Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) Page 22

  In the past, people hunted with iron harpoons. Sometimes a whale could drag a launch for hours until it grew tired, and then the whalers would move in for the kill. Then they started using dynamite with the harpoons.

  A young man in sunglasses with a Rio accent laughs. Jesus, did they blow up the whales? Literally?

  They didn’t explode them completely. The dynamite wounded them.

  They used to harpoon the calves to attract the mothers, Jasmim whispers in his ear. But Toni never says this. You know, family-friendly tourism.

  The slaughter took place once or twice a year during the whaling season. The animals come here seeking warmer water in the winter. We might think this water is cold, but for the whales, who live in polar waters, it’s warm. The mothers come to give birth to their calves, and these beaches are like maternity wards, where they can nurse and protect their young.

  Toni pauses.

  The butchering of a whale could last for several days, and a strong smell would settle over the town.

  It stank, says the pilot of the boat, an elderly man with a nervous tic in his eye and a kind of kepi on his head. It wasn’t easy to live with.

  Elias, our pilot, was a whale hunter, says Toni. He caught the last whale on this coast, didn’t you, Elias? In Imbituba, wasn’t it?

  Yep. In ’seventy-three. I caught the biggest one too. Seventy-five feet.

  The boat rounds Vigia Point, and the waves start getting bigger. Excited by the view and the stories about exploding harpoons and giant whales, the tourists start talking loudly, filming and taking photographs. All the male tourists except him are holding still or video cameras. Most of the women and children are also pointing cameras and cell phones in all directions. The wind is cold, the sky is completely blue, and the nine o’clock sun is already stinging his neck. He feels the sweat trickling down his stomach and takes off the waterproof jacket provided by the agency as protection from the salt water that splashes up inside the boat. Jasmim is wearing the yellow jacket and a sarong—patterned with the famous multicolored ribbons from the church of Nosso Senhor do Bonfim in Salvador—is tied at her waist. The jacket is open a little, revealing a white bikini top with pink flowers. She has perfect white teeth and an auricle piercing in her left ear. She is covered in goose bumps.

  Okay, everyone. Attention please. Continuing on: the Garopaba Whaling Station was founded in 1795 and was one of many along the coast of Santa Catarina State. Armação Beach, in Florianópolis, for example, also had one. When they realized how lucrative it was, the Portuguese Royal Treasury took over the running of the stations between 1801 and 1816, but they didn’t know how to manage them, and they ended up being leased again to private citizens. It was the main economic activity in the region. Our historical center was built to serve the whaling industry. Everything was there: the shore factory, the residences of the administration and workers, the warehouses. Some thirty African slaves worked in the Garopaba Whaling Station.

  Do you live here in Garopaba?

  I live in Ferrugem. I rent a house there. With a view of the lagoon. I’ve got a great view too.

  What do you do here besides selling tickets to whale-watching excursions?

  Jasmim gives a forced little laugh, then turns her head and looks at the ocean.

  I’m not sure anymore. It’s a bit complicated.

  Whaling started to drop off in the midnineteenth century. It ended officially in 1851. The main causes were the extermination of the whale population and the introduction of petroleum. With the advent of kerosene and cement, people no longer needed whale oil. But hunting continued sporadically until the nineteen-seventies, despite international treaties that had banned it since the thirties. Here in Brazil it was only legally banned in ’eighty-six. The right whale came close to extinction. There are now conservation efforts, and we estimate that the population has grown to eight thousand.

  I actually came to Garopaba to do research for my master’s.

  Really? Master’s in what?

  Psychology. At the Catholic University of Porto Alegre. My thesis is on quality of life. The title is Evaluation of the Quality of Life of Young People in the Municipality of Garopaba.

  She sighs.

  That was the project, at least. But it’s complicated. I don’t know if I’m going to finish it. My deadline is the end of the year.

  The boat accelerates as it follows the walls of rock bordering Ferrugem Beach. Some solitary fishermen tend their rods atop rocks that look impossible to reach by land or sea. Jasmim points upward.

  The head of the Great Idol. See it? The sphinx at the top of the cliff. There, look. The stone head.

  He makes out what looks like a giant skull without a chin at the top of the cliff.

