Blood-drenched Beard

Normal for you. I don’t get why you have to hide yourself away in a deserted place like this in the middle of winter when you could be in Porto Alegre, or even São Paulo like your brother. I think you’re still upset about your father’s death and will end up coming back. But it’s your life. You’re an adult. I know you like to be on your own. You’ve been like this ever since you were a child, and I’ve always respected it, but I’ve never agreed with this lack of motivation to do something with your life. How long are you going to stay here giving swimming lessons to a handful of students? Living alone with that disgusting dog. She won’t last long. This isn’t a place to make a life for yourself. I’ve always thought your lack of initiative was your father’s fault. He always told me to let you be, let you do what you wanted. Let the kid study PE. Let the kid ride his bike and swim: it’s what he likes. You inherited the worst of your father, and it wasn’t the booze or the cigars or his lack of respect for me, but this absurd notion that you can live in the middle of nowhere like people did a thousand years ago and that it was an accident that you were born in the twenty-first century in a big city where you can do things, create things, make money, travel the world—

I was born in the twentieth century. So was Dad.

— and study fascinating things and live an interesting, modern life, full of culture, and make the most of it all and have your own family, who will also benefit from it all, and so on. The kind of thing our ancestors thought we were going to do, you know? Your dad never let me get on your case about these things when you were growing up, and now you think that letting your beard grow in a tiny summer rental that smells of mold and fish, earning just enough to pay the electricity bill, is a decent life. That’s not how I see it. One day you’re going to want to get married. You’re going to want to make a home for yourself. This new girlfriend of yours is from Porto Alegre, isn’t she? Does she want to spend the rest of her life here? I doubt it. Do you think you’ll go the distance with her? Do you think you might get married? Have kids? Is there a decent school for them in this place? You told me she’s well educated, doing a master’s. She must be ambitious. I’ve seen it all before, believe me, and things won’t turn out well for you. You can spend the rest of your life looking for another Viviane, but unless you change your outlook, the same thing is going to end up happening over and over again—

Only if you give me another son of a bitch for a brother.

— because the problem is that you see life as something to be lived alone unless circumstances force something different on you. I know you don’t do it on purpose, it’s in your nature, but you need to fight it, darling. And if you want to call your brother something, call him something else because I’m no dog.

I didn’t mean—

You need to stop hating Dante for what happened. It’s not his fault Viviane took an interest in him.

You don’t know anything.

And the way you ran off from your father’s wake was embarrassing. Why do you have to avoid running into Dante and Viviane if you’re as independent and self-assured as you think you are? Do you really think you don’t need anyone else? Years ago I actually thought that Dante was the son who was going to have a hard time in life with his dream of being a writer. I still have no idea how he makes a living, seeing as his books don’t sell much and he never wins the prizes with the big money. I think it’s from his speaking engagements. But I know he’s living in São Paulo in a great apartment that he managed to buy—

He’s got a thirty-year mortgage.

— because he went after his dreams—

And she pays half.

— and objectives, while you let your furniture and few belongings go practically for free to the first person who appeared at your apartment in Menino Deus. You granted power of attorney to your lawyer friend so he could wrap things up for you, while you ran away to the beach and burrowed a hole in the sand like an armadillo. How do you know she pays half?

She told me.

When did you talk to her?

She sends me messages on Facebook sometimes.

But you aren’t friends on Facebook. I’ve looked.

You don’t have to be a friend to send a private message.

I didn’t know you were speaking.

I don’t answer her messages. And I closed my account the other day anyway.

I didn’t know she pays half.

There are lots of things you don’t know.

Dante never told me she pays half.