Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

You understand that she’s going to be paralyzed? That there’s no guarantee that she’s going to walk?

Yes.

The surgery costs around two thousand reais . But it might end up costing more.

That’s fine. The price doesn’t matter.

Leave your contact information with William in reception. Cell phone and everything. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got some news. And she’ll need to stay in the clinic for at least thirty days. That’ll cost you too.

Okay. Do everything you can.

I promise you I will.

Thanks.

He gives William his contact details and walks back into Garopaba.

• • •

T he news has spread through the gym. Mila hugs him and kisses his neck. He feels the satiny skin of the Chilean descended from Mapuche Indians on his. She strokes his hair with her hand and offers him a slice of wholemeal chocolate cake. She says he is pale and looks weak. Débora is signing up some new clients but straightens up in her chair and asks how the dog is with pity written all over her face. She tells him to go home as it’s almost time anyway, and Saucepan is watching his students in the swimming pool. He thinks about calling his mother as he gets changed in the dressing room but decides not to. To her, Beta is just a dog, if not to say a kind of enemy, and he realizes how absurd it is to be jealous of a dog and a dead man, even if not entirely without cause. When he told his mother that he had decided to look after Beta after his father’s suicide, she shook her head, unable to understand. If it were up to her, she would have pressured someone in the neighborhood to take her in. But her son keeping the dog? It was a kind of offense.

He arrives early to pick up Pablo from school. When the children get out, Pablo appears accompanied by a teacher. He lost the fingernail of his index finger in a game. He is sporting an oversized bandage on the finger, a thick wad of gauze held down with plasters. The teacher strokes his hair.

He had to go to the health clinic, didn’t you, Pablito?

Yep.

And what did the doctor say?

The nail will grow back, says Pablo with a sideways glance, paying attention to something else.

He puts Pablo in the bike seat.

Ready?

Ready!

Can you hold on properly with your finger like that?

Yep.

Did it hurt a lot?

Yep.

He continues asking questions the whole way, and Pablo answers them as succinctly and directly as possible and with an honesty that still hasn’t been contaminated by sarcasm or irony. When they get to Dália’s mother’s house, she asks if he has read the last e-mail she sent him. He confesses that he hasn’t yet.

I had another vision with you in it. Or a dream, if you prefer. This time it was really strange. I want to know what you think.

I promise I’ll read it as soon as possible.

On his way home he stops in front of the pizza parlor on the main avenue. He identifies Dália by her height and exuberant curls. She is in a meeting with other employees at the counter of the bar and signals through the window for him to wait a minute. As she walks out, she makes a funny face with twisted lips and squinting eyes.

Hi, you wooking for me?

I’m looking for a really pretty girl who works here.

She lets the funny expression go, and he discovers her face all over again. How many times has it been now? Thirty? Fifty?

Hey there, sexy. Your beard’s getting long.

Letting nature follow its course.

Been breaking many hearts?

I just came to say hi and tell you that Pablito’s at home. He managed to lose the fingernail of his index finger playing hide-and-seek, but he’s taking it in his stride as always. They took him to the clinic, and he’s got a huge bandage, but everything’s okay.

Oooh. My poor baby. I’ll give him a call now. Thanks for letting me know. Actually, it’s good that you stopped by. I need to talk to you. As of next week, you won’t need to pick him up. I’m quitting this job. I’m just going to work in the shop, and I can pick him up when I get back from Imbituba.

I see. Changes. Some kind of problem?

No, but I don’t need two jobs anymore. I make more money there. And I don’t have to work nights. Thanks for helping me out. You’re an asshole, but you’re an angel too.

That’s what folks used to say to my dad. But with him it was the opposite: You’re an angel, but you’re an asshole. And I recognize that sparkle in your eye.

I’m seeing someone.

Already?

She gives him the finger.

I knew it. You’re looking very smug. Someone from here?

From Florianópolis. He’s fifty, but he isn’t as square as you.

What does he do?

He’s a contractor. He’s working on that project to widen the highway. What’s the face for? Everyone makes that face when I tell them his age. Why?

Did I make a face? I don’t think I made a face.

Fine.

I don’t see anything wrong with it. I don’t even know the guy. Maybe you’re the one who’s worrying too much about what other people think.

She doesn’t answer, but her gaze is reconfigured. Now it is a look of farewell in which he can tell that she isn’t saying good-bye to him, because they’ll still see each other around, but to another world identical to this one except that in it they are still together, in love, and have lasted the distance, a world imagined in detail and nurtured for a time, which she is just now letting go of. A great sadness overcomes him. He suddenly wants her again. It is as if her attachment to that other world has leaped out of her body and into his like an invading spirit. Maybe he is feeling exactly what she was feeling a minute earlier.

What’s wrong? asks Dália.

He feels like crying. Truth be told, he’ll never know what she was feeling. He could have asked her. She’d have told him. He clears his throat and tells her that Beta was run over earlier that afternoon.

Oh, how awful. Is she going to be okay?

She’s in a bad way. But she’ll pull through.

Are you okay?

Yeah. I’m fine.

The other waiters start bringing the tables outside, and Dália has to get to work.

• • •

T he waves hit Baú Rock with a thud, followed by an effervescent hiss. He mashes up a tin of tuna with mayonnaise, slices a tomato, and makes sandwiches. He can smell the dog in the apartment and sees her short bluish hairs on the ground and her empty dish abandoned on the damp cement under the clothesline.

Suddenly there is nothing to do or to think about, and in this hiatus he glimpses how and where he is going to die. The vision doesn’t come to him in detail. It is less a scene and more a combination of indistinct circumstances that fit into a clear pattern. It isn’t the first time he has fantasized about his own death. He is always doing it and is pretty sure everyone else does too. But this time it is different. He tears a page out of the old diary that he uses as a notebook, fishes a pen out from between the fruit dish and a pile of magazines, jots down a few lines, dates it, and signs underneath. His heart is beating fast. He opens a can of beer and calls Bonobo.

Want to come over for a beer?

Sure, sounds good. I’ve got a few things to sort out here at the bed-and-breakfast first. I’ll be about an hour. I actually need to talk to you about something. I need a favor, and you might be able to help me.

The night suddenly turns hotter and coaxes hungry mosquitoes out of wherever it is that they hole up in the cold weather. He sprays insecticide everywhere, overdoes it and has to go outside as he lets the apartment air out.

Bonobo shows up about two hours later with a twelve-pack of beer and a salami that he peels and slices slowly with a small pocketknife. He says he is going to pray for Beta to recover fully.