Catarina
In place of the fabrics, Donato used natural-coloured beach mats made from the filaments and fibres of flexible reeds. He cut them to size, he connected the pieces using gauze, wood glue, cobblers’ glue, he made the trousers and then a jacket that closed in front with sticky tape. His hands and feet were left uncovered. Only after he has put on the fibre clothing (he doesn’t know how painful it will be) will he put on the wooden mask. Almost every morning he looks at the Polaroid photograph. Luisa keeps calling, every day, and he doesn’t answer. He only replied to one of the emails, a reply that said ‘I’m alive and well’. He thinks about identifying which tree Maína hanged herself from; according to his research, it is the place where her soul entered the earth. Thinking about this is hard. He looks at the photo, the masks made of paper and card, the paints whose colours he tries to make out under the sepia of the image’s natural chemical decay; it’s almost impossible to make out anything black or brown, the frames around the eyes of the masks, the eyes. Today would not be easy, because soon he has to make a decision about which chants he is going to use (the secret of what he’s planning is in the chants, in the songs, even those that have been lost for generations can return in dreams; he doesn’t need to be asleep to dream, any shaman knows that, any Indian, even a half-caste Indian, can be a shaman if he is alone). He sees no harm in being one of those Indians who prefer to think they are at war with the non-Indians, because the non-Indians all seem to want them kept at a distance. He has discovered that walking alone helps him to find the chant. If it does not come in a dream, an Indian can invent his own song. Donato is angry; when he’s angry like this he shouldn’t leave the house. Today Donato needs to leave the house. The chants help you to find someone who is far away and someone who is dead. He will get Maína’s name right in the chant, he will stretch out the letter i in the middle of the name, the i is the most vertical of the letters. He was absolutely certain when he saw the owl flying over the water-tower of the DMAE, the municipal department responsible for water and sewage, in the neighbourhood called Moinhos de Ventos, on one of his walks. DMAE … Moinhos … mãe … Maína. For years the voice of the wooden owl has been in thought. Someone who dies does not speak, but invents his hearing. Maína will hear him. The spirit must know that it is still loved. Donato is confused, he is making things up. It’s necessary to sing for a certain number of days. He still doesn’t know how many. He’s making things up. Even lost songs can come back. Donato looks at the Polaroid photograph. It is nearly two in the afternoon. He will sing to find the way back. The mask will connect their two souls. Donato puts on the straw clothes and then the mask. He opens the front door. It’s one of those seemingly perfect days. It will take him almost an hour to get where he means to go.
Catarina emphasises what she has already said at the start of the interview. ‘What matters is that I got together with my two best friends and set up this Foundation to bring music and dance to the busiest public spaces in Porto Alegre,’ she says, looking across at the newspaper reporter from