The night air on the outskirts of the military camp was fresh, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and, from a distance, the acrid smoke from the soldiers' campfires. Far from the disciplined bustle of the troops, a smaller fire crackled, illuminating tired and expectant faces. It was the fire of the Beautiful Morning Troupe. The flames cast dancing shadows on the canvas-covered, patched-up wagons, the chests of faded costumes, and the musical instruments carefully propped against a tree.

  Dinner—a thin porridge and pieces of dried meat—had already been consumed. The silence was broken only by the crackling of firewood and the distant croaking of frogs. Until Toco, the youngest of the troupe, a skinny lad with restless eyes, could take it no longer.

  "Rosa, for God's sake!" his voice sounded louder than he intended in the quiet air. "Are we really going to bury ourselves in the middle of the jungle, at the end of the world, to put on plays for... for savages? What would a quilombola understand about Euripides? About comedies of manners?"

  Kátia, a young dark-haired woman with intelligent eyes and hands calloused from sewing so many backdrops, sighed, rubbing her arms against the descending chill.

  "We've been over this a thousand times, Toco," she said, with worn-out patience. "After the Dutch left, who pays for theater? The Portuguese only want mass and saint's day festivals. The only place that still has patrons is the Holy City, and I'm sick of performing miracles of Saint Sebastian and martyrdoms of saints for fat bishops who doze off during the final act."

  Several other members of the troupe nodded silently. An older man, who took care of the props, was stroking a scepter painted with gold, now flaking.

  Rosa, seated on a log with a frayed shawl wrapped around her reddish shoulders, watched the flames. Her face, marked by years on the road and worry, was serious.

  "I understand the fear, Toco. I understand everyone's weariness," she spoke, her voice calm, but with a firm core of conviction that everyone recognized. "We've been fighting for years to keep the art alive in a place that only seems to value sugar and the holy wafer. But we must be open to the new."

  She raised her eyes, looking at each person around the fire.

  "The rumors that circulate about Tatu... aren't just about weapons and war. They speak of a school. Of a library. Of people, common folk, learning to read. And it's not just Blacks," she added, seeing disbelief on some faces. "Many whites, artisans, blacksmiths, even some discontented small farmers, are going there. If, by chance, the main audience isn't interested... perhaps we'll find a new audience among them."

  She paused, her gaze losing itself in the embers.

  "But I'll be honest. One of the biggest reasons that makes me want to go... is curiosity. I want to see with my own eyes this city that is turning the world upside down. I want to know what kind of place builds libraries in the middle of a war."

  ***

  Carlos's office smelled of lemongrass tea. The morning light streamed strongly through the windows, illuminating the dust dancing in the still air. Carlos was seated, but his mind was far away, churning in vicious circles.

  Decision after decision, and each one seems to have fifty ramifications I didn't foresee. Approving the diversion for the attack on White Sand was the right call? Should I have pushed harder for the Holy City, to support Paula? I'm too reactive, too defensive. A good leader should have a clear vision, not always putting out fires or choosing between bad options... The thought was an anxious, familiar patrol. Am I really a good leader, or just a lucky guy in the wrong place at the right time?

  A soft but firm knock on the door interrupted the spiral.

  "Come in," said Carlos, trying to push away the fog of doubt.

  His secretary, Márcia, entered with her usual posture, efficient and discreet.

  "Good morning, President. There is an... unusual group requesting an audience. A traveling theater troupe, the 'Beautiful Morning.' They arrived with Chief White Sand's convoy. They say they have a recommendation from Commander Specter."

  Carlos furrowed his brow for a second, then his eyes lit up. Theater... The word sounded like an unexpected refuge amid the logistical chaos and grim forecasts. He desperately needed something other than ammunition reports and siege maps.

  "Send them in, Márcia. Please."

