Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (9 page)

Thanks for the hand, man. I saw you giving Pablito a lift on your bike. You hooking up with Dália?

Yeah.

Cool.

But where are you from? asks Altair. You're new around here, aren't you?

He explains that he moved there not long ago and tells them the whole story. The two men listen without hearing. They are out of breath, exhausted, addled from the alcohol and the physical exertion. The faded, stained, and torn yellow T-shirt that Bonobo is wearing, with black sleeves and yellow stripes, is a Grêmio Football Club jersey. No one remembers this shirt, he says with pride. It's the goalkeeper's. It was worn by Gomes and Sidmar in '91.

He is wearing a necklace of wrinkled brown beads that look like nuts, and covering his legs is an item of clothing of indeterminate color that could be long shorts or short pants.

So, what are you guys doing?

Knockin' down the kiosk, says Altair.

Yeah, but why?

Altair has to return the property by two o'clock tomorrow afternoon, says Bonobo. Without the kiosk. It's in the lease.

Between swigs straight from the bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla, they explain that Altair leased the land in the middle of the previous year to open a business during the summer months. He built the kiosk with money from a small bank loan and the sale of a motorbike. His friends helped him build it. It took longer than planned and wasn't ready until after Christmas, when the tourists had already arrived, and suddenly he found himself with a debt and an empty kiosk on one of the best corners in Garopaba at the peak of the busy season. He quickly arranged for a visit from a Kibon Ice Cream representative, and a few days later he was given the freezer on consignment. By New Year's Eve he had a dozen surfboards made by a shaper friend of his on display. By the second week of January the kiosk also had a stand of trinkets and costume jewelry made by a well-known itinerant hippie couple who come to town every summer, three small tables for customers to sit at, and a well-stocked Skol Beer fridge, and a table where Lisandra, a voluptuous young masseuse from Goiás who had been in Garopaba for three years, provided massotherapy, chiropractic, lymphatic drainage, and reiki at any time of the day or night. At night the kiosk began to host bands playing samba,
pagode,
reggae, and Brazilian pop music. The samba sessions were especially lively and went on into the small hours with people occupying the vacant lot around the kiosk and spilling over onto the sidewalks and even into the middle of the street, which forced the police to put in the occasional appearance and stop the fun. On January 22, Altair organized a luau to celebrate the first full moon of the year on the sands of Ferrugem Beach and attracted hundreds of summer tourists thirsty for beer, refreshing cocktails, massages, and drugs, which he also arranged for them. He sold all the surfboards at gringo prices. Everything sold like hotcakes: the ice creams, the wire and resin earrings, the coconut shell bracelets, the beer, the kiwi
caipirinhas,
Lisandra's famous hands with her almost erotic sessions of do-in, the LSD and the E. It became a sales outlet for tickets to all the major parties of the season. Before January was over, he had already raised enough money to pay for the lease of the land. Before mid-February, he had paid off his loan too. He doesn't want to say how much he profited, but he indicates that he won't need to work until next summer and that he is going to buy a new motorbike, much better than the last one. Now, at the end of April, he needs to return the land in the same state as when he leased it. The owner isn't interested in the kiosk.

But why don't you pay someone to demolish it?

I don't want to spend money on it.

Altair knows his shit, says Bonobo, setting down the bottle of vodka and picking up the sledgehammer. This guy knows his shit. He takes three steps back, lifts the sledgehammer over his head to his back, and with a frighteningly ample movement that explores the limit of his short reach, hurls it with all his might at one of the walls that are still standing. Not a single piece comes loose—it doesn't even make a crack—but the wall vibrates and fragments of dry paint and cement fly everywhere with a dry thud that echoes in his head and slides down his throat to his stomach. Bonobo gives it another few blows, lets out a crazy laugh, and does a little dance. Then he offers him the sledgehammer.

Have a go, man. It's really cool.

He hits the wall with all his might. The impact travels up his arms and sends a tremor down his spine. He experiences a deep pleasure transferring so much energy in a single blow to the pile of bricks and mortar, and the structure appears to cede a little.

