Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (8 page)

Zé points to where he intends to shape it. He is a man of almost seventy, short and gray-haired with sun-ravaged skin. Zé appears to be laughing inwardly, and he realizes that other locals have given him the same impression.

Okay, you can shape it then, but don't take any length off it.

The operation takes some time. The reclining barber's chair is in the center of the modest shop, and a window lets in the glare from outside. There is a wooden bench under the window, a small chest of drawers, and a square mirror in an orange plastic frame hanging on the wall. There are no work tools in sight. Zé comes back from the adjoining bathroom with a bowl of warm water and a traditional razor, applies a warm towel to his face, and takes it off only when it starts to cool. Zé applies lather to his neck and cheeks with a shaving brush and passes the razor fastidiously, with long intervals between strokes. He gazes out the window as Zé works. The drunk from the bar stumbles through the door and across the street. He gets into the cabin of a white flatbed truck
parked on the other side, starts the engine, and drives off.

You living in Garopaba?

Yeah, I moved here not long ago.

Do you surf?

No. I just swim.

What did you come here for?

To live. I didn't come to surf or to run away from something. Isn't that what they say everyone comes here for?

If someone said it, it wasn't me. I don't know anything.

Next Monday I start teaching swimming at the gym.

But do you swim in the sea?

Yes.

Careful, 'cause the mullet season is about to start. The fishermen are going to force you out of the water.

So they told me.

When he is done with the razor, Zé dries his face with a towel and wets his own hands with a rose-colored cologne that reeks of alcohol.

Know how we tell if someone's a gaucho? asks Zé, nodding at the footrest. If their feet shake, they're a gaucho.

So let's see.

The cologne stings his neck, but his feet don't shake.

You're not a real gaucho.

Zé returns the chair to its normal position and goes into the bathroom.

He gets up and looks at his face in the mirror. He sees the careful contours and his slightly red skin from the razor. It is hard for him to notice any difference since he doesn't really remember what he looked like before.

Stay for a beer? Zé says, coming out of the bathroom.

I've got to go. How much do I owe you?

I said it was on the house.

So you did. It looks good, thanks. Look after my car well. If you have any problems in the first few days, let me know. Have a good weekend.

Want a lift?

Thanks, but I'll walk. My place is over by the beach.

If you want to buy land here, I've got three lots in Siriú.

I'll keep it in mind.

He shakes the barber's hand and leaves. The sun is almost setting behind the hills, and a cool breeze is blowing toward the ocean. He takes a few steps, turns around, and goes back into the barber's shop.

Zé. Are you originally from Garopaba?

Yep.

Have you always lived here?

Almost always. I lived in São Paulo for a few years.

In the late sixties my granddad lived here for a while. They used to call him Gaudério. Ever heard of him?

Gaudério, Gaudério . . .

Zé is silent for a while, then turns and heads into the bar saying he is going to get his wife. His wife is wearing an orthopedic collar around her neck and asks who he is and why he wants information about his grandfather. He says he is just investigating a family story, out of curiosity. She asks if he's been asking around about his grandfather, and when he says yes, that he has asked a few people, she wants to know who. Zé's wife doesn't smile, but she doesn't give off any aggression either. She seems to be studying him, even turning her head a little to the side, in spite of the collar. Sometimes he has the urgent feeling that he should memorize for all time the faces of certain people who don't mean anything to him and who he will probably never see again in his life—a pharmacy attendant, someone's cousin who goes to a party and is only passing through town, another patient sitting in the dentist's waiting room. This urge is never justified in the future, at the end of the day, or at least he doesn't remember it ever having been justified, but when it arises it feels imperative, as is the case now, looking at this woman with her neck immobilized and without any distinguishing facial or physical characteristic, a woman made not to be remembered or even imagined. He decides to lie. He doesn't remember who he asked. Just one or two people he didn't know in the fishing village. She doesn't say anything else and disappears again through the back door of the bar, allowing him a glimpse of a living room with a threadbare sofa and blue walls. The bar is suddenly dark. Night has fallen. Zé leans both arms on the counter and lowers his voice.

Don't worry about her. I remember Gaudério.

Did you know him?

No, I just remember him. He lived on a small property near the parish church, over where the residential subdivision is now. I wasn't even twenty when he passed through here. He once gave my brother some money to fix his bike, a brown Barra Forte that he used to ride.

