Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (32 page)

The news that he's leaving the gym spreads among the students, and he starts receiving invitations to farewell outings and dinners that he politely turns down with lies. After a certain point, it doesn't even occur to him to recharge his cell phone battery.

His brief career as a swimming instructor at Academia Swell comes to an end on an abnormally busy Saturday morning. A lot of locals are out, and about despite the fine rain and on his way home, he notices that many are carrying small blue or red flags and listening to handheld or car radios. A taxi driver explains that a live election debate is taking place on Rádio Garopaba between the two contenders for mayor: the Progressive Party's candidate, who is up for reelection, and his opponent from the Workers' Party. For weeks all the talk in town has been focused on promises of paved streets and new municipal health clinics, accusations of favoritism and corruption, videos and recordings on the Internet showing supposed cases of vote buying, and a rumor that the current mayor has a new swimming pool paid for with public funds, which hasn't stopped hundreds of his supporters, most born and bred in Garopaba, from flocking to the square waving blue flags with a few colorful umbrellas among them. The Rádio Garopaba headquarters is in an office adjacent to the parish church, and the stairs are cordoned off with tape and watched by two guards. A car with a loudspeaker on top blasts out the debate for all to hear, and each good reply by a candidate is applauded and celebrated with cries of support and slogans. There are people of all ages, with respectable families and gangs of adolescents moving through the crowd like schools of fish, and tense Party members in dark glasses coordinating things. Wary children watch everything, leaning against cars or sitting on their parents' shoulders, and elderly people look rejuvenated, dashing here and there, cheering with raised fists, reeling somewhat from the overload of stimuli. There is something threatening in the air. Workers' Party activists circulate around the perimeter of the square with red flags and the exchange of threats, and cursing is frank and humorless. Politics has got the population worked up, and stories are making the rounds about everything from verbal arguments and fistfights to iron bars and fish knives. Ever since he got punched in the face by strangers, he has avoided getting too close to the locals, but today it seems that all aggressive impulses are being channeled toward the exaltation of one or another candidate and hatred for his opponent and his opponent's voters. He remains at the edges of the tumult, neutral in his preference and at the same time interested in the growing intensity of the collective frenzy. A few cars inch their way through the alleyways around the square, honking endlessly. Over the loudspeakers the current mayor refutes his adversary's allegation that he is planning to raise property tax rates and says that during the four years of his administration, rates have merely kept pace with inflation. The crowd celebrates his answer with flag waving, horn honking, and shouting. Girls parade around in heavy makeup with glistening lips, long, straight hair, platform shoes, and their best and tightest jeans. A fisherman in tattered clothes doesn't tire of inciting others to shout, The people united will never be defeated! with little success. Many people are drunk, and beer cans are inadvertently kicked across the ground. The unexpected arrival of two cars carrying opposition party members creates a stir. Workers' Party members wave red flags out the windows and try to forge a path through the busy street with their vehicles. The people in the square start chanting, Look who's desperate! Look who's desperate! The din is so great that the debate can no longer be heard. People begin plastering the cars with blue stickers. The driver of one car tries to tear a blue flag out of the hand of a voter, and a heated argument spreads in waves of shouting, running, pushing, and shoving. Parents usher their children away, but the fight is soon broken up, and the crowd parts to let the two cars drive away. They disappear around the first corner. The Workers' Party candidate speaks poorly of the doctors in Garopaba, giving rhetorical ammunition to the current mayor, who wins the debate. The two opponents can soon be seen talking to the local press at the entrance to the church, at the top of the hill, and a few minutes later they start walking down the stairs. The Workers' Party candidate leaves discreetly, while the current mayor savors each step and opens his arms like an emperor going to meet his people to the sound of his campaign jingle. He is a large man who looks like an American film star who is murdered in
The Godfather
. As the mayor picks up a child, a new fight breaks out between opposing activists on the beach side of the square. He is a certain distance from the center of the commotion, but he is able to see men and women in a scuffle and a man getting knocked to the ground with a leg sweep and getting up again. The police move in quickly, and the fight is reduced to small groups backing off while swearing and making threats. In the meantime a rally led by the car with loudspeakers has begun to form. He buys a beer at the coffee shop on the corner of the square and tags behind the cars and pedestrians as they head for the town center. Soon dozens of cars and hundreds of motorbikes and bicycles form a long serpent that slithers through the narrow streets of the village to the main avenue, passing the health clinic. The intermittent rain slowly drenches the participants. The sounds of car horns, engines revving, and exhaust pipes backfiring mix with the repetitive election jingle in an infernal cacophony. The motorbikes lead the way down the main avenue, most with a driver and someone on the back waving a flag. In their wake comes a line of cars, pickups, and SUVs packed with people. A toothless man in the back of a pickup that is falling to pieces beats on the roof incessantly with a bicycle wheel. Some people ride on car hoods and trunks. The rally becomes an apocalyptic parade, and those who are not involved look on in shock from sidewalks and front gardens. Men whistle at rain-drenched women leaning out of cars displaying their cleavage, while older residents sip maté and smoke, watching everything with a slightly bored expression. Everyone seems about to crash their car, fall off their motorbike, or start a fight. He follows the rally for a while, but when the rain gets heavier, he decides to call it a day. He stops off for another two beers on his way home, and in one tavern he hears that someone tried to stab a rival voter and accidentally clipped a child's arm. Another man brags that he sold his vote to both candidates on the same day and confesses that he still isn't sure who to vote for. When the men at the next table find out that he is from Porto Alegre, they ask how the election is going there. He hiccups, says he hasn't got the slightest idea, and gets up to pay. Then he returns to the table and quickly looks at each of their faces.

