In my hand there is a tiny object. It feels odd to attribute so much importance to an object this small and plastic, but that is how it is. On the back of the box it came in it reads: "If two lines appear on the screen it shows pregnancy. One single blue line indicates lack of it."
But at the moment I avoid looking at the screen, focusing instead on every other trivial detail, such as the date of expiration and the place of manufacture. It is made in China. That is why it cost me one-third of the price of the other home pregnancy test kits at the drugstore. I wonder how reliable it is. Doesn't it say in the newspapers that Chinese toys can cause allergies? How about Chinese test kits, could they give false positives?
More curious about the reliability of the product in my hand than my own physical condition, my gaze slides down to the small white screen. Relief. Oh, good. There is only one line. Blue. I wasn't ready for the second line. I can go now. But there is a nagging suspicion at the back of my mind, and something tells me not to hurry, not so soon. Then, just as I feared, taking its sweet time, the pink line appears.
Why doesn't the pink line come first and then the blue one? Or why don't they appear simultaneously? There would be less anticipation that way and far less apprehension. Have the Chinese manufacturers designed it this way to make it more exciting for women?
It takes me a few minutes to stop quarreling with the Chinese manufacturers and acknowledge my situation. Slowly but surely my mind recognizes what my heart has already accepted: I am pregnant.
Now what? I need to talk with someone but whom? The first thought that pops into my head is to consult with the finger-women. Yet I quickly abandon the idea. I can't tell them anything yet. Especially not Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, who, I fear, will tear the walls down. Nor Miss Highbrowed Cynic, I definitely can't tell her either. Even talking to Dame Dervish sounds like a lame idea. She will not give me advice to solve this predicament; instead she'll want me to figure it out on my own. But I am far too panicked for that.
Who can I speak to if I can't speak to them?
That's when I recall Mama Rice Pudding. She is the only one among the Thumbelinas who knows anything about babies and pregnancies. But where is she now? How is she doing? I haven't spoken to her since that night under the Brain Tree. I need to see her urgently. But will she talk to me? I'm sure she is still quite upset and will not respond if I send her an invitation. I guess I should go and find her.
Once again, I take a flickering candle and descend into the labyrinth of my soul. Again, I find it very confusing down here, where there are no road signs, no traffic lights. I don't know where Mama Rice Pudding lives and can't imagine what her house looks like.
After an hour of toiling I find her house. It is made out of a milk carton, complete with lace curtains and pots filled with tulips, carnations and hyacinths on its window ledge. I press the doorbell. It chirps a merry tune of singing birds.
"What do you want?" she asks when she opens the door and sees me.
She is wearing a rose-patterned dress and has her hair done up with multihued clips. She seems to have gained a bit more weight. On her feet are fuchsia-colored slippers with pompoms. She wears a red and white polka-dotted kitchen apron that has "Super Cook" written across the top. A divine smell wafts from inside the house. Something sweet and fruity.
"I want to apologize for breaking your heart," I say meekly. "I don't know how to make it up to you, and I fear that now it might be too late. It is just that there is something urgent we need to talk about. May I come inside?"
"Sorry," she says frostily. "I'm kind of in a rush and don't have time for you."
She looks over her shoulder toward her kitchen counter, as if she were about to slam the door in my face. Perhaps she is.
"I have food on the stove," she says. "I'm making beef kebab with artichokes. It is a special recipe that requires maximum attention. I'm also preparing strawberry marmalade. If it boils for too long the sugar will crystallize. I need to go back to my work."
"Wait, please."
Words get clogged in my throat, but I manage to utter an intelligible sentence: "Look, I don't know what to do and I'm scared. I need someone to talk to, but the other finger-women won't understand. Only you can help me."
"And why is that?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Because I am pregnant."
The door springs wide open, a shriek of delight pierces the air and out runs Mama Rice Pudding, her face blossoming with life, her arms open wide. She jumps up and down with joy. I have never seen anyone receive news with so much glee, and for a second, I fear she has lost her mind.
"Congratulations!" she yells, staring at me wide-eyed, like a child at a circus.
"Listen to me, please. My mind is so confused I don't know what to do or how to feel. I guess I wasn't prepared for this, you know."
"Great! Fabulous! Oh, bless you!" she yells again. "Come on in, let me give you some food. You need to eat more now."
During the next hour I do nothing but gobble. Though she cannot convince me to eat meat, she makes me devour a generous slice of raspberry cheesecake, and then pushes into my mouth homemade pastries and spoonful’s of marmalade. When she is fully convinced that I cannot possibly eat another morsel she leans back, suddenly serious.
"Well, well. So this is the way of things," she says. "So you want my help?"
I don't like the change in her voice, but I nod all the same.
"All right, I will help you. But there is one condition."
"Which is?"
"There will be a change in the political regime. We are no longer living under martial law, is that understood? We are done with the coup d'etat."
"Sure, of course," I say like a good sheep. "I have always wanted the Choir of Discordant Voices to move toward a full-fledged democracy. This will be the beginning of a new era."
"About that. ." she says, suddenly having a coughing fit.
"Did something get stuck in your throat?"
Mama Rice Pudding gathers herself upright. "I need to make something very clear," she says. "I am not advocating democracy here. Actually, I want to go back to a monarchy again, except this time I will be the queen."
She must be joking. I'm about to scoff but something in her eyes stops me midway.
"Was there democracy when I was being oppressed?" she asks. "Why should I condone a democratic state now that I'm in charge? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Time to hoot my toot!"
Suddenly I find her irritating, almost scary.
"Go and make me a golden crown," she says. "Those two crazies of yours are no longer in power. I'll have them rot in Alcatraz!"
"There is an Alcatraz inside me?" I ask.
"No, but I will build one," she roars. "Finally the tables have turned! Je suis I'etat![13]"
On my way back, I stop by Miss Highbrowed Cynic's house and break the news to her. She listens without a word, her face as pale as a white sheet. Together we go to Milady Ambitious Chekhovian's apartment and warn her about the upcoming takeover.
"You can't just get rid of us just like that," says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, the strength in her voice missing.
"You can't do this to us," repeats Miss Highbrowed Cynic like a nervous parrot.
"There is nothing I can do," I remark. " This pregnancy has changed everything. As of this moment the coup is over."