Blood-drenched Beard

I did. I visited the grave and took care of some paperwork in Laguna. It was all very strange. I had the strongest feeling it wasn’t him in that hole. The grass growing over the grave was pretty tall. I remember thinking, I’ll be damned if this here was dug the week before last. And I couldn’t find anyone who could confirm the story. It was as if it hadn’t happened. The story of the crime itself was plausible, and the villagers’ silence made sense, but the way I found out about it, what the police chief told me, that awful stone with no name on it… I was never really convinced. But at any rate, whatever happened to your granddad, it was bound to happen. People meet the death they’re due in most cases. He met his.

Have you ever thought about having the grave opened? There must be a legal way to go about it.

His dad glances away, annoyed. He sighs.

Listen. I’ve never told this story to anyone. Your mother doesn’t know. If you ask her, she’ll say your granddad disappeared, because that’s what I told her. As far as I was concerned, he really had disappeared. I left it at that. I didn’t give it any more thought. If you think it’s horrible, that’s too bad. The way I was at that age, the life I had back then… it’d be hard to make you understand now.

I don’t think it’s horrible. Relax.

His dad fidgets in his armchair. Beta gets up and with a small lurch puts her front paws on her master’s leg. He grabs and holds her face as if muzzling her, lowering his head to look her in the eye. When he lets go, she lies down next to the armchair again. It is one of many inscrutable rituals that are a part of his dad’s relationship with the animal.

So why are you telling me this now?

You haven’t read that short story by Borges that I mentioned earlier, have you?

No.

“The South.”

I haven’t read anything by Borges.

’Course you haven’t, you read fuck all.

Dad. The pistol.

Right.

His dad opens the bottle of cognac, fills a small glass, and downs it in one go. He doesn’t offer him any. He picks up the pistol and examines it for a minute. He releases the magazine and clicks it back into place, as if to show that it isn’t loaded. A single bead of sweat runs down his forehead, drawing attention to the fact that he is no longer sweating all over. A minute earlier he was covered in sweat. He tucks the pistol into the waistband of his slacks and looks at him.

I’m going to kill myself tomorrow.

He thinks about what he’s just heard for a good while, listening to his irregular breathing leaving his nostrils in short puffs. An immense tiredness weighs suddenly on his shoulders. He stuffs the photo of his granddad into his pocket, dries his hands on his Bermuda shorts, gets up, and heads for the front door.

Come back here.

What for? What do you want me to do after hearing that kind of shit? Either you’re serious and want me to convince you to change your mind, which would be the most fucked-up thing you’ve ever asked me to do, or you’re having a laugh at my expense, which would be so pathetic that I don’t even want to find out. ’Bye.

Come back here, damn it.

He comes to a halt by the door, looking back at the sad floor of pinkish clay tiles separated by stripes of cement, the lush fern trying to escape a pot hanging from the ceiling, the perennial atmosphere of cigar smoke that pervades the living room with its invisible consistency and sweet, strangely animal smell.

I’m not joking, and I don’t want you to convince me of anything. I’m just informing you of something that’s going to happen.

Nothing’s going to happen.

Look, understand this: it’s inevitable. I made up my mind a few weeks ago in a moment of absolute lucidity. I’m tired. I’m fed up. I think it started with that hemorrhoid surgery. At my last checkup, the doctor stared at my tests, then looked at me with a woeful expression as if he were disappointed in the whole human race. I got the impression he was going to quit my case like a lawyer. And he’s right. I’m starting to get sick, and I can’t be bothered with it all. I can’t taste my beer anymore, cigars are bad for me but I can’t stop, and I don’t even feel like taking Viagra so I can fuck. I don’t even miss fucking. Life’s too long, and I haven’t got the patience for it. For someone who’s had a life like mine, living beyond sixty is just being stubborn. I respect those who take it seriously, but I can’t be bothered. I was happy until about two years ago, and now I want to go. Anyone who thinks I’m wrong can live to a hundred if they want. Good luck to ’em. I’ve nothing against it.

What nonsense.

Yeah. Forget it. I can’t expect you to understand. We’re too different. Don’t bother — it’ll be a waste of your time.

You know I won’t let you do it, Dad, so why did you invite me over to tell me?

I know it’s not fair. But I did it because I trust you, I know how strong you are. I called you because there’s something I need to take care of first, and I can’t do it alone. Only my son can help me.