Blood-drenched Beard

She nods and tries to blow away some hairs that are falling over her face. He realizes that both of her hands are occupied with some kind of frame wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

Even after all this time?

Guess so.

Well, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re so thin.

I know. There are several reasons. Among which pneumonia.

Pneumonia? You never used to get sick. Just colds.

I got water in my lungs.

How did that happen?

I fell off the top of a headland and had to swim all night to get to a beach.

You can’t be serious.

You look beautiful. You seem happy. I look at your photos sometimes.

Are you going to let me in?

She is wearing a military-looking burgundy coat with large pockets and a belt of the same color at the waist. Black jeans and boots adorned with metallic buckles. Everything looks expensive and elegant, different from the little summer dresses and department store tracksuits that clothe the image of her that inhabits his memory. She takes a few steps into the living room and looks around. Her tall figure in the morning light looks like something straight out of a fashion magazine and contrasts with the secondhand furniture of the apartment.

Your mother told me you were living in front of the beach, but I imagined something different. This is practically in the water. What an incredible view. You could just about swim out the door, couldn’t you?

It’s what I do almost every day. Have a seat. I’ll make us some coffee.

She leans the frame against the arm of the smaller sofa and sits. He fills the kettle with tap water.

When did you get here?

Last night. I got to Florianópolis in the afternoon and rented a car. I got a room in a bed-and-breakfast in front of the beach. It’s so cheap in the off-season! The room’s really nice. I think I’m the only guest.

You came alone, didn’t you?

Yes.

He goes through four matches trying to light the stove.

I wanted to call to let you know I was coming, but your mother said your phone had been off or out of range for several days, and you closed your Facebook account too. Though you never did answer my messages anyway. Did you even see them? I sent you some text messages too, but you didn’t answer. In the end I decided to come anyway because I’d already scheduled the time off from work, and I wasn’t going to have another opportunity so soon. I hope it’s not a problem. I don’t want to be a bother.

No problem. I’ve been a bit out of touch with the world.

You never answered any of my messages. I came to the conclusion you didn’t want to have any contact with me. But I came anyway. Because, after all, I know how things work with you. If I were to wait for a reply…

It’s nice to see you. I think—

He considers what to say as he spoons coffee into the filter.

— I read your messages for a while, but I dunno, Viv. I didn’t really feel like chatting on Facebook. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you.

No, I understand.

It was great to open the door and see you. Really great. It’s nice to see you in person.

I’ve been worried about you. Everyone has. Especially after all this rain, the flooding. And then you up and disappear all of a sudden. Was there a lot of damage here?

Not here.

I kept seeing all those people dying on TV. They say it was the biggest flood in the history of Santa Catarina. There was all that construction work on the highway. I’m glad it didn’t affect you.

He hears Beta’s paws as she comes out of the bedroom.

Beta, look who came to visit us. Someone you know.

Beta comes limping into the living room. She looks at Viviane and sniffs the air but doesn’t approach her.

She got hit by a car, but she’s okay now.

Viviane snaps her fingers and makes some sounds without much conviction to call Beta, but the dog just stands there in the middle of the room, out of reach. The two of them stare in silence at Beta, who in turn stares at nothing. Everything is frozen for a few seconds. The kettle starts to whistle.

So how are you holding up?

I’m fine. They messed up my face a bit. The worst thing was the pneumonia, but I’m over it.

After your dad’s death, I mean.

Oh. I’m okay. I miss him. But that’s to be expected.

I wanted to go to his funeral, but I’d just started my new job and couldn’t get the time off.

You told me on the phone. You don’t have to justify yourself. Everything’s okay, really. What’s done is done. Keeping Beta has helped me deal with it. Sometimes I remember him, and I feel sad, but we didn’t even visit each other all that often, you know? He was in pretty poor health. But he had a good heart. After he killed himself, I think that became clearer. He was good for everyone in his own twisted way. We never wanted for anything, if you think about it. I remember him holding me by the scruff of the neck and giving me advice. He’d hold on tight and start telling me some home truths. Dad always knew what he was doing. He made quick decisions and never went back on them. He made a decision.

Dante was really upset. He can’t accept it.

That’s his problem.