Blood-drenched Beard

When they walk into his apartment, Sara does what he felt was coming and did nothing to stop. He has barely shut the door when she takes off her running shoes and tracksuit bottoms and stands there in her blue shorts with her hands on her jacket, as if she is about to unzip it.

Whoa. Sara. Hang on.

Fuck me.

I can’t.

You can’t or you don’t want to?

I can’t.

Of course you can, she says, walking over to him. Look at me.

He looks.

You can, okay? She pushes him lightly, making him fall into a sitting position on the hard yellow sofa. She is about to mount him, but he holds her by the waist to stop her.

You’ll regret it.

No, I won’t.

But I will.

You definitely won’t.

People walk down the path outside the closed shutters. He presses a finger to his lips, asking her to be quiet.

Anyone you know?

I don’t know. But everyone sees everything here.

Don’t be paranoid.

She bends her head toward him and whispers.

It’ll just be once. I’ve never done this before.

He remains sitting, she remains standing. Her thighs, speckled like chocolate chip ice cream, try to move forward. She runs one of her hands down from her waist to her leg and raises it to place her foot on the sofa. Her smell floods the dark, moist apartment. He can feel the pulsing of their bodies. Tiny tremors.

Better not.

Well, what are you going to do with that bulge there?

He leans his forehead against the waistband of her shorts and sighs.

That’s it, she says.

His cell phone starts to ring.

Don’t answer it.

On the fourth ring he slowly pushes her away and picks up the phone. It is Gonçalo.

Hey, buddy. How’s life on the beach?

All good, Gonça. How are things there?

Same old circus as always. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’ve been swamped and only managed to follow up on that matter in the last few days. I talked to some people in the civil police and the Santa Catarina state court. There’s no way you’ll find the inquest, if there ever was one. Forget it.

Fuck.

He goes to the window and unlocks the shutters.

However—

Gonçalo makes a dramatic pause. He opens the shutters a crack and sees the sunny beach.

— I consulted the old payrolls and found the name of the police chief who probably went to Garopaba to look into the crime. I did some research on the guy and discovered two things.

He glances over his shoulder. Sara is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, almost in a position of meditation, staring at the sandy-colored floor tiles with a vague expression. She looks like a robot that has been switched off.

What?

First, the guy’s still alive. Second, I know where he lives. In Pato Branco.

Is that here in Santa Catarina?

In Paraná. In the west of the state. Near the border of Santa Catarina. His name is Zenão Bonato. He’s a partner in a private security company called Commando. I hope that’s a reference to that Schwarzenegger movie. Give him my regards if it is.

But how do I find him?

I’ve got the company’s address and phone number here.

Hold on. Let me get a pen.

He rummages through the wicker basket on the counter for a pen and piece of paper to write on. He still has a hard-on, and Sara watches his movements with the same empty expression on her face.

Okay, what is it?

He writes down the former police chief’s name, address, and phone number on a pamphlet for an adventure tour operator specializing in whale watching.

Thanks, Gonça. I can handle it from here.

No problem. I’m here if you need me. Are you busy?

No, why?

Dunno. Are you okay?

I’m great.

Good to hear. Okay then. I’ve got an article to write here. I hope the info’s useful. Let me know how you get on.

Will do. See ya.

As soon as he hangs up, Sara comes to life again and glares at him with her slanting eyes. She looks like a patient who has been forgotten for hours in a doctor’s waiting room.

That was a friend of mine from Porto Alegre.

She doesn’t say anything.

Want a glass of water?

No.

She gets up and walks over to him. She puts her face very close, with her nose touching his cheek.

I’m going to have a shower now.

He moves her backwards and to one side with a deliberately mechanical gesture, as if repositioning a mannequin.

Be quick then, she says, and let’s go and buy this fucking flank steak, or rump or whatever it is.

Matambre.