Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) Page 7

  Don’t be long.

  Dália is wearing a colorful ankle-length skirt that flutters rhythmically around her long legs. The circular movements of the hem allow him to see only the tips of her long feet clad in pink plastic sandals, with burgundy toenails. Her sleeveless white lace blouse shows off her narrow waist and broad hips. She isn’t wearing the silver necklace today, but she has on a pair of spiral earrings, two delicate metallic structures that manage to find room under her mane of curly hair. The lampposts on the beach promenade project bright, orangey light over the sand. It is like walking through an empty stadium ready for a rock concert at night. Their long shadows drag their heads through the calm sea.

  What are you looking at?

  Your earrings.

  She fiddles with them.

  Did you manage to get back from the party that night?

  Jesus. I was really out of it. I can hardly remember a thing. But it was okay, a guy gave me a lift.

  That dickhead with dyed-blond hair?

  Don’t remind me. I hooked up with him once, and he thinks he can just rock up talking shit and it’s going to happen again whenever he wants.

  Next time I won’t let him bother you.

  Tough guy. The worst part is that I hooked up with him again.

  He raises his eyebrows and doesn’t say anything.

  Why did you leave?

  I was a bit worried about the car. And to be honest, I haven’t got much patience for parties.

  You left me there alone. You didn’t feel sorry for me. Not nice.

  So I passed you on the beach yesterday, did I?

  You did, and you pretended not to see me.

  When?

  Yesterday afternoon. You were running. I was with Pablo.

  Who’s Pablo?

  My son.

  I didn’t know you had a son.

  Didn’t I tell you? Pablito, my love. I did so tell you.

  No, you didn’t. How old is he?

  Six.

  I didn’t know you had a son. But that kind of explains it. If you had been alone, I think I would have recognized you. By your hair.

  Man, you’re really weird.

  The stream that runs into the sea in front of the row of fishing sheds is too wide to jump over. Near the old stone bridge, a footbridge has been improvised with a plank. He touches Dália’s arm and nods to indicate where to cross.

  I’m going to tell you something, Dália. But you have to take it seriously, okay?

  Okay.

  But let’s cross this plank first.

  He goes in front with the dog and holds out his hand to Dália just before he gets to the other side. She lifts up her skirt a little and takes his hand. She crosses the plank with a single step.

  I’m incapable of recognizing faces. That’s why I didn’t realize it was you on the beach. Or in the bar tonight.

  That’s no excuse for ignoring someone you’ve known for two or three days. It means you couldn’t care less about them.

  Listen. I can’t recognize any face. It’s a neurological disorder.

  She stops and stares at him.

  Take a good look at my face, she says, pointing at it. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see my mouth, nose, eyes? Is that it?

  I can see it. But I won’t remember it. My brain doesn’t retain it. I have brain damage right in the part that recognizes human faces. If you leave my sight, I’ll forget your face in five minutes, or ten, or half an hour with a lot of luck. It’s inevitable.

  I’ve never heard of it.

  It’s very rare.

  She stares at him for another instant, then starts walking again.

  Don’t you believe me?

  You said you were serious, so I’m taking you seriously. But if you’re messing with me . . . the sooner I know the better. A moment from now is going to be too late.

  I’m serious.

  The fishing sheds are all closed. They pass a young couple heading in the opposite direction, coming back from the rocks, listening to electronic music weakly amplified on a cell phone.

  So you’ll never be able to recognize me? If I want to talk to you, I have to go up to you and say, Hi, I’m Dália, remember me? Waving my hands and all? She opens her eyes wide and makes a funny smile, gesticulating as she talks.

  No, of course not. There are lots of things besides a person’s face. The voice almost always helps. And the context. I know you’re the tallest girl in the pizza parlor. If I go there while you’re working, I’ll know who you are immediately. Sometimes it’s an item of clothing that the person wears a lot, and I memorize it. A way of walking. I always have to be on the lookout for things that can identify a person, besides their face. I scan the details. In your case, the first things I noticed were your height and your hair. The better I know someone, the easier it is to recognize them. But it’s always a little complicated. Yesterday on the beach, for example, it would have been almost impossible because you were with your son, and I didn’t know you had a son.

  I’ll introduce you to him as soon as I get a chance.

  Please do.

  They reach the crumbling stairs that lead to the footpath around the rocks. He lets her go first and follows, pulling Beta along by her leash. There is a strong smell of sewage around the winding stairs. Dália hunches up and hops on the spot a few times.

  I need to go.

  As soon as he unlocks the door, she hurries to the bathroom. He puts out dog food and water for Beta and leaves her eating in the tiny laundry area. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and opens the living-room shutters. Dália doesn’t take long. He hears the flush, then the door opens and she comes out talking.

  Okay, but tell me, how did it happen to you?

  Perinatal anoxia.

  Well, of course. It had to be perinatal whatyamacallit.

  At birth. I wasn’t breathing when I was born, and it caused brain damage. I’ve had it since I was a baby.

  Oh, how awful.

  No, it isn’t awful. It’s just a bit of a drag sometimes. People generally refuse to believe it exists. Hardly anyone is okay about it, like you.

