Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) Read online

  Farther in, the low, dense treetops neutralize the storm’s thrashing, shut out some of the cold, and make everything a little quieter. He is looking for a sheltered spot to spend the night when he hears a baby crying. He tries to find a plausible explanation, like the bleating of a sheep or the creaking of a tree trunk swayed by the wind, but it isn’t the kind of sound that is easily mistaken, and the second time he hears it, he is sure. He looks around thinking of hauntings and improbable phenomena. Can a sound be carried so far by the wind? A little farther along he catches sight of something yellow among the trees. He approaches cautiously, afraid of what he might find.

  The yellow tarpaulin has been pulled taut and tied to the trees on a slant so the water will run off it. It serves as a roof for a small igloo-shaped tent. The baby’s crying is coming from inside it, and the light of what is probably a gas lantern projects the silhouettes of two people against the green nylon of the tent. He shouts hello and claps his hands to attract their attention. The door is unzipped. A head of long black hair with Coke-bottle glasses pokes out.

  The couple are called Jarbas and Valquíria but he prefers to be called Duck and she goes by Val. The baby is thirteen months old and is called Ítalo. They are from Santa Cruz do Sul and live most of the year in an eco-village. Duck comes out of the tent and squats next to him in the small area protected by the tarpaulin, hugging his knees with his arms. He is very thin, and his glasses enlarge his eyes like magnifying lenses. His mane of unruly black curls frames his face like a cluster of flowers. Val leans out a little to say hi and take a good look at the visitor. She has thin lips, thick eyebrows, short, straight hair, and a pinkish mark high on her left cheek. Neither of them smiles at any point. Even after days or weeks of nonstop rain, their campground is dry, which must mean that Duck and Val set up camp there some time ago, before the rain started. The slightly sloping terrain helps with drainage. They have dug ditches around the tent and set up a small gas-operated camp stove. In the corner are a black umbrella and a few plastic bags of garbage. Duck lights the stove, puts a teapot on to boil, and starts preparing a gourd of maté. The baby wails endlessly and appears to have been wailing for a long time, but his parents seem to be able to tune out or ignore their protective instincts and remain immune to his shrieks.

  Have you been camping here long?

  Almost a month. We came when Ítalo turned one.

  I got a fright when I heard him crying.

  He’s got a fever.

  Have you given him any medicine?

  We took him to the medical clinic in Pinheira yesterday, says Val. They gave him some medicine.

  They both speak very slowly and pause for so long before answering anything that he gets the impression they aren’t going to respond.

  What are you doing here?

  What do you mean?

  Why are you camping here in this rain?

  Why are you walking through the hills in this rain?

  I didn’t know it was going to rain until the end of time when I left home.

  We didn’t know either when we came here to camp.

  Val hands a small roll of tinfoil to her companion, who starts to break up the marijuana in a small, round grinder.

  Where are we?

  Neither of them replies for a long time. Duck closes the joint, and Val uses an interval in the baby’s wailing to ask, In what sense?

  In what sense what?

  You asked where we are.

  I want to know what place this is.

  We’re in the valley.

  Don’t you know the valley?

  No. What’s it near?

  Pinheira’s that way, over the hill, about twenty minutes from here, says Duck, pointing in slow motion as he licks the cigarette paper.

  It’s hard to talk to you guys. You talk really slowly.

  They don’t answer. Val backs into the tent and then emerges holding a roughly built cradle with the baby in it, rolled up in blankets. Hanging from the handle is a decoration that looks like a spider’s web.

  What’s that?

  A dreamcatcher.

  To catch bad dreams?

  She nods.

  The Native American Indians used to put them on their cradles, says Duck. The good dreams pass through this hole in the middle, but the bad ones get caught in the web and are undone by the sunlight. And this feather in the middle represents the air and breathing.

  The baby looks at the feather swinging in the breeze and learns that air exists, how it works, understands that it is important for him, says Val.