Awesome, isn't it? Give it a few more tries.

By nightfall they have brought down another wall and are working on the last one, alternating between blows with the sledgehammer and kicks. They have finished the bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla and take turns going to the nearest tavern to get cans of cold beer, which they guzzle down. Altair and Bonobo have been at it since daybreak and midday, respectively, and are showing alarming signs of tiredness. Altair falls asleep sitting up for about half an hour, snoring, but wakes with a start, takes a swig from a can of warm beer that is within reach, gets up, asks for the sledgehammer, and attacks the wall again. Bonobo looks catatonic from time to time, staring straight ahead, but returns to action within one or two minutes. The sky is full of stars and the air is warm. The three of them talk little and pass the sledgehammer back and forth at regular intervals that, to anyone observing them from the entrance to the supermarket or the hot dog stand on the opposite corner, look carefully measured and synchronized. A well-oiled team with a method.

Bonobo tells him that he is from the south zone of Porto Alegre but many years ago he moved to Rosa Beach, where he opened a bed-and-breakfast.

It's just before Canto do Mar. You know it? The small bed-and-breakfast on the left. Last year I opened a café too.

Altair falls asleep again, this time lying on the gravelly ground, hugging the sledgehammer, his head resting on a backpack. A third of the last wall is still standing, but they are too tired. He and Bonobo pool the change in their pockets and go to the tavern to get their last few cans of beer. They return and drink them sitting down, leaning against the remaining section of wall. Exhaustion installs a feeling of companionship in them. Before he realizes it, he is talking about his dad's suicide and the dog he decided to adopt. Bonobo listens, nodding his head the whole time, wanting him to be sure he is listening and understanding.

That's heavy shit. But why did you decide to come here?

He wonders if he should tell him the truth. Altair is snoring. He gives Bonobo a good look and decides that he likes him. He tells him that his grandfather disappeared or was murdered in the town in the late sixties. Bonobo doesn't understand why anyone would want to go digging up that kind of story but is moved when he tells him about his father's death. His own father, he explains, lives in Porto Alegre and is very ill.

I think about visiting him all the time, you know.

So go.

Yeah, I really should one of these days.

Do it.

To be honest, I keep putting it off 'cause the bastard left my mother to bring us up on her own and never had much to say for himself. I also don't like going back to Porto Alegre much. I had some pretty hard times down there.

But he's family. Go. If he dies, you'll regret that you didn't go.

Bonobo has scars on his face. Marks that are fading with time. Vestiges of stitches in his eyebrow, spots on his full lips. The movements of his misproportioned body are harmonious and remind him, improbably, of a dancer. Even now, drunk and exhausted, he appears to have everything under control. He stares into his empty can, burps, and tosses it onto the grass with the others.

Damned beer's gone.

Who's going to drive this pickup?

Altair.

He can't even breathe properly—look at him.

I'd have another beer.

Me too.

Bonobo gets up and riffles through Altair's pockets.

Try the backpack.

The backpack's mine. There's no money in it.

We can go back to my place. I've got beer. And cachaça.

Bonobo shakes Altair violently. Altair gets up onto his knees, where he stays for a time with a twisted expression on his face, as if everything he sees is unfamiliar and disgusting, then finally he stands up and starts walking in circles and talking to himself, excited about something or other. They leave everything as it is and walk down the main avenue toward the ocean. Bonobo and Altair wave to a few acquaintances, stop to chat here and there and sometimes introduce their new friend. They look like a trio of peaceful madmen or happy zombies at the end of a long journey to the beach. Bonobo improvises dance steps that make him think of Michael Jackson dancing samba. Altair eggs him on and claps, like the straight man in a comedy duo.

When they pass in front of the pizza parlor, he identifies Dália, who is swiping a credit card through a hand-held terminal at a table on the patio. Their eyes meet, but she pretends she hasn't seen him. After the machine has printed out the receipts, she comes out to the sidewalk. He affectionately pulls her to him by the apron and tries to give her a kiss.

Hey, I'm working.

Oops.

