White Squad. Annalu Braga
Stop it, Maneco. You are married and I know you can´t play because your wife keeps you on a very short leash!
– But what about Gil, will he make it? – asks one of the regulars at the bar.
– From what I recently saw on the internet, his chances are 10%. This will yield news in the papers, because that is what people like. – he comments.
– It´s also possible that 'the pigs will finish him' at the hospital.
– This is already just like the movies. It is easier for him to die in such a hospital bed, the kind we all will end in because we have no money, than to become a movie star.
– This Deise leaves nothing behind, a practical woman, ready for anything and with all the answers on the tip of her tongue– he blinks, flirting like crazy. – Deise, tell me something, when are you going to go out and about with me? You know, I've been waiting for this chance since I met you ...
A mulatto woman with a red leather handbag storms into the bar. Rosa complains, annoyed for not finding her car keys where they should be: on the clavicular! She translates: on the key holder. Maneco, who has been at work since six in the morning, asks for some patience.
– No excuses. I have a schedule, I'm a very busy woman. It is not because I am of black descent and I live in a community that I do not have my rights. Where are the keys?
Rosa checks out the traffic through the view she has from the top of the buildings and decides on a taxi. She comes out in short steps, showing her thin and muscular legs under close eyes, especially her No. 1 fan, her husband´s, and No. 2, her manicure´s.
– That is what it means, to be in true possession of your rights. That's right – Deise quips, glimpsing at the elegance of the sweet mulatto woman.
At the hospital, Roberta, leaning over a steel counter, hastily signs up the transfer papers for her husband. Her tracing is precise and culminates with a brush paint stroke at the name end. An official observes if the all the items have been filled in, while she is feeling proud about her daughter's profession as a journalist, for, without Tatiana, she would not have been able to get this release.
– The healthcare plan did not want to pay for the helicopter, but she is a journalist and has influence.
– Or at least they think I do. – corrects the journalist.
– That´s okay, the important thing is that we can now take your father to Rio. There, he will get better care and has more options – she emphasizes, going against a local employee.
– Madam, I'm sorry, but our hospital has all the conditions. What happens is that our equipment is not as complete as the ones the ICUs in Rio have.
– Yes, I understand, in fact, it reassures me I´m doing the right thing in taking João Henrique to Rio. We are at home there and have well-known doctors.
– I'm sorry, ma'am, but the doctors in Teresópolis are very good and recognized by the population for an efficient service, comparable to those in Rio de Janeiro.
The helicopter lands in a cloud of dust in the center of the hospital's courtyard lawn. Lying on a transport stretcher, João Henrique is accompanied by two nurses and a rescue worker.
The aircraft flies over the Serra dos Órgãos mountains, an infinitely deep blue-green. A dense fog disappears with the device, over just the typical sound of a bee sandwiched on the glass, turning the path between life and death – black and white, fear and sigh, lightning and surface – to be infinitely cruel to Roberta and Tatiana from now on. And who said life would not be predestined to be hung by a thread?
II
Tatiana drives back to Rio without delaying her eyes´ curtain over the landscape that tries to hide her anguish. The moment is exclusive and it settles like a cone protecting the dialogue between mother and daughter. They go down the mountain and take the time to disarm themselves, at this right moment, to cry and vent. Roberta has maintained an almost morbid silence for a long time.
– First they said João had a fractured rib, which would heal on his own, and yesterday the doctor reported that the tests showed a lung perforation. I can't take it!
– Easy now. Dad has always been healthy, he never smoked, he played sports. I assume that the lung problem can be overcome with antibiotics.
– That's if he doesn't get pneumonia. Would the solution come only by a miracle? I am tired of this brainwashing based liturgy, the collective that does not respect the individual being, an atheist!
– Mother, I believe there is a Force, something like that, that moves the other forces that we are.
– The Force, the Energy, the Good, the Bad, what is the reason for this certainty that things are governed in this way? I've been at my limit since I saw your father like that. He does not deserve it, he has always been a person filled with the best possible intentions, one of the most humanitarian people I have ever seen, but the faithful, “fearful of God”, do not think like this. All the good that happens to them is due to Him and not to their ability to work, to have struggled to raise a daughter and make her finish university with his daily life sweat. University books? Expensive, Roland Barthes, the English and French dictionaries, computer classes, TV direction and film script courses.
– I know what you did for me. You even left the Fine Arts course to continue working in the store.
– It was a more than just cause, but when your father leaves the hospital I will review this part of my life. All that that is happening is a shock that I have to overcome, but he is alive and survived a direct collision, on foot, with a car. This is luck.
– I went to the police station and did some research if there was an accident that day, something that had the characteristics of the pick-up truck that crossed the road and ran over Dad, but there was no similar occurrence. What weighs in all this is disinformation. In the countryside, everything is so slow and backwards that I don't think I'll ever discover anything. And whoever ran dad over never stopped to help. It's unacceptable what people do for fear of getting involved, and this guy had to go to jail for it. We have to find out who is responsible, it is not possible that nobody saw anything, there were houses close to the highway, some witnesses are probably ...
– Leave your journalist instinct for the moment, because finding out who hit him won't help, I´m sorry.
– Love Instinct, daughter's love, and Justice. I am very close to Dad and besides, you know that I cannot turn a blind eye to events.
– And I can't think of anything except his image, full of probes and devices, poor thing. Immobilized, sedated, full of pumps. I wanted to talk to him so badly so he wouldn't feel alone.
Roberta pours into tears. Tati stops the vehicle on the shoulder and hugs her. The two mix their tears for a few minutes.
– You should stop being the world´s mother. Dad is strong and I am fully independent. Think about yourself now, about traveling more, seeing the works of art you like in loco, getting out of the routine. But, by plane, please. What I am trying to tell you is that it is enough sacrifice already. It's time to look inside you, resume painting, take care of the wounds you treated with patched cloths. Trust the doctors, they have sworn an oath and have a responsibility to life, at least to the people who give their lives to them.
Roberta smiles for the first time. Tati rejoices, because she always felt guilty: how many times she got home late at night after college and when she put her key in the door she heard her voice, warning about the food in the oven: roasted meat with vegetables, together with a recommendation. "Do not forget the salad because vegetables are essential for those who study a lot, it helps memory". The journalist was always amused, from the top of her heels and also a few beers, either from the mention of studying or the difficulty degree found in journalism universities in Brazil.
In a hotel room in Chartreuse, snow begins to foam on the window, confusing day with night. The snow lightening the night and the popping of ice on the glass