  The baby screams so loudly that he chokes.

  Is it normal for him to cry like that?

  It’s the fever. He’ll get some fresh air now and will stop for a bit.

  What does he eat?

  Val gives her first smile and looks out of the corner of her eyes, amused.

  I still breastfeed him. And we give him a bit of baby food.

  I make it myself, says Duck, holding in his first puff on the joint and offering it to him.

  No thanks.

  Daddy’s mush. Right, pal?

  Val takes the joint.

  Isn’t the smoke bad for him?

  No.

  A flash of lightning reveals everything and hides it again before he can see anything properly. The thunder makes a dramatic pause before rumbling in. The rain grows heavier. The teapot starts to whistle on the stove. He glances around for Beta but doesn’t see her.

  Are you looking for something?

  My dog. She was just here.

  He whistles and calls her name. Beta appears and keeps a distance.

  Put her under here with us, says Duck.

  She’ll shake and get everything wet.

  We’ll dry her off. Val, get that dirty towel I hung from the tarp.

  He calls to Beta until she is convinced she is welcome and wraps her in the towel when she starts to shake. Then he dries her carefully, talking to her in a low voice, while Duck prepares the maté, and the marijuana smoke fills the covered area, mixing with the smells of manure, milk, baby poo, and tarpaulin. Duck discards the first infusion and fills the gourd again with boiling water.

  There you go, wild man. You’re shaking with cold. Maté made with rainwater to resuscitate you.

  They drink maté and eat Brazil nuts, admiring the night and the lightning. Little Ítalo calms down somewhat, and his mother puts the cot back in the tent.

  You can sleep under here if you want. But we don’t have a camping mattress, and the blanket got wet.

  I don’t want to be a bother.

  You won’t be.

  Okay then. I’ve got a sleeping bag. Thanks.

  He takes his damp sleeping bag out of his backpack and partially unrolls it in the small free space under the tarpaulin.

  Where’re you headed?

  Nowhere special. But I think I’m going to start heading home tomorrow.

  How many days have you been walking?

  I’m not exactly sure. About ten, I think.

  I think it’s more.

  Do you think I’ll be able to get a lift to Garopaba from Pinheira?

  Definitely. Tomorrow morning I’m going to head down the valley to wash Ítalo’s diapers. Come with me, and I’ll show you the way. It isn’t far. You just have to be careful not to take the wrong trail. There are several that go through the hills and lead nowhere, or to the old man’s cave.

  Old man’s cave?

  There’s an old man who lives in a cave.

  Where?

  On the other side of the valley.

  How do you get there?

  He doesn’t accept visitors. And he’s not always there. At least that’s what they say. I’ve never been. No one goes there.

  But how do you get there?

  It’s
in the middle of the forest between two trails. One of them leads through the bottom of the valley, and the other one goes to the top of the hill. It’s almost impossible to see the entrance until you’re really close. I’ve taken the lower trail. There’s a barbed-wire fence, and from there you can see the cave. The fishermen in Pinheira say he’s two hundred years old, and they sometimes leave fish and flour on the trail for him. He must have some kind of contagious disease because they always say not to get too close.

  He starts rolling up his sleeping bag.

  Can you show me how to get to the lower trail?

  You want to go there now?

  Yep.

  I’ll show you in the morning. It’s too dark now. You won’t be able to see a thing.

  I’m going now. Will you show me or not?

  I’m not going out walking through the dark forest in this rain.

  Let him go, mumbles Val inside the tent. The baby starts wailing again.

  He hasn’t rolled up his sleeping bag properly, and now it won’t go back in its plastic bag.

  I’m going to leave this here. Is that okay? I’ll come back for it afterward.

  Man, no one ever goes there. There’s got to be a reason. I reckon the whole story about an old man is just some fisherman’s tale. I just mentioned it for the sake of it.

  If he wants to go, let him go, says Val, sounding irritated.

  Can you at least point me in the direction of the right trail?

