Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

Tell me about yourself. How’s life in São Paulo?

I’m well. Really well. We’ve bought an adorable apartment in Pinheiros. One of those old ones with high ceilings that you’ve got to be on a waiting list to get. I went to all the small real estate agents in the neighborhood, where the agents are really old and only know how to use fax machines, and I left a description of what I wanted and asked them to call me when something appeared. The owner of this apartment had health problems and went to live with one of her children, and they put it on the market. The agent called me the same day and told me to go and see it because it’d be gone in a week. We were so lucky. I spent ages freelancing, making contacts, and then at the beginning of this year I got a job working in the children’s book department of a publishing house, which I love. I get to work with writers, translators, amazing illustrators. I went to Flip in July. Have you heard of it? It’s a literary festival that takes place in Paraty. The program includes Flipinha, which covers children’s literature. I worked my backside off, but it was great fun. Dante went with me. He might even be invited to be a guest speaker next time round, if he manages to finish his book by the end of the year. Noll was there, a writer I like a lot. We had some great chats with Verissimo. He talked a lot! He always struck me as so shy that I used to think he was mute.

Verissimo’s the one who does those cartoon strips with snakes, right?

That’s him. And I’m writing a weekly column about books and the publishing industry for a newspaper’s website, and sometimes they ask me to do reviews too. The cultural life in São Paulo is something else. Porto Alegre isn’t bad, but in São Paulo it’s endless. It’s a bit scary even. It’s a city that doesn’t seem to let a person feel good when they’re isolated, even if their isolation is voluntary, if they want a breather. For example, I don’t know if you’d feel good there long term. It’s an aggressive place for introspective sorts. There’s a bewildering range of wonderful things to do, see, and eat all the time, and there’s a kind of cosmic ether of interesting people, power, and money that inflates ambitions and makes you feel a little guilty to stay home with your phone off reading Harry Potter or thinking about life and eating chocolate, you know? By the way, changing the subject, did you see that Obama won?

Who?

Obama. He was elected. I saw it last night on TV in the restaurant. He won. The first black president of the United States. “Yes we can.” I wanted to download his speech on my iPhone, but there’s no 3G coverage here. I bought an iPhone! Look. Have you seen one? It’s Apple’s cell phone. A friend got it for me in the United States.

What are you talking about, Viv?

You know who Obama is, don’t you? For heaven’s sake.

Of course I do. Wittgenstein’s friend.

The old inside joke gets a chuckle out of her. Shortly after they met, back when Viviane was still studying journalism at the Federal University and taking some optional classes in philosophy in her free time, she tried to impart to him all the enthusiasm she felt for the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, which she had read after a teacher talked about it in class. It ended in an argument. After that he’d jokingly evoke the philosopher’s name whenever she started ranting on a subject that he couldn’t follow either because he lacked the cultural references or wasn’t up to date with it. Part of the joke was hearing her out patiently and even encouraging her to go on, only to make some kind of reference to Wittgenstein at the end, which meant he’d been completely lost for some time.

I know who Obama is. I just didn’t know he’d won the election yesterday, and I don’t know why you’re talking about your new cell phone now.

You asked about São Paulo, and I started talking, and I don’t know where I was going with it, sorry. I’m a bit nervous. You think it’s easy for me to be here?

No, of course not. I don’t really know what to say either.

She takes a sip of coffee and indicates the package with her chin.

I brought you a present.

Can I open it now?

She nods. He stands, goes to get a serrated knife from the kitchen, takes the package, and sits on the sofa with it. He cuts the string and tears off the brown paper, to reveal a large framed portrait.

It’s your dad, says Viviane, taking care to let him know before he finds himself faced with the cruel challenge of identifying the person in the portrait.

He finishes unwrapping it. It is an enlarged black and white photograph, almost a meter high. Every pore, eyelash, and wrinkle shamelessly offers itself up for examination. His father is smiling in the head and shoulders shot, wearing a white dress shirt. There are blurry plants and houses in the background. He can’t tell where the photo was taken.

I took this photo of him when we went to Jaguarão to go shopping at the border. Remember? I think it was the first time we traveled somewhere with him. He was going to buy whiskey and cigars, and we hitched a lift. You bought those Ray-Bans.

I remember.

I was still using that old camera back then. The one I used for photography at college. I’ve still got all the negatives.

I remember.

He stares at the photo with a lump in his throat.

Do you like it?

Yes. I do. A lot.

I thought you must have lots of photos of him, but this one’s nice, and there’s this great place near home that does these enlargements really well.

It’s amazing. I don’t even know what to say, Viv. Thanks.

I hope you like it.

He takes his eyes off the photo and sees Viviane’s eyes shining. She is sitting on the sofa with her hands clasped together, fingers squashing other fingers, insecure and glowing like a woman who has just declared that she is in love. He sets the portrait down on the sofa and almost leaps to his feet, where he finds her standing too.

I knocked over the mug, she whispers in his ear.

Leave it.

Coffee stains.

It doesn’t matter.

They stand there hugging until a feeling similar to sleepiness loosens their limbs, and they step back. His heart is skittering. He picks up the mug that fell on the rug, and she announces that she is going to the bathroom. The sea gulls screech as they fly over the bay in insane circles, as two boats return to the beach after a night of fishing. Beta perks up her ears, stands, and heads outside.

The bathroom door is unlocked. Viviane walks past him, goes over to the window, and stands there, staring at the ocean. He sits on the sofa again and remembers her face as he gazes at her long legs and black hair that spills halfway down her back and looks as if it is in motion even when it isn’t, some hairdresser’s magic. He needs to get her to turn around. The blurring will start if he gives it a chance.

Did you come here just to see how I was, or have you got something to tell me?

She turns.

I’m pregnant. You’re going to be an uncle.

How long have you known?

For two months. I’m fifteen weeks along. It’s a boy.

Congratulations. I’m happy for you.

Are you really?

Of course, Viv. You’re happy, aren’t you? You wanted this.

I did.

Then I’m happy too. I’m able to see it independently of everything else. I knew it was going to happen. I knew one day you’d come to me to tell me this. Remember that little piece of paper you signed for me?

What piece of paper?

Before you went to São Paulo to live with him. We were still together. In that café in Moinhos de Vento.

I don’t remember any pieces of paper.

You dated and signed a piece of paper, and I wrote something on it.