Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (27 page)

Stay calm. Don't fight with them. I get off at five, and I'll come straight round.

They dug a hole and found some beer cans. They wanted to tear down my front steps, but I didn't let them. I'm going to lock myself inside until you get here. Please come quickly.

He hangs up just as Leopoldo, a Buddhist with size-fourteen feet and large, equine lips who moves through the water as if propelled by an outboard motor, touches the edge of the pool and looks up with an expression of panic, wanting to know his time.

What did I do?

Sorry, Buddha, I took a call and got distracted.

You're kidding, he exclaims with his São Paulo accent. His mouth opens in a half-smile, and he peers at the poolside chronometer through his misted-up goggles.

It was more or less the same as the last one. One twenty-five. Bend your arm a little more in the water. It's too straight. Ten seconds. On your mark.

Leopoldo turns with a horrendous cry of exhaustion, stares at the lane extending before him in the empty pool, and exhales three times, whistling like a pressure cooker.

Get set . . .

Leopoldo positions his feet on the wall underwater, raises his torso out of the water, and starts to breathe in.

Go.

Leopoldo sinks under, stretches out his arms, and pushes off the wall without hearing the beep of the chronometer. He emerges a few seconds later, and the warm pavilion is filled with the din of his kicking. He'd be a champion if he trained more often, but he spends two-thirds of the year on travel, fashion, and sports photography assignments all over the world for a number of publications. He attends the Buddhist temple in Encantada with Bonobo. After his workout, they both shower quickly in the dressing room.

Bonobo's been asking about you. He said he hasn't seen you lately. He wants you to come and see the temple.

Is he still going on about that? I already told him I don't want to.

He thinks you're a Buddhist and you don't know it.

He tried to indoctrinate me. When he got to the part about reincarnation, I stopped.

There isn't actually reincarnation per se in Buddhism. Because the concept of rebirth—

That's it, rebirth. Same thing. I've got to fly. My girlfriend's in trouble. You swam well today, Buddha. See you tomorrow.

His dripping beard gets cold in seconds outside. He rides his bike at full speed down the road to Ferrugem and skids to a halt outside Jasmim's cabin before he has even had time to break into a sweat. He can't see anyone on the sloping property but hears monosyllabic complaints, the sound of a shovel digging, and an electric drone punctuated by sharp rings. Jasmim opens the door before he can knock, careens down the five steps, and falls into his arms.

Thank God you're here. They started digging under the house about twenty minutes ago.

They walk around the right side of the house, where a ramp of tall grass descends as far as the light green rushes at the side of the lagoon. On the way they pass a rectangular hole the size of a kitchen sink, about two feet deep and full of stringy roots, where earlier on the invading duo dug up a couple of beer cans from another era. At the corner of the cabin, they come across a wizened old man with a cloudy eye in light brown corduroy pants, a threadbare gray jacket, and a black beret. He is leaning on the ground with a kind of robotic extension attached to his arm, watching a boy of about sixteen dig a hole near the foundations of the house.

Hey
. Stop right there. You can't dig here.

It takes them a moment to show signs of attention, but when Joaquim turns his head and sees him, the old man gets a fright, loses his balance, and stumbles down the slope a few steps. He almost falls, and the contraption extending from his arm lets out shrill noises full of static. The boy stops digging, looks at his grandfather or great-grandfather until he is sure he is okay, then turns to face him. The brim of his cap casts a shadow over his face, where there is an expression devoid of feelings or intentions of any kind. It is getting dark.

Who said you could dig here?

The old man looks afraid to speak but eventually blurts out, There's treasure buried there. Did she tell you about the treasure?

It doesn't matter if there's treasure or not! shouts Jasmim. You can't dig around my house without my authorization. It's private property.

With all due respect, you're a tenant. The property belongs to Abreu.

Who's Abreu? he asks.

The owner of the house, says Jasmim. They know each other.

So fucking what? It doesn't matter. You need to leave now.

Joaquim scales the rocky terrain to the position he was in before and readjusts the contraption on his arm.

But let me show you. We found it. It's right here. Just listen to the device.

The device, he sees now, is a homemade metal detector. A circular bobbin is attached to the plywood base, together with a tangle of circuits and wires. A cable winds around the metal rod to the other end, where there is a handle and a forearm support, and is connected to a box hanging from a belt around Joaquim's waist that looks like a small car battery with a set of switches and dials on top. He turns a dial, flips a switch, and passes the bobbin over the hole in smooth movements. The drone grows more intense, and an irritating sound, like a cross between a motorbike horn and a dial tone, goes off at apparently random and ever-more-frenetic intervals, with a hiss of static in the background.

