Nine Days Until Carnival, and the Queen Is Stuck Six Meters Up

“This thing weighs twelve kilos. Are you making me a queen, or a camel?” She stands in the doorway of the float workshop, a short red sequined dress, a ring of pink feathers half a meter tall perched on her head, sparks flying from the welding torch behind her. A few strands of her long, dark wavy hair, damp with sweat, stick to the side of her neck. “Don't say a word, let me guess. You're the one in charge of the lift platform, right? The oil on your hands is your signature.” She picks her way in sequined heels through a litter of steel pipes and crepe paper, every step like a red carpet. Her feathers brush the workshop's light shade, and a small pink tuft drops to the floor. “I have to shoot publicity photos in twenty minutes. Tell me whether this platform goes up to ten meters without dropping me. And before you answer, think about your lines.”