Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

Zenão Bonato looks at him sternly.

Understand, son? Sorry, he was your granddad, and it can’t be easy to hear these things. But that’s what happened. I turned a blind eye and went home.

No, it’s okay. I’m not even sure why I’m digging all this shit up.

He looks at his glass of whiskey and takes a big sip.

But it sucks not being sure about anything. Whether he was a murderer or just an inoffensive brawler. Whether he’s in that cemetery or not.

It’s normal to want to know. But no one will ever be able to tell you what really happened to him. Some people disappear from this life without saying how or where they’re going. They leave a bunch of clues, but they’re all false.

Do you think he might have still been alive?

Zenão’s eyes spark.

He might have. He might still be. Imagine! But speculation won’t get us anywhere.

Zenão gets up slowly, fills both of their glasses again, and walks away with a posture that betrays his age, his knees slightly flexed, his back a little hunched. He walks three paces and turns around.

You know how much those bottles of wine cost, don’t you?

No. How much?

A hundred and fifty. I’m going to take a piss. Be right back.

He picks up the bottle and examines the label. The wine is called Coração.

So, sexy. Would you like to go somewhere a bit more private?

I can’t. I’ve just spent all my money on wine.

But they take credit cards here.

I’m already going to have to put this on my credit card. And I need everything I’ve got left to pay the vet’s bill, ’cause my dog was run over.

He throws back the rest of his glass of whiskey and chews on an ice cube. He is drunk. She isn’t moved by the dog story. It doesn’t even register with her.

What do you do?

Me? I’m a PE teacher. And a triathlete.

Hmm, an athlete.

Yep. I swim, ride, and run. Fuck, that sucks.

He laughs to himself.

Why do you say that? I think it’s amazing.

No, that’s not what sucks. It’s nothing. Ignore me. I have to go.

I love strong men.

He starts to laugh again. He feels a bit desperate, a bit crazy.

How many tattoos do you have, Andreia?

Nine. This one here on my leg is a Chinese or Japanese ideogram that means “peace and health,” she says, unzipping one of her boots halfway. These here, she says, lifting up her top to reveal her pelvis, are roses.

What do the roses stand for?

Nothing. They’re just flowers.

What about that one on your shoulder?

It’s a Harley-Davidson on a highway. I love motorbikes. Have you ever done a road trip on a bike?

He examines the tattoo at close range but can’t understand the drawing.

Where’s the bike?

Here, look, she says, twisting her neck around, pointing and speaking as if she were dealing with a child, the motorbike on the highway. There’s a curve in the highway. And there’s a sign with a skull on it.

Aaah. Now I see it.

And there’s this one.

She turns her back to him and lifts up her top again. Written across the small of her back in big letters is: GOD IS DEAD.

That’s a strange tattoo.

Cool, isn’t it? I love Nietzsche.

Who’s Nietzsche again?

A philosopher. He had a huge mustache. A friend of mine posted the line on her Facebook page, and I liked it. I read one of his books. Beyond Good and Evil .

Never read it.

Wanna hit the bedroom, athlete?

How much is it?

A hundred and fifty.

You cost the same as the wine? That’s not right.

She doesn’t say anything.

You should cost more than the wine. That’s not right.

Zenão Bonato comes back with a cigarillo between his teeth and holds out his hand to the albino girl. Let’s have some fun, blondie. Ivory also gets up and a beam of light strikes her head. Her eyelashes are yellow, and where her hair is parted, he sees that her scalp is a pinkish color. Then Zenão holds out his other hand. He stands and shakes it.

I don’t know if I’ve been much help.

You have. Thanks for your time.

Careful with the girl. Want a Viagra?

Not today.

Zenão chortles with laughter. His chortling is broken here and there by a swinelike snort, followed by a terrifying wheeze at the end. When he has recovered, Zenão leaves with the albino girl in tow and disappears through a door next to the bar where a woman writes something down, hands the girl a key, and lets them into a corridor lined with rooms.

He decides to leave too. He pats his wallet in his back pocket. Near the door Andreia wraps her arms around him and pouts. He falls into her blue eyes in a way that he knows is imprudent, but the moment of surrender brings him a sense of calm that only he knows how much he needs. She has an almost invisible down on her cheeks. The fine lines that start in the corners of her eyes like river deltas merely emphasize her youth.

I like you, girl.

I’ve got other tattoos in places that I can only show you without my clothes on.

I like your mole.

She covers her cheek with her fingers as if she is ashamed of it, and perhaps she really is. Then she kisses him. Then hugs him. The curve of her white neck gives off a sharp odor of white wine. A farmer of about fifty, wearing a straw hat, walks in. Then two well-dressed young men. They wave at everyone with familiarity. The place gets going late. Girls appear from the back of the dark nightclub and circle around them, two clinging to each man. Andreia asks where he lives and if she is going to see him again. He asks for her phone number, but she says she can’t give it to him. He offers to give her his own phone number and tells her to call him if she wants to visit the coast. She goes to the bar to get a pen. The bouncer in the leather jacket runs a hand through his slicked-back gray hair and says, That’s love. She comes back, writes down his phone number and address, folds the paper, and places it in the pocket of her shorts.

Is this your real phone number?

Yep. But you’re not going to call me, are you, Andreia?*

Yes I am, but I don’t want you to leave now.

She hugs him again. The friendly giant in the suit is watching from the door and says, I’ve never seen her like that.

Do you think I’m pretty?

Yes.

I’m much better without clothes on. Why don’t you want to come to bed with me? They take credit cards here. I know what I’m doing.

How much is it again?

A hundred and fifty.

Are you sure?

Maybe if I talk to them, they’ll come down to a hundred and twenty.

You don’t get it. A hundred and fifty is the price of that disgusting wine.

She thinks a little. Eyes staring straight into his.

Are you giving me a raise?

Tell me what you’re worth.

Two hundred. And fifty.

That’s your price?

Yep.

Let’s go.

Can I take a bottle of champagne for us?

• • •

J une ends dry and cold with dead penguins lying all over the sand. It takes days for the dozens of carcasses to be removed. No one touches them, not even the vultures. The plump black and white bodies refuse to decompose and look like plush toys forgotten on the beach. Some penguins appear on the rocks, tired and injured but alive, and are taken away by members of a local animal welfare group. The birds have the grumpy demeanor of passengers forced to vacate a bus that has broken down on a highway. From his window, he sees children throw buckets of water over a penguin that has decided to station itself on Baú Rock, thinking the showers help in some way. The penguin dries itself off by shaking its head and takes two or three steps sideways, resigned, as if hoping they’ll leave it in peace in its new position. A young man stops at his window to ask if he has any antiseptic spray and shows him a bloody finger. He and some other volunteers with an environmental NGO were trying to restrain a penguin, and he got bitten. The penguin’s wing looks broken, and they are going to treat it at a clinic in Campo D’Una. They don’t know why dead penguins show up on this stretch of coast from time to time. It doesn’t happen every year.