Blood-drenched Beard

No, in the hills, around about. But he was mad. There wasn’t much left of him. It was very sad. Very sad.

But do you think he’s still—

I don’t know. The last time I saw him was five or six years ago, and I decided it was going to be the last. My health isn’t up to it. I don’t want to see certain things anymore. He’d be about ninety now. I wouldn’t be surprised. He won’t be checking out so soon.

Where did you see him the last time?

Behind here on Freitas Hill. The other two times were in Ouvidor. But he wandered all over the place. In each place they call him something different. In Jaguaruna there’s talk about an old man who is sometimes seen around the shell middens, and I’ve always thought it was him.

Santina covers her mouth with the back of her fingers and stares at him until he looks away at the wind-ruffled lagoon.

You’re going to look for him, aren’t you? I know you are.

I think so, Santina.

I can see it on your face. You’re just like him.

So I’m told.

There’s a man in Cova Triste who doesn’t know how to read or write, but he makes up rhyming verses. He dictates and people write them down. One of them goes like this.

every old man was once young

every boy will be a man

I pray to God that he may earn

a good name if he can

don’t be proud my son

for pride the earth doth spurn

because from dust we come

and to dust we shall return

Part Three

TEN

The car skids in the middle of the interminable drive up to the top of the hill, where the Encantada Buddhist Temple is located. Leopoldo pulls on the handbrake and lowers the volume on the avalanche of distorted electric guitars coming out of the speakers. Staring straight ahead, he focuses for a moment, his lower lip hanging open, and accelerates carefully. It is and it isn’t raining. A thick mist is always waiting a little farther up, but they never reach it. Parts of the steep dirt road are cemented over, but even then Leopoldo, who knows the way well, is unable to get out of first gear. They finally reach the highest point of the road, and after a brief descent the forest opens to reveal a cleared area of uneven land. On the right is a statue of Buddha, and on the left is a flagged driveway up to the temple, a two-story building with Portuguese roof tiles and wooden walls painted an earthy red. An SUV is parked outside the front steps. It is still before nine o’clock in the morning, and the sunlight that manages to filter through the clouds has the flickering, dreamlike whiteness of a spent fluorescent bulb. The Buddha statue still isn’t finished and is covered with patches of dark concrete at different stages of drying. The entire statue is over ten feet tall, and the Buddha is a little larger than a normal human being. His throne is borne on the backs of lions sculpted in relief on the pedestal. The Buddha is sitting with his legs crossed in the lotus position with one hand in his lap and the other raised, both holding objects that he can’t identify. Leopoldo, who has helped build parts of the temple on a number of occasions, goes to talk to two men who are working on a roof structure that is being built next to the statue, while he goes to look for Lama Palden, whom he has arranged to visit.

The floor, walls, ceiling, and beams inside the temple are made of wood and are painted blood red. Several statues three to four feet tall represent sitting divinities making a range of gestures with their hands and arms or holding swords and other relics. They are painted gold with details in blue, red, green, and yellow. In one corner is a shrine with a portrait of a lama. The ceiling is covered with lanterns decorated with scraps of colorful fabric, and there are Tibetan inscriptions everywhere. The smells and sounds of the wet forest mingle with the aroma of incense sticks and the squeaking of the floorboards under his feet.