Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (40 page)

He finishes unwrapping it. It is an enlarged black and white photograph, almost a meter high. Every pore, eyelash, and wrinkle shamelessly offers itself up for examination. His father is smiling in the head and shoulders shot, wearing a white dress shirt. There are blurry plants and houses in the background. He can't tell where the photo was taken.

I took this photo of him when we went to Jaguarão to go shopping at the border. Remember? I think it was the first time we traveled somewhere with him. He was going to buy whiskey and cigars, and we hitched a lift. You bought those Ray-Bans.

I remember.

I was still using that old camera back then. The one I used for photography at college. I've still got all the negatives.

I remember.

He stares at the photo with a lump in his throat.

Do you like it?

Yes. I do. A lot.

I thought you must have lots of photos of him, but this one's nice, and there's this great place near home that does these enlargements really well.

It's amazing. I don't even know what to say, Viv. Thanks.

I hope you like it.

He takes his eyes off the photo and sees Viviane's eyes shining. She is sitting on the sofa with her hands clasped together, fingers squashing other fingers, insecure and glowing like a woman who has just declared that she is in love. He sets the portrait down on the sofa and almost leaps to his feet, where he finds her standing too.

I knocked over the mug, she whispers in his ear.

Leave it.

Coffee stains.

It doesn't matter.

They stand there hugging until a feeling similar to sleepiness loosens their limbs, and they step back. His heart is skittering. He picks up the mug that fell on the rug, and she announces that she is going to the bathroom. The sea gulls screech as they fly over the bay in insane circles, as two boats return to the beach after a night of fishing. Beta perks up her ears, stands, and heads outside.

The bathroom door is unlocked. Viviane walks past him, goes over to the window, and stands there, staring at the ocean. He sits on the sofa again and remembers her face as he gazes at her long legs and black hair that spills halfway down her back and looks as if it is in motion even when it isn't, some hairdresser's magic. He needs to get her to turn around. The blurring will start if he gives it a chance.

Did you come here just to see how I was, or have you got something to tell me?

She turns.

I'm pregnant. You're going to be an uncle.

How long have you known?

For two months. I'm fifteen weeks along. It's a boy.

Congratulations. I'm happy for you.

Are you really?

Of course, Viv. You're happy, aren't you? You wanted this.

I did.

Then I'm happy too. I'm able to see it independently of everything else. I knew it was going to happen. I knew one day you'd come to me to tell me this. Remember that little piece of paper you signed for me?

What piece of paper?

Before you went to São Paulo to live with him. We were still together. In that café in Moinhos de Vento.

I don't remember any pieces of paper.

You dated and signed a piece of paper, and I wrote something on it.

I don't know what you're talking about.

He gets up, goes to the wardrobe in the bedroom, and rummages through the contents of a box until he finds the folded piece of paper. He hesitates for a moment. Part of him doesn't want to show her and would rather tear it up, throw it in the trash, and change the subject. But another part remembers that nothing can be erased. You can't pretend that something doesn't exist.

He goes back into the living room and hands it to Viviane. She reads it quickly and looks up with an expression of confusion and disappointment.

Is this a joke? I didn't know what you had written here.

But you remember that you dated and signed it, don't you?

Now I do, but what the fuck? If you knew that we were going to break up, if you knew that one day I'd show up to tell you I was pregnant, why didn't you say so then? Why didn't you do something?

I did everything I could. Maybe it feels like nothing to you, but I did everything I could. It wasn't a lot. There wasn't a lot I could do. I knew it wouldn't make any difference.

She walks over, hands the paper back to him, and sits on the sofa.

I really don't like this. What did you do it for? Seriously, what was your intention? To be able to say “I told you so” or “I knew it” or something like that? Does it make you somehow superior to me? Superior to your brother? Do you know everything that's going to happen to everyone? Who do you think you are?

No. That's not it. I think I wrote it down more to assure myself that I wasn't crazy. So that when it happened, I'd know that I really had seen what was to come. And that there was nothing I could have done. Or you.

