Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (7 page)

I'll introduce you to him as soon as I get a chance.

Please do.

They reach the crumbling stairs that lead to the footpath around the rocks. He lets her go first and follows, pulling Beta along by her leash. There is a strong smell of sewage around the winding stairs. Dália hunches up and hops on the spot a few times.

I need to go.

As soon as he unlocks the door, she hurries to the bathroom. He puts out dog food and water for Beta and leaves her eating in the tiny laundry area. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and opens the living-room shutters. Dália doesn't take long. He hears the flush, then the door opens and she comes out talking.

Okay, but tell me, how did it happen to you?

Perinatal anoxia.

Well, of course. It had to be perinatal whatyamacallit.

At birth. I wasn't breathing when I was born, and it caused brain damage. I've had it since I was a baby.

Oh, how awful.

No, it isn't awful. It's just a bit of a drag sometimes. People generally refuse to believe it exists. Hardly anyone is okay about it, like you.

Hey, remember me? she jokes, batting her eyelids, as she comes over and takes the beer can from him. Don't tell me you've forgotten me!

Exactly.

She leans on the windowsill beside him.

Why don't you put some music on?

I burned out my sound system. The voltage here is two hundred and twenty.

Silly. Anyway, we need to go get the girls and see if this party's any good. Your car's at the gas station?

Yep.

Did you leave it there to have it washed?

I left it there to sell it.

Who's going to give me lifts now?

He doesn't answer.

I can't really be bothered going to this party, to be honest.

What about your son's dad? Where's he?

A young man in a baseball cap and no shirt comes along the footpath with a panting white and yellow pit bull on a leash, its large mouth open in a crocodile smile. They take the stairs down to the rocks.

He went back to Criciúma. He's from there. He moved here with me a few years ago, but then we had a fight and he left.

Do you get along okay?

Yeah, pretty good. Pablo loves him. He goes to spend a few days with John twice a month. We treat each other well. Pablo is what matters.

His name's John?

Yeah.

Is he American?

No. He's from Criciúma.

The young man lets the pit bull off its leash and throws a plastic bottle half filled with water into the sea. The dog studies the edge of the rock for a moment and launches itself after its toy. The young man lights a cigarette and watches the dog swim.

Does he give you child support or something like that?

She swallows her beer quickly and gives a short, explosive laugh, before answering scornfully.

All he does is smoke pot. But no, to be fair, he gives me some money when he can. But he hasn't got a thing. He's a lazy-ass, that one.

Do you live on your own with Pablo?

No, I live with my mother. She helps me. She moved here when we broke up, and she lives with me. Tell me, do you recognize your own face in the mirror?

I don't know if I want to talk about it anymore.

The pit bull comes out of the water with the bottle in its mouth. The man wrests it from the dog's jaws and throws it again, several yards out. The dog dives in.

No, I don't recognize my own face in the mirror. And there's no point staring at photos. When I wake up the next morning, I've already forgotten it.

That must be really crazy. What if you shave or cut your hair? Does it change anything?

No. But my mother always told me I look better without a beard. I trust her.

And do you know if someone is good-looking, if they're sad, angry, that kind of thing?

Yes. I can tell if I'm looking at the person. I see emotions normally. I know if someone's ugly or good-looking, young or old. No problem. But I forget their actual face. I remembered that you were gorgeous. So it's nice to see you again.

She bumps him with her shoulder.

You did not. You're just saying that.

They stand there for a while, watching the pit bull's workout, which seems interminable. He turns his head and sees that Beta has made herself comfortable on her towel at the other end of the living room, next to the front door.

Sometimes I think the dog's watching me.

What?

Nothing, it's silly.

So if I spent the night here you wouldn't recognize my face in the morning?

Honestly? No.

You're the only person in the world with a good excuse for it.

She leaves her empty can on the windowsill and turns to him.

Are you really sure you wouldn't?

It's never happened.

Not even if it was a really, really good night?

I don't want to give you false hopes, Dália.

Where would we be without false hopes?

 • • • 

H
e wakes up without
opening his eyes. There is the heat, the smell, and a clear memory of all the things for which a face, and even sight itself, is unnecessary. Weight is one of his favorite sensations. He'd be able to identify her at once if she lay on him the next morning or in a year's time. It wouldn't matter. And the way a body moves. If it is in intimate contact with his, if he can hold it firmly with both hands at its diverse points of articulation and in this manner read its voluntary and involuntary movements, soft and brusque, repeated or not, he can forever retain a tactile image that can tell him much more than any visual stimuli about how the person draws back and lets go, asks and refuses, approaches and retreats. Dália has protruding collarbones, wide hips, and full, muscular legs. Wiry hair and slightly bitter sweat like weak coffee. Milk and sugar breath. The way she uses her teeth. The bodily self-consciousness typical of beautiful women restricts her movements. A collection of little embarrassments and inhibitions that fade somewhat, as the half-light in the musty room reveals more and more. Her reserve gives way to a certain submission. The difference is subtle. He'll remember everything. The darkened bedroom and the kitchen light filtering through the open door. Her feet twitching when he tried to kiss them. Tension in her whole body that took a while to yield. She digs her nails in lightly, gives little punches. When her hand holds something, her fingertips press alternately as if trying to remember how to play a tune on the piano. Maybe she plays piano or played it when she was little. It is moving to think about a person's repertoire of caresses. Why they touch others this way or that. It comes from so many places. The things we imagine must feel good, the things we've been told feel good, the things we've had done to us and liked, the things that are involuntary, the things that are our way of giving pleasure, period. She comes almost in silence or, come to think of it, in total silence. And with her eyes closed. Not a peep. He can hear the waves. He won't forget a single detail of it. He will still be able to recall it several months or years from now, and it will only remind him of her. He catalogs with renewed amazement the countless ways in which the world can be unveiled by his senses. Nothing but faces are lost. Dália sleeping soundlessly by his side, emanating heat, her buttocks pressed against his hip, her back against his left shoulder, the waves almost hitting the window. He'll remember everything.

