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wheeled me into the room with her squeaky soles the only
thing Aza wanted was to keep facing the wall, staring at the
grains of the wallpaper. She felt the pattern with her
fingertips, groping her way through teardrop-shaped
obstacles and seeing in the twists and turns a distant land
of valleys and rivers.
Now she was almost tender as she picked me up and held
me close but gingerly as if I was a cluster of fresh-laid eggs
her parents had sent her out to gather in the chicken run.
With me in her arms, she carefully sat on the window ledge
and slowly swung her legs outside. She exhaled pain in
ragged breaths and beads of sweat dripping from her
forehead. The view over the rooftops of Neuhausen was
rain-coloured. Sunbeams nudged through retreating leaden
clouds, polishing up roofs and treetops. Everything smelled
of earth and bark. Starlings chirruped, somewhere a dog
was barking, and a cyclist whizzed through puddles on the
newly washed cobblestones. Otherwise it was quiet. But
then my stomach started to rumble and, gulping in a great
mouthful of air, I let it out in a screech, which turned into
yelling, first demanding, then angry, and with each gasp I
jerked my body around like a fish snapping for air. I opened
my purple mouth wide, screamed, and clenched my fists
until they lost all colour, becoming bloodless and almost
translucent. Aza stretched out her arms, holding me, this
bawling red-faced infant fury away from her, out towards
the tower of the Dom Pedro Church. It was 7 September
1994, Wednesday afternoon, six o’clock and, when the