Blood-drenched Beard

A very old memory comes to mind. The scene is incongruous and doesn’t seem to deserve having been recorded in memory, much less being recalled at a moment like this. One morning before work, his dad was shaving in the bathroom with the door open, and he, aged six or seven at the time, was watching him. After shaving, he washed his face with soap, lathering it up well, then rinsed it repeatedly. There was no more soap on his face by the second rinse, but he kept on splashing his face with water, four, five times. He asked his dad why he rinsed his face so many times if the soap was already gone by the second rinse, and he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: ’Cause it feels good.

My hand’s shaking, Dad.

You’re doing just fine. You’re a superior human being.

Shut up.

Seriously, I’m really proud of you. No one else’d be able to do it.

I didn’t say I would.

I could make you promise something much worse. To make up with your brother, for example.

I’d do it if you told me all this was just a big joke. In a few hours I’d be giving him a hug. You could start organizing the barbecue.

Good try. But to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I wouldn’t forgive him, if I were you.

Good to know.

Yeah, well, I don’t mind saying it now. But I really do need you to spare the old girl. She’s fifteen, but her breed can easily live more than twenty years. She’s my life. Ever seen a depressed dog? If she’s left here without me, I’ll take her suffering with me. Can I consider it promised?

Okay.

Thanks.

No, it’s not okay. I can’t be a part of this.

Love you, kid.

I didn’t say I would. I haven’t accepted. Don’t touch me.

I wasn’t going to. I’m not moving.

TWO

The ocean finally appears at the end of the main avenue of the town, a cold blue sliver at the end of the stretch of tarmac glinting under the throbbing midday sun. It is his birthday. He drives in second gear with the windows down and the fan on to keep air moving through the car on the windless day, the muffled whir of the fan mingling with the shy drone of the 1.0-liter engine and Ben Harper music coming from the CD player, almost stopping at speed bumps so as not to scrape the underside of his overloaded car. In the trunk and backseat of the small Ford Fiesta are two suitcases of clothing, a sound system that he is two installments away from paying off, a twenty-nine-inch TV, his PlayStation 2, a camping backpack full of personal belongings, a carefully folded wool blanket and quilt, plastic bags containing sneakers and shoes, CDs, and some basic kitchen utensils. He has packed photo albums, a barbecue knife his dad gave him, with its armadillo-leather handle and steel blade that rusts now and then and needs to be cleaned with steel wool and greased with oil, his special rubber wetsuit for swimming, and an eight-by-ten-inch black-framed photograph registering his arrival in the Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii. A support attached to the trunk with hooks and chains holds his mountain bike, battered after a few years’ use, an already outdated model with a thick, heavy aluminum frame. Beta is asleep, curled up in the passenger seat, muscles softened by the hot sun, and lulled by five hours of driving on the highway. She sighs often, sniffs, sneezes from time to time, opens her eyes, and closes them again without changing position.

He ate a toasted salami-and-cheese sandwich in Osório and a meat pasty at a gas station near Jaguaruna, so he drives straight past the restaurants he sees along the way and instead pays attention to the real estate agents, with eye-catching signs dotted along the main avenue. They are all conveniently closed at this hour. He continues on in the light traffic toward the blue of the ocean, in the opposite direction from small groups of lethargic pedestrians in bathing suits, dazed by the sun, heading for restaurants or home, carrying folding chairs and beach bags. It has been over a week since Ash Wednesday took with it most of the tourists, and the few who have stayed behind or just arrived behave with the serenity of latecomers.