 • • • 

A
cademia Swell is located
at the bottom of Silveira Hill, a short distance before the steep and winding road gouged into the hillside that provides access to the beach on the other side. Just inside the gate is a small structure made of thick planks of wood, which houses a snack bar with round wooden tables. He peers through the door and sees the waitress behind the counter, a girl with indigenous features and straight black hair. She explains the way to reception in Spanish. He walks down the driveway past a long, tall building with exposed brick walls and an asbestos roof, which, judging from the dimensions and fogged-up windows, must house the recently opened heated swimming pool. He opens the glass door at the back of the complex and enters reception. To his left is a large weights room. Half a dozen gym-goers are straining their muscles on outdated gym equipment. There are vases of plants everywhere and colorful reproductions of what he thinks are Hindu gods hanging on grubby walls, creatures with female or pachydermal features and a slightly arrogant serenity plastered across their happy, erotic faces, some blue-skinned with several plump arms and thin fingers holding tridents and other ritualistic objects. The afternoon light tinges the walls and metal equipment with a golden color and the mild March temperatures make air conditioning unnecessary. It is an atypical gym environment, more reminiscent of a religious temple in which physical exercise is a ritual practiced as a means of attaining enlightenment. Hidden loudspeakers are playing reggae at a low volume, which sounds out of place. The blonde sitting behind the counter wishes him good afternoon.

Hi. I hear you've opened a pool.

She gives him a photocopied pamphlet with the opening hours and prices of the gym and swimming pool.

Do you know if they need a swimming instructor?

You'll have to talk to Saucepan.

Saucepan?

The owner.

They smile at each other.

And where's Saucepan?

He should be here in about half an hour. Or you can come back at night and talk to his partner.

She stifles a smile and looks at him. She is a little chubby with a freckled face, deep lines from too much sun exposure, and a round nose. He hears explosive noises coming from the pool, as if someone were beating the surface of the water with a spade. Both of the receptionist's arms are covered in colorful tattoos. There is a Japanese-style wave, a tribal bracelet, a dolphin. He chuckles.

Am I going to have to guess the partner's name?

He's got a nickname too. Try.

I've got something in mind, but I'm afraid it might be wrong.

Spatula.

No way.

Yes way. Spatula's the one who comes at night.

The two of them laugh silently and look at each other as if they know each other well and have a plan to get revenge on someone. It is a pleasant feeling that appears to have sprung from nowhere.

Okay, I'll wait for Saucepan.
*

Okay.

Can I take a look at the pool?

Yes.

What's your name?

Débora.

The pool room looks much smaller from the inside than from the outside and is filled with white steam and the strong smell of chlorine and clay tiles. He breathes in the warm, moist, slightly caustic air. It feels like home to him. In indoor-pool areas he always remembers the sessions he had with a nebulizer to treat a brief bout of bronchitis when he was a child: the green plastic mask, the noisy little machine like a small pool pump, his mother looking on approvingly as she oversaw things. The semi-Olympic pool is the narrowest he has ever seen, with only three lanes demarcated with lines of navy blue tiles and still without floating lane dividers. There is a swimmer at each end. Both are finding it hard to breathe properly in the choppy water. The swimmer on the left is older and fatter and wearing a yellow snorkel, goggles, and flippers. He is the one responsible for the explosive sounds he had heard earlier. The man raises his right arm completely out of the water, very slowly, as if trying to project his hand as far as possible from his body, holds it out of the water for a moment, then brings it down with supersonic speed, like the arm of a catapult, slamming it into the surface of the pool with a deafening bang and splashing water several yards away. His left arm doesn't even leave the water properly and makes an atrophied movement that generates zero propulsion. If it weren't for the flippers on his feet, the guy would barely leave the spot. The world's swimming pools are full of these comical, extreme cases that can rarely be remedied. The swimmer on the right is younger and swims well. His rhythm is firm, and he takes a breath every four strokes, but his legs are scissor-kicking and his right arm is coming down a little too far to the side. He turns swiftly and fluidly, surfaces quickly, crosses the pool again, and stops at the edge, panting, consulting his watch to count the interval before his next sprint. Twenty seconds. He is doing a set of one-hundred-meter sprints, and he does each in ninety seconds, some in eighty-eight, eighty-seven. As he watches the man swim, he can't help but count the seconds in his head. Swimmer's tic. Over the years his inner clock has become precise, almost infallible.

 • • • 

A
barber by the name
of Zé calls about his Ford Fiesta early one Friday afternoon. They meet at the gas station. Zé looks under the hood, inspects the engine, and says he can pay that day. They go straight to Laguna in the car itself to transfer the ownership of the vehicle and arrange for the deposit. The whole operation takes less than two hours, and soon they are back in Garopaba. They park in front of the barber's shop. He hands the new owner the car key and orders a Coke at the bar adjoining the barber's. Zé offers him a shave.

Thanks, but I'm letting it grow.

Want a trim?

A what?

A trim? Trim your beard. Tidy it up.

But tidy it up how? Cut it shorter?

Haven't you ever trimmed your beard?

I've never grown it before.

A drunk with a shaved head who is drinking beer alone at the counter slurs something incomprehensible and stares into space. His moist eyes shine in his puffy red face.

How long have you been growing it? Three months?

Two and a half.

You need to trim it. So it'll grow right.

Nah, don't worry about it.

It's for free.

But what're you going to do?

I'll just shorten it a little with the scissors and shape it here at your neck and here on your face.