Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (36 page)

Terror rises in him when he imagines reefs and sea creatures or entertains the idea that he might be swimming in the wrong direction, moving away from the beach, with firm, regular strokes, into an overwhelming vastness from which there will be no return.

The rest of the time he focuses on swimming, breathing, signs that might help him keep going in a straight line that will take him somewhere. He reaches a point where he doesn't believe he is in any more of a predicament than the other times he has swum long distances in Olympic swimming pools or participated in ocean races with hundreds of other athletes. It all feels quite familiar, like those two miles of the Tapes Open Water Swim that he completed with cramps in his thigh, or the hypothermia he had in the middle of the bike ride that almost got him eliminated from the Ironman in Florianópolis. There's a right cadence for every race, and an athlete must pace himself and pay attention to style, the path of his strokes, and the rhythm of his kicking, and above all, he must focus and stay focused on the swimming until his mind and body are one, which enables him to become one with the water and there is no longer any need to focus. Everything he has experienced previously seems to have prepared him for this. It is the race he has trained for his entire life. The imagination can be an ally at times like this. He imagines competitors beside and directly behind him. Only the best swimmers in the world. The leader, whom he wants to pass, is kicking his legs right in front of him. All he has to do is swim in his wake. His mind believes it, and his made-up opponent becomes real in no time, a man of flesh and blood who feels the same cold and the same weariness, a companion. He can almost touch his feet with his fingertips. And when this particular fantasy dissipates, he imagines other things. That he is being chased by giant sharks or leviathans the likes of which no one has ever seen before. That if he pauses or slows his pace, he will be zapped by lightning. That he is leaving death behind. That a quiet, loving woman is waiting for him on the sand of the beach, a woman who doesn't look like anyone he has ever been with but has nothing extraordinary about her. She greets him without surprise, lets him lay his head on her sand-covered thighs to rest for as long as he requires, and says that they need each other, that they will always want to fulfill each other's wishes and will be able to, without exception. He can tell she is speaking the truth. She brushes his temples with her fingertips and asks what he wants. He babbles that he doesn't want much, just that her legs be warm to the touch in the winter and cool in the summer, and that they have a runny-nosed little girl who scrapes her knees as she tears around the house, and that there be a view of a lagoon that turns golden in the late afternoon, even if from afar. Above all that she remain warm when he is cold. That's all. Then it's her turn. Tell me what you want. She tells him, and he says yes to everything and asks what else, what else? It is an interminable list of things, and promising her each of them brings him infinite pleasure, no matter what they are. He gives her everything, one thing for each stroke of his arms, begging her not to stop, obtaining from this the strength he needs.

S
omeone shakes him.

Hey! Hey!

He opens his salt-sealed eyes with difficulty and is blinded by the light. The person helps him lift his torso.

Sit up, man.

He shades his eyes with his hand and sees a muscular man crouching in front of him, dripping with sweat, barefoot, wearing only shorts.

Are you okay?

He is gripped by a fit of convulsive coughing, almost vomiting, but nothing comes out. It doesn't last long, and as soon as it is over, he tries to get up but can't and falls back into a sitting position. He looks to both sides, and all he sees are two strips of white sand blazing in the sun. Behind the man is a light blue sea of docile waves.

What're you doing here? What happened to you?

What beach is this?

Siriú.

The Siriú next to Garopaba?

Is there another one?

He starts laughing and coughing.

Would you like me to call someone?

No, no, he says, pulling himself together. Help me up?

The man grabs him under his arms and sets him on his feet.

Have you seen a dog around?

No. What happened to you? Did you drink and go for a swim?

I fell in.

You look like Tom Hanks in that movie, man.

It's stopped raining.

It'll be back soon. It's been raining for almost a month.

What day is it today?

Wednesday.

I mean the date.

I think it's the fifteenth.

Of what month?

October.

The man puts his hands on his waist, glances to both sides, then stares at him with a tilted head and squinting eyes.

Man, you need help. Stay here. I'm going to call someone.

He shakes his head and makes a gesture to say it isn't necessary. His eyes have adjusted to the sunlight, and now he can see the houses on Siriú Hill to his left, and, to his right, in the distance, Garopaba, stretching all the way to Vigia Point. His tongue is swollen and salty in his mouth, plastered with thick saliva. He feels a twinge of hot pain near his waist and groans. He lifts up his wet T-shirt and sees a white cut in the middle of a reddish oval.

Did you hurt yourself? Do you remember what happened?

More or less.

Did someone attack you?

It was nothing.

His arms are covered in scratches, and his pants are torn at his thighs. He runs his hands over his face, hair, and beard.

You haven't got anything on your face, says the man.

What about you? What're you doing here?

Running. I'm training for a test to be a lifeguard. It's part of a course.

When is it?

In December. It's best to run barefoot in the sand to get used to it.

He puts his hand on the wound on his stomach and starts to get up but falls back in a sitting position again, breathing noisily through his nose. He swallows saliva as a reflex, but his mouth is dry.

