Blood-drenched Beard

His dad says that he and his granddad resemble each other not just in their smiles but in many other physical and behavioral traits. He says his dad had the same nose, narrower than his own. The wide face, the deep-set eyes. The same skin color. The granddad’s indigenous blood had skipped his son and come out in his grandson. Your athletic build, he says, that came from your granddad for sure. He was taller than you, about six foot. Back then no one practiced sports like you do, but the way he chopped wood, tamed horses, tilled the soil, he’d have given today’s triathletes a run for their money. That was my life too until I was twenty. Don’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I used to work on the land with Dad when I was young, and I was impressed by his strength. Once we went looking for a lost sheep, and we found it over near the fence, almost on the neighbor’s side, in a bad way. About two miles from the house. I was wondering how we were going to get the pickup there to take it home, already imagining that Dad was going to send me to get a horse, but he hoisted the ewe onto his shoulders, as if it were hugging his neck, and started walking. A sheep like that weighs ninety to a hundred pounds, and you remember what it’s like out there: all hills and rocky ground. I was about seventeen and asked to help carry it, ’cause I wanted to help, but Dad said no, she’s in place now. Taking her off and putting her back will just be more tiring. Let’s keep walking, the important thing is to keep walking. I probably wouldn’t have been able to bear that animal on my back for more than one or two minutes anyway. I was never scrawny, but you two are a different breed. You’re even alike in your temperament. Your granddad was pretty quiet, like you. The silent, disciplined sort. He wasn’t one for idle chatter, spoke only when he had to, and was annoyed by people who didn’t know when to shut up. But that’s where the similarities end. You’re gentle-natured, polite. Your granddad had a short fuse. What a cantankerous old man he was! He was famous for pulling out his knife over any little thing. He’d go to a dance and wind up in a brawl. To this day I don’t know how he got into so many fights, because he didn’t drink much, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble, and didn’t mess around with other women. Your grandma almost always went out with him, and it’s funny, she didn’t seem bothered by this violent side of his. She liked to listen to him play. He was one hell of a guitar player. She once told me he was the way he was because he had an artist’s soul but had chosen the wrong life. She said he should have traveled the world playing music and letting out his philosophical sentiments — that was the expression she used, I remember clearly — instead of working the land and marrying her, but he had missed his true calling when he was very young, and then it was too late, because he was a man of principles and changing his mind would have been a violation of those principles. That was her explanation for his short fuse, and it makes sense to me, though I never knew my dad well enough to be sure. All I know is that he was forever dealing out punches and whacking people with the broad side of his knife.

Did he ever kill anyone?

Not that I know of. Producing his knife rarely meant stabbing someone. He did it more to show off, I think. I don’t remember him coming home hurt, either. Except that time he got shot.

Shot?

He was shot in the hand. I told you about that.

True. He lost his fingers, didn’t he?

In one of these fights, he lunged at a guy, and the guy fired his gun to give him a fright. The bullet grazed Dad’s fingers. He lost a bit of two fingers, the little finger and the one next to it. On his left hand, the one he used for picking. A few weeks later he decided to take up the guitar again, and in no time he was playing just as well as he always had or better. Some people said he’d improved. I can’t say. He developed a crazy picking technique for his milongas. I guess those two fingers don’t make much difference. I don’t know. They certainly didn’t make any difference for him. What really did him in was when your grandma died of peritonitis. I was eighteen. Life was never the same again, not for me or for him.

His dad pauses and takes a sip of beer.

Did you leave the farm after Grandma died?