What's your brother's name?

Dilmar.

Any chance I could talk to him?

No. He passed away.

Is it true my granddad was murdered here?

I don't know. But don't go around asking that kind of thing.

Why not?

Because you don't talk about that kind of thing. It doesn't matter if it happened or not. People don't know certain things after some time has passed because they don't want to. Do you follow?

He stares at Zé for a moment, then nods.

You're a good kid. Let it go. And come back here to shave that beard off when you get tired of it.

Will do.

Take care.

Thanks, you too.

Now I know why I thought I knew you from somewhere.

What do you mean?

You really look like Gaudério.

Yeah, I know.

The penny will drop for some people. It probably already has.

No one remembers him. It's as if he never existed.

There are some who'll remember. If they want to. To remember you have to want to.

But why wouldn't people here want to remember him?

It doesn't matter. Just remember what I told you.

Thanks for your concern. But I think I need to get to the bottom of this.

This place is blessed. So much beauty everywhere you look. Right, gaucho? A person can be really happy here.

T
he cold nights torture the summer
with a slow death. Dália rests her cup of coffee on her legs, which are extended on the small canvas sofa in the living room, as she stares through the window at the crystalline surface of a lazy sea that looks as if it is stretching, like them, waiting for the sun to come up and warm it. He is sitting on the fabric sofa pushed up against the opposite wall, but the room is so small that they could touch hands if they held out their arms. He looks at Dália in profile, her curly hair, the delicate features in a broad face, the upturned crest of her top lip backlit by the light from outside. He enjoys in silence the pleasure of being in the presence of such a beautiful woman. He maps the circumstances that put her there as if they were of his own doing. Outside, local children run past, laughing euphorically and shouting, wearing only bathing suits, carrying pieces of wood and primitive fishing rods, packets of cookies and colorful plastic buckets, and staring unashamedly through the window into the apartment. The sky is blue, but he can somehow tell it is going to rain later. Several weeks in Garopaba have enabled him to make this kind of intuitive meteorological reading based on signs that he still can't put a finger on: the direction of the wind, the humidity inside the apartment, the behavior of the birds, the background noise of the ocean. Dália uses her big toe to turn on the tiny television set on the chest of drawers near the window, and says she wants to watch the morning cartoons. A popular talk-show host appears on the screen and warns her that the TV will turn itself off in a minute at the most, which is exactly what happens. It has been like this since his second week in the apartment. Cecina explained that it is a common problem caused by the same salty ocean air that has already started to rust the barbecue knife that he got as a present from his father and to cover all surfaces with a slippery film that corrodes all kinds of metal at an alarming speed no matter what anyone does to protect them. The door is open, and he hears Beta's firm footsteps, as her long nails rasp on the cement outside and then the beige-tiled floor of the living room. He snaps his fingers, whistles, and calls her, almost simultaneously, because he isn't really sure how she likes to be called now that his father's familiar gestures are no longer there for her. In the last few days she has responded to his calls more enthusiastically and accompanies him on walks without the need of a leash. He likes the responsibility of looking after her, the objective simplicity of his mission to cheer her up and keep her alive. She comes over, and he pats her head and runs his hand over the short, thick fur on her back, which is a dark blue-gray spattered with rust-colored spots.

Scratch the back of her head, says Dália. She likes it.

How do you know? My dad didn't do that.

Beta, Beta, come here.

The dog immediately goes over to Dália. Dália grabs her by the skin at the scruff of her neck and holds her up in the air, a maneuver that to him seems violent, inappropriate for an adult animal.

Don't do that. You'll hurt her.

It doesn't hurt. You don't know dogs.

Dália sits Beta on her thighs.

That's how her mother used to carry her when she was a puppy, wasn't it, Beta? Tell him, girl.

She vigorously rubs the back of the dog's head, grabbing the loose skin there and massaging it with her fingertips. Beta curves her neck forward and closes her eyes.

See? All dogs love it. They remember their mothers when you rub them here.

His cell phone rings. He goes to get it from the kitchen counter.

Guess who.

Hello, Mother. Not exactly quantum physics.

