Blood-drenched Beard

If I understood right, she was your granddad’s girlfriend. A local girl of Azorian descent, quite young, about twenty years old. She hadn’t gone to the dance because she’d had stomach cramps, but someone had gone to tell her about the commotion in the town, and she’d run to the hall to see what had happened. The scene she described didn’t make sense. The hall was empty, but there was a huge pool of blood on the ground and signs of a fight, overturned tables and chairs, broken glasses. She said there were women crying in the street, with children fanning them. All she understood was that Gaudério had been killed. She was told not to get involved and they dragged her back home.

What was her name?

I forget. Soraia? Sabrina? I think it started with an S. But it’s a guess. I’m not sure, it’s been a long time. She must have loved your granddad. To contact a police chief under those circumstances. I promised her that I’d look for his body. I ordered a search over the next few days, and nothing was found. I closed the case.

My dad said there was a grave in the cemetery.

Yes. A few days after wrapping up the case, I found your dad because the girl knew he lived in Porto Alegre and that his family was from a small town, Taquara, I think. Was that it? He went to Garopaba and called me that afternoon saying his dad was buried in the cemetery. It can’t be, I said. We didn’t find a body. Your people didn’t, he said, but apparently someone here did. He’s in a pauper’s grave. I didn’t know. I had a look myself sometime later, and there really was a grave there that people said was Gaudério’s. It was a lie, of course. They had to show the man’s son something. Truth is, a body was never found. They must have dumped it way out at sea.

Something about this story doesn’t gel.

Nothing does. I think there’s some mystery there that no one’ll ever know. When I got there to investigate the crime, it made a really strong impression on me. There was a sinister atmosphere about the place. The locals were nervous. Another thing that the girl who sent the telegram said was that when she got to the hall, the people had already left, and they were all on the beach, about a hundred yards from there, staring out to sea. I noticed the same thing over the next few days. It wasn’t as if they were waiting for a boat or looking for a school of fish, but as if the ocean had turned against them. As if they suddenly wished it wasn’t there.

That doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t.

Wasn’t there an inquiry?

No.

But—

He feels confused and doesn’t really know what to ask.

Can I order some more wine? asks Andreia. She massages his neck, and he feels her long nails on his skin.

Have you already finished the bottle?

Almost, sexy.

Give me a sip.

She slides the glass over to him and plunges her hand between his legs. The wine is syrupy-sweet, and the glass smells of cigarette smoke.

I’m going to order one more, okay? she says as she signals to the waiter.

Don’t drink that rotgut, son. Have some of my whiskey.

Zenão asks the waiter for another glass. It arrives in an instant with three ice cubes, and the former police chief fills it halfway. They clink glasses, and he takes a sip of whiskey. Meanwhile the albino girl gets up, climbs over his legs, and sits next to Andreia. They start to whisper.

There’s something else I want to ask you. I heard there was a rumor going around at the time that Gaudério had killed a girl.

The waiter leaves a new bottle of wine on the table. Zenão answers by raising his head and repositioning himself on the sofa, giving the impression that the conversation has arrived where he wanted it to.

It’s true. That was one of the things that came up during my interrogations. You didn’t know your granddad, did you? If there was one thing that was clear to me, it was that he was a troublemaker. There was an unsolved murder of a girl some months before he was killed. I think the community suspected your granddad, and they may have finished him off because of it. Whether it was him is another kettle of fish.

Zenão Bonato looks at him sternly.

Understand, son? Sorry, he was your granddad, and it can’t be easy to hear these things. But that’s what happened. I turned a blind eye and went home.

No, it’s okay. I’m not even sure why I’m digging all this shit up.

He looks at his glass of whiskey and takes a big sip.

But it sucks not being sure about anything. Whether he was a murderer or just an inoffensive brawler. Whether he’s in that cemetery or not.

It’s normal to want to know. But no one will ever be able to tell you what really happened to him. Some people disappear from this life without saying how or where they’re going. They leave a bunch of clues, but they’re all false.

Do you think he might have still been alive?

Zenão’s eyes spark.

He might have. He might still be. Imagine! But speculation won’t get us anywhere.