You wouldn't happen to have any water there, would you?

Nope.

No problem. Have a good run.

The man watches him without moving.

You can go, thanks.

You sure?

Yup.

Wait here, and I'll give you a hand on my way back. Or I can let someone know in Garopaba. Is there someone who can come and pick you up?

It's not necessary.

Take it easy with the bottle. It'll do you in.

The man walks backward a few steps, then turns and runs along the sand toward Siriú.

He crosses his legs and sits there awhile, feeling the sun on the top of his head. He doesn't remember arriving at the beach but is able to recall vivid fragments of the whole previous night. It seems rather like a dream, like the Fata Morgana that Jasmim saw too. He remembers Beta, and a sudden sigh, deep and long, is born in the middle of his chest and leaves his mouth with a sticky smack of saliva. He needs to go back to look for her, but he won't be strong enough for a few days, and deep down he doesn't really believe that she is alive or can be found. But he'll go anyway. Judging from the height of the sun, it must be about nine o'clock in the morning. He can almost hear the sand drying in the dunes behind him. The tide is high. He still has a white cotton sock on one foot. He has to place both hands on the ground in order to lift his hips and stand up. He starts walking very slowly toward Garopaba. His joints all hurt. He is halfway down the beach when he hears someone shout behind him. It is the same man who woke him up, running back along the sand.

I got this for you in Siriú.

He accepts the bottle of mineral water without stopping walking. He tries to twist the top off but can't.

Here, let me.

The man takes the bottle, opens it, and returns it. He takes a series of short gulps. They walk along side by side.

Thanks.

Are you going to make it, Tom Hanks? Are you?

Yep. Especially now, with this water here to save me.

Want me to help you?

No, man, finish your run. I'll make it. I just can't stop.

Put your arm here.

The man offers him his shoulder for support and puts his arm around his waist. They walk together, slowly.

Stop by the health clinic when you get there. You don't look well.

It'll pass.

They walk together for more than half an hour. The sun has disappeared again behind thick clouds by the time they arrive at the Garopaba Beach promenade.

I can make it on my own from here, man.

Don't you want to go to the health clinic?

I want to stop off at home first. I live over there, overlooking Baú Rock. See? In the ground-floor apartment. Thanks for the help, and sorry I spoiled your workout.

Forget it.

Is there a swimming test also to be a lifeguard?

Yep.

What's your swimming like?

Pretty lousy. That's my problem.

Stop by my place in a few days' time, and I'll give you some tips to help you improve. I'm a swimming instructor.

Seriously?

Seriously. Don't forget. Lifeguards have to swim well.

Okay, you're on. See you later, Tom Hanks!

The man leaves and starts running back toward Siriú again. He continues on his own along the small stretch that remains, eyes trained on his front door. People arriving for lunch at the restaurants on the seafront observe him from afar and take a while to look away. Some fishermen working on their beached boats stop what they are doing to watch him go past. He gives the ones who stare at him longer a quick wave of the hand and gets almost imperceptible nods of the head in return.

His legs shake on the crumbling steps up to Baú Rock. The water at the end of the bay is incredibly smooth and calm. He enters the dark corridor between the buildings and retrieves the key hidden among the plants. Beta's absence screams in the silence of the musty living room. He opens the windows, and the light comes in. The humidity is scandalous. Droplets of water slide down the walls and the sides of appliances and into puddles on the tiled floor.

He goes into the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror, and sees an old man. He has spent his whole life seeing his face for the first time in his reflection, but now it is different. He can see the contours of his skull behind his forehead and cheekbones. His eyes are sunken in their orbits. His skin looks burned in spite of the weeks with no sunlight. His long beard is full of sand. He doesn't remember what he looked like before, but he knows it wasn't like this. He understands now what his grandfather saw. A ghost, a younger version of himself. Something that shouldn't have been there.

He takes off his wet clothes and sees his bones trying to poke through his shoulders, his prominent collarbones, and his ribs. He is covered in scratches, but nothing looks serious. The cut at his waist isn't deep.

He goes into the kitchen and drinks water from the faucet in short gulps. Some fruit and vegetables have withered or rotted in the fridge. There is a half-full tub of caramelized condensed milk. He rams a spoon into it and devours it in seconds. He wolfs down the rest of a jar of honey with a packet of crackers that was in the cupboard. After eating, he returns to the bathroom and takes a long shower on the highest setting. His tiredness crashes over him in the warm water, and he can barely stay on his feet. He has to sit on the toilet to dry off. Then he rolls himself in every available blanket and quilt and collapses on the bed, thinking that he needs to buy more food. And a toothbrush and toothpaste. And an umbrella.

