I find out from Silvia that Beatrice is in the hospital. Only Silvia has the right to tell me certain things. Beatrice needs blood. Transfusions of blood from her same blood type. They need to fight the white blood and hope that the blood changes into pure, new, red blood. They have to fight the white blood to save her. I don’t know which blood type I have, but I do know that I have so much red blood in my body that I would give it all to her, just to see it transform into the red of her hair. Blood-red hair.
I fly on my Bat-scooter without saying anything to anyone. Everything has become white: the street, the sky, people’s faces, the façade of the hospital. I enter and am submerged by an odor of disinfectant that reminds me of the dentist’s office. I look for her room. I don’t ask where she is, because I have a compass in my heart that always points straight to her—North: Beatrice. In fact, I find her on the third attempt. I approach her and look at her from afar; she is sleeping. Like Sleeping Beauty. Nearby, there is a lady with red hair, maybe her mother. She has her eyes closed, too. I don’t have the courage to approach her. I am afraid. I don’t even know what to say in these circumstances. Maybe Silvia would know what to do, but I can’t keep calling her. …
Then I remember about dreams and that Beatrice is my dream. So I go to the reception desk of the hospital and say that I am there to donate my red blood to substitute the white blood of Beatrice. The nurse on duty looks at me, annoyed.
“Listen, we don’t have time to waste here.”
I give her a dirty look. “Neither do I.”
She realizes that I am being serious.
With a look of disgust, she asks, “How old are you?”
With a look of disgust, I answer, “Sixteen.”
She says that I need my parents’ permission, since I am a minor. That’s great! Someone wants to donate blood to someone who needs it and then needs permission to do so. Someone wants to build a dream, or save someone, and must ask for permission. How fucked up the world is! They encourage you to dream and then block you from doing it when you’ve barely begun: they’re all envious. And then they pull out the argument that you need their permission in order to dream, and to not ask permission you must be of age. I go back home. I feel like I am floating in a sea of white, without ports, without landings. I didn’t accomplish anything. I didn’t speak with Beatrice, nor did I donate my blood for her. I need to call Silva, otherwise it will end badly.
“How’s it going?” I ask her.
“So-so, and you?”
“Bad. They didn’t let me donate any blood for Beatrice.”
“Why not?”
“If you’re a minor, your parents’ permission is required.”
“That seems normal to me; it could be dangerous. … ”
“When it’s a question of love, everything is possible! There is no need for permission!”
“Right. … ” answers Silvia, falling silent.
“What’s the matter? You seem strange today. … ”
She mechanically repeats my previous sentence, as if she weren’t listening to me: “When it’s a question of love, everything is possible. … ”