  Hey, remember me? she jokes, batting her eyelids, as she comes over and takes the beer can from him. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me!

  Exactly.

  She leans on the windowsill beside him.

  Why don’t you put some music on?

  I burned out my sound system. The voltage here is two hundred and twenty.

  Silly. Anyway, we need to go get the girls and see if this party’s any good. Your car’s at the gas station?

  Yep.

  Did you leave it there to have it washed?

  I left it there to sell it.

  Who’s going to give me lifts now?

  He doesn’t answer.

  I can’t really be bothered going to this party, to be honest.

  What about your son’s dad? Where’s he?

  A young man in a baseball cap and no shirt comes along the footpath with a panting white and yellow pit bull on a leash, its large mouth open in a crocodile smile. They take the stairs down to the rocks.

  He went back to Criciúma. He’s from there. He moved here with me a few years ago, but then we had a fight and he left.

  Do you get along okay?

  Yeah, pretty good. Pablo loves him. He goes to spend a few days with John twice a month. We treat each other well. Pablo is what matters.

  His name’s John?

  Yeah.

  Is he American?

  No. He’s from Criciúma.

  The young man lets the pit bull off its leash and throws a plastic bottle half filled with water into the sea. The dog studies the edge of the rock for a moment and launches itself after its toy. The young man lights a cigarette and watches the dog swim.


  Does he give you child support or something like that?

  She swallows her beer quickly and gives a short, explosive laugh, before answering scornfully.

  All he does is smoke pot. But no, to be fair, he gives me some money when he can. But he hasn’t got a thing. He’s a lazy-ass, that one.

  Do you live on your own with Pablo?

  No, I live with my mother. She helps me. She moved here when we broke up, and she lives with me. Tell me, do you recognize your own face in the mirror?

  I don’t know if I want to talk about it anymore.

  The pit bull comes out of the water with the bottle in its mouth. The man wrests it from the dog’s jaws and throws it again, several yards out. The dog dives in.

  No, I don’t recognize my own face in the mirror. And there’s no point staring at photos. When I wake up the next morning, I’ve already forgotten it.

  That must be really crazy. What if you shave or cut your hair? Does it change anything?

  No. But my mother always told me I look better without a beard. I trust her.

  And do you know if someone is good-looking, if they’re sad, angry, that kind of thing?

  Yes. I can tell if I’m looking at the person. I see emotions normally. I know if someone’s ugly or good-looking, young or old. No problem. But I forget their actual face. I remembered that you were gorgeous. So it’s nice to see you again.

  She bumps him with her shoulder.

  You did not. You’re just saying that.

  They stand there for a while, watching the pit bull’s workout, which seems interminable. He turns his head and sees that Beta has made herself comfortable on her towel at the other end of the living room, next to the front door.

  Sometimes I think the dog’s watching me.

  What?

  Nothing, it’s silly.

  So if I spent the night here you wouldn’t recognize my face in the morning?

  Honestly? No.

  You’re the only person in the world with a good excuse for it.

  She leaves her empty can on the windowsill and turns to him.

  Are you really sure you wouldn’t?

  It’s never happened.

  Not even if it was a really, really good night?

  I don’t want to give you false hopes, Dália.

  Where would we be without false hopes?

  • • •

  He wakes up without opening his eyes. There is the heat, the smell, and a clear memory of all the things for which a face, and even sight itself, is unnecessary. Weight is one of his favorite sensations. He’d be able to identify her at once if she lay on him the next morning or in a year’s time. It wouldn’t matter. And the way a body moves. If it is in intimate contact with his, if he can hold it firmly with both hands at its diverse points of articulation and in this manner read its voluntary and involuntary movements, soft and brusque, repeated or not, he can forever retain a tactile image that can tell him much more than any visual stimuli about how the person draws back and lets go, asks and refuses, approaches and retreats. Dália has protruding collarbones, wide hips, and full, muscular legs. Wiry hair and slightly bitter sweat like weak coffee. Milk and sugar breath. The way she uses her teeth. The bodily self-consciousness typical of beautiful women restricts her movements. A collection of little embarrassments and inhibitions that fade somewhat, as the half-light in the musty room reveals more and more. Her reserve gives way to a certain submission. The difference is subtle. He’ll remember everything. The darkened bedroom and the kitchen light filtering through the open door. Her feet twitching when he tried to kiss them. Tension in her whole body that took a while to yield. She digs her nails in lightly, gives little punches. When her hand holds something, her fingertips press alternately as if trying to remember how to play a tune on the piano. Maybe she plays piano or played it when she was little. It is moving to think about a person’s repertoire of caresses. Why they touch others this way or that. It comes from so many places. The things we imagine must feel good, the things we’ve been told feel good, the things we’ve had done to us and liked, the things that are involuntary, the things that are our way of giving pleasure, period. She comes almost in silence or, come to think of it, in total silence. And with her eyes closed. Not a peep. He can hear the waves. He won’t forget a single detail of it. He will still be able to recall it several months or years from now, and it will only remind him of her. He catalogs with renewed amazement the countless ways in which the world can be unveiled by his senses. Nothing but faces are lost. Dália sleeping soundlessly by his side, emanating heat, her buttocks pressed against his hip, her back against his left shoulder, the waves almost hitting the window. He’ll remember everything.