  Only if you tell me why you’re in such a hurry.

  I think the old man in the cave is my granddad.

  Jarbas, come here.

  Duck pushes his glasses up with the tip of his finger, adjusts the position of his head to see him better, then responds to Val’s request and stoops to go into the tent. There is something turtlelike about him. The door is zipped closed. Another clap of lightning brings home the unexpected yet obvious realization that to the couple he is a frightening figure who appeared in the night without warning and that their hospitality may only be an indication that they are scared. He hears whispering behind the baby’s crying and the noise of the rain. He can’t wait to leave. Duck comes out and explains how to find the lower trail that leads to the cave. He needs to stay on the trail he was on before he saw the tent, take it downhill to a miniature beach where there is an old fishing shed, cross the creek that runs through the bottom of the valley, and turn left instead of following the main trail. After walking for a while along the foot of the hill, he will see another trail. He will come to a barbed-wire fence on his right, and a little farther along there will be a kind of gate that actually looks more like barbed wire rolled around some stakes. That’s where they say it is.

  He thanks him for the shelter and the maté and apologizes for not being able to offer anything in return. Duck leans forward and whispers.

  Don’t say anything, ’cause I don’t want Val to know. If we see you again and she accuses you of stealing this, don’t deny it.

  Duck hands him a battery-operated flashlight.

  I can’t accept this.

  Bring it back to me later tonight or tomorrow.

  I owe you one.

  Sure you don’t want to go first thing in the morning?

  I’ve got to go now.

  He shakes Duck’s hand and calls Beta, who is already sleeping. He covers his head with his hood and leaves. The rain is thick and warm. His feet sink into the mud. He uses the flashlight to find his way out of the woods and guide himself along the trail, which soon disappears down a slope covered with low grasses. Beyond the light of the flashlight, the darkness is complete, but a sense of his bearings gives him an approximate notion of where the trees, rocks, valley, abyss, and ocean are. Occasional flashes of lightning offer snapshots of the diluvial landscape.

  The valley ends in the miniature beach of rocks that Duck told him about. All the rain has turned the creek into a small river, and it takes him a while to find a place to cross. He wades the two to three yards from one side to the other, through the current, with the water above his waist, flashlight in his mouth, hugging the dog to his chest. The most accessible path through the other side of the valley must be obvious during the day but requires careful exploration in the dark. He retraces his steps and gets his bearings again every time he finds a steep slope or dense forest blocking his way. When he is beginning to suspect that he is searching in vain, he sees the barbed-wire fence. He continues groping the fence with his right hand for a few minutes until he comes to the rusty gate of barbed wire. A quick inspection with the flashlight reveals that it is easier to open than he had thought. He releases one of the stakes from a loop of nylon rope, and the gate lies down docilely on the drenched ground.

  For a few yards the path is no more than an almost indistinguishable opening in the middle of dense forest. Then suddenly a carefully tended dirt trail becomes visible in the beam of the flashlight. The grass on either side appears to have been trimmed recently, and the surface is firm and smooth even after weeks of rain. It starts to climb the slope, snaking around rocks, which at one point form a continuous wall on his left. He passes his hand along the slimy stone, leaning into its comforting solidity. Beta stays at his heel, sniffing. He realizes that the wild vegetation has begun to show signs of landscaping. He notices strips of well-tended grass and bromeliads fastened with wire to the trunks of trees that bend over the trail like arches.

  A natural staircase, with steps molded by roots, appears, and after another abrupt curve around a rock, he comes face to face with a large rectangular aquarium at the side of the trail. He approaches it and points the flashlight. Inside the glass box are several stone, clay, and ceramic chips arranged as if they were in a museum display case. The curved lines of many of the fragments suggest that they are pieces of statues, vases, or old plates. Some have inscriptions in unknown characters or patterns of triangles and diamonds. In one corner of the aquarium are half a dozen arrow tips similar to the ones he found in his first few days of walking. The lid of the aquarium is well sealed, and the very white sand at the bottom preserves a dryness that seems extinct in the world.

