Blood-drenched Beard

Do I know any of you?

Slowly they say no.

Nice to meet you, then. Good-bye, gentlemen.

He walks back to the village through the trail of silence, flags, exhaust fumes, and beer cans left in the wake of the rally. The jingle, the yelling, the engines, and horns grow more and more distant until they completely disappear.

ELEVEN

He waits for the rain to stop for two days, but by the third it is evident that it isn’t going to let up anytime soon. Matches won’t light. Droplets of water slide down the sides of the old white refrigerator as if it were in a feverish sweat. The moisture in the air weighs down his greasy hair and the dog’s fur. He packs his camping backpack with two changes of clothes, a towel, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, the knife with the armadillo-leather handle, his tightly rolled sleeping bag, two lighters, a small mirror, a bottle of mineral water, a quarter of a wheel of cheese, a salami, two packets of cream-filled cookies, dried bananas, a few apples, and a packet of dry dog food, all in plastic bags. He puts on a tracksuit, his waterproof jacket, his running shoes, and a cap. He firmly closes the windows and waits for Beta to come out before locking the door and hiding the key under a rock among some plants alongside the building. He pats Beta’s ribs, and she wags her tail a little. The winter cold has gone, but the sun is unable to force its way through the clouded sky.

After thinking for a moment, he decides to head out through Vigia Point. He passes the unoccupied summer mansions on deforested grounds and reaches the headland. The trail grows narrower and steeper as the native vegetation closes in. Where it starts to drop down toward the sea, the scrub gives way to bromeliads, cactuses, and small coastal bushes capable of withstanding the constant wind and drawing sustenance from the saline soil. Thorny leaves nick the legs of his tracksuit. Beta isn’t intimidated and moves at her steady, tenacious pace, disappearing in stretches where the grasses are high. The trail ends at a granite outcrop made dark by the rain, and he looks for another, higher way through for Beta. The going is treacherous, and he advances one step at a time. His feet slip on smooth rocks and sink ankle-deep into mud. Halfway up the headland, he looks down and sees tide pools shielded from the waves by rocks and covered with thick layers of brown foam. He moves cautiously until the slope levels out and the low scrub gives way again to the grass of a large residential subdivision that is for the most part undeveloped. Near the only house standing, a man shouts something and starts walking toward him. Beta stiffens and growls. The man stops about thirty feet away, adjusts his straw hat, and places his hand on the handle of a large knife hanging from his waist.

You can’t come through here. Private property.

I’m taking the trail to Silveira.

You’ll have to go back.

I won’t walk on your land. I’ll go around it.

You can’t come in here.

The watchman spits on the ground and points at a row of stone markers in the sand a few yards from the waves.

Is that the perimeter?

Yep.

That’s totally illegal.

Not my problem. You’ll have to turn back.

No way.

He clicks his tongue to call the dog and starts heading up the next hill. The man comes after him.

Hey. Don’t make me—

He turns and walks toward the watchman with firm footsteps as he lets the backpack slip off his shoulders. Beta growls again.

Get out of my way and leave me alone, or I swear to God I’ll kill you here and now.

His backpack drops onto the grass, and the watchman takes a step back. He has drawn his knife but is holding it down by his thigh. The two of them study each other for a time, then the watchman leaves without a word.

He puts his backpack on again and resumes his hike. The rain grows heavier, and rivulets of water run down the grassy slope between cowpats. Halfway up, three bay stallions and a white mare snap out of a contemplative daze and enter a state of alert as he approaches. Their manes have been clipped, and their taut bodies look waterproof. He feels a foolish urge to mount them, and one of the stallions stomps its front hoof as if it knows.