Or Dante.

Dante too.

But why did you let me go, then? Why didn't you try to keep me in Porto Alegre? Why didn't you come with me?

You know the story as well as I do, Viv.

No, I don't. You're the one who knows everything. Help me out here, because I don't get it. I don't know how you see things. I don't know what you're doing now.

Dante decides to move to São Paulo, and a month later you get a work offer there. You'd dreamed of it for a long time, to get you out of that suffocating little backwater, as you used to say, like a house with a low ceiling that forced you to stoop. And you were right. For someone like you, Porto Alegre is small. I couldn't go with you at the time because I was training for the Ironman in Hawaii. Which was my
dream
. There was no way I could just stop and move to
São Paulo
out of the blue. Then Dante goes and gets a huge apartment somewhere or other and invites us to go and live with him in the beginning, and you ask me if I'd mind if you went on ahead. If I'd
mind
. Which was the same as asking my permission. I think that was when I saw everything. It was pretty easy to see. Everything that was taking shape at that moment in time, forgetting the little stories we make up in our heads, our desires, the things we'd like to happen, just looking at reality, every single thing had a consequence. It wasn't a puzzle. Because I knew Dante liked you.

Did he ever tell you that?

No, but he's my brother. And I could see how much you admired him. Especially after he published his book. Or the second or the third, I don't know. The one that did well. I read that crap. I recognized everyone in it. Friends of mine were characters in it. The only part of our adolescence that he didn't devour with his fanciful imagination was me. He had the decency to leave me out. All the rest is there. And he calls it fiction.

Well, technically—

But it doesn't matter. I know you loved me, Viv, but I also know that sometimes you thought I was a thick athlete, uncultured. Which is what I am. A nice guy, a good person, but not an intellectual. Big dick, small mind. When we met, you were only twenty-one, and that was all you wanted. But it got stale. Maybe if I'd been a bit more open-minded. If I'd read the books you'd given me and liked them. If I'd changed over time. If I'd taken an interest in your world. If I'd been a little more like someone I wasn't. Imagine if I was a
writer
.

Don't say that. You're making light of what I felt for you. What I still feel.

No, I'm not. I know what you felt for me. I
felt
what you felt for me. I know that in a way you've never stopped loving me. But am I wrong? Wasn't that what was going on when you asked me if I minded?

You're exaggerating.

Maybe. But I'm exaggerating something real.

She looks at him with an expression not of anger but of animal ferocity, of self-defense, and a single tear escapes her left eye, plops onto her cheek, and falls to the ground as she asks the next question.

So why'd you say you
didn't
mind if I went? If you already knew it was going to happen?

Don't cry, Viv.

I'm not going to cry. Tell me
why
.

Because I was going to lose you anyway. The only question was how. If I'd held on to you, today I'd be the guy who held you back. And I would have.

Oh, thanks a lot. You're so nice. What a sacrifice. You thought it best to keep quiet and let me go so you could be the victim. The victim with his ridiculous piece of paper saying
I knew it
.

I'm not the victim. There's no such thing.

Maybe I wouldn't have gone if you'd insisted that I stay.

Don't fool yourself.

She shakes her head and blows air through her nostrils.

So you knew everything. Well,
I
didn't. I didn't predict that any of it was going to happen. I just fell in love with him. I had no way of knowing that my life was going to become a poor remake of
Jules et Jim
. You could have told me if you already knew. I'd have prepared myself better. Can I have a glass of water?

He goes into the kitchen and comes back with her water. She drinks it all and holds the glass in both hands so tightly that her knuckles turn yellow, and he is afraid the glass might break.

I should have told you this as soon as I came. Now it's going to be harder. But I'll say it. I came to ask if you'd be the godfather.

He takes his eyes off the glass and looks at her. She gives him a little smile.

I don't think you saw
that
one
coming, did you?

Does he want it too?

