Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

I need to swing by my place quickly, okay? To get changed. If you don’t mind?

She guides him through roughly paved back streets that lead to the town’s older districts. Enormous dogs and swift cyclists move through these nocturnal streets that have only the occasional lamppost. Everything is dark, with the exception of a few taverns. The houses are asleep, and the hills surround the town with their imposing shapes. The radio is playing reggae music at a low volume. She talks about her routine at the pizza parlor, and he explains that the junk in the backseat is part of his move from Porto Alegre. They turn onto a dirt road and then a trail of tire tracks through the grass. A streetlight illuminates old tree trunks and the fronts of four or five houses. She points at one of them, and he parks.

Wait here, okay? I’ll be right back.

She takes almost an hour. He waits without getting out of the car, investigating the radio stations. He knows how to wait.

Dália reappears smelling of vanilla-scented perfume and wearing jeans, light-blue sandals, a black top with almost invisible straps, and a necklace with a silver sun pendant. Her hair is strangled by a white elastic band on top of her head, sprouting over it like black coral. Her lips are shiny.

Let me see you, he says, and she turns to face him.

Along the way she asks to stop at the gas station. She reemerges from the corner shop with a beer and a bar of chocolate. He accepts the sip and the bite she offers him. The road is empty, and she likes to talk. She is twenty-two, was born and raised in Caçador, where a lot of tomatoes are grown, until she was a teenager, and intends to move to Florianópolis in July to study naturology at the university. She isn’t particularly interested in the fact that he is a PE teacher but enthusiastically approves of his move to Garopaba.

You’ll be happy here. Everyone’s happy here. This place is so beautiful. I’m really happy here. Can I smoke a joint in your car?

She lights up and offers it to him. He takes a few puffs and starts feeling afraid of other cars’ headlights.

They arrive at the Pico do Surf along a potholed sandy road flanked by ditches. He tries to remember the route he has just taken and can’t. It takes him a while to park his Fiesta without falling into the crater between the road and a vacant lot. There is a palisade around the nightclub, which throbs with bass notes and emits blasts of strobe lights. Some people are drinking beer outside, leaning against the cars. There is a short queue at the entrance. The girls are all wearing high heels, short skirts, and tops falling off their shoulders and alternate between nervous glances and fits of laughter. The guys are wearing Bermuda shorts, and some are in flip-flops. They all look like surfers and surfers’ girlfriends. Dália says she’s going to get them both in for free, but in the end the doorman only lets her in, and he has to pay the entry fee of twenty reais . They climb a staircase carved into the sloping terrain and cross a garden with large wooden tables and a pool table. The dance floor is dark, and the music very loud. The hypnotic and rather disturbing hip-hop music has an immediate depressing effect on him. They go to buy some beers at the bar in the corner, and Dália disappears as soon as he turns his back to her. He loses sight of her for long enough to forget her face and identifies her only much later by her necklace, as she dances in a circle of people. She hugs him when he approaches and introduces him to her friends, but then she moves away again, dancing with a can of energy drink in her hand. He tries to dance but can’t get into the mood. He hovers nearby, stationary. A guy with short peroxide-blond hair soon appears and talks insistently in her ear. Dália looks uncomfortable but stays there listening and answering back for a time that seems never-ending. He thinks about the car poorly parked beside a ditch with his belongings in view on the backseat. He forgot to take out the radio. Someone’s going to break the window and steal my radio, he thinks. He buys another beer. He feels as if he’s been listening to the same song since he arrived. Dália’s pulled-back hair reappears in front of him, and she complains about the guy she was talking to. Her warm breath, mint-scented from her sugarless chewing gum, has a calming effect. Jesus, that guy’s totally clueless, she says. Stay here with me, and he won’t bother you, he says. She wraps her long, agitated arms around him, dancing, and asks if he wants an E, because she’s just had one. A friend is selling them for thirty reais a pop. Her sweat is visible on her collarbone and trapezius muscle. He touches her neck with his nose and inhales the sour smell of her skin mixed with her sweet perfume. She says, I’ll be right back, and disappears again. He considers taking some ecstasy too, something he hasn’t done since his college years, and letting it dictate whatever happens for the rest of the night, partly because he still believes that she is his for tonight, and partly because he feels too lazy to take the initiative. When he runs into her again a little later, she is listening to the guy with peroxide-blond hair again. The darkness swallows not only people’s faces but also their bodies, gestures, clothes, and accessories, almost completely eliminating any possibility of recognition. A short, blond photographer is circulating through the party, taking photos. Groups of friends pose with their arms around one another and smile as they poke out their tongues and make a V sign with their fingers. The photographer comes over and sets off two flashes in his face. He thinks again about his car, the dog at the hotel, the house he hopes to find and rent tomorrow. He goes over to Dália, excuses himself to the guy with peroxide-blond hair, and says he is leaving. They are close to a speaker and have to shout to be heard. You can’t leave now, she says, placing her hand on his chest. I’m going! he shouts. I don’t like it here, and I’m going house hunting first thing in the morning. But I need a lift back, she says, a little irritated. Then it’s now. What the fuck, man! she protests. Fine, go then. I’ll figure something out later. You’re so boring. Without thinking he plunges his fingers into her hair, at the nape of her neck, forcefully working them into her taut hair, feeling the roughness of her roots and the resistance of her scalp. He holds her head by her hair in front of his. She stares at him with bulging eyes, not understanding what he is doing, and he doesn’t know what he is doing either, but it feels good and she seems to like it too, in spite of everything. It might be the ecstasy. He kisses her on the face and lets her go. She sort of smiles. The guy with the peroxide-blond hair shoves him away, and he takes advantage of the momentum to move toward the exit with decisive footsteps, laughing to himself.

He asks the bouncer at the entrance for instructions on how to get back to Garopaba by car. He drives drunk and tense and starts to hiccup. He drives down the empty highway and crosses the dead city. The hiccups still haven’t stopped by the time he enters the hotel room. He gets a surprise when he walks in. The dog is sitting on the bed. Beta, Beta, Beta, he repeats affectionately, hugging her tight. She is warm and submissive, and her soft hide slides over her muscles. He inhales her salty smell with pleasure and finally lets her go. She remains sitting near the pillow. He notices that he has stopped hiccuping only when he is brushing his teeth.

Before lying down, he looks for his cell phone to see what time it is and finds a missed call from his mother.* There is also a birthday text message from her. No matter how much I curse you I love you son. A mother has no choice, has she? Happy birthday darling. I hope you got there okay. Take care. Mother. It’s four o’clock in the morning. He types an answer and sends it. Thanks. I got here fine. Love u too.