It's here, says Joaquim with a childish smile. From one moment to the next, his tone of voice becomes subservient. I've found other treasures with this device. There's something here. But the lady can't dig it up. You know, don't you?

For God's sake, exclaims Jasmim. It's probably just another rusty can, Joaquim. A pen. A nail. I only dreamed it
twice
. It has to be
three
, doesn't it? Right? Doesn't it have to be three times?

The boy starts digging again.

It's not a nail, lady. The signal's real strong here. You'll see. It's for your own good.

A flock of cormorants flies around the lagoon chirping. The only trace of the day is an orange halo behind the hills.

That's enough. Give me that shovel—come on.

Holding his hand out, he starts walking toward the boy, who is unable to abort his movement and rams the shovel into the bottom of the hole one last time. A metallic clang leaves everything in suspense for a long second. Everyone looks at one another. Jasmim raises an eyebrow and takes a deep breath.

Okay
, Joaquim. Let's see what you've got there.

Joaquim's grandson or great-grandson works perseveringly as the old man rolls a cigarette and passes down instructions. He and Jasmim watch the activity from a distance, lying in the hammock strung between two tree branches at the edge of the neighboring property, which is overrun with a tangle of vegetation, listening to the growing riot of crickets and toads.

Didn't you dream that the treasure was under the front steps?

Yes, but they wanted to tear down the steps and said that afterward I'd have to move the position of my front door to pacify the spirits. Imagine. Move the position of my front door! The spirits here are cool. I don't want to upset them.

What are you talking about?

This house is kind of haunted. I was the first person to rent it in ten years. There was no electricity, water, nothing. I fixed everything. In the first few months I kept hearing a woman's laughter, and one day I was lying in the hammock over by that tree, and I felt a hand stroking my face and heard a woman saying,
Don't be afraid
. I got the hell out of there, of course. I moved the hammock here, and nothing has happened since. I don't want to mess anymore with these things. I lied to Joaquim and said I'd actually dreamed about that rock there, so they'd dig and then leave once and for all. I didn't know what to do.

Damn Jesuits.

Will you sleep here with me? I'm going to be scared.

I've got to go back. I left the dog there.

Can I sleep at your place then?

Of course.

Did you see how Joaquim got a fright when he saw you? Do you know him?

I've never seen him before.

His eyes just about popped out of his head. He almost rolled into the lagoon.

It is already dark when the old man and boy come walking up the property toward them, Joaquim carrying his homemade device, the boy with the shovel slung across one shoulder and holding a rusty bicycle frame in the other hand.

H
e waits at the top of
the steps
for his mother to arrive. He expects to see her black Parati, but the car that appears around the bend in the road is an older-model champagne-colored Honda Civic. She parks diagonally in his outdoor parking space. He hugs her. It is the first time he has seen her since the funeral. She is wearing red gloves and a beige wool coat. She looks smaller and thinner than he remembers. Before she came, he had decided to tell her about his conversation with his father on the eve of his suicide, but when she called minutes earlier to say she was in town and needed instructions on how to get to his place, his conviction went down the drain. By the time he said good-bye, he already knew he'd never be able to tell her. She would torment him for the rest of his life for not having warned the family immediately or done something to stop the tragedy. He can never tell anyone. The only other person capable of understanding the pact was directly involved and placed a pistol under his own chin and fired it, taking care to tilt it to cause as much damage as possible.

Now his mother stands back a little, without taking her hands off his waist, gazes into his eyes, and studies him with a smile on her lips. They don't look much alike, but staring at a close relative is a little like staring in the mirror, and there must be something of him in his mother's watery black eyes, wide open and earnest. Perhaps it is more a question of faith than recognition, but he sees something of himself in them. She must be seeing her ex-husband in her son's features now. And he knows that she feels relatively young and safe as she looks at him, because he doesn't have any way of knowing what has changed in her. The car's radiator fan turns itself off, and they realize it was on. His mother takes off her gloves and strokes his beard.

You look good like this. But you're too thin.

I've missed you.

You'd better have.

Is that your boyfriend's car?

Yes. Ronaldo lent it to me because it's an automatic and has a heater. I was nice and warm on the way up, and there was hardly any traffic on the road. Want to make your mother a coffee?

The sun is framed by a clearing of clouds, and the forecast is for fine weather until Monday. He carries her bag down the steps, and she follows him, taking photos of the view of the bay. She looks worried when she reaches the bottom of the steps and sees the front of the apartment.

Isn't there a danger the ocean might come up here?

Of course not, Mother. If the ocean came up as far as my window, the whole of Garopaba would be underwater.

