Blood-drenched Beard

Academia Swell is located at the bottom of Silveira Hill, a short distance before the steep and winding road gouged into the hillside that provides access to the beach on the other side. Just inside the gate is a small structure made of thick planks of wood, which houses a snack bar with round wooden tables. He peers through the door and sees the waitress behind the counter, a girl with indigenous features and straight black hair. She explains the way to reception in Spanish. He walks down the driveway past a long, tall building with exposed brick walls and an asbestos roof, which, judging from the dimensions and fogged-up windows, must house the recently opened heated swimming pool. He opens the glass door at the back of the complex and enters reception. To his left is a large weights room. Half a dozen gym-goers are straining their muscles on outdated gym equipment. There are vases of plants everywhere and colorful reproductions of what he thinks are Hindu gods hanging on grubby walls, creatures with female or pachydermal features and a slightly arrogant serenity plastered across their happy, erotic faces, some blue-skinned with several plump arms and thin fingers holding tridents and other ritualistic objects. The afternoon light tinges the walls and metal equipment with a golden color and the mild March temperatures make air conditioning unnecessary. It is an atypical gym environment, more reminiscent of a religious temple in which physical exercise is a ritual practiced as a means of attaining enlightenment. Hidden loudspeakers are playing reggae at a low volume, which sounds out of place. The blonde sitting behind the counter wishes him good afternoon.

Hi. I hear you’ve opened a pool.

She gives him a photocopied pamphlet with the opening hours and prices of the gym and swimming pool.

Do you know if they need a swimming instructor?

You’ll have to talk to Saucepan.

Saucepan?

The owner.

They smile at each other.

And where’s Saucepan?

He should be here in about half an hour. Or you can come back at night and talk to his partner.

She stifles a smile and looks at him. She is a little chubby with a freckled face, deep lines from too much sun exposure, and a round nose. He hears explosive noises coming from the pool, as if someone were beating the surface of the water with a spade. Both of the receptionist’s arms are covered in colorful tattoos. There is a Japanese-style wave, a tribal bracelet, a dolphin. He chuckles.

Am I going to have to guess the partner’s name?

He’s got a nickname too. Try.

I’ve got something in mind, but I’m afraid it might be wrong.

Spatula.

No way.

Yes way. Spatula’s the one who comes at night.

The two of them laugh silently and look at each other as if they know each other well and have a plan to get revenge on someone. It is a pleasant feeling that appears to have sprung from nowhere.

Okay, I’ll wait for Saucepan.*

Okay.

Can I take a look at the pool?

Yes.

What’s your name?

Débora.