He goes outside to take the call. It is a replay of all their recent conversations. It starts with a few practical questions about probate, the inheritance, debts, and what to do with one of his father's belongings, and soon progresses to her asking him to go to Porto Alegre for something and comparing him to his older brother in some way, always favoring the latter and accompanied by a failed attempt to hide what she really thinks. He tries to let it go but ends up protesting, and there is a joint effort to quickly finish the conversation so as not to end it in a really unpleasant way. Before hanging up, she asks if he intends to come home for Mother's Day. He is irritated by the word choice of
come home,
and she says it's just an expression and that he doesn't need to get worked up. He says he isn't worked up and really doesn't feel that way. A better description for what he feels would be
tired
. He says he still doesn't know and will think about it and let her know closer to the date. Right after he hangs up, he realizes that this will be the first time she won't be taken out for lunch on Mother's Day. The person who has fulfilled this function in recent years is him. He almost calls her back.

Are you okay?

Yes.

Do you get along well with her?

Pretty much.

Must be hard for her to be left alone there.

She's fine. My dad left her some things in his will, and she's mediating between me and my brother, because I don't speak to him. She's in good health for her age, and her boyfriend's well off. His family owns a notary's office. At any rate, the son who really matters to her is the other one. I was just the one who was available recently. She'll soon get used to it.

But she and your dad were divorced, weren't they?

Yes.

Why aren't you speaking to your brother?

It's not worth talking about. My family doesn't make any sense.

He dumps the cell phone on the table and sits on the floor next to her sofa. She caresses the back of his neck with her long nails.

Do you think he likes this too, Beta?

He sighs and feels his body slowly soften under the waves of pleasure radiating from the top of his back to the tips of his toes.

I was wondering if I could ask you a favor, says Dália.

She says she has taken a second job, and starting next week she'll be working in a beachwear shop every afternoon in the nearby town of Imbituba. A friend of hers who lives in Silveira is a bank manager there and can give her a lift home every day in time for her evening shift at the pizza parlor. She needs the extra money so she can move to Florianópolis and go to university, a plan she has had to put off until next year. Her mother has diabetes and has a hard time walking, and she needs someone to pick up Pablo from school and take him home every afternoon, which she will no longer have time to do.

Of course I can.

I pick him up by bike. He's used to it. He sits on the bar or the rack. He likes it. But if it's too much of a hassle, don't worry. It's just that I don't have anyone else I can ask at the moment.

Something about the circumstances of the moment moves him. The dog seems happy and at peace for the first time since his father's death. Dália is entrusting him with the care of her son, whom he hasn't even met. Maybe it is the urgency with which she is seeking to plant her flag in his life, maybe he just wants to be on his own and is feeling momentarily needy, maybe deep down she doesn't feel right for him: he doesn't have a precise diagnosis, but he has a strong feeling that the nascent intimacy between them has just now begun to end. He hopes he is wrong. And at the same time there is a comforting inner coherence in the way in which they have already irreversibly affected each other's lives. Something good has already installed itself and is protected, and it will last even if these mornings cease today.

I'll pick him up. No problem.

Just until I find someone else. I didn't want to have to ask you.

I'll pick him up for as long as you need. Don't worry about it. But it's probably a good idea that I meet the kid first.

We'll arrange it tomorrow. I'll call you. How are you going to recognize him at school?

There's always a way. Let me meet him first.

He's got big ears.

I'll figure it out.

Okay.

I'll put a bike seat on for him.

Don't worry about it. He sits on the bar. He never . . .

She trails off without finishing her sentence. Outside, the
Lendário
blows its long, shrill whistle once, twice, while tourists hurry down the path outside his window. They are couples and small families trying to make the most of the schooner tours during the last few warm weekends of the season. The knowledge that this is a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning before an afternoon of rain in late March is written in their eyes and their reverent attitude before the schooner. He kneels next to the sofa Dália is on and kisses her. The bitter coffee tastes nice in her saliva. They shoo away the dog, close the living-room shutters, take off their clothes, and are soon in the bedroom. The rumble of the diesel engine passes through the walls, the whistle sounds again, and the schooner takes off. A cloud covers the sun behind the closed shutters, and the room slowly darkens. With him on top, Dália comes without a sound, and a tear slides out of each eye. She rolls over and sniffs.

Shit.

You okay?

No, I'm not. If I were moaning like a whore, it'd mean I'm okay.

The cloud uncovers the sun. Dália rolls back and places her hand on his chest.

