Blood-drenched Beard

The waning moon is rising behind the hill when he gets his map of the town and heads for Nestor Gas Station. He talks to the manager and, in exchange for a commission of three hundred reais, leaves the Fiesta parked next to a flower bed at the entrance to the gas station with a for-sale sign printed out in an Internet café and taped to the window. The market value of the car is fifteen thousand, but he offers it for fourteen. He buys a can of guarana soda in the corner shop and asks the girl at the cash register about gyms in the town. There are three main ones. He marks them all on his map. Academia Swell is opening a new heated indoor semi-Olympic pool, the first in the region.

With Beta on her leash, he walks the six blocks from the gas station to Bauru Tchê and orders a cheese-and-chicken-heart sandwich. This time the owner of the trailer strikes up a conversation and introduces himself. His name is Renato. Three girls are drinking beer at a table, and the TV on the counter is showing the eight o’clock soap opera.

Who’s the mutt? shouts Renato.

My dog. Beta. She was my dad’s, but now she’s mine.

Didn’t he want her anymore?

He passed away.

Oh, pardon me. Sorry to hear it.

It’s okay.

Renato asks where he is living and ruminates on his answer as if he really doesn’t care much. The subject is redundant, and people come and go from these seaside dwellings year after year. Registering who comes and who goes is like talking about the weather, which is what he does next.

It rained all summer. Then March comes along, and it’s all fine and dandy, sun every day, no wind. It’s not fair.

His wife prepares the sandwich on a hotplate behind the counter, wearing an apron and a hairnet. They are going to close the snack bar in two weeks’ time. He says this year wasn’t very good. There won’t be much left after he’s paid the rent. He plans to return to Cachoeirinha, where his home is.

Hey there.

The person who says this is one of the girls sitting at the next table, and the voice is familiar. It is the tallest of the three who is looking at him. Her curly hair is down, and he had memorized it on top of her head. It would be silly to pretend that he has only just noticed her, as she is sitting right in front of him at the next table, and it would be equally ridiculous to try to make her understand, under the circumstances, that only her voice or some more complex form of interaction could have revealed her identity to him. It is an explanation that he has learned to give a little further down the track, when he has had more contact with a person. People tend not to believe him straight up, and the bad first impression can almost never be undone.

Dália.

He pronounces her name in a cautious, almost interrogative tone. It is inappropriate, but he can’t avoid it in these situations.

I wasn’t going to say anything, man, but you’re pretending not to see me so openly that I couldn’t keep quiet.

Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.

Well, then your mind’s always elsewhere, because I passed you on the beach yesterday, and you acted as if you didn’t see me then either.

He could say his mind is always elsewhere or apologize a second time, but neither solution is satisfactory, the first because it is a lie, the second because it is unfair. Until a few years ago, he was always apologizing for not recognizing people — it was part of his routine — but he started feeling silly and stopped. The forgetting isn’t his fault. The only thing he can do is keep quiet in the face of people’s indignation and wait to see what happens next. He has learned that most people can’t stand not being recognized. There are some who rise above the momentary awkwardness, who don’t take themselves so seriously that they are truly offended, and joke about it, and even make an effort to situate him and provide him with the context of their previous encounters even though they aren’t aware of his handicap. And there are some who take offense and end the conversation, even going as far as never speaking to him again or paying him any kind of attention.

Come join us, says Dália.

He moves to the empty chair at their table. The boy brings him his sandwich, playing his waiter role ceremoniously. The girls talk as he eats. He tries to participate in the conversation between one bite and another. One of the friends, Neide, is thin and quiet. She lives in town, worked the summer in a little bikini shop, and doesn’t know what she is going to do for the rest of the year. The other one, Graziela, is plump, an attention grabber, and is there only on holidays. She is heading back to Porto Alegre in a few days to continue her law degree. Compared to Dália, neither of them is attractive. He never has conflicting impressions about a woman’s face on different occasions. A beautiful woman will be beautiful each time. For those who remember, it isn’t always so.