Blood-drenched Beard

You said you were serious, so I’m taking you seriously. But if you’re messing with me… the sooner I know the better. A moment from now is going to be too late.

I’m serious.

The fishing sheds are all closed. They pass a young couple heading in the opposite direction, coming back from the rocks, listening to electronic music weakly amplified on a cell phone.

So you’ll never be able to recognize me? If I want to talk to you, I have to go up to you and say, Hi, I’m Dália, remember me? Waving my hands and all? She opens her eyes wide and makes a funny smile, gesticulating as she talks.

No, of course not. There are lots of things besides a person’s face. The voice almost always helps. And the context. I know you’re the tallest girl in the pizza parlor. If I go there while you’re working, I’ll know who you are immediately. Sometimes it’s an item of clothing that the person wears a lot, and I memorize it. A way of walking. I always have to be on the lookout for things that can identify a person, besides their face. I scan the details. In your case, the first things I noticed were your height and your hair. The better I know someone, the easier it is to recognize them. But it’s always a little complicated. Yesterday on the beach, for example, it would have been almost impossible because you were with your son, and I didn’t know you had a son.

I’ll introduce you to him as soon as I get a chance.

Please do.

They reach the crumbling stairs that lead to the footpath around the rocks. He lets her go first and follows, pulling Beta along by her leash. There is a strong smell of sewage around the winding stairs. Dália hunches up and hops on the spot a few times.

I need to go.

As soon as he unlocks the door, she hurries to the bathroom. He puts out dog food and water for Beta and leaves her eating in the tiny laundry area. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and opens the living-room shutters. Dália doesn’t take long. He hears the flush, then the door opens and she comes out talking.

Okay, but tell me, how did it happen to you?

Perinatal anoxia.

Well, of course. It had to be perinatal whatyamacallit.

At birth. I wasn’t breathing when I was born, and it caused brain damage. I’ve had it since I was a baby.

Oh, how awful.

No, it isn’t awful. It’s just a bit of a drag sometimes. People generally refuse to believe it exists. Hardly anyone is okay about it, like you.

Hey, remember me? she jokes, batting her eyelids, as she comes over and takes the beer can from him. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me!

Exactly.

She leans on the windowsill beside him.

Why don’t you put some music on?

I burned out my sound system. The voltage here is two hundred and twenty.

Silly. Anyway, we need to go get the girls and see if this party’s any good. Your car’s at the gas station?

Yep.

Did you leave it there to have it washed?

I left it there to sell it.

Who’s going to give me lifts now?

He doesn’t answer.

I can’t really be bothered going to this party, to be honest.

What about your son’s dad? Where’s he?

A young man in a baseball cap and no shirt comes along the footpath with a panting white and yellow pit bull on a leash, its large mouth open in a crocodile smile. They take the stairs down to the rocks.

He went back to Criciúma. He’s from there. He moved here with me a few years ago, but then we had a fight and he left.

Do you get along okay?

Yeah, pretty good. Pablo loves him. He goes to spend a few days with John twice a month. We treat each other well. Pablo is what matters.

His name’s John?

Yeah.

Is he American?

No. He’s from Criciúma.

The young man lets the pit bull off its leash and throws a plastic bottle half filled with water into the sea. The dog studies the edge of the rock for a moment and launches itself after its toy. The young man lights a cigarette and watches the dog swim.

Does he give you child support or something like that?

She swallows her beer quickly and gives a short, explosive laugh, before answering scornfully.

All he does is smoke pot. But no, to be fair, he gives me some money when he can. But he hasn’t got a thing. He’s a lazy-ass, that one.

Do you live on your own with Pablo?

No, I live with my mother. She helps me. She moved here when we broke up, and she lives with me. Tell me, do you recognize your own face in the mirror?

I don’t know if I want to talk about it anymore.

The pit bull comes out of the water with the bottle in its mouth. The man wrests it from the dog’s jaws and throws it again, several yards out. The dog dives in.

No, I don’t recognize my own face in the mirror. And there’s no point staring at photos. When I wake up the next morning, I’ve already forgotten it.

That must be really crazy. What if you shave or cut your hair? Does it change anything?

No. But my mother always told me I look better without a beard. I trust her.

And do you know if someone is good-looking, if they’re sad, angry, that kind of thing?