Blood-drenched Beard

Chemistry? What sissy talk. Liz is a wild thing — all you had to do was make a move.

I’m tired as fuck.

Uncle Bonobo spoon-fed you, and you—

I’m really drunk.

— give me this shit about—

I stink. We’re revolting.

— chemistry. C’mon now. You left the girl high and dry.

She’ll get over it. What about Ju?

I was teaching her some stuff.

Did she achieve nirvana?

Actually, it’s serious. Ju’s in a really fucked-up cycle of suffering. Her marriage broke up, and she can’t accept it. She needed to talk a little. I think she’s starting to understand the question of impermanence, and it’s helping. I suggested that she visit Lama Palden over in Encantada. But come with me, I want to show you something.

He follows Bonobo into his room. There is a monstrous ball of pillows, sheets, blankets, and items of dirty clothing on the mattress of his double bed. The floor is hidden under a layer of underwear, towels, T-shirts, shorts, and a long black wetsuit. The reigning fragrance is one of rancid human secretions, incense, and wet clothes forgotten in a plastic bag. Two incense sticks are filling the room with a light haze. On one wall are posters of Led Zeppelin and a Buddhist divinity with writing in Tibetan. The desk is completely covered with a printer, an old laptop, a small LCD TV, a jumble of papers, bottles, cans, used glasses, a full bottle of tequila, and a picture frame with a black and white photograph of what looks like a Chinese man in suspenders pointing a revolver at his own head. A shelf on the wall is curved under the weight of a few dozen books.

See over there?

What?

Leaning against the wall.

The sandboard?

No, next to the cupboard.

The rifle?

Bonobo leaps over the bed and picks up a weapon.

It’s a spear gun. Come here.

How do I enter?

You can step on the clothes.

He walks around the bed and takes the spear gun. He has never held one before. Bonobo shows him how to load the galvanized steel spear in the bands of rubber and ready the spool.

You mentioned that your granddad used to go spearfishing here. I remembered that I had this spear gun and never use it. I tried to fish with it a few times, but I can’t stay underwater for long. You can have it.

Fuck, these things are expensive. I can’t accept it.

Stop being such a girl. It’s a present from a man to a man. Catch some groupers so we can cook up a moqueca.

They shake hands firmly, and Bonobo gives him a kind of sideways hug while patting him on the shoulder, staring seriously into his eyes. To escape the unexpected and slightly disturbing familiarity, he glances around for something to change the focus. A red T-shirt catches his attention among the dirty clothes.

Aren’t you a Grêmio supporter?

Obviously, says Bonobo.

So what’s that Internacional T-shirt doing on the floor there?

It takes Bonobo a moment to locate the item in the mess.

Ah, that’s for the chicks to wear.

You ask Inter supporters to wear that T-shirt?

Yep.

And do they?

Most do. Some Grêmio supporters do too if you know how to ask. There’s this humiliation thing that some of them like. An Inter chick with a mouth full of cock, nothing better.

They sit in the bedroom and continue drinking. It’s still dark out, but two little birds are engaged in a twittering duel.

I won’t even be able to sleep, says Bonobo. The girl who makes breakfast called in to say she’s not coming today. Shit. I forgot to buy fruit.

Since you’re religious, let me ask you something. Let’s say that a famous writer writes something that he never publishes, but he gives the manuscript to a trusted friend, his best friend, and asks him never to publish it. The writer dies. The friend reads the manuscript and discovers that it’s a masterpiece. So he shows it to an editor, the editor publishes it, and everyone agrees that it’s a masterpiece, and the writer becomes even more respected after his death.

Okay. What about it?

Is what his friend did wrong? Did he betray the writer?

I don’t follow. Do you have a writer friend?

No. Fuck. Hold on.

What’s it got to do with religion?

Wait. I’m going to change the question.

Bonobo’s cell phone beeps, but he doesn’t get up to check the message.

The only thing I don’t get is why the writer left the manuscript with the guy if he didn’t want to publish it. Why didn’t he just burn it?

No, forget the writer. Let’s say that a guy has a father who’s really attached to his dog. Really attached. He’s had the dog since it was a pup, and he loves it more than people, more than his wife and kids. The father decides to kill himself and asks his son to have the dog put down after he’s dead, because he doesn’t have the courage to do it himself and he knows the dog will suffer without him. He manages to convince his son to do it and makes him promise. The son does, more or less. The father kills himself, but the son doesn’t take the dog to the vet to have it put down. He keeps the dog and decides to look after it.

Was that what happened to you?

It’s just a random example that I made up.

Ah. Right. I get it.

Bonobo hiccups and burps inwardly.