  Isn’t that natural?

  No! It’s a prehistoric monument. Archaeologists have already been there and proven that it was sculpted.

  Waves that have traveled from afar break on rocks and give up their shape in a final, tired gesture.

  The boat passes Ferrugem Beach, Índio Hill, Barra Beach. A fat girl with bleached hair feels queasy and throws up in the bucket that Toni fetches for her just in time. Jasmim gets a glass of water and a seasickness tablet and goes to look after her. The three girls from the family he had seen outside the agency the previous afternoon vie for the attention of their father’s camera, and one of them almost falls overboard in her excitement. The boat passes Ouvidor, Vermelha, and Rosa beaches. The water is blue and opaque, the avocado green of the hills pulses in the sunlight, and the distant sand of the deserted beaches looks immaculate. When the boat arrives at Luz Beach, Elias slows down, and Toni points his binoculars toward Ibiraquera. It isn’t long before Elias’s experienced gaze spots a V-shaped jet of water. Everyone claps, and cameras of all kinds are turned on and adjusted. As the boat heads toward the whale, a male leaps out of the water far out at sea, but few people see it. Elias slows the boat and circles around, looking for the best way to approach the female that is beating the surface of the water with her tail.

  She’s with a calf, everyone. Don’t make any noise, and tread carefully on the bottom of the boat. Let’s see if she’ll come over.

  When they are about a hundred yards from the whale, Elias turns off the motor. The black hump breaks the surface and disappears again at regular intervals. Mother and baby exhale almost in unison. The calf’s blow is weak in comparison and sounds an octave higher than its mother’s. It is a distinctly mammalian sound, not to mention somewhat human. Like the sound of a person sighing heavily amplified a thousand times. He feels an immediate connection to the whales and suspects that everyone on board is feeling the same. Only a few whispers dare break the silence. The women can’t suppress maternal coos, and the children’s euphoria gives way to stupor. No illustrated book has prepared them for this. After a more impetuous dive that ends with a wave of her tail, the whale reemerges in front of the boat and swims over slowly, its curved back appearing and disappearing.

  Stay calm, says Toni. She’ll swim under the boat. It’s normal for them to brush the bottom slightly. The callosities or warts on their backs are a characteristic of the species. The calves are about sixteen feet long and weigh four to five tons when they are born.

  What a beautiful animal, he says.

  Amazing, aren’t they? says Jasmim. You really feel something when they come close.

  Damn, I left my harpoon and dynamite at home, says the guy from Rio.

  The whale exhales some five or six feet from the boat, and the tourists gasp in awe. Many of them are watching the scene through electronic visors. The mother’s skin is black, smooth and shiny like vinyl, and her calf’s is wrinkled and gray. They look like they are about to crash into the boat, but they dive under at the last minute and pass underneath it. The boat rises up a little, and some of the occupants are frightened. The girl who was feeling queasy is lying on the bottom a
gain, staring at the sky with an expression of surrender. Some people step over her in a collective maneuver to get to the other side to follow the whale’s trajectory. The surface becomes smooth again. Mother and calf reappear and swim away.

  This here was a bloodbath for a century and a half, and yet they still come back and greet people, says Jasmim. With no instinct for self-preservation, without history, without bitterness. I think it’s amazing the way they come so close to the beach to have their young. Last year there were some practically in the surf there in Garopaba, right up in the shallow water. The babies have to learn to breathe outside the water. It’s totally crazy, but that isn’t a fish, it’s a mammal. When they come up close and blow like that, I can feel their lungs, and it gives me goose bumps. They’re terrestrial animals that returned to the sea. Have you ever seen a whale skeleton? They’ve got bones like paws in their flippers. Hands and fingers. Sometimes I wonder if this habit of migrating here to be near the beach has to do with a certain nostalgia for the past. Their terrestrial ancestry. Imagine a whale right there in the shallow water, almost on the beach. I wonder what it feels. Maybe it sees the frontier of another world, remote and deadly, as threatening as the ocean is to us. Or maybe it’s like coming home. Like returning to the womb. Something enticing. Maybe that’s why they get beached for no apparent reason. Because the sea is limitless. That’s the terror of the ocean. It is the opposite of the womb. I think the whales experience this terror.

