Dores: After that, I attended several more literary salons and wrote things I had never dared write before. Ms. Octavia, however, never made an appearance.
Dores: I didn't see her for quite some time. That was until I followed some prisoners to a large hall and heard her voice among a group of unfamiliar inmates.
Dores: She noticed me and greeted me warmly. She told me she had been working on some new initiatives.
Dores: She told me of her hopes to gather more support—to improve conditions in the prison and initiate a spiritual shift toward realism and resistance.
Dores: I truly believed, back then, that everything was heading in the right direction.
Before all eyes, the host of the assembly, the Idealist, steps up to the podium.
The Idealist: By the randomness of fate, we have gathered here to participate in the Comala Congress.
The Idealist: Before the eyes of destiny, historians, and astrologers alike, I now declare a new rule amendment:
The Idealist: "A duel before a crowd of eager eyes. The winner awarded ten pounds of gold, and the loser left with ten flies to descend upon him."
The Idealist: Before the Comala Congress convenes, we shall assign two members of La Sociedad this noble mission—a duel decreed by fate.
Dores hears the faint clink of a small object rattling inside a box.
The Idealist: José, Julio, step forward and draw the sharpest blade of your literary thought!
The Idealist: According to the rules, I will preside over this duel with fairness and impartiality. Now, prepare yourselves!
The absurd, fictional, metaphysical duel ends within a fraction of a second. The victorious prisoner receives ten shining golden pills, while the loser collapses to the floor.
The crowd erupts into chaos, Octavia's cries rising above the noise.
Dores: What's going on?
Octavia: Mr. Julio … He—he's having another seizure!
Octavia: Ms. Urd, please, Julio needs your help!
The Idealist: Octavia, you know this is all part of the randomness of fate.
Octavia: The randomness ... of fate?
She doesn't argue back as she usually would. Instead, she stands frozen in place, as if stunned.
Dores: What's the matter, Ms. Octavia? This is an emergency. I require your assistance.
The Idealist: Answer me, Octavia. Why are you trying to change Julio's fate?
Octavia: Because … no one should die like this …
Octavia: I don't want him to die.
Dores: Please, Ms. Octavia, help me, so I can help him.
Octavia: I—I …
Her voice cracks, leaving only the sound of her stifled sobs lingering in the air.
Dores: What's wrong, Ms. Octavia? How's his condition now?
Dores: Ms. Octavia?
Octavia: …
She remains silent. After a long pause, she casts the heavy stone into the bottomless water.
Octavia: Ms. Urd.
Octavia: Mr. Julio is gone. He left us the moment the duel was over.
How could that be?
Seizures can potentially lead to irreversible brain damage, but how could it happen so fast?
A precious life, gone so quickly, swept away by something so senseless, lost in a nonsensical duel.
Dores: What exactly is this so-called "Congress"? Some kind of punitive system unique to Comala Prison? But how can someone's life be decided by something so absurd?
Dores: Are we simply meant to surrender to a fate so twisted, no matter how absurd it is? Is it so irrefutable? This isn't the "fate" I seek. It's a distortion of it.
Octavia: It's my fault, for not finding a better way.
Octavia: I used to think Mr. Julio didn't care about anything but his own novels. I never imagined my ideals would mean anything to him.
Octavia: But he was the first person in La Sociedad to support me.
Octavia: But that really was an irreversible fate, a fate granted to Mr. Julio by the Die of Babylon.
Dores: The Die ... of Babylon?
Her question is left unanswered. The host of the salon goes on.
The Idealist: Julio has stepped off the endless staircase and reached the silent water.
The Idealist: He has become as calm water, dissolved into his own pond. Let us offer our blessings, our silence, our farewell to this martyr of fate.
The Idealist: And let us imagine that Julio's literary career was a happy one.
The hall remains deathly silent. No applause. No response.
Octavia: A life was taken, and that's all you have to say? You really don't care whether we live or die, do you, Idealist?
Octavia: And all of you?! Don't any of you have anything to say? Why are you all just standing there?
Octavia: If we hadn't kept rejecting the Physician's treatment, maybe Mr. Julio wouldn't have …
The Idealist: Rejecting? How ridiculous! You have no clue what that demon in human skin is capable of—how he'll reach into your mind and mold it like clay, reshaping it until it becomes your prison.
The Idealist: In the realm of fiction, fate, unreality—the dissolution of the ego is inevitable and irreversible. Therefore, we must not resist the ending dealt to us by the Die of Babylon!
Octavia: Do you even know what you're talking about? I've never truly understood you, Idealist.
Octavia: I will find a better way. I must rewrite this tragic tale!
The Idealist: If you disagree, then leave La Sociedad. I will not have our great poem disrupted by an offbeat syllable.
The Idealist: Besides, your tedious talk of social responsibility should've been purged long ago. Modern Latin America belongs to visceral realism, and you're too ignorant to even attempt to seek it out!
Octavia: Ha, haha! What a ridiculous, laughable man you are!
Octavia: Yes, I see it clearly now.
Octavia: It's your tyranny that has driven everyone to ruin!
Octavia: Well, let me tell you something. I'm not leaving. I will establish a new literary movement right here in Comala, right here in La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas.
Octavia: And I—no, we—will use our literature to rescue the inmates who suffer all around us.
Octavia: I've had enough of your condescending, stone-hearted ego and your pompous sophistry!
Octavia: You only bring misfortune upon us with this constant rambling about that visceral realism! I hope I never see you again. Ms. Urd, we have to get you out of here. Another second around, this maniac might just doom us all!
Octavia: Only the Physician—the true overseer of this prison—can save us from this situation!
Octavia: Please join the society, Ms. Dores! Help us build a renewed Sociedad de Poetas together!
Octavia: I've already spoken with the jailer. As long as we follow the rules and help them manage Comala, we'll be free to discuss literature.
Dores: Forgive me, Ms. Octavia. While I truly appreciate your kind offer, I'm afraid my conversation with the Physician must remain private.
Octavia: Why?
Dores: Please answer me this question first. From what you've seen, you'd say this prison is circular in shape, yes?
Octavia: Yes, it is.
Dores: Then tell me—at the center of this structure, is there a watchtower?
Octavia: What ... impossible! You guessed it exactly. And our destination is somewhere inside that watchtower. How did you know?
Dores: I've had such a lovely time here, so much so that I almost forgot what I came for.
Dores: Which is precisely why I must put an end to this cruel farce masquerading as fate.
Octavia: Do you intend to rebel against the watchtower's gaze, just like the Idealist?
Dores: You misunderstand me, Ms. Octavia.
Dores: That inescapable gaze and the permanent theme of "fate" ... To get closer to the truth I seek, I have no choice but to meet the administrator that young lady spoke of.
Dores: You've decided to save the people here with your own hands, in your own way, and so have I. There are things I must face alone.
Though she is well used to death, the pain of Julio's passing still lingers in her heart, causing her to say these words that don't quite feel like herself.
Octavia: I see. Lend me your palm; I'll draw you the way to his office.
Octavia: Good luck to you, and to all of us.
Dores: Farewell, Ms. Octavia. I truly hope all goes well for you in the days ahead ...
As Octavia retreats, slowly fading into the distance, she quietly adds—
Dores: ... and in your journey finding answers about "fate," too.