He puts her bag in the bedroom and smooths out a wrinkle in the clean sheet that he has just changed as he explains in a loud voice that she'll be sleeping in his bed and he'll sleep in the living room. She doesn't answer, and when he returns to the living room, she is sitting on the sofa with her hands together between her knees, dumbfounded, staring at the dog standing on the rug in front of her.

What happened to her?

She was run over. It was nasty. She almost died.

She's limping and missing an ear.

It's just a piece of her ear. She's getting better. If we take her to the beach, you'll see. She can already run a little.

How old is this dog?

Fifteen or sixteen. You haven't seen her in ages, have you?

Not since I left your dad.

Beta takes a few steps toward the sofa, and his mother draws back.

She remembers you.

Get that pest out of here, please.

He opens the door, puts the dog outside, and closes it.

After drinking a black coffee and chatting some more, he takes the key to the Honda and drives her to lunch at a fancy restaurant on a hill overlooking Rosa Beach. It is early for the weekend surfers, and the place is still empty. The wood and stone building is decorated with furniture made from recycled timber, Indian statuettes, African masks and totems, turtle shells and whalebones. Ballads are playing softly on hidden speakers. They pick a table near the deck with a view of the beach and the lovely Meio Lagoon, where it is said that many people have drowned after getting tangled in the seaweed. In the background enormous waves break and march staunchly across the sand with lacy swaths of foam in tow. His mother is enchanted with the crystal glasses, the votive candles, the sunflowers in test-tube-shaped vases. They order a seafood
moqueca
. The waiter suggests some wines, and his mother chooses a South African
pinotage
. He spots a right whale's spout and points at the blue ocean. His mother puts on her glasses and manages to see the next two spouts, but then the whale disappears. The stew arrives, and the penetrating smell of the seasonings and seafood wafts across the table.

This puréed
arracacha
is really good. Have you been here before?

No. A friend who has a bed-and-breakfast nearby recommended it.

Have you made many friends here?

A few.

I thought you'd become a bit of a hermit.

Life here is normal.

Normal for you. I don't get why you have to hide yourself away in a deserted place like this in the middle of winter when you could be in Porto Alegre, or even São Paulo like your brother. I think you're still upset about your father's death and will end up coming back. But it's your life. You're an adult. I know you like to be on your own. You've been like this ever since you were a child, and I've always respected it, but I've never agreed with this lack of motivation to do something with your life. How long are you going to stay here giving swimming lessons to a handful of students? Living alone with that disgusting dog. She won't last long. This isn't a place to make a life for yourself. I've always thought your lack of initiative was your father's fault. He always told me to let you be, let you do what you wanted. Let the kid study PE. Let the kid ride his bike and swim: it's what he likes. You inherited the worst of your father, and it wasn't the booze or the cigars or his lack of respect for me, but this absurd notion that you can live in the middle of nowhere like people did a thousand years ago and that it was an accident that you were born in the twenty-first century in a big city where you can do things, create things, make money, travel the world—

I was born in the twentieth century. So was Dad.

—and study fascinating things and live an interesting, modern life, full of culture, and make the most of it all and have your own family, who will also benefit from it all, and so on. The kind of thing our ancestors thought we were going to do, you know? Your dad never let me get on your case about these things when you were growing up, and now you think that letting your beard grow in a tiny summer rental that smells of mold and fish, earning just enough to pay the electricity bill, is a decent life. That's not how I see it. One day you're going to want to get married. You're going to want to make a home for yourself. This new girlfriend of yours is from Porto Alegre, isn't she? Does she want to spend the rest of her life here? I doubt it. Do you think you'll go the distance with her? Do you think you might get married? Have kids? Is there a decent school for them in this place? You told me she's well educated, doing a master's. She must be ambitious. I've seen it all before, believe me, and things won't turn out well for you. You can spend the rest of your life looking for another Viviane, but unless you change your outlook, the
same
thing is going to end up happening over and over again—

Only if you give me another son of a bitch for a brother.

—because the problem is that you see life as something to be lived alone unless circumstances force something different on you. I know you don't do it on purpose, it's in your nature, but you need to fight it, darling. And if you want to call your brother something, call him something else because I'm no dog.

I didn't mean—

You need to stop hating Dante for what happened. It's not his fault Viviane took an interest in him.

You don't know anything.

And the way you ran off from your father's wake was embarrassing. Why do you have to avoid running into Dante and Viviane if you're as independent and self-assured as you think you are? Do you really think you don't need anyone else? Years ago I actually thought that Dante was the son who was going to have a hard time in life with his dream of being a writer. I still have no idea how he makes a living, seeing as his books don't sell much and he never wins the prizes with the big money. I think it's from his speaking engagements. But I know he's living in São Paulo in a great apartment that he managed to buy—

He's got a thirty-year mortgage.

