Dores: Up to this point, I have participated firsthand in several sessions of La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas.
Dores: Those literary experiments treated language as an advanced game, weaving reality and fiction into an invisible web, ensnaring everyone present in a maze of words.
Dores: Never before had I been so intimate with literature or thought about it so deeply. I was amazed by how words could so vividly express both playfulness and values.
Dores: Until that ordinary afternoon, when a poet named Edoardo was reciting his new piece with refined rhythm, and Ms. Octavia was discussing the state of São Paulo with me.
Dores: No one noticed anything unusual about Mr. Julio's condition.
Octavia: Just like you wrote in The Tin Soldiers of São Paulo:
Octavia: "The greatness of Latin America lies in its richness, and from that richness comes misfortune, gnawed by insatiable greed. One man's poverty is another's feast. Suffering nourishes joy. They are like riverbanks, clearly divided."
Octavia: This duality, this paradox—isn't it precisely the kind of question we should be posing through literature?
The thud of bone against a hard surface interrupts her. Julio is banging his head against the wall.
Julio: Not enough, not enough! Not like this—you can't grasp—space and time!
Julio: I'm still missing—some essential—language frameworks—and thought patterns …!!
Julio: With our current—language system—I cannot catch—the ghost of time. I can only—let it—slip away—from the tip of my pen …
Octavia: Mr. Julio, what's wrong with you?!
Unlike the panicked Octavia, the other inmates around Julio seem unfazed.
Inmate IV: That wall is unscalable, Julio. I told you already. I can lend you some of my bandages from last week if you need them.
Inmate IV: For a permanently silent object, any form of narration is futile. In the end, you're just wrestling with your own shadow.
Octavia: What are you all standing around for? Can't you see Julio's hurting himself?
Octavia is clearly flustered. Dores knows she must first eliminate any outside interference that might obstruct her ability to help.
Dores: Ms. Octavia, please calm down. Tell me—what do you see?
Octavia: It's Mr. Julio! He's hurt! Bleeding!
Octavia: He tried to break through the mirror of language with his head. But it was actually a wall!
By now, Dores has learned how to filter out the surreal embellishments typical of La Sociedad members in order to correctly assess the situation.
Mirror or wall? It doesn't matter.
Dores: Please take a closer look and describe what you see—clearly and without embellishment. What is Mr. Julio's condition?
Octavia: His muscles are spasming uncontrollably, as if jolted by a cold electric current; his face is tightening, twisting, like he's struggling against a silent force. His fingers are curling into unnatural shapes …
Octavia: His expression keeps changing. First pain, then panic, and finally … blankness.
Dores: Sounds like he's having an epileptic seizure. Perhaps I could offer some help.
Guided by the sound of Julio's whimpers, Dores approaches. His head is bloodied.
Dores: Please, Ms. Octavia. Help me, so I can help him. Could you lay him down flat on his side? We have to stop him from hurting himself.
Octavia: I—I can use my arcane skill!
Dores: Flashing lights could worsen an epileptic seizure. Does your arcane skill emit intense light? If so, I must ask you to refrain from using it.
Octavia hurriedly retracts her incantation. She presses down on Julio's shoulder and lowers him onto the cold, hard floor.
The doctor kneels quickly and gently turns the man onto his side, preventing him from injuring himself any further.
Dores: As time passed, Mr. Julio's convulsions began to subside, but his body remained stiff, his jaw clenched tight. I took a disposable bite pad from the first-aid kit and carefully placed it in his mouth to keep him from biting himself.
Dores: Eventually, the situation came under control, and Mr. Julio's breathing stabilized.
Dores: And there everyone went, straight back to the gathering as if it were only a minor inconvenience.
Octavia: Thank you for your help, Ms. Urd.
The doctor responds with a silent smile.
Octavia: You seem experienced. Was it a major part of your responsibilities in São Paulo?
Dores: Yes. Saving others is my profession; writing is my hobby. In my home, I am first and foremost a doctor.
Octavia: Ms. Urd, you have my utmost admiration. As a doctor, as a writer, and even more as a person beyond any social categorization.
Octavia: You, a doctor who actually lived in the favelas, pointed the barrel at yourself before wielding your words as a weapon.
Octavia: Compared to you, I've achieved nothing of substance. All I do is wave ideals around. As if that's enough …
Dores: Ms. Octavia, I am simply a writer who follows her curiosity. I'm afraid I'm not qualified to provide you with any concrete advice, nor am I as great as you say.
Dores: You're well-prepared for your vision and ambition, for modesty is such an essential part of writing, and you've just demonstrated a skillful use of introspection.
Octavia: Thank you for your kind words. But I'd like to return to my room and think for a while. See you tomorrow.
Octavia: The Idealist pursues his ideal to erect a magnificent vision atop the tower of literature.
Octavia: But for those outside the tower, what good is that magnificence?
Octavia: Here I am, locked away in a prison, my words going no further than these walls. I even only have my life because of my wretched father.
Octavia: It was foolish to think that ideas alone could ease people's pain. Maybe we're no different from the heretics who were burned at the stake in the Middle Ages.
Octavia: Perhaps only professionals like Ms. Urd—doctors with real expertise—can truly save a person.
Octavia: Wait … but this prison does have a doctor. A doctor meant to handle every kind of issue, whose specialty is precisely in the mental field.
Octavia: But he's not just a doctor. He's the overseer of this prison!
Octavia: I once asked the Idealist why the person in charge here wasn't a regular jailer or a police chief, but a Physician. As expected, he brushed me off with some grandiose, idealistic rhetoric.
Octavia: But why has the Idealist always seemed so opposed to the Physician?
Octavia: Why can't patients like Mr. Julio, who are clearly suffering, be sent to him?
Octavia: Puzzles on top of puzzles. Questions after questions. My head ...
Her sigh echoes through the circular building, and it is soon answered by a chorus of other sighs.
Octavia: I can't do this anymore.
Dores: Ms. Octavia turned and walked away. Though she looked disheartened, I could still see the power of the unwavering force that drove her forward.
Dores: What would that force be for me?
Dores: Looking back, I too began to reflect on myself—to contemplate "fate," that grand and irreversible force.