Do I know any of you?

Slowly they say no.

Nice to meet you, then. Good-bye, gentlemen.

He walks back to the village through the trail of silence, flags, exhaust fumes, and beer cans left in the wake of the rally. The jingle, the yelling, the engines, and horns grow more and more distant until they completely disappear.

H
e waits for the rain to
stop for two days, but by the third it is evident that it isn't going to let up anytime soon. Matches won't light. Droplets of water slide down the sides of the old white refrigerator as if it were in a feverish sweat. The moisture in the air weighs down his greasy hair and the dog's fur. He packs his camping backpack with two changes of clothes, a towel, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, the knife with the armadillo-leather handle, his tightly rolled sleeping bag, two lighters, a small mirror, a bottle of mineral water, a quarter of a wheel of cheese, a salami, two packets of cream-filled cookies, dried bananas, a few apples, and a packet of dry dog food, all in plastic bags. He puts on a tracksuit, his waterproof jacket, his running shoes, and a cap. He firmly closes the windows and waits for Beta to come out before locking the door and hiding the key under a rock among some plants alongside the building. He pats Beta's ribs, and she wags her tail a little. The winter cold has gone, but the sun is unable to force its way through the clouded sky.

After thinking for a moment, he decides to head out through Vigia Point. He passes the unoccupied summer mansions on deforested grounds and reaches the headland. The trail grows narrower and steeper as the native vegetation closes in. Where it starts to drop down toward the sea, the scrub gives way to bromeliads, cactuses, and small coastal bushes capable of withstanding the constant wind and drawing sustenance from the saline soil. Thorny leaves nick the legs of his tracksuit. Beta isn't intimidated and moves at her steady, tenacious pace, disappearing in stretches where the grasses are high. The trail ends at a granite outcrop made dark by the rain, and he looks for another, higher way through for Beta. The going is treacherous, and he advances one step at a time. His feet slip on smooth rocks and sink ankle-deep into mud. Halfway up the headland, he looks down and sees tide pools shielded from the waves by rocks and covered with thick layers of brown foam. He moves cautiously until the slope levels out and the low scrub gives way again to the grass of a large residential subdivision that is for the most part undeveloped. Near the only house standing, a man shouts something and starts walking toward him. Beta stiffens and growls. The man stops about thirty feet away, adjusts his straw hat, and places his hand on the handle of a large knife hanging from his waist.

You can't come through here. Private property.