  • • •

  Academia Swell is located at the bottom of Silveira Hill, a short distance before the steep and winding road gouged into the hillside that provides access to the beach on the other side. Just inside the gate is a small structure made of thick planks of wood, which houses a snack bar with round wooden tables. He peers through the door and sees the waitress behind the counter, a girl with indigenous features and straight black hair. She explains the way to reception in Spanish. He walks down the driveway past a long, tall building with exposed brick walls and an asbestos roof, which, judging from the dimensions and fogged-up windows, must house the recently opened heated swimming pool. He opens the glass door at the back of the complex and enters reception. To his left is a large weights room. Half a dozen gym-goers are straining their muscles on outdated gym equipment. There are vases of plants everywhere and colorful reproductions of what he thinks are Hindu gods hanging on grubby walls, creatures with female or pachydermal features and a slightly arrogant serenity plastered across their happy, erotic faces, some blue-skinned with several plump arms and thin fingers holding tridents and other ritualistic objects. The afternoon light tinges the walls and metal equipment with a golden color and the mild March temperatures make air conditioning unnecessary. It is an atypical gym environment, more reminiscent of a religious temple in which physical exercise is a ritual practiced as a means of attaining enlightenment. Hidden loudspeakers are playing reggae at a low volume, which sounds out of place. The blonde sitting behind the counter wishes him good afternoon.

  Hi. I hear you’ve opened a pool.

  She gives him a photocopied pamphlet with the opening hours and prices of the gym and swimming pool.

  Do you know if they need a swimming instructor?

  You’ll have to talk to Saucepan.

  Saucepan?

  The owner.

  They smile at each other.

  And where’s Saucepan?

  He should be here in about half an hour. Or you can come back at night and talk to his partner.

  She stifles a smile and looks at him. She is a little chubby with a freckled face, deep lines from too much sun exposure, and a round nose. He hears explosive noises coming from the pool, as if someone were beating the surface of the water with a spade. Both of the receptionist’s arms are covered in colorful tattoos. There is a Japanese-style wave, a tribal bracelet, a dolphin. He chuckles.

  Am I going to have to guess the partner’s name?

  He’s got a nickname too. Try.

  I’ve got something in mind, but I’m afraid it might be wrong.

  Spatula.

  No way.

  Yes way. Spatula’s the one who comes at night.

  The two of them laugh silently and look at each other as if they know each other well and have a plan to get revenge on someone. It is a pleasant feeling that appears to have sprung from nowhere.

  Okay, I’ll wait for Saucepan.*

  Okay.

  Can I take a look at the pool?

  Yes.

  What’s your name?

  Débora.

  The pool room looks much smaller from the inside than fro
m the outside and is filled with white steam and the strong smell of chlorine and clay tiles. He breathes in the warm, moist, slightly caustic air. It feels like home to him. In indoor-pool areas he always remembers the sessions he had with a nebulizer to treat a brief bout of bronchitis when he was a child: the green plastic mask, the noisy little machine like a small pool pump, his mother looking on approvingly as she oversaw things. The semi-Olympic pool is the narrowest he has ever seen, with only three lanes demarcated with lines of navy blue tiles and still without floating lane dividers. There is a swimmer at each end. Both are finding it hard to breathe properly in the choppy water. The swimmer on the left is older and fatter and wearing a yellow snorkel, goggles, and flippers. He is the one responsible for the explosive sounds he had heard earlier. The man raises his right arm completely out of the water, very slowly, as if trying to project his hand as far as possible from his body, holds it out of the water for a moment, then brings it down with supersonic speed, like the arm of a catapult, slamming it into the surface of the pool with a deafening bang and splashing water several yards away. His left arm doesn’t even leave the water properly and makes an atrophied movement that generates zero propulsion. If it weren’t for the flippers on his feet, the guy would barely leave the spot. The world’s swimming pools are full of these comical, extreme cases that can rarely be remedied. The swimmer on the right is younger and swims well. His rhythm is firm, and he takes a breath every four strokes, but his legs are scissor-kicking and his right arm is coming down a little too far to the side. He turns swiftly and fluidly, surfaces quickly, crosses the pool again, and stops at the edge, panting, consulting his watch to count the interval before his next sprint. Twenty seconds. He is doing a set of one-hundred-meter sprints, and he does each in ninety seconds, some in eighty-eight, eighty-seven. As he watches the man swim, he can’t help but count the seconds in his head. Swimmer’s tic. Over the years his inner clock has become precise, almost infallible.

  • • •

  A barber by the name of Zé calls about his Ford Fiesta early one Friday afternoon. They meet at the gas station. Zé looks under the hood, inspects the engine, and says he can pay that day. They go straight to Laguna in the car itself to transfer the ownership of the vehicle and arrange for the deposit. The whole operation takes less than two hours, and soon they are back in Garopaba. They park in front of the barber’s shop. He hands the new owner the car key and orders a Coke at the bar adjoining the barber’s. Zé offers him a shave.