Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) Page 37

  That’s his problem.

  He goes back into the kitchen and pours the boiling water into the filter.

  Dante was also upset that he didn’t see you at the funeral. You left early, didn’t you? You missed each other.

  We didn’t miss each other. I left before he got there on purpose. Dante can fuck himself. And I don’t want to talk about him right now.

  The hiatus in the conversation is filled by the smell of coffee and the sound of the waves crashing into the rocks near the window. He returns with two coffee mugs, gives one to Viviane, and sits on the other sofa. She is so beautiful. His coffee making hasn’t kept him with his back turned long enough for him to forget her face. When they lived together, he used to play a secret game where he would test how long he could remember the face of the woman he loved or try to look at her often enough so as not to forget her for an entire morning or a whole day. In the beginning it was easy, then it grew harder, and at some point he lost the will to try, but seeing her again now, after more than two years, the game makes sense again. He decides to put it in practice. He won’t lose sight of her. He won’t let her face escape his memory until she leaves again. When she walks out the door, he will hold her face in his memory at the same time as he remembers how they met at the pool where he was teaching, she in a black bathing suit and blue swimming cap, swimming clumsily with her tall, strong body, stopping at the edge of the pool to breathe and chat, letting her guard down for an invitation to go out for a beer. The house brimming with books where she lived with her rich parents before she moved in with him in a horrible apartment in Cidade Baixa, surrounded by noisy bars and schizophrenic neighbors. Her face will start to fade, but the memories of what they did together won’t. The first time they went to the seaside together and camped in a deserted campsite at Christmas. Her coming out of the water in the middle of the deserted beach shaking with cold, covered in goose bumps, not noticing the blood running down her thighs, and cringing with shame when he told her. Lying on her back on top of him in the damp, stuffy inside of the tent, having little convulsions after she came. Them looking at themselves in the mirror together. Their bodies were so beautiful, it was agonizing. She used to say that the human body was fortunate. It didn’t make much sense, but it was what she said, as if fortunate were a synonym for beautiful or something of the sort. He never corrected her. The one who was right about words was her, always her. He didn’t read books, and she didn’t watch him compete, but it didn’t seem to matter. It will take a few minutes for her face to disappear. Then all that will be left is a blur. It doesn’t matter what he feels for someone, it always happens. But he won’t allow it to happen as long as she is in his apartment. He makes the most of her being there. One, two, three, go.

  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.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  He gets up, goes to the wardrobe in the bedroom, and rummages through the contents of a box until he finds the folded piece of paper. He hesitates for a moment. Part of him doesn’t want to show her and would rather tear it up, throw it in the trash, and change the subject. But another part remembers that nothing can be erased. You can’t pretend that something doesn’t exist.

  He goes back into the living room and hands it to Viviane. She reads it quickly and looks up with an expression of confusion and disappointment.

  Is this a joke? I didn’t know what you had written here.

  But you remember that you dated and signed it, don’t you?

  Now I do, but what the fuck? If you knew that we were going to break up, if you knew that one day I’d show up to tell you I was pregnant, why didn’t you say so then? Why didn’t you do something?

  I did everything I could. Maybe it feels like nothing to you, but I did everything I could. It wasn’t a lot. There wasn’t a lot I could do. I knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

  She walks over, hands the paper back to him, and sits on the sofa.

  I really don’t like this. What did you do it for? Seriously, what was your intention? To be able to say “I told you so” or “I knew it” or something like that? Does it make you somehow superior to me? Superior to your brother? Do you know everything that’s going to happen to everyone? Who do you think you are?

  No. That’s not it. I think I wrote it down more to assure myself that I wasn’t crazy. So that when it happened, I’d know that I really had seen what was to come. And that there was nothing I could have done. Or you.

  Or Dante.

  Dante too.

  But why did you let me go, then? Why didn’t you try to keep me in Porto Alegre? Why didn’t you come with me?

  You know the story as well as I do, Viv.

  No, I don’t. You’re the one who knows everything. Help me out here, because I don’t get it. I don’t know how you see things. I don’t know what you’re doing now.