I'm taking the trail to Silveira.

You'll have to go back.

I won't walk on your land. I'll go around it.

You can't come in here.

The watchman spits on the ground and points at a row of stone markers in the sand a few yards from the waves.

Is that the perimeter?

Yep.

That's totally illegal.

Not my problem. You'll have to turn back.

No way.

He clicks his tongue to call the dog and starts heading up the next hill. The man comes after him.

Hey. Don't make me—

He turns and walks toward the watchman with firm footsteps as he lets the backpack slip off his shoulders. Beta growls again.

Get out of my way and leave me alone, or I swear to God I'll kill you here and now.

His backpack drops onto the grass, and the watchman takes a step back. He has drawn his knife but is holding it down by his thigh. The two of them study each other for a time, then the watchman leaves without a word.

He puts his backpack on again and resumes his hike. The rain grows heavier, and rivulets of water run down the grassy slope between cowpats. Halfway up, three bay stallions and a white mare snap out of a contemplative daze and enter a state of alert as he approaches. Their manes have been clipped, and their taut bodies look waterproof. He feels a foolish urge to mount them, and one of the stallions stomps its front hoof as if it knows.

On the Ferrugem headland he inspects a few steep trails that lead down through the cliffs and finds a natural shelter covered with cave drawings among the rocks. After carrying Beta down, he spends the first night there, drying off as best he can and curling up in his sleeping bag. He uses a lighter to study the triangular patterns and large circles and diamonds decorating the walls, but the drawings remain indecipherable. He can't imagine ancient people trying to represent anything but fish, waves, arrows, and celestial bodies, but the geometric shapes in the cave don't remind him of any of these. They are codes for other things. The cave is dry and clean except for a green plastic bottle and the waxy remains of a white candle that may have been left there by a solitary fisherman or a hermit. When night falls, the darkness is absolute. Waves are breaking nearby, but they sound farther away. Little by little the subterranean rumble and the smell of stagnant seawater make the cavern strangely cozy, and he sleeps peacefully.

He continues heading south for a few days. He hikes up and down hills with the sea and cliffs on his left, and on his right, stretching for miles out to the dark green wall of the Tabuleiro Mountains, a landscape of slopes and flatlands where he sees summer homes, deforested subdivisions, islands of native forest, dunes covered with a dark web of grasses, rice plantations, cattle pastures, lagoons, and dirt roads. When the rain lets up, from higher vantage points he can see the paved lanes of the highway and roadside communities. The tapestry of vivid contrasts comes to life on the rare occasions that the rain stops and the clouds part enough to allow a few rays of sunlight through. Night falls, and the day breaks as always, but he goes for days on end without seeing a shadow. There is no thunder or wind. When he comes to beaches, he crosses them quickly and returns as soon as possible to the hills, valleys, and headlands. He finds the vestiges of fires and campsites in clearings beside trails beaten by the herds of cattle that roam the slopes looking for places to graze. On the surfaces of some beachside rocks are polished circles and longitudinal grooves used by indigenous peoples to sharpen their instruments thousands of years ago. He walks slowly so Beta can keep up and takes long detours to avoid more difficult stretches. Sometimes he carries her over rocks, and sometimes she waits for him to return. She eats her dog food faster than usual and looks surprised when she is finished.