  A little farther along, the trail is suddenly interrupted by a large boulder. Looking closer, he sees that there is a low passage under the boulder, low enough to force a man to stoop. Around this opening is a small bamboo portal. He stands there listening for a time, but all he hears is rain. He turns off the flashlight. A very tenuous, almost undetectable light leaks through the opening. He stoops and enters.

  He stands up inside a kind of rocky antechamber weakly lit by the same light he could see from the trail. On his right is a natural opening invaded by the branches of a tree and partially covered with a wavy sheet of asbestos. A narrow vertical opening leads to another section of the cave. He turns on the flashlight and shines it around a little. At the back is a large turtle shell.

  The dog finally decides to enter and, after adjusting to her new surroundings for a few moments, starts to growl. He shines the flashlight on the opening, turns, and passes through it with two sideways steps.

  The old man is facing him, watching, sitting on what appears to be an old rocking chair covered with sheepskins, his arms lying on the armrests. The light of a gas lantern hanging on a rock wall immediately reveals the size of the cave but hides its details in the shadows. The old man’s gray beard hangs halfway down his chest. He still has a few strands of white hair on the sides of his head. He has a broad face, narrow nose, and deep-set eyes. He is a tall man who has shrunk. His faded and tattered pants, vest, and wool jacket must have been elegant when new. The intensity of his cadaverlike figure is reinforced by the presence of a young mulatto woman, who can’t be any more than twenty years old, sitting on a stool close to him, slightly behind the rocking chair. She is wearing a kind of knitted robe in a sandy tone and a diamond tiara that can only be a plastic imitation of the real thing. One of her arms is resting l
ightly on the old man’s shoulder. The two of them stare at the intruder with the same stony gleam in their eyes.

  Good evening, he says, pushing back his hood.

  The old man turns his head a little like a curious dog and wrinkles his forehead. His bushy eyebrows are gray like his beard, and his skin looks like a leather bag with centuries of use.

  The woman’s eyes widen suddenly, and she looks frightened. She whispers something in the old man’s ear, and he raises his right hand to the height of her face, requesting silence. Then he whispers something in her ear. She gets up, takes a few steps to a dark recess toward the back of the cave, and speaks to someone.

  The roof of the cave is an enormous slab of slanting rock that is some ten feet at its highest point and almost touches the ground at its lowest. The cave is dry and warm, and there is a blue tarpaulin sealing an upper corner. Near him, an upright log serves as a table for a perfect sphere of granite about the size of a soccer ball. A flash of lightning reveals two openings, one on his right that leads into the forest, and another behind him, which he figures is the direction of the valley and ocean, but the two or three flares of light that are gone in an instant are not enough for him to identify the third person that the woman just spoke to. The cave dwelling has a clean, mineral smell. He can’t detect the smell of people living there. A puddle of water is forming at his feet.

  I’m sorry, I’m getting everything wet.

  The old man leans forward slightly and summons him closer with his index finger. The rocking chair creaks. He can hear Beta growling in the antechamber. She must be afraid to squeeze through the opening.

  He walks three steps closer to the old man. Behind him and the mulatto woman, a girl of about thirteen, with white skin, tangled black hair and a feral look, gets up. She stares at him with uneducated eyes as she listens to instructions muttered by the woman. In the recess from which she has just risen, he can now see another girl, blond and bigger than the first, curled up on a bed of mats and cushions. She has just woken up and rubs her eyes, trying to understand what is going on. The mulatto woman returns to exactly the same position on the stool by the old man, her smooth arm touching his shoulder like a dancing partner’s. Her nails are manicured. The wild-looking girl who has just risen goes farther back into the cave to a tiny kitchen, where there are shelves laden with jars and tins and a hotplate perched over a wood-fired oven of stone. The orange and violet embers are still lightly pulsing. She places a teapot on the hotplate.