the rain to stop. Everyone's praying with all their strength.
Elder I: Let us pray that the saints above see our work here, and bless us.
The procession moves from the home toward the square, with more and more people joining in, holding candles.
Nala leads the line of white geese at the front, humming softly.
Anjo Nala: At the same crossroad
Anjo Nala: When the warm days grow cold
Anjo Nala: Leaves are falling down
Anjo Nala: To the ground
People in the procession begin singing along quietly.
Anjo Nala: Fire can't burn down
Anjo Nala: My past into ashes
Anjo Nala: By now
More and more join in, their voices growing louder.
The procession reaches San Sebastian Square, where the grand statue lies.
A beam of light shines on the statue, and Nala stands before it.
Old Quitéria waves from the crowd, mouthing the words to her.
Old Quitéria: Watch my lips, follow along.
Nala nods, watching Old Quitéria's lips.
A strange thought strikes her—suddenly she realizes she has never seen snow.
...
Anjo Nala: Hello? Ahem, everyone, hello.
The microphone squeals, and the crowd murmurs.
Anjo Nala: Hello, can you hear me?
Elder I: Yes!
Anjo Nala: Heh-heh, sorry, I've not spoken in front of this many people before.
Elder II: It's okay, Nala!
Elder III: You can do it, Nala! Just say anything!
Anjo Nala: ...
Anjo Nala: Then, shall I begin?
Old Quitéria: Go on.
Her voice is slow and steady. Nala looks at her, who returns her glance.
She nods, clearing her throat.
Quitéria's lips move, and Nala speaks.
Anjo Nala: I think we can all agree that this isn't the best time in our lives.
Anjo Nala: We haven't seen a single cocoa leaf standing tall, no datura flower blooming, and the sunlight never lingers longer than a day.
Anjo Nala: Only rain, endless rain.
Anjo Nala: Rain like this always reminds me of my childhood.
Anjo Nala: Gentle yet suffocating breaths in the cradle, flat feet stomping on nettles, all those poetic and joyous synonyms.
Anjo Nala: Speaking of childhood?
She smiles to herself.
Anjo Nala: Did we really have the wonderful childhood we imagined?
Anjo Nala: Things always seem more beautiful and grander when they're viewed from a distance.
Anjo Nala: ...
Anjo Nala: It seems this yearning comes with the very realization that we may never return to those happier times.
Anjo Nala: Here we are, in this place we've always called home. It's where we grew up, and it's where we'll grow old.
Anjo Nala: But isn't it strange? Why should we feel longing for the land we've grown on? Why should it feel foreign to us?
Anjo Nala: Why would we all feel this way?
The warm sunlight makes her head spin.
When she comes back to her senses, the crowd is silent, looking at her with strange expressions. Some bow their heads quietly.
Nala's palms are sweaty, and she wipes them secretly on her sides.
Anjo Nala: I'm so sorry.
The microphone screeches again.
Anjo Nala: deep breath
Everyone looks at Nala, some trying to comfort her with their eyes.
Anjo Nala: I've tried so hard to prepare these words, but still, I can't quite memorize them.
Old Quitéria freezes.
Anjo Nala: Thank you, Quitéria, but you needn't prompt me anymore. There is something I should like to say from my heart.
Old Quitéria lowers the script in her hand, as stunned as everyone else.
Anjo Nala: Ahem, ahem—!
Another screech.
Anjo Nala: This, this is your home. And it's mine, too.
The simplicity of her words doesn't seem to have the desired effect.
Another bead of sweat slides down her face.
Anjo Nala: Leave-leaving home might seem easy, but one never truly breaks away from their hometown.
Anjo Nala: And I'm fortunate. I've never left, and I never will.
Her voice trembles, but she presses on.
Anjo Nala: I will never leave you. I don't want to, and I won't—I will never leave the Heartfelt Home.
The crowd goes from rustling to silence.
Anjo Nala: Because, just like you,
Anjo Nala: I love everything here.
Anjo Nala: I love our little parrot that babbles nonsense on the terrace, I love Camilo's cheap snake wine, I love Quitéria's almond cakes and Old Jorge's tunes on the piano.
Anjo Nala: The bright red roses and fragrant lilacs, the toucan's call, and this golden land of cocoa trees at sunrise—
She's said too much at once, and gasps for another breath.
Anjo Nala: And-and the never-ending rain, and you.
Anjo Nala: I love you all.
The crowd is quiet, every elder's eyes fixed on Nala.
Anjo Nala: I love everyone here.
Anjo Nala: ...
Dead silence.
Anjo Nala: I-I really don't know what else to say. In fact, no words could properly express my deep love for this land.
Anjo Nala: Only singing, yes! Only a song without end.
She pauses.
Anjo Nala: So, let's sing! Let's all sing!
Anjo Nala: Sing together, and keep on singing.
Anjo Nala: Even under the shadow of war, we will keep on singing, till the day the sun shines upon us again.
The crowd roars up to join her, their voices mixing with the intense scent of almond blossoms filling the air. They feel dizzy, joyful, confused, angry.
Elder I: Oh, dear, did you hear that? Nala said she won't leave!
Elder II: Yes, we don't have to worry about losing her. Oh, what was I thinking? Of course, she wouldn't leave us.
Crowd: Nala! Nala—!!
Crowd: We love you—!!
Crowd: We love you—!!!
Crowd: You're a saint, an angel, oh, Nala—!!!
Crowd: Nala, Nala, Nala …
Crowd: Anjo Nala, Anjo Nala, Anjo Nala, Anjo Nala!!!
Everyone, the elders, food vendors, idle gamblers, estate owners and their workers, the children of the choir.
Everyone is lost in this revelry, and at the apex of it stands the angel bathed in sunlight,
holding a white goose, looking at the world.
Moacir: Then it's true. She is exactly who I suspected.
Moacir: That seductive power in her voice, making those who love her adore her like a goddess.
Moacir: A succubus.
Moacir: Thank heaven, finally my wait is rewarded.
Moacir: It seems this place truly is a blessed land.
He is in tears.
The flames fade away as she falls back, plunging into darkness.
Lights, parties, graceful figures, chewing gum; gunfire, bullet casings, rats in the sewers; chanting, the scent of breakfast, ash in the ashtray.
Coughing, newspapers, the universe, a toucan in a dream, day after day of rumbling thunder and drizzle.
And an unexpected question.
Anjo Nala: ...
Anjo Nala: Sister?
Anjo Nala: Why?