Blood-drenched Beard

The dirt road follows the edge of Siriú Lagoon, passes through the communities of Areias do Macacu, Macacu proper and Morro do Fortunato and arrives at Costa do Macacu, a huddle of wood and brick houses perched on a partially cleared hill, the slope of which ends at the edge of the lagoon. From the village itself, the hills appear to embrace the lagoon, leaving only a narrow opening through which he can see the creamy sands of Dunas do Siriú, and beyond them the ocean stretches out to the fold of the horizon. Two cows chewing the cud in a small roadside barn look bored with the landscape, and friendly mutts keep an eye from verandas and gates on the traffic of motorbikes and bicycles, protecting their tiny kingdoms. Most of the houses are closed due to the cold, and clusters of children in blue uniforms walk down the middle of the road on their way to school. Beyond the school, there are fewer houses, and the steep little road that leads to Santina’s house appears on his left. After his arduous ride up the long, winding road to the village, he has to push his bike up this last stretch. The door and windows of the light blue cottage are ajar, and he can see several people moving about inside.

He knocks lightly on the door and is greeted in seconds by a young woman with cheeks flushed from the cold, black hair in a ponytail, and a wide scar on her jaw. He says he is looking for Santina, and she gives him a good look up and down while holding her cardigan closed at chest height. He explains that he tried to phone beforehand but no one answered, and it is an urgent matter. He expects to be interrogated and to provide explanations, but the woman opens the door and invites him into a dimly lit dining room with one door leading to a corridor and another to the kitchen, from which wafts a strong smell of chicken soup and cilantro. The table is set for lunch on a pink tablecloth embroidered with flowers, and an old man and two children are still eating. Near the door to the kitchen a small woman of about sixty in a thick brown wool cardigan is kneading bread dough on a smaller table beneath a large framed portrait of Christ. The young woman nods at her, and at the same time the older woman stands, wipes her floury hands on a white tea towel, and speaks in a weak, croaky voice.

Come in, son, come in. Have you had lunch?

I have. Are you Santina? I—

Yes, but visitors aren’t allowed to just stand there looking at food in this house. Aninha, get another plate, please. Do you like chicken soup?

Santina starts to pull out a chair but stops suddenly, takes a step back, and claps her hand to her mouth.

My God, he’s the spitting image of Gaudério.

I’m his grandson.

Who’s Gaudério, Grandma?

No one moves or says a thing. Santina stands there with her hand over her mouth, eyes bulging. Another woman appears at the kitchen door. The old man swallows what’s in his mouth, drops his fork noisily on the plate, and turns to look at him.

What’re you doing here, kid?

Be quiet, Orestes.

Who’s Gaudério, Aunty?

Would you rather I came back some other time? he says.

No, son. It’s no problem. Have you eaten? Aninha, the plate.

The woman who answered the door fetches a plate and silverware from the kitchen. Santina serves him a glass of Coca-Cola, chicken soup, rice, black beans, and a bowl of locally produced manioc flour. As he eats, he explains where he lives and where he is from. He says that his father died at the beginning of the year, and that his grandfather used to live in Garopaba. He approaches the subject with caution because there are other people at the table and in the kitchen. Santina notices.

Let’s talk outside. But finish eating first.

As they leave the house, he notices that the breeze has become a strong wind, which is making little waves in the lagoon and buffeting the vegetation. There are no rain clouds in sight. He holds Santina’s arm as they walk with short steps toward the dirt road. She points at a place across the street.

I can’t walk very far, but we can go over there. There’s a bench that’s protected from the wind by the wall of the school. I don’t know if I’ll see this year out. I’ve been on a waiting list for an operation through the public health care system for seven months.

What do you have?

Cancer. It’s the second time.

Santina doesn’t say where, and he doesn’t ask. He tries not to hold her arm too tightly. She doesn’t weigh a thing.

This place is beautiful. I’d never been up here before. From a distance these hills don’t look so big. We see the lagoon and the beach from a completely different angle.

She looks over her shoulder and makes a gesture that takes in the slope behind her house.

See all that there? All that land? Guess who it belongs to.

Your husband?