When he gets to Ferrugem Beach, he takes shelter for a few hours at Bar do Zado. He orders a fried pastry and a Coke and drapes his sleeping bag over one of the tables to let it dry out a little. The incessant rain has driven away even the surfers, and the girl at the cash register asks if he is lost and keeps a watchful eye on him the whole time he is there. On Barra Beach a man in a light purple bathrobe smoking a cigar on the second-floor balcony of his house waves when he passes, and he waves back. On the trail to Ouvidor Beach he passes a man in a blue raincoat fishing and finds two arrow tips in a small landslide of sandy soil eroded by the rain. The bed-and-breakfasts and beach bars in the south corner of Rosa Beach are still closed or undergoing renovations. Concrete mixers, shovels, and piles of wood sit idle in flooded, temporarily abandoned building sites. He hasn't seen a soul all day and doesn't think twice before stripping off his clothes and using an open-air shower. He manages to sleep, clean and dry, on the deck of a small shopping complex, built over a strip of sand beside the dirt road. In the morning he is awoken by Beta's barking and sees some cars parked nearby. A surfer is cursing as he tries to do up the zipper on his wetsuit a little farther down the deck. He gets up and offers to help, but the pale, red-haired kid takes a few steps back, says it isn't necessary, picks up his colorful surfboard, and heads for the water with his zipper still open. The waves are big, and every so often he sees a small, courageous figure in a black wetsuit dropping into a wall of water and tearing the surface of a wave. The rain hasn't stopped and the shops haven't opened their doors, but the presence of surfers guided by weather reports, who have probably come a long way to make the most of the portentous swell, indicates that it must be Saturday or Sunday. He realizes that he has lost track of the days.

That morning he crosses the next hill and comes out on Luz Beach and then the sandbar at the entrance to Ibiraquera Lagoon. There a strong, icy wind blows in, and he starts to tremble violently with cold. He eats the rest of the food in his backpack, and instead of continuing along the beach, he takes the dirt road and walks to the first junction. Cars go past from time to time but don't stop. Finally the driver of a white pickup sees him signaling for a lift and pulls over. He greets the man through the crack in the window.

Morning.

Afternoon.

Where are you headed?

To Tubarão. I'm going to get on the interstate.

Hmm.

Where do you want to go?

Garopaba.

I can leave you in Araçatuba.

That'll work. Thanks.

The dog'll have to ride in the back.

I'll ride with her. She might jump out.

The chubby blond man looks straight ahead, with one hand on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel with a lit cigarette. His skin is a little reddish, and he is unshaven. He is wearing a gray knitted sweater, a scarf, and a beret. The stench of tar wafts through the window. The windshield wipers squeak against the glass three times.

Ah, what the hell, get in.

He leans across to unlock the passenger door.

With the dog?

He nods and waves them in.

He puts his backpack in the middle seat and settles the dog at his feet.

I'm going to get your car all wet.

Don't worry, it'll dry as soon as the sun comes out.

The pickup rattles on the road dug out by the rain. The driver blows his smoke through a crack in the window and clears his throat from time to time.

Where're you coming from?

Garopaba, actually.

You work here in Ibiraquera?

No, just hiking around a bit.

In the rain?

I left home thinking it was going to stop in two or three days, but I'm not so sure it was a good idea.

The flood in Blumenau's looking pretty ugly. A friend of mine works at the Port of Itajaí and said the water hasn't stopped rising.

Really? Flooding?

Haven't you seen it on TV? It's all they've been talking about. They're collecting donations for the flood victims now, and the thieving's already started. Not to mention that now they've got an excuse to put off the expansion of the highway for another few years. Every month of delay is worth another ten-bedroom mansion on a hill. In a nature reserve, of course. Contractors, suppliers—everyone's swimming in federal money. It was supposed to be ready in 2008. In the original plan they forgot to include Laguna Bridge, the Morro dos Cavalos Tunnel, a whole bunch of things. Now they're saying it'll be ready in 2010. I'll tell you when it'll be ready. Never. Literally never. When a section of highway is ready, another section that was ready two years earlier will need to be rebuilt. The tarmac they're using is like eggshells. The pilfering's never-ending.

Do you use the highway a lot?

All the time. I'm an engineer. I've got two houses under construction here, and I came to take a look at them because of all the rain. My clients wanted them ready by December, but I told them not to hold their breath.

The headlights of an old truck appear halfway around a bend, and the pickup skids and almost slides into a ditch at the side of the road. The engineer curses.

Fucking bastard.

Look what I found when I was walking over the headlands.

He opens the side pocket of his backpack and takes out the two arrow tips.

What're those?

Arrow tips.

The driver flicks his cigarette butt through the crack in the window and takes his eyes off the highway for a second to glance at the two triangular stones that he is holding up in his palm.

Are you sure?