—because he went after his dreams—

And she pays half.

—and objectives, while you let your furniture and few belongings go practically for free to the first person who appeared at your apartment in Menino Deus. You granted power of attorney to your lawyer friend so he could wrap things up for you, while you ran away to the beach and burrowed a hole in the sand like an armadillo. How do you know she pays half?

She told me.

When did you talk to her?

She sends me messages on Facebook sometimes.

But you aren't friends on Facebook. I've looked.

You don't have to be a friend to send a private message.

I didn't know you were speaking.

I don't answer her messages. And I closed my account the other day anyway.

I didn't know she pays half.

There are lots of things you don't know.

Dante never told me she pays half.

It's normal. They live together. And I hope you're done, because I don't want to talk about this anymore. It was good we had this talk 'cause now we don't need to have this talk anymore. I couldn't give a fuck what Dante does or doesn't do, and I don't care if he's your favorite until the day you die. I came to terms with that a long time ago. Just don't compare me to him. Spare me.
São Paulo?
You always hated São Paulo, and now that
they
live there, it's the only place a human being could want to live. Look me in the eye, and tell me that you think someone like me could—

I'm not comparing you, darling, I just wanted—

I'm fine here. Seriously. I know you don't understand how it's possible. But try. I like living here.

I love you both equally. I don't have a favorite.

It's okay.

I don't.

How are
you
, Mother?

I already told you. I'm really well. I've talked so much since I arrived. I don't know what else to tell you. What do you want to know?

Are you walking? Have you managed to get your triglycerides down?

Yes
. Walking and stuffing myself full of omega-three. I got tested last month, and the doctor told me my blood is like a little girl's.

What have you got them down to?

Two hundred and a bit.

It's not like a little girl's but it's come down a lot. That's good. Are you working? I know you get a big kick out of this Ronaldo guy, but I reckon you should take more interior decorating assignments to keep busy.

I've been busy with your dad's will and probate.

I thought Dante was looking after almost everything.

Dante's in São Paulo and only comes if it's absolutely necessary. I've been acting on his behalf. By the end of the year, you and your brother should get your money. And I'm going to sell his house. I'd like you to give some thought as to what you're going to do with the money. Use it to set yourself up. Get a partner and open a gym in Porto Alegre. Or put a good-size deposit down on an apartment. Don't give your money away.

Who would I give my money to, Mother?

You know what I'm talking about. You're too generous. Hold on to the money when it comes. Promise your old mother.

Do you miss him?

What are you talking about?

Do you miss Dad?

She turns to stare at the ocean and bites the insides of her cheeks.

I hate to admit it, but I do. Now that he's gone, I miss the good years. There were lots of them.

That's nice to know. I'm glad.

His mother wants to feel the sand on her feet. They drive down to the south end of the beach, walk to Meio Lagoon, and return. They barely speak. The hills are imposing and make them seem small in comparison, while on the other side the ocean flaunts its infinitude. The wind blows his mother's straw hat off twice, and he has to chase it over the soft sand. The beauty of the beach erases the last traces of the animosity of lunch.

Jasmim greets them in her cabin in Ferrugem late in the afternoon with coffee, maté, and an orange cake cut into little cubes. They give her the yerba maté that his mother brought from the Porto Alegre Public Market. He instructed his mother the night before not to bring up certain topics, and the conversation flows without any hitches, propelled by the contrived enthusiasm of his mother, who thinks everything is absolutely wonderful, funny, and incredible. It is at times like this that he is most irritated by her, when she is trying to please and there is no trace of the love that underpins her scolding and judgment and eternal comparisons to his older brother. Jasmim hams up the story about the metal detector, and his mother laughs until she cries. At one point, which he can hardly believe, they actually discuss a detail of the plot of the nightly soap opera, even though Jasmim doesn't even own a television set. There are no questions about what it's like for a woman to live alone in a place like this or about future expectations; nor are there any quips about mothers-in-law and grandchildren. He wonders if they could really get along. It is possible. With time.

On the Sunday morning he doesn't take Beta for her swim, in order to avoid upsetting his mother. He thaws out a fish for lunch and opens two beach chairs on the paved area in front of the apartment. Beta barks a lot, and he catches his mother pouring hot water from the Thermos on her, but when he confronts her about it, she swears it was accidental. The pest passed underneath right when I was going to fill the gourd, and I got a fright.