  • • •

  I know who she is, says Bonobo. A black girl with a voice like a singer. She was at a luau over on Ferrugem Beach a month ago. I thought she was a bit aloof. I don’t think she took a liking to me. She came and left on her own. By motorbike. I’ve seen her around three times at the most. I don’t think she mixes much. But she’s a beauty. Funny you should ask about her because it struck me that you two might hit it off. She made me think about you.

  She made me think about me too.

  I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that.

  Sorry.

  You in love, swimmer?

  Maybe.

  Poor guy. I’ll be here when you need me.

  His cell phone beeps to announce an incoming call. He says good-bye to Bonobo and answers. It’s his mother. She wants to know if she can come and visit him in three weeks’ time, on the weekend. Of course you can. You can have my room, and I’ll sleep in the living room. It’s been quite cold, but it hasn’t rained much. She says she’s planning to drive up. Great. We can visit some of the other beaches around here.

  The sun has already risen behind the hill, but it doesn’t seem all that willing to warm up the winter morning. He takes the dog out to do her business on the grass along the seaside trail and then takes her into the water and exercises her for twenty minutes. A boat arrives laden with fish, and the fishermen greet him with nods and stare at him from afar. Cecina comes walking down the trail and stops to watch him and Beta up to their necks in water. She says good morning, laughs, and shakes her head from side to side. She treats him cordially with a smile on her face, without much chitchat, as if he were a harmless lunatic. Back in the apartment, he gives Beta a warm shower, has one himself, makes some coffee, and sits in the sunlight on Baú Rock, looking at the beach with a steaming cup in his hands and Beta lying beside him. He runs his fingers over his oily, still-wet beard and feels his mustache hairs creeping over his top lip. Beta stands up and lies down again as if trying to show that she’s making an effort. She is able to move around with more ease. She is already attempting to run a little but still can’t. Light gray downy fur is growing back over the areas shaved by the vet. The missing piece of ear makes her look cute. He still has to lock her in the apartment when he goes to the pool to teach, but he always comes straight home after work and takes her out again. Débora gave her a doggy bed as a present. He thought it was unnecessary, but Beta likes it, and the bed protects her from the cold.

  Late in the morning he locks Beta inside and rides his bike down to the fishing village. Another boat has just arrived, and a fisherman is filleting hake and flounder on a wooden cutting board. Gulls and vultures are having a jolly time with shark heads, and tabby cats prowl around the sheds in search of something that appeals to their finicky tastes. A blue plastic drum full of fish offal stinks in the sun. Locals are warming themselves in the sun, sitting on the steps of their houses. The Caminho do Sol travel agency is closed. An old man standing in the doorway of the house next door says they are closed on Mondays. He thinks a little, gazing at the office through the window, then leaves. He rides the entire length of the seaside boulevard and the main avenue to the turnoff to Ferrugem. He pedals down the winding road, passing houses and schools, swamps and thick tangles of vegetation, the sparkling lagoon and hillsides studded with large empty houses, grocery stores, and cattle farms, looking for any woman who might be Jasmim and any red motorbike with a low cylinder capacity, until he gets to the beach, where there are only two women sunbathing and a child digging a channel in the wet sand. He rides back to the entrance to Garopaba, stops at a self-service restaurant, and fills a plate with rice, beans, and grilled fish. His afternoon shift at the gym drags along at a torturously slow pace. The first chance he gets when the pool is empty, he goes to get a juice at the snack bar, and Mila asks what’s wrong. He doesn’t go into detail but asks what she thinks is the best way for a guy to get a woman to like him. The Chilean answers in her melodic mixture of Spanish and Portuguese that she doesn’t know, but she thinks it’s best never to go to any trouble to get someone to like you. Things that require that much effort cause problems later.

