Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

Bonobo’s been asking about you. He said he hasn’t seen you lately. He wants you to come and see the temple.

Is he still going on about that? I already told him I don’t want to.

He thinks you’re a Buddhist and you don’t know it.

He tried to indoctrinate me. When he got to the part about reincarnation, I stopped.

There isn’t actually reincarnation per se in Buddhism. Because the concept of rebirth—

That’s it, rebirth. Same thing. I’ve got to fly. My girlfriend’s in trouble. You swam well today, Buddha. See you tomorrow.

His dripping beard gets cold in seconds outside. He rides his bike at full speed down the road to Ferrugem and skids to a halt outside Jasmim’s cabin before he has even had time to break into a sweat. He can’t see anyone on the sloping property but hears monosyllabic complaints, the sound of a shovel digging, and an electric drone punctuated by sharp rings. Jasmim opens the door before he can knock, careens down the five steps, and falls into his arms.

Thank God you’re here. They started digging under the house about twenty minutes ago.

They walk around the right side of the house, where a ramp of tall grass descends as far as the light green rushes at the side of the lagoon. On the way they pass a rectangular hole the size of a kitchen sink, about two feet deep and full of stringy roots, where earlier on the invading duo dug up a couple of beer cans from another era. At the corner of the cabin, they come across a wizened old man with a cloudy eye in light brown corduroy pants, a threadbare gray jacket, and a black beret. He is leaning on the ground with a kind of robotic extension attached to his arm, watching a boy of about sixteen dig a hole near the foundations of the house.

Hey . Stop right there. You can’t dig here.

It takes them a moment to show signs of attention, but when Joaquim turns his head and sees him, the old man gets a fright, loses his balance, and stumbles down the slope a few steps. He almost falls, and the contraption extending from his arm lets out shrill noises full of static. The boy stops digging, looks at his grandfather or great-grandfather until he is sure he is okay, then turns to face him. The brim of his cap casts a shadow over his face, where there is an expression devoid of feelings or intentions of any kind. It is getting dark.

Who said you could dig here?

The old man looks afraid to speak but eventually blurts out, There’s treasure buried there. Did she tell you about the treasure?

It doesn’t matter if there’s treasure or not! shouts Jasmim. You can’t dig around my house without my authorization. It’s private property.

With all due respect, you’re a tenant. The property belongs to Abreu.

Who’s Abreu? he asks.

The owner of the house, says Jasmim. They know each other.

So fucking what? It doesn’t matter. You need to leave now.

Joaquim scales the rocky terrain to the position he was in before and readjusts the contraption on his arm.

But let me show you. We found it. It’s right here. Just listen to the device.

The device, he sees now, is a homemade metal detector. A circular bobbin is attached to the plywood base, together with a tangle of circuits and wires. A cable winds around the metal rod to the other end, where there is a handle and a forearm support, and is connected to a box hanging from a belt around Joaquim’s waist that looks like a small car battery with a set of switches and dials on top. He turns a dial, flips a switch, and passes the bobbin over the hole in smooth movements. The drone grows more intense, and an irritating sound, like a cross between a motorbike horn and a dial tone, goes off at apparently random and ever-more-frenetic intervals, with a hiss of static in the background.

It’s here, says Joaquim with a childish smile. From one moment to the next, his tone of voice becomes subservient. I’ve found other treasures with this device. There’s something here. But the lady can’t dig it up. You know, don’t you?

For God’s sake, exclaims Jasmim. It’s probably just another rusty can, Joaquim. A pen. A nail. I only dreamed it twice . It has to be three , doesn’t it? Right? Doesn’t it have to be three times?

The boy starts digging again.

It’s not a nail, lady. The signal’s real strong here. You’ll see. It’s for your own good.

A flock of cormorants flies around the lagoon chirping. The only trace of the day is an orange halo behind the hills.

That’s enough. Give me that shovel — come on.

Holding his hand out, he starts walking toward the boy, who is unable to abort his movement and rams the shovel into the bottom of the hole one last time. A metallic clang leaves everything in suspense for a long second. Everyone looks at one another. Jasmim raises an eyebrow and takes a deep breath.

Okay , Joaquim. Let’s see what you’ve got there.

Joaquim’s grandson or great-grandson works perseveringly as the old man rolls a cigarette and passes down instructions. He and Jasmim watch the activity from a distance, lying in the hammock strung between two tree branches at the edge of the neighboring property, which is overrun with a tangle of vegetation, listening to the growing riot of crickets and toads.

Didn’t you dream that the treasure was under the front steps?

Yes, but they wanted to tear down the steps and said that afterward I’d have to move the position of my front door to pacify the spirits. Imagine. Move the position of my front door! The spirits here are cool. I don’t want to upset them.

What are you talking about?

This house is kind of haunted. I was the first person to rent it in ten years. There was no electricity, water, nothing. I fixed everything. In the first few months I kept hearing a woman’s laughter, and one day I was lying in the hammock over by that tree, and I felt a hand stroking my face and heard a woman saying, Don’t be afraid . I got the hell out of there, of course. I moved the hammock here, and nothing has happened since. I don’t want to mess anymore with these things. I lied to Joaquim and said I’d actually dreamed about that rock there, so they’d dig and then leave once and for all. I didn’t know what to do.

Damn Jesuits.

Will you sleep here with me? I’m going to be scared.

I’ve got to go back. I left the dog there.

Can I sleep at your place then?

Of course.

Did you see how Joaquim got a fright when he saw you? Do you know him?

I’ve never seen him before.

His eyes just about popped out of his head. He almost rolled into the lagoon.

It is already dark when the old man and boy come walking up the property toward them, Joaquim carrying his homemade device, the boy with the shovel slung across one shoulder and holding a rusty bicycle frame in the other hand.

H e waits at the top of the steps for his mother to arrive. He expects to see her black Parati, but the car that appears around the bend in the road is an older-model champagne-colored Honda Civic. She parks diagonally in his outdoor parking space. He hugs her. It is the first time he has seen her since the funeral. She is wearing red gloves and a beige wool coat. She looks smaller and thinner than he remembers. Before she came, he had decided to tell her about his conversation with his father on the eve of his suicide, but when she called minutes earlier to say she was in town and needed instructions on how to get to his place, his conviction went down the drain. By the time he said good-bye, he already knew he’d never be able to tell her. She would torment him for the rest of his life for not having warned the family immediately or done something to stop the tragedy. He can never tell anyone. The only other person capable of understanding the pact was directly involved and placed a pistol under his own chin and fired it, taking care to tilt it to cause as much damage as possible.