Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (23 page)

He replaces two cards and finds himself with three of a kind and a low pair. He doubles the ante. Bonobo folds. Diego folds. Brimming with confidence, Jaspion doubles the ante again, sucking in his top lip, wrinkling his chin, almost smiling, eyes glued to his own cards at all costs. Bluffing, of course. He calls. Jaspion has two high pairs.

Full house.

Fuck, Bonobo, why did you invite this cunt to come and play with us?

Thank you, gentlemen, he says, raking in the matchsticks.

Burning through nine hundred
reais
in a brothel in Pato Branco is good luck.

It's not luck, he protests in a solemn tone of voice. You have to know how to read your opponents' faces and body language.

A john's luck. It's classic.

Just look at Altair's face. I reckon he's taking a whiz.

I am not.

Are you pissing, man?

No.

But tell me, did the police chief have any light to shed on your granddad?

A little. But I think he was more of a hindrance than a help. I've given up trying to get to the bottom of it. It'd end up driving me crazy. I'm just going to forget about it.

Bonobo deals and says he is going on a retreat at the temple in Encantada the following week. A whole week waking up at four-thirty in the morning to stare at the wall and pray. I think you'd like it, swimmer. You should try going on a retreat sometime.

I like staring at walls, but not praying.

Count me out.

Me too.

Why engineers?

Huh?

Nothing, I'm just thinking out loud. The guy at the hotel said fast women, slow horses, and
engineers
. Doesn't make any sense.

Shit.

What's wrong, Altair?

Shit, I've got a leak.

Altair gets up and dashes to the bathroom.

Argh, fucking hell.

Life isn't for amateurs.

T
he emaciated dog hobbles over the
tiled floor of the pet shop. Her front paws move forward even though one of them is slightly crooked and weak after weeks in plaster. Her back paws can make only short, quick movements that look more like involuntary jerks and sometimes cease altogether. Her tail doesn't wag. Nevertheless, she is able to move without any help. She is walking. He and the vet are standing side by side, watching. Beta breathes in the cool air with her mouth shut. One of her ears has a ragged edge, and her fur won't grow back over certain scars, but apart from these things, she is fine, alive. He lets her walk around a little, then picks her up and puts her down somewhere else, provoking her with a toy duck that was sitting on a shelf. She yelps and gives a few shrill barks. Greice provides him with a list of instructions. Beta may experience some incontinence and will have to be given medication for a period of time. She will need physiotherapy to get some of her movement back. As she is, she won't need a trolley in order to walk, but she can't move as she would like to either. The vet teaches him some exercises that he can do with her at home. She says they were very lucky. She is emotional and can't hide it. She uses the word
miracle
. She takes a while to say good-bye to Beta and smiles that kind of nonstop smile that is an attempt to ward off tears. Before he leaves, he tells her that Beta was his father's dog for fifteen years. She followed him everywhere like a shadow. If necessary, she'd lie for hours in front of a restaurant or shop until Dad came out. Dad wasn't the affectionate sort, and he never picked her up or let her lie on his lap or anything like that. He had a gesture of affection that I'll never forget. He'd give Beta three or four slaps on the ribs with a force that sometimes seemed excessive. At times it would make her skittle sideways, and she'd echo like a small drum. It was obvious that she liked it, something between the two of them. Private codes between close companions always seem somewhat eccentric to anyone looking on. She's got this shrill bark that can be a bit irritating, but she doesn't bark much. She likes kids, but she isn't that fond of other dogs. You have to keep an eye on her, or she'll lunge at them. She likes to nip at people's heels too. It's her breed, I think, the herding instinct. When he'd drive somewhere not too far from home, Dad liked to let her chase the car instead of taking her in it. He'd go at twenty-five, thirty miles an hour, and she'd chase the car to the grocery store or even as far as Trabalhador Highway, which was a few miles away. When I saw Dad more often and Beta was younger, I'd take her running with me sometimes. She'd run five or six miles with me, without a problem, on a leash. She was really depressed when Dad died. I reckon Beta was what kept him alive for his last ten years. I think caring for a dog helped keep his feet on the ground, gave him a sense of responsibility, the will or obligation to care about something. My mother isn't very fond of her. She calls her a pest. Get that pest out of here.

Greice asks how he intends to get Beta home. He confesses that he hadn't thought about it and calls a taxi. He leaves a check for what he still owes Greice, and she gives him a packet of dog biscuits as a present. When the taxi arrives, he taps Beta on the side and carries her into the car.

