Blood-drenched Beard

His mother, Cecina, lives two houses up the street. Her veranda projects over the slope and is surrounded by the tops of lime and pitanga trees that are rooted several yards downhill. Cecina invites him into an impeccably arranged living room with ocean views and asks him to take a seat on a leather sofa. There is a beautiful collection of Marajoara ceramic vases on the coffee table. Cecina’s face is beautiful, wide and round with narrow eyes and slightly puffy eyelids. After they sit, she remains silent and appears to be trying unsuccessfully to stifle the flicker of an indulgent smile. She has the poise of a priestess waiting for a disciple who has come to her to pour out his soul. He tells her that he wants to spend a year living in the ground-floor apartment. She explains in a soft, sibilant voice that she rents it out only in the high season and that the most she can do outside that season is rent it on a monthly basis, renewing it month by month if both parties are still interested, until November at the latest, when the high season starts. She would lose money if she accepted an annual price because the prices are five times higher over the summer and she has regular customers who come back every year. He proposes that she calculate how much she would make in the high season, add it to the monthly rent for the rest of the year, divide it all by twelve and tell him the price. He is willing to pay. He assures her that she won’t lose any money. She tells him that she has had too many problems renting out apartments in the low season to people like him who show up alone or couples or friends who want to spend the winter living in front of the beach. People leave without paying, she says. I don’t have any way to go after them afterward. He suggests that they draw up a contract and have it notarized as a guarantee. She laughs heartily and says she doesn’t bother with contracts. Contracts are no good to me. What am I going to do with a contract? Waste my time chasing after people? And even if I find them, am I going to sue them? Lose my peace of mind over the whole thing? He proposes a monthly price that, multiplied by twelve, is equivalent to almost all his savings. This time she doesn’t answer right away. She sits there reflecting, still with a somewhat indulgent smile on her lips. She asks what he does. He says he is a PE teacher. She asks what he has come to do in Garopaba. He says he wants to live in front of the beach. She asks if he intends to work and settle there. He says yes. That he wants to teach, that he has future plans to rent a professional space and maybe even, if everything works out, open a gym. He says he is an athlete and intends to train too. Ocean swimming is his favorite thing, and her apartment is five yards from the swimming pool of his dreams. Cecina says that the year before two friends rented the same place for a year. They were surfers and wanted to surf and settle in Garopaba and open a bed-and-breakfast. They disappeared four months later, with the rent in arrears, leaving the apartment completely trashed. They broke furniture and walls. There was marijuana smoke coming from the apartment all day long. The neighbors heard fights and shouting almost every day. They were homosexuals, nothing against that, and drug users. They started hanging out with the druggies who dealt and smoked in front of the building, and they did lots of drugs and broke everything and then ran off without paying. Everyone comes here saying the same thing, she says softly. I just want to live in front of the beach. I just want to surf. I just want to think about life. I just want to enjoy nature. I just want to write a book. I just want to fish. I just want to forget a girl. I just want to find the love of my life. I just want to be alone. I just want a little peace and quiet. I just want to start over. And then people fight, get depressed, break things, drink too much, shout, have orgies, do drugs and disappear without paying, or kill themselves. It’s tough, she says. We never know who to trust, and it’s a shame. I don’t know you. To be honest, I’m planning to renovate the apartment in April. I need to fix it up during the year so I can receive visitors in the high season. So I can’t rent it out.

I don’t do drugs. I don’t cause problems. I’m going to live by myself with my dog, and I’m the quiet sort.

I know. But I’m going to fix up the apartment.

He thanks her for her time, says good-bye, and leaves.

He has lunch at the cheapest restaurant he can find, goes back to the hotel, and lies on the bed. He casually reads the entire last issue of Runner’s World, which features yet another article on the interminable debate about the benefits of stretching before and after running, and then lies on the mattress with his eyes open, immersed in extensive calculations and daydreaming.