This tree grows up and down. It has a hundred trunks. There is a man inside, between the trunks, standing up and looking out. This one is a flower.”
“Like one of our flowers?”
“No,” Liza said. “Like a lion roaring, with feathers for teeth. But his face is red, and his stripes are white. Here is a lily as tall as a child. It is yellow. The child is white.”
“What is on the next page?”
“Next is a bird, with the face of a monkey.”
This was a lie. The book had been one of Carolina’s favorites, and boasted no such creature.
“No,” Carolina said. “It is a jacaranda tree. It is silver with purple flowers, and it lines every street in the city.”
Liza was silent.
“Go ahead,” Carolina said, after a moment.
“It is a fruit,” Liza said, finally. “With thorns like a rose.”
For those first several weeks, the darkness was complete. But then Carolina began to see again, in her dreams.
At first the glimpses were so slim they might only have been memories: the sun blazing through the new spring leaves, which seemed to be in danger of disintegrating in its rays; a box her mother kept by her bed, red cloth, embroidered with a white parrot; a silver bowl full of lemons. But then the stray images began to form themselves into events she knew had never happened. Her father lifted the lid from a basket of plums to find it guarded by a white asp with pink eyes. Pietro bounded out the front door and, with a laugh, rose into the sky.
It took her perhaps a week to sort the fragments of sleep from memory and recognize that she could see again in her dreams. As soon as she was certain, she began to make attempts to exert her will in the unreal world. Pietro could fly. Why shouldn’t she? But flight didn’t come to her instantly. She began simply by turning around. If she found herself walking up the stairs in a dream, she stopped, pivoted, and started down. Maybe she discovered herself in the midst of a game, but that didn’t mean she had to play. As the men rolled the wooden balls over the grass, she slipped away and disappeared into the lemon grove, or lost herself in the forest. She might emerge from the woods again on a shell-paved road, or discover a new ocean lapping at the other side of the grove.
At dream parties in unfamiliar homes, she began to open doors, step backward through them, and close them behind herself before any of the other guests noticed. One door led her into a room filled with hundreds of white statues of human figures, no bigger than doves, set on small shelves in the high walls. Another opened into a clearing at the foot of a giant tree with the smooth skin of an elephant. Pale blue flowers had somehow found a way to blossom on its bark like moss. One time she stepped backward, not into a new room, but into a cold galaxy that she fell through endlessly, her heart seasick, her lungs aching with fear until at last she awoke, grateful for the moment to find herself in simple darkness.
Someone knocked on her door again, as implacable as the angel of death.
Carolina extricated herself from the embrace of sleep. She had no idea what time it was, or even what season. She pulled her covers over her chest and sat up.
“Yes?” she said.
The door opened.
“Your father is downstairs,” Liza said. “It is three o’clock in the afternoon.”
Carolina shook her head. She had not seen her father since her sight left her, and he had not sent any warning in advance.
“I am not dressed,” Carolina said.
“They are waiting in the conservatory,” Liza added.
Carolina bowed her head and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
“I will help you,” Liza said.
Carolina nodded and pushed the covers back.
In a few minutes, they had buttoned Carolina into a pale gold day dress and Liza had twisted and pinned Carolina’s hair into place. A pair of pearl teardrops dangled from her ears, and a strand of pearls lay heavy on her throat.
“There you are,” Liza said.
“Like one of our flowers?”
“No,” Liza said. “Like a lion roaring, with feathers for teeth. But his face is red, and his stripes are white. Here is a lily as tall as a child. It is yellow. The child is white.”
“What is on the next page?”
“Next is a bird, with the face of a monkey.”
This was a lie. The book had been one of Carolina’s favorites, and boasted no such creature.
“No,” Carolina said. “It is a jacaranda tree. It is silver with purple flowers, and it lines every street in the city.”
Liza was silent.
“Go ahead,” Carolina said, after a moment.
“It is a fruit,” Liza said, finally. “With thorns like a rose.”
For those first several weeks, the darkness was complete. But then Carolina began to see again, in her dreams.
At first the glimpses were so slim they might only have been memories: the sun blazing through the new spring leaves, which seemed to be in danger of disintegrating in its rays; a box her mother kept by her bed, red cloth, embroidered with a white parrot; a silver bowl full of lemons. But then the stray images began to form themselves into events she knew had never happened. Her father lifted the lid from a basket of plums to find it guarded by a white asp with pink eyes. Pietro bounded out the front door and, with a laugh, rose into the sky.
It took her perhaps a week to sort the fragments of sleep from memory and recognize that she could see again in her dreams. As soon as she was certain, she began to make attempts to exert her will in the unreal world. Pietro could fly. Why shouldn’t she? But flight didn’t come to her instantly. She began simply by turning around. If she found herself walking up the stairs in a dream, she stopped, pivoted, and started down. Maybe she discovered herself in the midst of a game, but that didn’t mean she had to play. As the men rolled the wooden balls over the grass, she slipped away and disappeared into the lemon grove, or lost herself in the forest. She might emerge from the woods again on a shell-paved road, or discover a new ocean lapping at the other side of the grove.
At dream parties in unfamiliar homes, she began to open doors, step backward through them, and close them behind herself before any of the other guests noticed. One door led her into a room filled with hundreds of white statues of human figures, no bigger than doves, set on small shelves in the high walls. Another opened into a clearing at the foot of a giant tree with the smooth skin of an elephant. Pale blue flowers had somehow found a way to blossom on its bark like moss. One time she stepped backward, not into a new room, but into a cold galaxy that she fell through endlessly, her heart seasick, her lungs aching with fear until at last she awoke, grateful for the moment to find herself in simple darkness.
Someone knocked on her door again, as implacable as the angel of death.
Carolina extricated herself from the embrace of sleep. She had no idea what time it was, or even what season. She pulled her covers over her chest and sat up.
“Yes?” she said.
The door opened.
“Your father is downstairs,” Liza said. “It is three o’clock in the afternoon.”
Carolina shook her head. She had not seen her father since her sight left her, and he had not sent any warning in advance.
“I am not dressed,” Carolina said.
“They are waiting in the conservatory,” Liza added.
Carolina bowed her head and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
“I will help you,” Liza said.
Carolina nodded and pushed the covers back.
In a few minutes, they had buttoned Carolina into a pale gold day dress and Liza had twisted and pinned Carolina’s hair into place. A pair of pearl teardrops dangled from her ears, and a strand of pearls lay heavy on her throat.
“There you are,” Liza said.
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