Over the next few days, he thinks for the first time about going back to Porto Alegre or moving somewhere else. He starts oversleeping. He wakes up midmorning to the sound of the returning fishing boats' motors or the voices of the young people who come to smoke pot on the stairs outside. He spreads honey and sesame oil on a thick slice of whole-grain bread and eats, feeling the salty breeze on his face. When there's a full moon, the weather doesn't change until the moon goes into a new phase. Easterly winds bring bad weather. Who taught him these things? He can't remember. He is enthused by winter for reasons he doesn't understand. He likes heating up the soup pan every night and feeling the gust of Arctic air stinging his skin when he unzips his wetsuit after swimming. He feels comfortable in the season that other people hope will pass soon. He feels the constant presence of something undefined that has been long in the coming. Phases like this are the closest thing to unhappiness that he knows. Sometimes he wonders if he is unhappy. But if this is unhappiness, he thinks, life is incredibly merciful. He may not even have come close to the worst, but he feels prepared for it.

Viviane once told him about the Greek gods, which she had been reading up on for the master's in literature that she was doing when they lived together. Imagine what things would be like if real life was like that. Gods announcing in advance that you're going to win a battle, survive a shipwreck, be reunited with your family, avenge your father's death. Or the opposite, that you're going to be defeated or suffer terrible things for many years before you get what you want, that you're going to lose or even die. And they go into detail, saying exactly how, when, and where, then fly off on the wind and leave the mortal there with the obligation to fulfill or carry out whatever has already been decided up on Olympus. Imagine how awful. And he had replied that he didn't think it was a bad thing. He liked the idea of gods whispering in your ear much of what was yet to happen to you. He doesn't actually believe in it because there is no place in his heart for gods, but he feels as if something equivalent exists in the earthly world, a natural process, some mechanism in the body or mind that senses things that we might later call fate. In his opinion, life is a little like that. We already know a lot about how things are going to turn out. For every surprise, there are dozens or hundreds of confirmations of what is more or less expected or sensed, and all this predictability tends to go unnoticed. It used to drive Viviane crazy, partly because he didn't have her education or vocabulary and couldn't express himself all that well, and partly because she vehemently disagreed with the idea. Then she'd go on about free choice, people's freedom to choose, to decide what is going to happen based on what they want. She couldn't accept that he didn't view it as naturally as she did. Their discussions could start with a little joke or affectionate provocation and escalate into exasperating fights in which, for lack of arguments and a weak rhetorical arsenal, he had to defend his position with stubbornness or silence.

One morning in early July he takes off his socks and T-shirt, puts on a pair of board shorts, picks up Beta, and heads down the stairs to Baú Rock. The sea is choppy, but the waves are weak. The bright sunlight takes the sting out of the cold. He leaves Beta on the edge of the rock and enters the water, treading carefully over the barnacles and algae hidden under the foam. He picks up Beta again, wades farther in, and lowers her into the cold water. She stares straight ahead, perplexed by the unexpected bath. She is not in the habit of going into the water, much less the sea. The waves frighten her. She instinctively starts paddling with her front paws and a little with her back ones. He encourages her and remains up to his neck in water in solidarity, to feel as cold as she does. As soon as she finds her pace, he places a hand under her belly for support. Beta sniffs and sneezes when the water touches her muzzle. They are watched by a flock of vultures that at a given moment take to the air, flapping their magnificent wings. They are ghastly looking on the ground and beautiful flying. When the cold gets to be too much, he takes Beta firmly under his arm, wades out of the water, and carries her up the stairs to the apartment, where he wraps her in a towel. Then he gives her a warm shower and dries her patiently and carefully. He heats up a little soup in a small pot, making sure to throw in several decent chunks of meat, and serves it to her in her water bowl. He starts doing this every day, even when it is raining.

 • • • 

A
group of tourists in
yellow waterproof jackets and orange life vests, cameras dangling from their necks, is boarding a large dinghy anchored in front of one of the fishing sheds. The dinghy makes several trips, to transport all the tourists to a larger vessel that awaits them farther out. He watches the operation as he exercises Beta in the water. The vessel revs up its noisy motor and starts moving toward the sea gulls bobbing up and down near the fishing boats. The birds spread their wings and skate a little across the surface before they are fully airborne.

Later, after drying and feeding Beta, he locates the travel agency on the main street of the fishing village. Caminho do Sol. Adventure Travel, Hiking, Horseback Riding, Abseiling on Branca Rock, Whale Watching. The small office, with its floor-to-ceiling window, is behind the fishing shed where the tourists had gathered that morning. There is a red motorbike parked outside. A large right whale vertebra by the door is a draw card for tourists and a reminder that the hunting of these protected animals was once the main economic activity in the region. Vestiges of the old whaling station are everywhere, from historical buildings with mortar made with whale oil to the bones that decorate houses, gardens, and bed-and-breakfasts.

