Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

Now his mother stands back a little, without taking her hands off his waist, gazes into his eyes, and studies him with a smile on her lips. They don’t look much alike, but staring at a close relative is a little like staring in the mirror, and there must be something of him in his mother’s watery black eyes, wide open and earnest. Perhaps it is more a question of faith than recognition, but he sees something of himself in them. She must be seeing her ex-husband in her son’s features now. And he knows that she feels relatively young and safe as she looks at him, because he doesn’t have any way of knowing what has changed in her. The car’s radiator fan turns itself off, and they realize it was on. His mother takes off her gloves and strokes his beard.

You look good like this. But you’re too thin.

I’ve missed you.

You’d better have.

Is that your boyfriend’s car?

Yes. Ronaldo lent it to me because it’s an automatic and has a heater. I was nice and warm on the way up, and there was hardly any traffic on the road. Want to make your mother a coffee?

The sun is framed by a clearing of clouds, and the forecast is for fine weather until Monday. He carries her bag down the steps, and she follows him, taking photos of the view of the bay. She looks worried when she reaches the bottom of the steps and sees the front of the apartment.

Isn’t there a danger the ocean might come up here?

Of course not, Mother. If the ocean came up as far as my window, the whole of Garopaba would be underwater.

He puts her bag in the bedroom and smooths out a wrinkle in the clean sheet that he has just changed as he explains in a loud voice that she’ll be sleeping in his bed and he’ll sleep in the living room. She doesn’t answer, and when he returns to the living room, she is sitting on the sofa with her hands together between her knees, dumbfounded, staring at the dog standing on the rug in front of her.

What happened to her?

She was run over. It was nasty. She almost died.

She’s limping and missing an ear.

It’s just a piece of her ear. She’s getting better. If we take her to the beach, you’ll see. She can already run a little.

How old is this dog?

Fifteen or sixteen. You haven’t seen her in ages, have you?

Not since I left your dad.

Beta takes a few steps toward the sofa, and his mother draws back.

She remembers you.

Get that pest out of here, please.

He opens the door, puts the dog outside, and closes it.

After drinking a black coffee and chatting some more, he takes the key to the Honda and drives her to lunch at a fancy restaurant on a hill overlooking Rosa Beach. It is early for the weekend surfers, and the place is still empty. The wood and stone building is decorated with furniture made from recycled timber, Indian statuettes, African masks and totems, turtle shells and whalebones. Ballads are playing softly on hidden speakers. They pick a table near the deck with a view of the beach and the lovely Meio Lagoon, where it is said that many people have drowned after getting tangled in the seaweed. In the background enormous waves break and march staunchly across the sand with lacy swaths of foam in tow. His mother is enchanted with the crystal glasses, the votive candles, the sunflowers in test-tube-shaped vases. They order a seafood moqueca . The waiter suggests some wines, and his mother chooses a South African pinotage . He spots a right whale’s spout and points at the blue ocean. His mother puts on her glasses and manages to see the next two spouts, but then the whale disappears. The stew arrives, and the penetrating smell of the seasonings and seafood wafts across the table.

This puréed arracacha is really good. Have you been here before?

No. A friend who has a bed-and-breakfast nearby recommended it.

Have you made many friends here?

A few.

I thought you’d become a bit of a hermit.

Life here is normal.

Normal for you. I don’t get why you have to hide yourself away in a deserted place like this in the middle of winter when you could be in Porto Alegre, or even São Paulo like your brother. I think you’re still upset about your father’s death and will end up coming back. But it’s your life. You’re an adult. I know you like to be on your own. You’ve been like this ever since you were a child, and I’ve always respected it, but I’ve never agreed with this lack of motivation to do something with your life. How long are you going to stay here giving swimming lessons to a handful of students? Living alone with that disgusting dog. She won’t last long. This isn’t a place to make a life for yourself. I’ve always thought your lack of initiative was your father’s fault. He always told me to let you be, let you do what you wanted. Let the kid study PE. Let the kid ride his bike and swim: it’s what he likes. You inherited the worst of your father, and it wasn’t the booze or the cigars or his lack of respect for me, but this absurd notion that you can live in the middle of nowhere like people did a thousand years ago and that it was an accident that you were born in the twenty-first century in a big city where you can do things, create things, make money, travel the world—

I was born in the twentieth century. So was Dad.

— and study fascinating things and live an interesting, modern life, full of culture, and make the most of it all and have your own family, who will also benefit from it all, and so on. The kind of thing our ancestors thought we were going to do, you know? Your dad never let me get on your case about these things when you were growing up, and now you think that letting your beard grow in a tiny summer rental that smells of mold and fish, earning just enough to pay the electricity bill, is a decent life. That’s not how I see it. One day you’re going to want to get married. You’re going to want to make a home for yourself. This new girlfriend of yours is from Porto Alegre, isn’t she? Does she want to spend the rest of her life here? I doubt it. Do you think you’ll go the distance with her? Do you think you might get married? Have kids? Is there a decent school for them in this place? You told me she’s well educated, doing a master’s. She must be ambitious. I’ve seen it all before, believe me, and things won’t turn out well for you. You can spend the rest of your life looking for another Viviane, but unless you change your outlook, the same thing is going to end up happening over and over again—

Only if you give me another son of a bitch for a brother.

— because the problem is that you see life as something to be lived alone unless circumstances force something different on you. I know you don’t do it on purpose, it’s in your nature, but you need to fight it, darling. And if you want to call your brother something, call him something else because I’m no dog.

I didn’t mean—

You need to stop hating Dante for what happened. It’s not his fault Viviane took an interest in him.

You don’t know anything.

And the way you ran off from your father’s wake was embarrassing. Why do you have to avoid running into Dante and Viviane if you’re as independent and self-assured as you think you are? Do you really think you don’t need anyone else? Years ago I actually thought that Dante was the son who was going to have a hard time in life with his dream of being a writer. I still have no idea how he makes a living, seeing as his books don’t sell much and he never wins the prizes with the big money. I think it’s from his speaking engagements. But I know he’s living in São Paulo in a great apartment that he managed to buy—

He’s got a thirty-year mortgage.

— because he went after his dreams—

And she pays half.