Blood-drenched Beard

He explains that he moved there not long ago and tells them the whole story. The two men listen without hearing. They are out of breath, exhausted, addled from the alcohol and the physical exertion. The faded, stained, and torn yellow T-shirt that Bonobo is wearing, with black sleeves and yellow stripes, is a Grêmio Football Club jersey. No one remembers this shirt, he says with pride. It’s the goalkeeper’s. It was worn by Gomes and Sidmar in ’91.

He is wearing a necklace of wrinkled brown beads that look like nuts, and covering his legs is an item of clothing of indeterminate color that could be long shorts or short pants.

So, what are you guys doing?

Knockin’ down the kiosk, says Altair.

Yeah, but why?

Altair has to return the property by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, says Bonobo. Without the kiosk. It’s in the lease.

Between swigs straight from the bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla, they explain that Altair leased the land in the middle of the previous year to open a business during the summer months. He built the kiosk with money from a small bank loan and the sale of a motorbike. His friends helped him build it. It took longer than planned and wasn’t ready until after Christmas, when the tourists had already arrived, and suddenly he found himself with a debt and an empty kiosk on one of the best corners in Garopaba at the peak of the busy season. He quickly arranged for a visit from a Kibon Ice Cream representative, and a few days later he was given the freezer on consignment. By New Year’s Eve he had a dozen surfboards made by a shaper friend of his on display. By the second week of January the kiosk also had a stand of trinkets and costume jewelry made by a well-known itinerant hippie couple who come to town every summer, three small tables for customers to sit at, and a well-stocked Skol Beer fridge, and a table where Lisandra, a voluptuous young masseuse from Goiás who had been in Garopaba for three years, provided massotherapy, chiropractic, lymphatic drainage, and reiki at any time of the day or night. At night the kiosk began to host bands playing samba, pagode, reggae, and Brazilian pop music. The samba sessions were especially lively and went on into the small hours with people occupying the vacant lot around the kiosk and spilling over onto the sidewalks and even into the middle of the street, which forced the police to put in the occasional appearance and stop the fun. On January 22, Altair organized a luau to celebrate the first full moon of the year on the sands of Ferrugem Beach and attracted hundreds of summer tourists thirsty for beer, refreshing cocktails, massages, and drugs, which he also arranged for them. He sold all the surfboards at gringo prices. Everything sold like hotcakes: the ice creams, the wire and resin earrings, the coconut shell bracelets, the beer, the kiwi

caipirinhas, Lisandra’s famous hands with her almost erotic sessions of do-in, the LSD and the E. It became a sales outlet for tickets to all the major parties of the season. Before January was over, he had already raised enough money to pay for the lease of the land. Before mid-February, he had paid off his loan too. He doesn’t want to say how much he profited, but he indicates that he won’t need to work until next summer and that he is going to buy a new motorbike, much better than the last one. Now, at the end of April, he needs to return the land in the same state as when he leased it. The owner isn’t interested in the kiosk.

But why don’t you pay someone to demolish it?

I don’t want to spend money on it.

Altair knows his shit, says Bonobo, setting down the bottle of vodka and picking up the sledgehammer. This guy knows his shit. He takes three steps back, lifts the sledgehammer over his head to his back, and with a frighteningly ample movement that explores the limit of his short reach, hurls it with all his might at one of the walls that are still standing. Not a single piece comes loose — it doesn’t even make a crack — but the wall vibrates and fragments of dry paint and cement fly everywhere with a dry thud that echoes in his head and slides down his throat to his stomach. Bonobo gives it another few blows, lets out a crazy laugh, and does a little dance. Then he offers him the sledgehammer.

Have a go, man. It’s really cool.

He hits the wall with all his might. The impact travels up his arms and sends a tremor down his spine. He experiences a deep pleasure transferring so much energy in a single blow to the pile of bricks and mortar, and the structure appears to cede a little.

Awesome, isn’t it? Give it a few more tries.