  He sees Jasmim at dusk the next day after work. She is closing up the agency and treats him with the exact dose of friendliness to insinuate that he is somehow being inconvenient. Her thick, beautiful hair frames her face. When he kisses her cheek in greeting, her dry curls brush against his face, and he smells her sweat and feels a desire to pull her to him then and there. All he can say are banal things about the weather and work. He wishes he had all the time in the world to rediscover her face, but he needs to do it as quickly as possible, preferably without being noticed, or she’ll wonder why he’s staring at her like a moron. She has old acne marks on her cheeks and an oval scar at the top of her collarbone, near where her trapezoid muscle starts. As she gets her helmet from inside the office and locks the glass door, she answers his questions without enthusiasm. Things are very quiet on weekdays—she spends the whole time answering e-mails sent to the agency’s site and scheduling the few customers that show up before Friday afternoon, when business begins to pick up. She climbs onto her motorbike with her pink helmet hanging from her arm and starts to maneuver it. It is a worn-out Honda CG 125cc and must have been bought used. She is wearing canvas shorts, black stockings, and brown boots. Woman and motorbike roll from the pavement onto the cobbled street swaying like a gangly animal. He manages to ask if she’d like to go out sometime. Have a beer now, perhaps? She says she doesn’t drink and drive and steps down on the pedal, but the motorbike doesn’t start. She is about to try again but puts her foot back down on the ground. She takes her cell phone out of her shorts and asks what his number is. I have a mission tonight, she says. I’m going to babysit a friend’s kids ’cause she’s going to the Jack Johnson concert in Florianópolis. But I’ll call you when I can, and we can have a beer, okay? He thinks it’s great. Have fun with the kids. They’re gorgeous, she says, but I hope they go to sleep quickly. I’m taking a book and three DVDs. And I’m going to pick up a bucket of ice cream at Gelomel on the way there. Sounds like a good night, Jasmim. She kick-starts the pedal again, and the motorbike starts. ’Bye then. She puts on the helmet, accelerates slowly, and disappears to the left on the first street after the bridge.

  • • •

  She doesn’t call. The days tick over, and he tortures himself for not having asked for her number too. At the same time, he can’t bring himself to go to the agency and both
er her again, and on the two occasions he ends up passing in front of the office window, he merely waves from the other side of the glass. She waves back but doesn’t call him. He pays extraordinary attention to his cell phone these days, keeping it at hand with the battery charged at all times, with plenty of credit, and checks the screen constantly for messages and missed calls. He hasn’t had any for months and didn’t particularly care until now. He wants her to call, to invite him in. He thinks it’s too risky to make another move. He sees couples in warm clothes by the beach, drinking maté and reading magazines on the sunny mornings, and imagines himself doing the same with her. He imagines them sleeping together in his bed, lulled by the endless percussion of the waves, made drowsy by the combined heat of their bodies. He fantasizes that they are living together and have a child. The more he chides himself and tries to quell these ideas, the more his mind invents them, and the greater the contrast between his fantasies and the mornings when he wakes up alone with the same day in front of him and the same routine that he normally appreciates perpetually overshadowed by a feeling of impotence. He feels sick. On the Friday morning he has the silly idea to buy her a present, and by that afternoon the silly idea has become an inescapable obsession, and at the end of the day he rides around looking for the few shops selling clothes and gifts that are open in midwinter, unable to think of something that she might like. He remembers the bookstore. The sales assistant suggests a handful of best sellers, and there is a shelf of books on psychology, but he doesn’t end up buying anything because it would be too easy to get it wrong with a book, to not know which one to choose, besides which, books say or give away too much, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who reads any old thing. He makes one last attempt at a shop selling Balinese decorations at the entrance to the town. There are small decorative objects for the house and kitchen that are affordable. The girl who serves him guarantees that everything comes straight from artisans on the island of Bali. He finds a stunning bedspread with an intricate green and gold pattern that doesn’t cost too much, and he suddenly realizes what he is doing there and leaves. Back at home, he checks the gym roster and discovers that he is down to work on Saturday. He goes to bed early and the next day is at the pool at eight in the morning, but no students show up until the end of his shift at one o’clock. The temperature is below fifty degrees, and it looks as if it is going to rain. Instead of eating lunch, he pulls on his running shoes, shorts, and the jacket his students gave him and runs along the beach to Siriú, intending to think about Jasmim until he forgets her, to accelerate until he blows his engine, to sweat out his relentless desire to see her. It takes him over an hour to start to tire. At some point he starts to feel peaceful. It never fails. He hears a single crack of thunder without lightning somewhere, but it doesn’t rain.