 • • • 

F
or two days he
spends more time asleep than awake and goes out only to withdraw money and buy some food at the grocery store in the village center. He knows the name, location, and function of every muscle in the human body and knows exactly which ones are hurting at any given time. They all hurt. His face hurts. But the pain is normal. The kind of pain an athlete gets used to. It is always raining when he gets out of bed, and the few boats that haven't been brought in are always anchored in the same place. The long waves roll up to the doors of the fishing sheds, one after another. The muddy water that washes down the creeks, ditches, and dirt roads invades the green sea, forming large coffee-colored streaks across the entire murky bay.

Cecina appears on the second day holding a flowery umbrella. He invites her in, but she stays in the doorway with a concerned smile.

You're sick, boy. I told you you were sick.

He coughs before answering.

I'm fine, Cecina.

You're sick. You look like a dead fish. Go to the health clinic.

I will, don't worry.

Where's the dog?

I lost her, Cecina.

Oh dear.

I know. It's really hard.

She lowers her voice.

Did you talk to Santina?

I did. She told me everything. Or her version, at least.

There is no other version. Now you can stop going around asking about it. That's also why I helped you. To see if you'd get some sense into you and stop.

I've stopped, Cecina. The subject is dead and buried. I owe you a lot. Thank you for helping me.

She looks at him as if he were a pickpocket offering to help her cross the street.

You disappeared for a while there.

I went on a trip.

A trip where, for heaven's sake? Everything's underwater.

I went to Porto Alegre to resolve a few things. Paperwork to do with my late father, that kind of thing.

Cecina turns her face a little and doesn't look convinced. He can imagine what she is thinking. As predicted, all it took was the arrival of winter for the enthusiastic young PE teacher who only wanted to live a simple life in front of the beach, and who could prove his good intentions with a check for thousands of
reais,
to become a sick, filthy, evasive liar. Drugs, no doubt. She is relieved to have received a year's rent in advance.

Did the rain do much damage here, Cecina?

Not too much. Just holes in the streets. The road to Ferrugem was blocked for a couple of days, but they've fixed it. The real problem for us here is that the retaining wall on Cavalos Hill fell again and closed off access to the highway. Did you hear about it? My nephew who's studying vet science in Florianópolis has been stuck there for two days. Things are pretty ugly in Blumenau and Itajaí. According to yesterday's
Diário Catarinense,
the death toll is already sixty-eight. I imagine there's many more. They just haven't found the bodies. And I saw on TV that volunteers have been stealing donations. It's a tragedy. I've never seen so much rain in my more than sixty years of life.

How awful. At least Garopaba was spared.

We're blessed here.

And who won the election?

There's going to be a second round. No one got an absolute majority. Weren't you here?

No. I'm a bit out of the loop.

She glances inside the apartment.

Someone stopped by here looking for you a few days ago.

Man or woman?

Man. All he gave me was a nickname. He was fairly dark-skinned, bald. You're not caught up in drugs, are you?

Bonobo?

I think that was it.

What did he want?

He was asking after you. I said I hadn't seen you for several days.

He's a friend. I'll give him a call. Thanks, Cecina.

After Cecina says good-bye, he gets his black umbrella and goes to the supermarket again to buy a credit voucher for his cell phone. Halfway there he realizes he's still walking slowly, at the pace he kept so that Beta could keep up with him. He glances over his shoulder all the time, as if by a miracle she might reappear, limping along behind him. Something clutches at his stomach. What he feels isn't exactly pain but a kind of revulsion, as if his guts were disgusted at themselves. At the supermarket and in the doorways of some houses, the fishermen and their wives return his greetings as if merely respecting an enemy. He has done nothing to these people, but he understands that his mere presence is an unpleasant specter. He is sick of it and feels a deep sadness. His grandfather must have felt the same sadness, only a thousand times greater. The origin of his superhuman strength.

When he gets home, he plugs his cell phone into the charger, takes a hot shower, and makes a ham and cheese omelet. Ever since he woke up on the sand of Siriú, he has felt cold to the bone, and nothing seems to warm him up. His tracksuit pants and two wool sweaters aren't enough. His fits of ragged coughing are becoming more frequent. He rolls himself up in the blanket, sits on the sofa, and dials a number on his cell phone.

Bonobo.

Swimmer.

He invites his friend over to his place for a drink and a chat, but he is in Porto Alegre. Bonobo confirms that he stopped by the apartment a few days earlier to say that he had decided to visit his sick father after something he had said the day they met at Altair's kiosk. He says he finally met his nine-year-old half-sister for the first time and went to the neighborhood where he grew up to see his blood sister, whom he hadn't seen in over a year. Bonobo found his father in a fragile state after surviving an aortic rupture. He'd had the incredible luck to be showing a plot of land to a cardiologist when he'd felt sharp pains in his chest and gone into a cold sweat. The cardiologist had detected irregular rhythms in his heartbeat, phoned a colleague, and sent him to hospital by taxi. He was operated on in time. Nevertheless the damage was extensive, and he was very weak. Bonobo's dad's new wife begged him not to broach any potentially stressful subjects, which could be lethal, so their conversation was a little stiff and certain things were left unsaid. At any rate, they forgave each other and joked around a little. He hadn't seen his father in five years.