Blood-drenched Beard

After half a dozen bottles have crossed the table, the four of them pay the bill and walk down the sidewalk to the beach. Graziela rolls a joint, and they smoke it. The sand is already cold, and the sea breeze relieves the sting and lassitude of a scalding-hot day.

March is the best month, says Neide.

It’s the month for those who live here, says Dália. The best is left for those who worked all summer long.

How amazing a day was that? Graziela says slowly. I wish I could stay another two weeks. I wish I could stay forever.

The perfection of the month of March is a fertile and ongoing topic of conversation. The dog sprawls on the cool sand but at a given moment gets up and stands in front of him with her tongue hanging out, panting.

I think she’s hungry.

Girls, there’s a party at Bar da Cachoeira today. Shall we?

Let’s go!

Dália asks if he can give them a lift.

He isn’t at all partial to the idea of getting his car from the gas station, but he says yes. Before he does, though, he has to take the dog home.

Have you found a place already? Whereabouts?

He points at the right-hand corner of the beach.

Over there at the foot of the hill. In front of the lamppost. With the brown windows.

We’ll wait for you here, says Graziela, lighting a cigarette.

He stands and picks up Beta’s leash. He waits a second and looks at Dália. She gives him a sleepy smile, eyes half shut from the marijuana.

Okay. I’ll be back soon.

He takes a few steps and turns.

Want to come keep me company?

Dália gets up immediately.

Sure. I think I need to use the bathroom. May I?

Grazi and Neide give them suspicious looks.

We’ll be right back, girls.

Yeah.

Don’t be long.

Dália is wearing a colorful ankle-length skirt that flutters rhythmically around her long legs. The circular movements of the hem allow him to see only the tips of her long feet clad in pink plastic sandals, with burgundy toenails. Her sleeveless white lace blouse shows off her narrow waist and broad hips. She isn’t wearing the silver necklace today, but she has on a pair of spiral earrings, two delicate metallic structures that manage to find room under her mane of curly hair. The lampposts on the beach promenade project bright, orangey light over the sand. It is like walking through an empty stadium ready for a rock concert at night. Their long shadows drag their heads through the calm sea.

What are you looking at?

Your earrings.

She fiddles with them.

Did you manage to get back from the party that night?

Jesus. I was really out of it. I can hardly remember a thing. But it was okay, a guy gave me a lift.

That dickhead with dyed-blond hair?

Don’t remind me. I hooked up with him once, and he thinks he can just rock up talking shit and it’s going to happen again whenever he wants.

Next time I won’t let him bother you.

Tough guy. The worst part is that I hooked up with him again.

He raises his eyebrows and doesn’t say anything.

Why did you leave?

I was a bit worried about the car. And to be honest, I haven’t got much patience for parties.

You left me there alone. You didn’t feel sorry for me. Not nice.

So I passed you on the beach yesterday, did I?

You did, and you pretended not to see me.

When?

Yesterday afternoon. You were running. I was with Pablo.

Who’s Pablo?

My son.

I didn’t know you had a son.

Didn’t I tell you? Pablito, my love. I did so tell you.

No, you didn’t. How old is he?

Six.

I didn’t know you had a son. But that kind of explains it. If you had been alone, I think I would have recognized you. By your hair.

Man, you’re really weird.

The stream that runs into the sea in front of the row of fishing sheds is too wide to jump over. Near the old stone bridge, a footbridge has been improvised with a plank. He touches Dália’s arm and nods to indicate where to cross.

I’m going to tell you something, Dália. But you have to take it seriously, okay?

Okay.

But let’s cross this plank first.

He goes in front with the dog and holds out his hand to Dália just before he gets to the other side. She lifts up her skirt a little and takes his hand. She crosses the plank with a single step.

I’m incapable of recognizing faces. That’s why I didn’t realize it was you on the beach. Or in the bar tonight.

That’s no excuse for ignoring someone you’ve known for two or three days. It means you couldn’t care less about them.

Listen. I can’t recognize any face. It’s a neurological disorder.

She stops and stares at him.

Take a good look at my face, she says, pointing at it. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see my mouth, nose, eyes? Is that it?

I can see it. But I won’t remember it. My brain doesn’t retain it. I have brain damage right in the part that recognizes human faces. If you leave my sight, I’ll forget your face in five minutes, or ten, or half an hour with a lot of luck. It’s inevitable.

I’ve never heard of it.

It’s very rare.

She stares at him for another instant, then starts walking again.

Don’t you believe me?