Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

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.

Thanks for the hand, man. I saw you giving Pablito a lift on your bike. You hooking up with Dália?

Yeah.

Cool.

But where are you from? asks Altair. You’re new around here, aren’t you?

He explains that he moved there not long ago and tells them the whole story. The two men listen without hearing. They are out of breath, exhausted, addled from the alcohol and the physical exertion. The faded, stained, and torn yellow T-shirt that Bonobo is wearing, with black sleeves and yellow stripes, is a Grêmio Football Club jersey. No one remembers this shirt, he says with pride. It’s the goalkeeper’s. It was worn by Gomes and Sidmar in ’91.

He is wearing a necklace of wrinkled brown beads that look like nuts, and covering his legs is an item of clothing of indeterminate color that could be long shorts or short pants.

So, what are you guys doing?

Knockin’ down the kiosk, says Altair.

Yeah, but why?

Altair has to return the property by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, says Bonobo. Without the kiosk. It’s in the lease.

Between swigs straight from the bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla, they explain that Altair leased the land in the middle of the previous year to open a business during the summer months. He built the kiosk with money from a small bank loan and the sale of a motorbike. His friends helped him build it. It took longer than planned and wasn’t ready until after Christmas, when the tourists had already arrived, and suddenly he found himself with a debt and an empty kiosk on one of the best corners in Garopaba at the peak of the busy season. He quickly arranged for a visit from a Kibon Ice Cream representative, and a few days later he was given the freezer on consignment. By New Year’s Eve he had a dozen surfboards made by a shaper friend of his on display. By the second week of January the kiosk also had a stand of trinkets and costume jewelry made by a well-known itinerant hippie couple who come to town every summer, three small tables for customers to sit at, and a well-stocked Skol Beer fridge, and a table where Lisandra, a voluptuous young masseuse from Goiás who had been in Garopaba for three years, provided massotherapy, chiropractic, lymphatic drainage, and reiki at any time of the day or night. At night the kiosk began to host bands playing samba, pagode, reggae, and Brazilian pop music. The samba sessions were especially lively and went on into the small hours with people occupying the vacant lot around the kiosk and spilling over onto the sidewalks and even into the middle of the street, which forced the police to put in the occasional appearance and stop the fun. On January 22, Altair organized a luau to celebrate the first full moon of the year on the sands of Ferrugem Beach and attracted hundreds of summer tourists thirsty for beer, refreshing cocktails, massages, and drugs, which he also arranged for them. He sold all the surfboards at gringo prices. Everything sold like hotcakes: the ice creams, the wire and resin earrings, the coconut shell bracelets, the beer, the kiwi caipirinhas, Lisandra’s famous hands with her almost erotic sessions of do-in, the LSD and the E. It became a sales outlet for tickets to all the major parties of the season. Before January was over, he had already raised enough money to pay for the lease of the land. Before mid-February, he had paid off his loan too. He doesn’t want to say how much he profited, but he indicates that he won’t need to work until next summer and that he is going to buy a new motorbike, much better than the last one. Now, at the end of April, he needs to return the land in the same state as when he leased it. The owner isn’t interested in the kiosk.

But why don’t you pay someone to demolish it?

I don’t want to spend money on it.

Altair knows his shit, says Bonobo, setting down the bottle of vodka and picking up the sledgehammer. This guy knows his shit. He takes three steps back, lifts the sledgehammer over his head to his back, and with a frighteningly ample movement that explores the limit of his short reach, hurls it with all his might at one of the walls that are still standing. Not a single piece comes loose — it doesn’t even make a crack — but the wall vibrates and fragments of dry paint and cement fly everywhere with a dry thud that echoes in his head and slides down his throat to his stomach. Bonobo gives it another few blows, lets out a crazy laugh, and does a little dance. Then he offers him the sledgehammer.

Have a go, man. It’s really cool.

He hits the wall with all his might. The impact travels up his arms and sends a tremor down his spine. He experiences a deep pleasure transferring so much energy in a single blow to the pile of bricks and mortar, and the structure appears to cede a little.

Awesome, isn’t it? Give it a few more tries.

By nightfall they have brought down another wall and are working on the last one, alternating between blows with the sledgehammer and kicks. They have finished the bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla and take turns going to the nearest tavern to get cans of cold beer, which they guzzle down. Altair and Bonobo have been at it since daybreak and midday, respectively, and are showing alarming signs of tiredness. Altair falls asleep sitting up for about half an hour, snoring, but wakes with a start, takes a swig from a can of warm beer that is within reach, gets up, asks for the sledgehammer, and attacks the wall again. Bonobo looks catatonic from time to time, staring straight ahead, but returns to action within one or two minutes. The sky is full of stars and the air is warm. The three of them talk little and pass the sledgehammer back and forth at regular intervals that, to anyone observing them from the entrance to the supermarket or the hot dog stand on the opposite corner, look carefully measured and synchronized. A well-oiled team with a method.

Bonobo tells him that he is from the south zone of Porto Alegre but many years ago he moved to Rosa Beach, where he opened a bed-and-breakfast.

It’s just before Canto do Mar. You know it? The small bed-and-breakfast on the left. Last year I opened a café too.

Altair falls asleep again, this time lying on the gravelly ground, hugging the sledgehammer, his head resting on a backpack. A third of the last wall is still standing, but they are too tired. He and Bonobo pool the change in their pockets and go to the tavern to get their last few cans of beer. They return and drink them sitting down, leaning against the remaining section of wall. Exhaustion installs a feeling of companionship in them. Before he realizes it, he is talking about his dad’s suicide and the dog he decided to adopt. Bonobo listens, nodding his head the whole time, wanting him to be sure he is listening and understanding.