  He waited, arranging some papers on the desk, trying to look more busy and less tormented than he felt. The door opened again, but only one person entered. It was a woman in her forties, with reddish hair faded by the sun, tied in a simple bun. Her green eyes, however, were vivid and observant, sweeping the room with the quickness of someone assessing a new stage. Her dress was simple, clean, but clearly mended in some discreet places. It was Rosa.

  She stopped a few steps from the desk, and Carlos saw surprise pass over her face. She expected a bearded old man, a general, not a worried-looking young man lacking sleep, he deduced, feeling a mix of bitterness and amusement.

  Rosa gave a careful bow, not too deep, but respectful.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. President. My name is Rosa, and I represent the 'Beautiful Morning' Traveling Theater Troupe. I thank you for your time. You, understandably, may not be familiar with the theatrical arts, but allow me to explain..."

  Carlos raised his hand gently, interrupting her with a small smile.

  "Please, stop there. I'm sorry to disappoint the expectation, but I know very well what theater is. In fact, I'm quite interested."

  Rosa's face opened in genuine surprise, followed by palpable relief.

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  "Ah! Forgive me, President, it was rude of me to presume..."

  "Not at all," he replied, with a casual gesture. "Around here, aside from Sunday football, the entertainment options are... limited. I confess I sorely miss... well, stories told like that. Plays, movies, series..." his voice had a touch of nostalgia. "I would love to see something your troupe can offer."

  Rosa's smile became genuine and hopeful.

  "Oh, sir, that's wonderful! We have a diverse repertoire. We have a delightful comedy about an arranged marriage that goes wrong, a historical drama about Tupinambá resistance"—she lowered her voice instinctively—"and even an adapted Greek tragedy, Medea, about the dangers of passion and revenge..."

  As she spoke, listing the titles with visible pride, an idea began to form in Carlos's mind. An image appeared: Quixotina, with her improvised armor, her absurd and pure devotion to Dulcinea, her passion for chivalric tales.

  She's a noble. Or was. Theater must be in her blood. A gift... something that speaks directly to her glorious madness... he thought, a plan rapidly taking shape.

  "Ms. Rosa," he gently interrupted, making her stop mid-description of Medea. "Actually, I have a slightly more specific proposal. Would you perform a commissioned play?"

  Rosa blinked, intrigued.

  "Com...missioned, President?"

  "Yes. There's a story. Don Quixote de La Mancha. Do you know it?"

  Rosa's face transformed. Surprise gave way to a gleam of recognition and professional enthusiasm.

  "Know it? But of course! The knight of the sorrowful countenance!" she exclaimed, forgetting formality for a moment. "Forgive me again, President. I was doubly rude. I assumed you didn't know theater, and here you are citing Cervantes! Many disdain the book, say it's a mockery of chivalric romances... but I think it's brilliant. The madness that reveals more truth than sanity."

  Carlos laughed, a genuine sound of pleasure.

  "I fully agree. And here in the Republic... we have our own Quixote. Except she's a woman. We call her Quixotina. And she has her own Dulcinea." His eyes shone with the idea. "I was thinking... what if you adapted the story for the stage? But with Quixotina as the protagonist. It would be a gift for her. Of course, adapting such a rich book is a huge challenge. That's also why I'm thinking, in the future, of bringing more plays, more stories from my... world of origin. To see if any captivate the audience here."

  Rosa was paralyzed for a moment. A commissioned play. A classic theme. The possibility of an entire new repertoire... Then, the practical part of her mind, the one that counted coins, spoke louder. All this depends on him. If only he is the audience, we'll be court artists, dependent on his mood and his purse. It's no different from serving a capricious plantation owner in exchange for board and food. But who knows, we might perform some open-air play in exchange for alms.

  "It would be... an immense honor, President," she said, weighing her words. "But to stage a play, we need a venue. Is there a theater, a performance hall here in Tatu?"

  Carlos made a thoughtful expression.

  "At the moment, we don't have a proper theater..." he saw Rosa's face close slightly. "But you can stay at our hotel, at the Republic's expense, while we build one."

