Blood-drenched Beard

Later, at her home, Dália puts Pablo to bed and they watch TV. Assuming that the effect of the acid has passed, he gets ready to have a talk with her, but right then she tugs on his hand and says, My mother isn’t here, let’s go into my room. Pablo won’t wake up, come on. But he just sits there. He says that he doesn’t want to continue the relationship and prefers to be on his own. Idiot, she says, once she has assimilated the information. How can you tell me something like that when I’m high on acid? She gives him a look of profound disappointment and is near tears as she says, Today of all days? After an awesome night? Did it have to be today? He doesn’t know what to say. When is the right time? After a fight? In the middle of the week, when she is busy holding down two jobs? There’s no such thing as the right time. The right time is before things get bad, isn’t it? No, it isn’t! she almost shouts. It’s supposed to get bad first, you idiot. Today of all days? And why? Tell me why. She calms down, sighs, strokes his face, shakes her head. Go home, and we’ll talk later. Please. He gets up and starts to leave. But why? she keeps asking uselessly. Why? I just want to understand why.

• • •

Every three or four

days he goes to the Internet café on the main square and checks his e-mails. His in-box is always overflowing with new messages, but generally only two or three are of any interest. A message from the lawyer about a little problem with the probate process. Another from his mother saying that she and her boyfriend are thinking about coming to spend a weekend in Garopaba. He answers that they can stay with him if they want. A former classmate from university is getting married. He replies that he won’t be able to attend the wedding, congratulates him, and uses his credit card to purchase a bread maker from the couple’s gift list on a department store site. Then he reads the four messages in the e-mail list created by Sara for the running group. They have decided that lessons will start at seven instead of seven-thirty so that Denise, Sara’s friend who has joined the group, will have time to run and make it to work on time. He answers with an okay. There is also a private message from Sara saying that they need to talk about the price of the lessons because everyone is asking. He answers that they can discuss it in person another time. Some messages are from previous weeks. Condolences from someone who only just found out that his father died, invitations to compete in triathlons, races, and open-water swimming competitions sent by organizers or people who don’t know he has moved to Garopaba. He recalls that Dália told him off for not answering his Facebook messages. He types in his user name and password and enters the site for the first time in three months. He thinks the layout may have changed. There are dozens of friend requests, and his face in his profile picture is beardless. He scans the names and accepts requests from Dália Jakobczinski, Débora Busatto, who he presumes to be the receptionist from the gym, and Breno Wolff, a friend who swam for União. These are the ones he is able to recognize by name. Then he clicks on the requests from mysterious faces one by one and takes a look at their walls in search of clues. He watches a new Coldplay clip that has just been posted by a blonde whose name doesn’t mean anything to him. He looks at the YouTube suggestions and watches a few more videos. A baby laughing, a clip by a new band called Little Joy, a really impressive compilation of the best moments in professional tennis in 2007. Almost all the terminals around him are occupied by people who are hunched over, engrossed, wearing large headphones. Diagonally opposite him a foreign gentleman in glasses is in the middle of a tense conversation with someone on Skype, shouting emphatically in English and pausing at length to listen to the replies as he holds the arm of the microphone between his thumb and forefinger and keeps his face almost glued to the computer screen, gazing into the depths of a black screen covered in icons. The connection is slow, and he suddenly realizes he has spent more than half an hour watching half a dozen videos. He returns to Facebook and remembers to check his personal messages. Four are from Dália.* He scrolls down the list of messages a little further and finds one sent by Viviane two weeks earlier. He takes his hand off the mouse and stares at the screen. Then he clicks on the message and reads it.*

He suddenly needs to catch his breath and realizes with a fright that he forgot to breathe when he was trying to decide if he should answer it. He takes the mouse again and, clicking quickly, searches his account settings and closes his profile down, ignoring the automatic message saying that his friends are going to miss him.

• • •