You look disgusting. What's going on? You reek of alcohol. Did you pick up Pablito?

Yep. I took him for an ice cream, and he's at home, safe and sound.

Dália, my princess! cries Bonobo.

Where'd you find these two bums?

We were demolishing a kiosk.

Dália, my love!

She gives Bonobo a look that says “not now.” Customers sitting at the outside tables turn and glare at them disapprovingly. Altair is swaying in silence in the middle of the road, facing the sea, almost falling, as if sent into a trance by a song that only he can hear. A deliveryman on a motorbike swerves to miss him, honking.

We're going to my place to drink some more.

I don't want to know about it. For heaven's sake, be careful.

Don't worry, everything's okay.

I've got to work—'bye.

Farewell, Princess Dália! shouts Bonobo.

She ignores Bonobo and warns him again. Be careful.

They pass in front of the Bauru Tchê. The TV is on, and there are no customers. The owner, Renato, is leaning against the counter and looks depressed. He greets the trio and asks if they are going to have a beer. They say they haven't got any money. They pass the Embarcação Restaurant and walk down the cement ramp from the beach promenade to the sand. The calm, waveless sea looks more like a dark lake. A small group of children is playing in the water, stirring up the green glow of luminescent seaweed. Near the fishing sheds, Altair wades out until he is knee deep in the water and stands there staring at the ominous horizon, ignoring his companions' pleas to come back—then suddenly vomits. He takes a step back after each heave to avoid the floating emissions of his stomach, then wades back out of the water and runs to catch up with them. The gulls standing in the sand aren't flustered by the passing trio, and the orange rings of their eyes shine intensely as they blink nonstop. They climb the stairs to Baú Rock cursing the disgusting smell and take the footpath up to his apartment.

Beta bounds over to greet him when he opens the door. He kneels and ruffles her fur. He wonders if he forgot to feed her but sees that her bowl is still full of dog food. There are half a dozen beers in his fridge. Altair says he is done drinking but changes his mind that very instant and goes into the kitchen to help himself to a beer.

When he opens the window, Bonobo stops clowning around and admires the view in silence. Altair suggests he put on some music, but his radio isn't working. They go into his room to play Winning Eleven. They run out of beer, and the bottle of cachaça is summoned. Altair begs to play God of War II, gets permission, and takes over the controller. They leave him playing and go back into the living room. Bonobo climbs onto the window ledge and says he misses smoking. He asks for a cigarette, but no one smokes. I haven't put a cigarette in my mouth for three years, he says, but I'd smoke one now. Beta starts barking at Bonobo. After a dozen barks she stops with the same lack of motive with which she started, licks her teeth, looks around as if she is positively surprised at herself, and sits on the carpet. Bonobo says that she is happy, and he agrees. They are slurring their words and leaving sentences half-finished. He hears what he intends to say clearly in his head, but his mouth deforms the words as he utters them. They sit in silence for a long while, forgetting the cachaça, just gazing at the dark ocean and the lit beach and listening to the epic soundtrack and violent sound effects of the video game in the bedroom. He has the feeling that this moment will last indefinitely, that nothing else will happen, as if the world has reached a kind of final state in the insignificant scene he is living out. Bonobo asks in a low, circumspect voice if he has noticed the thing too. What thing? he asks. Haven't you noticed
anything
different? asks Bonobo, holding up his index finger like an antenna and looking sideways as if concentrating on some very subtle phenomenon. He pays attention but doesn't notice anything besides the murmuring of the waves, the throbbing of his temples, and the room spinning under the effect of the alcohol. Then suddenly it comes to him. The most revolting thing he has ever smelled in his life, an almost viscous stench of concentrated methane that makes him gag in the middle of an attempt to shout a swear word. Bonobo hoots with laughter, gets down from the window ledge with an incomplete somersault, takes a swig of cachaça, and does a little dance holding the bottle and hollering, Radioactive Fart! Let's get outta here! Life's short and the night's a babe!

He escapes to the bathroom, pees, and washes his face, trying to recover from the effect of the nauseating gas.