  Dante decides to move to São Paulo, and a month later you get a work offer there. You’d dreamed of it for a long time, to get you out of that suffocating little backwater, as you used to say, like a house with a low ceiling that forced you to stoop. And you were right. For someone like you, Porto Alegre is small. I couldn’t go with you at the time because I was training for the Ironman in Hawaii. Which was my dream. There was no way I could just stop and move to São Paulo out of the blue. Then Dante goes and gets a huge apartment somewhere or other and invites us to go and live with him in the beginning, and you ask me if I’d mind if you went on ahead. If I’d mind. Which was the same as asking my permission. I think that was when I saw everything. It was pretty easy to see. Everything that was taking shape at that moment in time, forgetting the little stories we make up in our heads, our desires, the things we’d like to happen, just looking at reality, every single thing had a consequence. It wasn’t a puzzle. Because I knew Dante liked you.

  Did he ever tell you that?

  No, but he’s my brother. And I could see how much you admired him. Especially after he published his book. Or the second or the third, I don’t know. The one that did well. I read that crap. I recognized everyone in it. Friends of mine were characters in it. The only part of our adolescence that he didn’t devour with his fanciful imagination was me. He had the decency to leave me out. All the rest is there. And he calls it fiction.

  Well, technically—

  But it doesn’t matter. I know you loved me, Viv, but I also know that sometimes you thought I was a thick athlete, uncultured. Which is what I am. A nice guy, a good person, but not an intellectual. Big dick, small mind. When we met, you were only twenty-one, and that was all you wanted. But it got stale. Maybe if I’d been a bit more open-minded. If I’d read the books you’d given me and liked them. If I’d changed over time. If I’d taken an interest in your world. If I’d been a little more like someone I wasn’t. Imagine if I was a writer.

  Don’t say that. You’re making light of what I felt for you. What I still feel.

  No, I’m not. I know what you felt for me. I felt what you felt for me. I know that in a way you’ve never stopped loving me. But am I wrong? Wasn’t that what was going on when you asked me if I minded?

  You’re exaggerating.

  Maybe. But I’m exaggerating something real.

  She looks at him with an expression not of anger but of animal ferocity, of self-defense, and a single tear escapes her left eye, plops onto her cheek, and falls to the ground as she asks the next question.

  So why’d you say you didn’t mind if I went? If you already knew it was going to happen?

  Don’t cry, Viv.

  I’m not going to cry. Tell me why.

  Because I was going to lose you anyway. The only question was how. If I’d held on to you, today I’d be the guy who held you back. And I would have.

  Oh, thanks a lot. You’re so nice. What a sacrifice. You thought it best to keep quiet and let me go so you could be the victim. The victim with his ridiculous piece of paper saying I knew it.

  I’m not the victim. There’s no such thing.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have gone if you’d insisted that I stay.

  Don’t fool yourself.

  Sh
e shakes her head and blows air through her nostrils.

  So you knew everything. Well, I didn’t. I didn’t predict that any of it was going to happen. I just fell in love with him. I had no way of knowing that my life was going to become a poor remake of Jules et Jim. You could have told me if you already knew. I’d have prepared myself better. Can I have a glass of water?

  He goes into the kitchen and comes back with her water. She drinks it all and holds the glass in both hands so tightly that her knuckles turn yellow, and he is afraid the glass might break.

  I should have told you this as soon as I came. Now it’s going to be harder. But I’ll say it. I came to ask if you’d be the godfather.

  He takes his eyes off the glass and looks at her. She gives him a little smile.

  I don’t think you saw that one coming, did you?

  Does he want it too?

  It was his idea.

  And do you think it’s a good one?

  I do.

  It sounds completely absurd to me.

  Whatever. It’s time we put this all behind us. All this resentment. Your father died, and you guys weren’t even able to give each other a hug at his funeral. Your mother pretends it doesn’t matter, but she’s afraid to broach the subject with you. Dante’s afraid too, but he’s suffered a lot as a result of all this, and he misses you. Everyone’s hurting like hell, and it isn’t necessary. It isn’t worth it. But I’m not afraid to ask you. Because think about it. It’s perfect. Precisely because it sounds absurd. It’s our child. Your nephew. Let’s take the opportunity to move on. We’re young, but we’re grown up. We can still do the right thing and live everything that we still have in front of us without any bitterness. It’s a question of family. We’re a family. I know how much that means to you. Have you thought about it like that?

  Stop.

  You know I’m right. It’s your resentment that’s stopping you from accepting.

  I understand what you’re saying. But I can’t.

  You can’t?

  I can’t accept.

  You’re turning down our invitation to be your nephew’s godfather. Really?