But in the dream she’s dead. Her face appears as an unfinished wooden sculpture. That upsets me. And it’s not right. It must be somebody else, somebody who looks like her. She is not the one who is dead. It is others who are dying. Not Aida. She is alive. She hasn’t grown thinner, she isn’t covered in sores, she hasn’t lost all her strength so that all she can do is lie on a bast-mat in the shade, staring up at the sky or at the big leaves of the banana trees.