Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

See over there?

What?

Leaning against the wall.

The sandboard?

No, next to the cupboard.

The rifle?

Bonobo leaps over the bed and picks up a weapon.

It’s a spear gun. Come here.

How do I enter?

You can step on the clothes.

He walks around the bed and takes the spear gun. He has never held one before. Bonobo shows him how to load the galvanized steel spear in the bands of rubber and ready the spool.

You mentioned that your granddad used to go spearfishing here. I remembered that I had this spear gun and never use it. I tried to fish with it a few times, but I can’t stay underwater for long. You can have it.

Fuck, these things are expensive. I can’t accept it.

Stop being such a girl. It’s a present from a man to a man. Catch some groupers so we can cook up a moqueca .

They shake hands firmly, and Bonobo gives him a kind of sideways hug while patting him on the shoulder, staring seriously into his eyes. To escape the unexpected and slightly disturbing familiarity, he glances around for something to change the focus. A red T-shirt catches his attention among the dirty clothes.

Aren’t you a Grêmio supporter?

Obviously, says Bonobo.

So what’s that Internacional T-shirt doing on the floor there?

It takes Bonobo a moment to locate the item in the mess.

Ah, that’s for the chicks to wear.

You ask Inter supporters to wear that T-shirt?

Yep.

And do they?

Most do. Some Grêmio supporters do too if you know how to ask. There’s this humiliation thing that some of them like. An Inter chick with a mouth full of cock, nothing better.

They sit in the bedroom and continue drinking. It’s still dark out, but two little birds are engaged in a twittering duel.

I won’t even be able to sleep, says Bonobo. The girl who makes breakfast called in to say she’s not coming today. Shit. I forgot to buy fruit.

Since you’re religious, let me ask you something. Let’s say that a famous writer writes something that he never publishes, but he gives the manuscript to a trusted friend, his best friend, and asks him never to publish it. The writer dies. The friend reads the manuscript and discovers that it’s a masterpiece. So he shows it to an editor, the editor publishes it, and everyone agrees that it’s a masterpiece, and the writer becomes even more respected after his death.

Okay. What about it?

Is what his friend did wrong? Did he betray the writer?

I don’t follow. Do you have a writer friend?

No. Fuck. Hold on.

What’s it got to do with religion?

Wait. I’m going to change the question.

Bonobo’s cell phone beeps, but he doesn’t get up to check the message.

The only thing I don’t get is why the writer left the manuscript with the guy if he didn’t want to publish it. Why didn’t he just burn it?

No, forget the writer. Let’s say that a guy has a father who’s really attached to his dog. Really attached. He’s had the dog since it was a pup, and he loves it more than people, more than his wife and kids. The father decides to kill himself and asks his son to have the dog put down after he’s dead, because he doesn’t have the courage to do it himself and he knows the dog will suffer without him. He manages to convince his son to do it and makes him promise. The son does, more or less. The father kills himself, but the son doesn’t take the dog to the vet to have it put down. He keeps the dog and decides to look after it.

Was that what happened to you?

It’s just a random example that I made up.

Ah. Right. I get it.

Bonobo hiccups and burps inwardly.

What do you think?

I think the dad’s a prick.

Okay, but that’s not the question. Do you think the son betrayed him?

If the son made a promise and didn’t keep it, then he betrayed him, didn’t he? Just like the friend who publishes the masterpiece against the writer’s wishes.

And what does a Buddhist think of it?

Bonobo laughs.

Look, I can’t speak for all Buddhists, but if you want to know my opinion, the betrayal is what matters the least in this story. What does matter is the result of his decision. How are the person’s actions going to affect everyone involved? After the dog’s owner kills himself, it doesn’t make much difference to him what happens to the dog, right? He doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in this life. What matters now is how breaking the promise will affect the son’s and the dog’s lives and the lives of everyone directly or indirectly involved. Whether it increases or decreases people’s overall suffering.

No, but it’s just that—

Let’s suppose, purely as a completely hypothetical exercise of the imagination, that the dog in this story is the dog sleeping over there on the rug. She looks well fed. Her coat’s shiny. She’s even got some flesh on her. She’s sleeping now, but when she was awake, she struck me as perky and proud. I’d even go as far as to say that she’s belonged to you since she was born. And I get the impression that her company is good for you too. If she were the dog in your story, then I’d say that only good things had come of the broken promise. In which case, it’s all good.

But even so it’s a betrayal. And I don’t see how it can be ignored. It doesn’t matter that the father is dead. A promise was broken, and it’s never going to stop being part of the story. Maybe it’d be better if the dog were dead. The son wouldn’t even know what life would have been like with the dog, but he’d know he’d fulfilled his father’s last wish. These things matter. Don’t they?

Bonobo thinks a little.

Yeah. It’s never easy.

Because it doesn’t make any difference that the father is dead and doesn’t exist anymore and has no way of knowing he was betrayed. Understand? It’s a betrayal. The thing is there. Forever.

I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand. I don’t know what to tell you, sorry.

Bonobo picks up the spear gun and starts winding up the spool.

About three years ago a curious thing happened here in Garopaba. A guy used to go spearfishing with his son almost every week. One day they were snorkeling off the coast between Ferrugem and Silveira beaches at a place called Saco da Cobra. The guy dived down really deep and at some point saw a giant grouper hiding. The water was very clear that day and with several yards of visibility. The fish was monstrous, a size you don’t see anymore, and just stared at him from inside its hole, moving its jaw. The following week he went diving at the same spot and found the fish in the same hole. He decided to harpoon it at any cost. He became obsessed with it and couldn’t think about anything else. Whenever the conditions were right, he and his son went out in the boat. But the hole was too deep, and the grouper was flighty. Sometimes it didn’t appear, and when it did, it just wouldn’t let itself be harpooned. No other diver had seen the fish with his own eyes — they had only heard about it. A few weeks later he went out with his son again to fish. He went down the first time without any equipment. He surfaced a few minutes later and told his son he had found the fish. He put on all his equipment, got his spear gun, and went down again. And he didn’t come back.

Bonobo places the spear in the gun and aims at the kitchen.

When his son realized something was wrong, he tried to go and help his dad but couldn’t get down that far. He left and came back with the coast guard and divers. They went down and found the guy’s body with his arm tangled in the cord of the spear gun and the spear through the grouper’s tail. The fish was alive, but maimed. The spear had pierced its spine. The guy had tried to pull the fish until he blacked out and drowned tied to it. They took them out of the water together. They say it was the biggest grouper ever caught in Garopaba. It weighed over a hundred and eighty pounds.