Blood-drenched Beard

Bonobo hands back the piece of paper.

I don’t want to hang on to this crap. Tear it up.

A few beers later Bonobo asks for a loan. They’re already a little drunk, and through the window silent flashes of lightning can be seen in the darkness of the ocean. He is surprised by the request. He thought the bed-and-breakfast was doing well. It does pretty well, says Bonobo. It’d be more than enough if I only had to support myself here. He tells him that he sends money a few times a year to his sick father and his unmarried sister who is always ill and can barely run her day-care center. He says that, truth be told, he’s always had more luck than common sense with the bed-and-breakfast. It’s as easy to lose money there as it is to make it, and he’s not a business-minded administrator like his ex-partner, who he had a fight with two years after they’d gone into business together because the guy had started selling marijuana and coke at the bed-and-breakfast, and then crack, until one day they ended up in a fistfight, and he gave the guy a lot of money to disappear, which he promised to do but didn’t because he continued dealing in the area until he was shot in the head by a rival in Encantada. And now he owes money to the lumber dealer, the accountant, and the bank.

How much do you need?

To get out of the worst of it, about three grand. Three and a half.

Get the pen on the table there, and write down your account number on a piece of paper. I’ll transfer it to you tomorrow.

Man, it doesn’t have to be the whole lot. There are some other people I can ask too. I’ve got a friend over in Silveira who’s given me a loan before.

I’ve still got most of the money from the sale of the car. Pay me back when you can.

You’re going to spend a fortune on vet bills. Seriously, it doesn’t have to be everything. If you can just loan me some of it, it’s already a huge favor.

If I’m saying I can, I can. No sweat.

Bonobo writes his account number on a blank page of the diary.

Now take that same pen, sign this paper, and put it somewhere safe.

Bonobo reads what is written on the piece of paper again.

Man, you’re the most disturbed individual I’ve ever met. I admire you.

He signs the paper, folds it three times, and tucks it inside his battered canvas wallet with a Velcro fastening.

All I have to do is hang on to it?

Yep. Keep it safe. Don’t lose it.

A yellow cat climbs onto the window ledge and peers through the open glass. It looks surprised to find two men in the apartment. It stares at the humans, and the humans stare back until it decides it’s in the wrong place and disappears into the darkness with a leap.

What do you do when you’re here alone?

I cook a little. Sometimes I play a video game.

What about Dália?

We broke up.

Fuck. Right before winter. What happened?

I don’t know. I just lost interest.

She’s a really awesome chick, but she’s a bit of a space cadet.

No, she isn’t. She’s actually got her shit together.

That’s the thing with relationships. We don’t get to choose when they happen. They come and go on the wind of karma. When you least expect it, another one’ll appear. Just be careful with these local girls: they’re easy to knock up.

The locals have already got it in for me ’cause I keep asking questions about my grandfather’s death. If I get involved with one of their daughters, I’ll meet the same end that he did.

Want to rewrite what you put on that piece of paper?

He doesn’t answer, and the two of them sit there smiling for a while in silence.

Hey, do you play poker?

I’ve played a few times. But it’s been ages.

We’re going to play poker over at the bed-and-breakfast. I’m trying to organize it with the gang again. Altair plays, and Diego from the gas station, and some guys from Rosa too. It’s awesome. But you’ve got to be prepared, ’cause the rounds take time. We play geriatric-diaper poker. Everyone has to bring a packet of diapers.

Come again?

Geriatric diapers. That way no one needs to stop the game to take a piss.

You can’t be serious. That’s deranged.

We’ve played for more than twenty-four hours nonstop.

What if someone needs to crap?

In that case, fine. They get up and go. But no one takes a dump in the middle of a game of poker, do they? You drop your boulders before the game. It’s a question of professionalism. You’ve got to take it seriously. I’ll let you know the next time we’re going to play. Get prepared.

When the twelve empty cans are sitting on the table, Bonobo says good-bye with a complex handshake that involves touching fists, patting each other on the chest with the backs of their hands, and cracking their fingers. Then he hugs him.

Thanks for the money. You’re a lifesaver.

No problem. That’s what friends are for.

I’ll pay you back soon.

Don’t sweat. When you can.

Try not to isolate yourself too much here.

Don’t worry.

I worry about you a bit.

Fuck off, Bonobo. Go home.