Blood-drenched Beard

He goes into the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror, and sees an old man. He has spent his whole life seeing his face for the first time in his reflection, but now it is different. He can see the contours of his skull behind his forehead and cheekbones. His eyes are sunken in their orbits. His skin looks burned in spite of the weeks with no sunlight. His long beard is full of sand. He doesn’t remember what he looked like before, but he knows it wasn’t like this. He understands now what his grandfather saw. A ghost, a younger version of himself. Something that shouldn’t have been there.

He takes off his wet clothes and sees his bones trying to poke through his shoulders, his prominent collarbones, and his ribs. He is covered in scratches, but nothing looks serious. The cut at his waist isn’t deep.

He goes into the kitchen and drinks water from the faucet in short gulps. Some fruit and vegetables have withered or rotted in the fridge. There is a half-full tub of caramelized condensed milk. He rams a spoon into it and devours it in seconds. He wolfs down the rest of a jar of honey with a packet of crackers that was in the cupboard. After eating, he returns to the bathroom and takes a long shower on the highest setting. His tiredness crashes over him in the warm water, and he can barely stay on his feet. He has to sit on the toilet to dry off. Then he rolls himself in every available blanket and quilt and collapses on the bed, thinking that he needs to buy more food. And a toothbrush and toothpaste. And an umbrella.

• • •

For two days he spends more time asleep than awake and goes out only to withdraw money and buy some food at the grocery store in the village center. He knows the name, location, and function of every muscle in the human body and knows exactly which ones are hurting at any given time. They all hurt. His face hurts. But the pain is normal. The kind of pain an athlete gets used to. It is always raining when he gets out of bed, and the few boats that haven’t been brought in are always anchored in the same place. The long waves roll up to the doors of the fishing sheds, one after another. The muddy water that washes down the creeks, ditches, and dirt roads invades the green sea, forming large coffee-colored streaks across the entire murky bay.

Cecina appears on the second day holding a flowery umbrella. He invites her in, but she stays in the doorway with a concerned smile.

You’re sick, boy. I told you you were sick.

He coughs before answering.

I’m fine, Cecina.

You’re sick. You look like a dead fish. Go to the health clinic.

I will, don’t worry.

Where’s the dog?

I lost her, Cecina.

Oh dear.

I know. It’s really hard.

She lowers her voice.

Did you talk to Santina?

I did. She told me everything. Or her version, at least.

There is no other version. Now you can stop going around asking about it. That’s also why I helped you. To see if you’d get some sense into you and stop.

I’ve stopped, Cecina. The subject is dead and buried. I owe you a lot. Thank you for helping me.

She looks at him as if he were a pickpocket offering to help her cross the street.

You disappeared for a while there.

I went on a trip.

A trip where, for heaven’s sake? Everything’s underwater.

I went to Porto Alegre to resolve a few things. Paperwork to do with my late father, that kind of thing.

Cecina turns her face a little and doesn’t look convinced. He can imagine what she is thinking. As predicted, all it took was the arrival of winter for the enthusiastic young PE teacher who only wanted to live a simple life in front of the beach, and who could prove his good intentions with a check for thousands of reais, to become a sick, filthy, evasive liar. Drugs, no doubt. She is relieved to have received a year’s rent in advance.

Did the rain do much damage here, Cecina?

Not too much. Just holes in the streets. The road to Ferrugem was blocked for a couple of days, but they’ve fixed it. The real problem for us here is that the retaining wall on Cavalos Hill fell again and closed off access to the highway. Did you hear about it? My nephew who’s studying vet science in Florianópolis has been stuck there for two days. Things are pretty ugly in Blumenau and Itajaí. According to yesterday’s Diário Catarinense, the death toll is already sixty-eight. I imagine there’s many more. They just haven’t found the bodies. And I saw on TV that volunteers have been stealing donations. It’s a tragedy. I’ve never seen so much rain in my more than sixty years of life.

How awful. At least Garopaba was spared.

We’re blessed here.

And who won the election?

There’s going to be a second round. No one got an absolute majority. Weren’t you here?

No. I’m a bit out of the loop.

She glances inside the apartment.

Someone stopped by here looking for you a few days ago.

Man or woman?

Man. All he gave me was a nickname. He was fairly dark-skinned, bald. You’re not caught up in drugs, are you?

Bonobo?

I think that was it.

What did he want?