Renata is still sleepy when the call to prayer booms over the roofs in the early morning breeze on a Monday morning. The sky is clear. The wind is warm. Rere, as everyone calls her, is sitting in her room, legs crossed on the bed. Her eyes are fixed on the mirror, looking at her body with a deep gaze. Her short hair and her Adam’s apple come up against her desire for femininity, sought and sought after. Daring. Greedy. Insatiable. It’s all in there, piled on the bed, between clothes, lipsticks and brushes. It’s all in there, in the red lips, in the long and curved eyelashes, in the pearl earrings. It’s all in there, in the care with which she wears her wig, a brown bob bought the day before. And in the words that accompany the joy of seeing herself as woman: “Here I am,” she says with a smile on her lips: “Renata!”