It was his idea.

And do you think it's a good one?

I do.

It sounds completely absurd to me.

Whatever. It's time we put this all behind us. All this resentment. Your father died, and you guys weren't even able to give each other a hug at his funeral. Your mother pretends it doesn't matter, but she's afraid to broach the subject with you. Dante's afraid too, but he's suffered a lot as a result of all this, and he misses you. Everyone's hurting like hell, and it isn't necessary.
It isn't worth it
. But I'm not afraid to ask you. Because think about it. It's perfect. Precisely because it sounds absurd. It's our child. Your nephew. Let's take the opportunity to move on. We're young, but we're grown up. We can still do the right thing and live everything that we still have in front of us without any bitterness. It's a question of family. We're a family. I know how much that means to you. Have you thought about it like that?

Stop.

You know I'm right. It's your resentment that's stopping you from accepting.

I understand what you're saying. But I can't.

You can't?

I can't accept.

You're turning down our invitation to be your nephew's godfather. Really?

Look. I understand what you're saying. Imagining it, it really is perfect. But it's impossible. I can't pretend it's possible. I can't forgive him just like that. You're out of your minds.

Why can't you forgive him?

Isn't it obvious?

Are you really that petty? I forgive you for letting me go and writing a little note to yourself instead of talking to me. Are you incapable of forgiving?

I don't want your forgiveness.

I forgive you anyway.

Well, I don't accept it. I refuse to be forgiven.

Ha! Incredible. This is too good to be true.

I can live with whatever I've done wrong. Nothing disappears just because we decide it should, or because we want it to. No one can take back any harm I've done to others. It helps us become better people. Forgiving is like pretending it doesn't exist. But life is the result of what we've done. It doesn't make sense to act as if nothing has happened.

That's not forgiveness! You're mad! To forgive someone is to free them of blame. And in doing so, you free yourself too. It's not pretending it never happened. It's an act of charity, a white flag. It's a choice you make. It takes courage, but it's worth it.

It's not a choice. There's no such thing as choice.

No?

No, not really.

Okay then, but then why the resentment? Why be resentful if no one has any choice in anything? If we only obey fate, no one can be held responsible for their actions. Right? Everything I did, everything you did, and everything your brother did is all just destiny. There's nothing to forgive because no one is to blame.

But that's how it is. No one chooses anything, but we're responsible anyway. That's just how it is. I can't explain why. I don't have the words for it. Maybe you do.

I do, but what you're saying doesn't make sense. It's absurd. Either there is free will, or there isn't. If human beings are free agents, if we have choices, we are responsible for them. If there's no free will, if the universe is predetermined by the laws of nature and everything is just the result of what has gone before, then no one is to blame for what they do. Neither resentment nor forgiveness makes any sense.

Wittgenstein.

Don't give me that Wittgenstein crap! You know what I'm talking about. I know you're more intelligent than you like to admit in your fits of woe-is-me.

So what are the two alternatives again?

Free will and determinism.

I don't think it's that simple.

There's nothing simple about it.

What I mean is that both alternatives seem wrong. Or both are right at the same time. Two right answers to a wrong question.

Jesus Christ
. What's the right question, then?

I don't know.

This is a replay of every maddening argument we've ever had. The topic changes, but the script is always the same. No one wins.

I know that there are no choices but that nevertheless we have to live as if there were. That's all.

I think it's my turn to say “Wittgenstein.” Am I allowed to?

That's why forgiveness doesn't make any sense. Forgiveness is cowardice. What takes courage is to keep on loving and having friendships and doing the right thing by others without pretending that you can erase things, without forgiving or accepting forgiveness. You said Dante's upset because Dad killed himself. What for? I think what he did was fucked up, and I don't forgive him for what he did, but he told me he had no choice but to kill himself, and now I understand that in a way he really didn't. I'm not angry at anyone. Why would I be? He was good to us all until that moment. When we look back, it's all inevitable.