Blood-drenched Beard

At times he isn’t sure of the identity of a new student. Sometimes someone comes in just to look at the pool or ask for information, and he thinks it’s a student he knows. Instead of explaining his problem, he prefers to let people think he is forgetful, strange, absent-minded. Some think he is a misanthrope. But in that small, three-lane pool with his handful of students, misunderstandings are rare and short-lived, and there are no hard feelings. He likes meeting new people, starting a whole set of social relations all over again. He ignores faces and learns to recognize people by their attitudes, problems, stories, clothes, gestures, voices, the way they swim, the progress they make in the water. Their characteristics congeal to form a diagram that he can evoke and study in his free time. Each person has a recognizable pattern that he can situate on an imaginary panel with a little sign underneath saying: MY STUDENTS. He keeps many such pictures in his head. His picture of Academia Swell also includes Débora, who insists she is going to teach him to surf, and Saucepan who, as well as being a partner in the gym, also works as a pizzaiolo

at a gourmet pizzeria at the entrance to the town, a jovial sort with a shaved head and well-defined muscles who is an enthusiastic spokesman for his undertakings day and night and puts in an appearance at every social event in town. His partner in the gym, Spatula, is an international kite surfer who spends much of his time abroad. Sometimes Spatula comes to swim in the pool at night, after he has already left. Débora assures him that they have already met at some point, but he doesn’t remember. Spatula sent a message to say that he doesn’t want any dogs on the gym premises, but Saucepan doesn’t mind having Beta lying on the cement floor in front of reception or being patted by students on the lawn near the front gate. He has told Débora to tell Spatula that if there really is a problem, to come and speak to him directly instead of sending messages through others.

Prohibited by the fishermen from swimming in the ocean since May 1, which marked the beginning of the mullet-fishing season, he swims in the pool before lunch or runs on the beach or dirt roads of Ambrósio and Siriú, passing rural properties overshadowed by fig trees, pigs running loose, and smooth dunes crisscrossed with the marks of sandboards. One cold morning he witnesses the first big mullet haul of the year on tiny Preguiça Beach. Dolphins follow the shoals, displaying their dorsal fins and leaping joyfully, guiding the boat as it moves in on its prey. Two dozen fishermen surrounded by a flurry of gulls drag in the nets teeming with plump, terrified fish with straight rows of silvery scales and bellies gleaming like molten lead, which are piled up on the sand until they form an inert mountain, working their gills in vain as they wait for death. A shirtless young fisherman has “Joseane, Tainá and Marina, The Stars of My Life” tattooed across his back. A drunk with white whiskers and bulging eyes pulls in the net, in a trance. An older fisherman oversees the work with a disdainful air born of decades of experience at sea. They all take the job very seriously and don’t crack jokes or chat, limiting conversation to practical interjections. Cats and dogs prance around the nets, and the more experienced ones grapple with the heads of the smaller fish discarded by the humans. The local dogs treat Beta with hostility, and she has already learned to keep her distance from them. He helps the fishermen pull in the net and is given two fresh mullet, which he cleans on the rocks using his father’s knife. He sets aside two steaks to pan-fry with a little olive oil and lime and freezes the rest. Later that afternoon, after picking up Pablo from school and leaving him with Dália’s mother, he returns home to find four launches moored in front of the fishing sheds near the remains of an almost eleven-ton haul. People are finishing loading the fish in white plastic tubs into two small refrigerated trucks. Locals cart off their quota of fish hooked over their fingers by the gills or in plastic supermarket bags. In spite of the large quantity of mullet caught this day, the fishermen are pessimistic and fear the worst season in years. Some blame the temperature, others the huge amount of rain in Patos Lagoon. The street lighting comes on, and there is a soft red glow in the west behind the hills where the sun has set. A sudden silence settles over the bay after everyone has gone, and for a while the only sound is the waves, until someone decides to play electronic music from the open trunk of a car parked on the waterfront.