Nowhere People

and put up with them

when they are more savage

and above all

when they sleep with no clothes on

during those fatal fights

in the damp chambers of the prison

built by your own hands

(at my wakes)

where there are no longer

any coincidences

nor the limestone shadows

from that dead day

on the dead pavement

outside that square

‌

the day before the hearing

The president of FUNAI tendered his resignation, but the resignation has not yet been officially accepted. The number of the undersigned multiplies online, analysts are saying the masked man inspires people to pay attention, he is undoubtedly an unpredictable provocateur. At eleven in the morning he will speak at a small press conference called by Catarina (the first offline interview to have a wide reach) to talk about the meaning of his appearances and about the hearing at tomorrow’s Minor Offences Court.

‘What’s the mask for?’

‘The mask is an allegory, it has a personal purpose.’

‘What would that be?’

‘To reclaim my identity, my dignity as an Indian.’

‘Reclaim your identity by hiding?’

‘ …’

‘You’ve threatened the government. Am I right in saying that?’

‘If talking about the dignity of indigenous people is threatening,’ he pauses deliberately, ‘then I’m delighted to be the cause of such a threat.’

‘Is there any way you could clarify a bit what you mean by dignity?’

‘It’s about returning the lands that have been usurped … When I was younger I thought the only solution was to take all the Indians and civilise them in the non-Indian way once and for all, but I was wrong.’

‘Is it true you’ve done a deal with a toy company to produce a doll wearing a mask just like yours?’

‘ …’

‘And that the toy mask will be removable?’

‘That’s absurd. It’s never going to happen.’

‘But if it did, do you think any child would want it?’

‘Children aren’t usually scared of things that are real.’

‘Are you real?’

‘ …’

‘Is it true that people have been mobilising and encouraging donations to your cause right across Brazil?’

‘No.’

‘What about this hearing tomorrow?’

‘Justice wears a blindfold … A blindfold? I won’t be going that far myself.’

Then, deliberately disturbing the rhythm of the interview (to tell the truth, this was the only reason he agreed to do it), Donato says he would like to read out two very short stories written by his mother, a young Guarani Indian called Maína who lived on the side of the BR-116 and who, like hundreds of other Indians all over Brazil, precisely because she was unable to see any sign of a possible future, committed suicide in nineteen ninety-three. After this, and as though it would be impossible to go back to answering questions, he volunteers to talk about the meaning of his chanting. He confirms that, yes, the straw and wood do hurt a little, and the interview comes to an end.