He opens the glass door and for a split second thinks that the girl sitting behind the desk staring at the computer screen with a gourd of maté frozen halfway to her mouth is Dália. Her curly hair is swept back off her face, and she is absorbed in her reading, with her head tilting forward a little and her eyes darting back and forth in horizontal sweeps. But she can't be Dália because she is black. She is wearing a white top and a brown and orange skirt, which look more like strips of fabric somehow tied to her body than items of clothing. He says, Good afternoon, and she returns the greeting immediately but doesn't take her eyes off the screen until she has quickly finished reading a sentence or paragraph.

Hi, how are you? Sorry, I was just finishing reading something. Have a seat. How can I help you? My name's Jasmim. What's yours?

Her voice is deep and viscous. She tells him that the trip costs one hundred
reais
and that there are still tickets available for the next morning. One of the crew members is a biologist, who will give them a lesson on right whales during the outing. Environmental protection norms require that tour boats approach the whales no more than three times in a row and stay at least a hundred yards away from the whales at all times, but the whales themselves often become curious and swim over to the boat. If the whales take the initiative, it's okay, but we can't guarantee that it's going to happen. The boat will sail down the coast to Ibiraquera, where the whales are this year, passing Ferrugem, Ouvidor, Rosa Beach, the rocky coasts. It's very beautiful. They're predicting a sunny day without clouds tomorrow, and the boat leaves at nine in the morning. You have to be there by eight-thirty to meet the group, put on your life vest, and listen to the instructions. If there's a free spot tomorrow, I'm going to go myself. I've only been once.

She sips her maté and finishes with a slurping sound.

Would you like some maté?

Yes, please.

She fills the gourd with steaming water from a Thermos.

What were you reading on the computer when I came in?

Oh, it was a post in a blog I follow.

What about?

About how people need idols these days and the difference between myth and idolatry.

What's the difference?

There are actually a thousand definitions of what a myth is, but most of them suggest that a myth contains some sort of truth, no matter how obscure, about the challenges and meanings of life. They are stories that have to do with heroes, people who experience great hardship while striving to achieve an objective. The stories change throughout time, but the patterns stay the same. Their strength is timeless. Idolatry has to do with idols, which are the images or representations of divinities. In idolatry, the idol is worshipped as much as or even more than the divinity itself. In other words, idolatry doesn't contain an implicit truth, like a myth, but rather a lie or a falsification. So this guy is saying that idol worship in our generation is really common, but few people value and recognize myths. He says the traditional idea of myth is in decline because of the speed of social transformation, information overload, unchecked individualism, and so on. We're living through a historical moment of transition from myths to idols. Something like that. Anyway, I haven't finished, but it's an interesting read.

Very interesting.

Do you want a ticket?

Yes.

She takes down his name and phone number in a lined notebook. A protruding vein runs from the back of her hand almost as far up as her elbow. Her fingers look rough. Angular handwriting. Left-handed. Well-kept fingernails but no nail polish. He finishes the maté.

Would you like another one?

Her bottom lip is a little lighter in color than her top lip. The color of raw flesh.

No thanks. Do I have to bring anything?

Sunscreen. Camera. We provide water. But you need to pay up front.

Oh. I haven't got any money on me.

She checks her watch.

I close in fifteen minutes. Look, let's do this: come a little earlier tomorrow and bring the money. We won't tell anyone else. Are you from here?

I'm from Porto Alegre, but I live here now. Right behind here, in one of the apartments overlooking Baú Rock. Next to the house with the deck.

Wow! A five-star view. What do you do?

I'm a sports instructor: triathlon, swimming, running. That sort of thing.

Cool.

A car pulls up in front of the travel agency. All four doors open at the same time, and an entire family starts piling out. A potbellied man, who must be the father, enters the agency, murmurs a greeting, and stands there waiting to be served. A woman, who must be the mother, stays outside dealing with the hyperactivity of three girls.

He thanks Jasmim, says good-bye, and goes home with his heart thumping. He tries to think about something else but can't. Women with flowers for names and curly hair. Myths contain truths of some sort. Something vulnerable in those big eyes staring at the screen. Patterns of stories that persist throughout time. He can no longer remember her face, but he knows he'll find her beautiful again tomorrow. He remembers her shoulders held back, the way her waist and hips fit together, her straight posture in the chair. He's never seen anyone sit so beautifully before. He is in love with her posture. She is too highly educated to put up with him for any length of time. It would be better to not even start. He gets the hundred
reais
from the kitchen drawer regardless and heads back to the agency, but when he gets there, it is already closed.