BRAZIL
I n spite of all the confusion, the mixed emotions, the drink’s effect is hilarious. I wake up laughing like I haven’t for some time. It’s the kind of laughing that cramps the stomach and makes you wiggle your feet or hands. And the funniest part of it is that I don’t know why.
Could it be because everything around me looks so big?
This room I am in is definitely hot and humid, but its doors are the size of a fortress. The windows are, too, and it takes me a while to realize they are, in fact, windows. And this desert of velvet I’m walking on is nothing but the sheets of normal-sized bed.
I laugh harder when I see the Pillar the same size as me. He looks really annoyed, and it makes me happy.
“See? This is the same way I felt when you drugged me in the rabbit hole, pretending you were the Mad Hatter,” I say.
The Pillar is too annoyed to even answer me. He keeps shouting the Scientist’s name.
“But wait a minute,” I say. “This means the Reds aren’t working for you?”
“The Reds are hired mercenaries, Alice. I hired them last week like others hire them all the time,” the Pillar says. “They once worked for the Queen of Hearts, and some of them still do, but those don’t call themselves Reds anymore.”
“Are you saying the Scientist has hired them now?”
“Looks like it. Where are you, Scientisto!” he shouts.
“I’m here,” a deafening sound answers. “I had to use the Alice Syndrome on you so as to keep my identity secret.”
It’s true. All we see is someone huge talking to us. It’s hard to tell who he is. Still, his loud voice, in proportion with his size, is annoying.
“So let’s cut this short,” the Pillar raises his voice, in case the Scientist can’t hear us clearly. “We know Carolus asked you to cook this plague for him. We need you to cook us the cure.”
I am curious about how this Alice Syndrome works. This is not exactly like the one I experienced in the rabbit hole. I mean, here we’re really small. And what boggles my mind is that I know that we’re not small. It’s just the effect of the drink.
It’s tremendously uncomfortable.
“There is no cure to the plague,” the Scientist says.
“Come on,” I shout. “What kind of virus has no cure? There must be one.”
“This plague is like no other. It’s not a virus.”
“Why does everyone tell us that?” the Pillar says. “You make it sound as if it’s not a chemical plague. Is it some kind of magic?”
“Worse.”
“Tell us, Scientisto,” I say. “Please.”
“I’ll pay double whatever Carolus paid you,” the Pillar offers.
“All the money in the world can’t cure the truth.”
“The truth?” the Pillar and I ask in unison.
“Yes. Carolus wanted a plague that wasn’t just incurable, but also ironic,” the Scientist says. “Like most Wonderlanders who were in the Circus, he wanted to laugh at the world. He wanted to give them a poison of their own.”
“I’m not quite following.” The Pillar suppresses a thin smile on his lips. Of course, he’s amused about the idea. He just wants the Scientist to spell it out for him.
“The Hookah of Hearts plague makes people tell the truth.”