  "Build one?" she asked, incredulous.

  "Yes!" Carlos grew animated, his tendency to get excited about the Republic's projects taking over. "The construction sector is working at full steam. The city grows every day, with more people arriving. We need houses, apartments, factories... and there's no shortage of labor. They're even using Adepts to speed up the process, you know? Fire Adepts to dry materials, Water for mixtures, Earth to solidify foundations quickly. It's impressive! Sometimes I think they're being more efficient here than in my..."

  He was interrupted by a dry, deliberate cough beside him. Shadow, silent and constant, remained motionless, but the cough had been a perfect warning. Carlos stopped, blushing slightly as he realized he was rambling to someone he barely knew.

  "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "I got carried away. The important thing is: we will have a theater. Márcia!" he called.

  His secretary appeared at the door almost instantly.

  "Yes, President?"

  "Please, accompany Ms. Rosa and her troupe to the Central Hotel. They are our guests. And, on the way, stop by the Municipal Bookstore and arrange for them to receive two editions of Don Quixote." He turned back to Rosa. "For studying the material. Ah, and after that, Márcia, call the Minister of Construction. We have a new priority project."

  ***

  Rosa left the office with her mind in a whirlwind. She found the troupe clustered outside the town hall, their anxious faces lit by the morning sun. Toco, Kátia, the old prop master, plus others all stared at her.

  "So?" asked Toco, unable to wait.

  "It was... unexpected," admitted Rosa, still processing. "The president is young. Very young. And he's... excited. It seems we will have work, yes. A lot of work."

  "Really?" Kátia grabbed her arm. "When? Where do we do the first performance?"

  "It will take a while," explained Rosa. "They are going to build a theater. Until then, we will be staying..."

  At that moment, Márcia appeared, with a folder under her arm and a professional smile.

  "Please, follow me. I'll take you to your accommodation and then to the bookstore."

  The troupe, carrying their most precious belongings, followed Márcia, leaving the square in front of the town hall and entering the streets of Tatu for the first time.

  What they saw left them speechless, stopping mid-path to stare.

  The streets weren't made of packed earth and mud, like in every city they knew. They were wide, clean, made of regular blocks of a light gray, smooth material—concrete. They formed a precise geometric pattern, with side gutters for rainwater. Young trees, protected by wooden grates, were planted at regular intervals along the beds. The smell wasn't of garbage and open sewage, but of damp earth from watering and, vaguely, something chemical and industrial coming from the factories in the distance.

  But what shocked them most were the people. There was constant movement. Men and women, whites, Blacks, mixed-race, all dressed simply, but cleanly and decently. No one walked barefoot. Many carried books or newspapers under their arms. A group of workers, in sturdy clothes, walked towards a construction site, laughing about something. A woman swept the sidewalk in front of a shop with clear signs: "Sewing Cooperative." There was a bustle, but it was the sound of work, of conversation, not of chaos or misery.

  "Holy God..." whispered the old prop master, his wooden scepter forgotten hanging from his trembling hand.

  They followed, stunned, until Márcia stopped in front of a building that made them all look up. The Central Hotel. It wasn't a palace, but it was, undeniably, one of the tallest structures they had ever seen—four stories of pure concrete and large glass windows. Its fa?ade was sober, but imposing.

  Inside, the shock continued. The lobby was bright, with a shiny floor and a wide staircase. But the greatest astonishment came when Márcia led them to a room and opened a tap attached to the wall. Running water, crystal clear and fresh, gushed into a white porcelain sink.

  "The water is pumped throughout the building," explained Márcia, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "The collective baths are at the end of the hall. The room keys."

  She handed the keys to Rosa, who held them as if they were made of solid gold. The troupe stood in the lobby, looking at each other, then at the stairs, at the taps, at the impossible world outside the window.

  The dream of the theater, suddenly, seemed not only possible, but part of something much larger and stranger than any of them could have imagined around the fire the night before.