Yep—look at the chipped edges. The stone is smooth. It was polished.

The driver turns his head again but this time looks not at the stone but at him, giving him a quick once-over. The conversation dies. As he gets out, he apologizes for having got the seat of his car all wet and offers him one of the arrow tips as a present. The driver thanks him and puts it in his glove compartment.

He tries to hitch another lift at the side of the road near the turnoff to Araçatuba, but no one stops. He is starting to feel hungry, so he goes into a diner and orders two meat pasties and a Coke. The girl at the cash register turns her head to the back of the establishment, looking for someone who isn't there, then looks at him.

Have you got money?

Of course I have.

He realizes he is dripping onto the floor and goes to eat in the small covered area outside. He gives half of his second pasty to the dog, pays, and starts walking along the edge of the road toward Garopaba, sticking out his thumb to pickups, trucks, and old cars, but no one pulls over, and he soon stops looking over his shoulder every time he hears the drone of an engine. Near speed bumps and pedestrian crossings, drivers slow down and glance curiously at the bearded man and dog walking in the rain. Chances are he knows some of the people heading for Garopaba, but he'd never be able to recognize anyone through the fogged-up windows of a moving vehicle. Just in case, though, he meets every gaze with a smile and a wave. A woman smiles back but doesn't stop and another gives him a piercing look of indifference. One man is about to pull his van over but decides against it midmaneuver and steps on the accelerator. One or two miles later he spots Branca Rock on his left and decides to leave the highway and continue along the dirt road to Encantada.

He is surprised by the abruptness of nightfall and takes shelter in a garage under construction next to an empty house not far off the road. He can see car headlights passing in the distance, but all he can hear is the water dripping from the roof and the desperate croaking of toads in the flooded land behind the house. Beta insists on gnawing on one of her back paws, clicking her teeth, and panting. He lies down in his sleeping bag, but for the first time in days he doesn't feel sleepy. He rolls onto his back, puts his hands behind his head, and tries to make out the wooden beams of the roof in the darkness. The cold air has a pleasant smell of wet cement that reminds him of the garage he liked to spend time in as a child. His favorite songs start appearing one after another in his head, and he is surprised to discover that they are still intact in his memory. He sings quietly and little by little raises his voice until he is belting it out in the choruses. They are songs that his mother and father used to listen to when he was young. He sees his mother as a young woman singing the sad verses of “Mucuripe,”
*
as she trims the pink azaleas and white germanders in the garden of their old house in Ipanema on a Sunday afternoon with the record playing at a high volume in the living room. His father preferred tango and gaucho music, and as a result he is able to hum the melody of a few Gardel hits and sing a number of popular folk songs from beginning to end. He sings “Veterano,” the eighties classic,
*
in counterpoint to the screeching of the toads and crickets. The louder he sings, the warmer his body gets. He has never again heard songs as beautiful as the ones his parents used to listen to. Whatever became of those records? They were divided up when his parents divorced. His father kept his, of that he is sure. No one remembered the records. It upsets him to think that they may have been sold for peanuts or given to Dante. His brother was obsessed with old blues songs in his adolescence and for many years listened to nothing but blues and underground or indie bands that hadn't yet found mainstream success. English singers whining that all it does is rain on their heads. And Viviane was the only person he had ever met who liked classical music so much that she frequently went to hear the Porto Alegre Symphony Orchestra and dragged him along to recitals. She knew more about the pieces and composers than the programs did. To him, it was an ambiguous experience. Sometimes he'd leave the concert hall feeling that he'd been swept away, but he didn't care if he never heard anything like it again. For some reason his ear was unable to retain the music. He didn't have a single word to describe his impressions, couldn't tell the difference between Bach and Mozart, and had only a vague notion that there was that famous piece by Beethoven. And yet one piece in particular has never left him. Just one, the one Viviane said was her favorite and which she referred to as “my Chopin nocturne.” That piece
is me
, she used to say. He hums it softly now, most definitely off key, but the melody resonates in all its lunar placidity, with precise piano notes, in the chamber of his imagination.