Blood-drenched Beard

Careful, ’cause the mullet season is about to start. The fishermen are going to force you out of the water.

So they told me.

When he is done with the razor, Zé dries his face with a towel and wets his own hands with a rose-colored cologne that reeks of alcohol.

Know how we tell if someone’s a gaucho? asks Zé, nodding at the footrest. If their feet shake, they’re a gaucho.

So let’s see.

The cologne stings his neck, but his feet don’t shake.

You’re not a real gaucho.

Zé returns the chair to its normal position and goes into the bathroom.

He gets up and looks at his face in the mirror. He sees the careful contours and his slightly red skin from the razor. It is hard for him to notice any difference since he doesn’t really remember what he looked like before.

Stay for a beer? Zé says, coming out of the bathroom.

I’ve got to go. How much do I owe you?

I said it was on the house.

So you did. It looks good, thanks. Look after my car well. If you have any problems in the first few days, let me know. Have a good weekend.

Want a lift?

Thanks, but I’ll walk. My place is over by the beach.

If you want to buy land here, I’ve got three lots in Siriú.

I’ll keep it in mind.

He shakes the barber’s hand and leaves. The sun is almost setting behind the hills, and a cool breeze is blowing toward the ocean. He takes a few steps, turns around, and goes back into the barber’s shop.

Zé. Are you originally from Garopaba?

Yep.

Have you always lived here?

Almost always. I lived in São Paulo for a few years.

In the late sixties my granddad lived here for a while. They used to call him Gaudério. Ever heard of him?

Gaudério, Gaudério…

Zé is silent for a while, then turns and heads into the bar saying he is going to get his wife. His wife is wearing an orthopedic collar around her neck and asks who he is and why he wants information about his grandfather. He says he is just investigating a family story, out of curiosity. She asks if he’s been asking around about his grandfather, and when he says yes, that he has asked a few people, she wants to know who. Zé’s wife doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t give off any aggression either. She seems to be studying him, even turning her head a little to the side, in spite of the collar. Sometimes he has the urgent feeling that he should memorize for all time the faces of certain people who don’t mean anything to him and who he will probably never see again in his life — a pharmacy attendant, someone’s cousin who goes to a party and is only passing through town, another patient sitting in the dentist’s waiting room. This urge is never justified in the future, at the end of the day, or at least he doesn’t remember it ever having been justified, but when it arises it feels imperative, as is the case now, looking at this woman with her neck immobilized and without any distinguishing facial or physical characteristic, a woman made not to be remembered or even imagined. He decides to lie. He doesn’t remember who he asked. Just one or two people he didn’t know in the fishing village. She doesn’t say anything else and disappears again through the back door of the bar, allowing him a glimpse of a living room with a threadbare sofa and blue walls. The bar is suddenly dark. Night has fallen. Zé leans both arms on the counter and lowers his voice.

Don’t worry about her. I remember Gaudério.

Did you know him?

No, I just remember him. He lived on a small property near the parish church, over where the residential subdivision is now. I wasn’t even twenty when he passed through here. He once gave my brother some money to fix his bike, a brown Barra Forte that he used to ride.

What’s your brother’s name?

Dilmar.

Any chance I could talk to him?

No. He passed away.

Is it true my granddad was murdered here?

I don’t know. But don’t go around asking that kind of thing.

Why not?

Because you don’t talk about that kind of thing. It doesn’t matter if it happened or not. People don’t know certain things after some time has passed because they don’t want to. Do you follow?

He stares at Zé for a moment, then nods.

You’re a good kid. Let it go. And come back here to shave that beard off when you get tired of it.

Will do.

Take care.

Thanks, you too.

Now I know why I thought I knew you from somewhere.

What do you mean?

You really look like Gaudério.

Yeah, I know.

The penny will drop for some people. It probably already has.

No one remembers him. It’s as if he never existed.

There are some who’ll remember. If they want to. To remember you have to want to.

But why wouldn’t people here want to remember him?

It doesn’t matter. Just remember what I told you.

Thanks for your concern. But I think I need to get to the bottom of this.

This place is blessed. So much beauty everywhere you look. Right, gaucho? A person can be really happy here.

FOUR