Just pretend I didn't say anything.

 • • • 

I
t takes about ten
minutes pedaling slowly to get from the Pinguirito Municipal School, where Pablo is in the first grade, to Dália's house, but today he takes a detour past the Gelomel ice cream parlor before handing the boy over to Dália's mother, who had a foot amputated a few months ago as a result of a diabetic ulcer. She always invites him in for some cake and juice. Sometimes he accepts the invitation. Dália's mother likes him. She claims to be something of a witch and says she dreamed about him before they even met in person, perhaps influenced by the things Dália had already told her about him.
*
At each visit she adds some details to the dream, things she has remembered or new interpretations she has made. He has already told her he doesn't believe in such things, but she doesn't seem to care. Sometimes he gets the impression that she makes up her dreams on the spot.

He is still riding down the main avenue to the ice cream parlor when he passes a corner block in front of the supermarket and hears a shout and a loud thud. Two men are demolishing the wall of a semidestroyed kiosk with kicks and an enormous sledgehammer. He has never paid the place much attention but is sure the kiosk was intact yesterday. The bold, dark-skinned man holding the sledgehammer has a pear-shaped body, with a potbelly, short arms, and no shoulders. He waves at Pablo.

Hey, Pablito! Go Grêmio!

The boy raises a fist and shouts, Grêmio!

They arrive at the ice cream parlor. He leans the bike against the glass door and unbuckles Pablo from the bike seat.

Who was the man with the sledgehammer?

Bonobo.

Booboo?

No, Bo-nooo-bo!

At the ice cream counter, Pablo fills his bowl with balls of coconut, grape, and chocolate chip ice cream. To top it off, jelly teeth and a good dose of condensed milk. According to his mother, he can put whatever he wants in his bowl as long as he doesn't overdo it on the quantity. It can't cost more than five
reais
. Pablo is an easy child to deal with, at least as far as he is concerned. He doesn't complain about anything and doesn't make extravagant requests. Dália says that sometimes he is stubborn and hyperactive, and she thinks he might be bipolar or something of the sort. He never recognizes Pablo among the dozens of children in the schoolyard, but Pablo always gets his backpack and comes running over. All he has to do is wait a little.

Pablo pulls out of his SpongeBob backpack the swimming goggles that he gave him as a present the day they met. He has been the Goggles Guy ever since. Pablo puts on his goggles and attacks the ice cream. There are milk teeth alongside half-grown adult teeth in his mouth, smeared with melted ice cream.

So, Pablito. Are you going to learn to swim now?

No.

I'll teach you.

Okay.

You can use your goggles to protect your eyes when we ride on the bike. They're for that too.

Okay.

He takes an alternative route through back streets and drops Pablo home. He doesn't stay for juice or cake today. He doesn't want to know why he is a vampire. On the way back he passes the corner where the two men were trying to demolish the kiosk wall. Now they are trying to get an ice cream freezer onto the back of a pickup. It isn't working. The shoulderless man who had waved at Pablo turns his head and shouts.

Hey, dude! We need a hand here. Quick, quick!

He brakes the bike and surveys the scene. Two walls of the kiosk have been brought down with the sledgehammer. There are shards of glass everywhere, pieces of brick, crumbling cement, iron bars, a wooden door and window frames and all manner of debris lying around. At one end of the property, next to the wall of the neighboring house, is the abandoned carcass of an old beige VW Beetle destroyed by rust and exposure to the elements.

A dozen crumpled beer cans are scattered about the crushed grass, which looks as if it has been trampled by hordes of vacationers during the summer. Near the kiosk is a half-full bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla Vodka. The tendons in the men's necks are bulging, and the freezer is slipping from their hands. He dumps the bike on the ground and runs to help them.

Over here, says Bonobo. We need to get this freezer on the back, but it's a bitch. Give us a hand 'cause it's about to fall.

Afternoon, says the other man. He looks a little older. He has a dyed-black pompadour, a small chin, yellow teeth and a sunburned face with deep wrinkles and grooves. Hoop earrings in both ears. He is wearing blue-and-black-checked board shorts and a filthy pink polo shirt drenched with sweat.

This is Altair, says Bonobo as he helps lift the freezer. After a few more pushes and adjustments, it is safely positioned in the back of the pickup.