Blood-drenched Beard

He parks the car in the Hotel Garopaba garage and pays the employees an extra thirty reais not to see the dog. He lies on the bed as it grows dark outside. His nap is interrupted twice by phone calls, which he tries to keep as short as possible because his cell phone is from Porto Alegre and the roaming charges are devouring his credit. His friends are calling to wish him happy birthday and to give their condolences after his father’s death, unaware that he doesn’t live in Porto Alegre anymore and that he left without telling many people, a detail that he himself omits because he knows he still doesn’t have any answers or patience for the questions they might ask.

He wakes up hungry and feeling as if he has been inside for too long. He leaves the dog in the room with some dog food and water and heads out on foot to look for a restaurant. He takes the map with him to mark the locations of relevant places and people, a preventive measure against the pathological forgetfulness he has had since he was a child. He passes two bars offering steak and cheese sandwiches, then a buffet with hot meals and ice creams. A pizza parlor on the main avenue has a special all-you-can-eat price that night. The attractive round wooden tables are almost all taken, and three waitresses glide calmly past, serving the customers, who are colorfully lit by hanging oriental lanterns in the shapes of vases and stars. He picks a table for two in the outside area, near the sidewalk, the seat for which is a comfortable sofa with its back to the wall. The waitress who serves him is a tall brunette with skin peeling from too much sun, pouting lips, and shoulder-length curly hair. Knowing that her hair alone is probably enough to recognize her by, he nevertheless focuses on her oval face and slanting eyes. Sometimes he wonders if women in general are as beautiful to other men as they are to him, inwardly suspecting that his incapacity to remember any human face for more than a few minutes gives them extra appeal that others might think was just his eyes playing tricks on him. Because beauty is fleeting, he has learned to see it everywhere. This woman, however, must be beautiful to everyone. She is used to being looked at like this and returns his stare with a combination of politeness and tiredness, activating a perfunctory smile. With the rising inflections typical of small-town Santa Catarina, contaminated with sarcasm or incredulity, she asks if he wants the all-you-can-eat.

Are the pizzas the same as the ones on the menu?

What do you mean?

Do they use the same ingredients as they do on the pizzas on the à la carte menu? Or is the cheese on the all-you-can-eat ones not as good?

She lets out a hearty laugh, changing to co-conspirator with surprising ease.

Just between you and me, the cheese isn’t as good.

Okay. I won’t be having the all-you-can-eat, then. It’s my birthday. I’ll have a half-margherita, half-pepperoni, please.

Well now. It’s your birthday. Happy birthday!

She chews on some gum that was hidden in a corner of her mouth.

And a beer.

She finishes taking his order and leaves. It is a while before she returns with his beer. He focuses on her face again.

You should wear your hair up.

Come again?

It’s beautiful down. But I can imagine it up. Do you ever wear it like that?

Sometimes.

The way it is now it hides your face a bit.

Sometimes hiding’s a part of the game.

She leaves bashfully, and he quickly downs his beer with satisfaction.