Blood-drenched Beard

Thank you, gentlemen, he says, raking in the matchsticks.

Burning through nine hundred reais in a brothel in Pato Branco is good luck.

It’s not luck, he protests in a solemn tone of voice. You have to know how to read your opponents’ faces and body language.

A john’s luck. It’s classic.

Just look at Altair’s face. I reckon he’s taking a whiz.

I am not.

Are you pissing, man?

No.

But tell me, did the police chief have any light to shed on your granddad?

A little. But I think he was more of a hindrance than a help. I’ve given up trying to get to the bottom of it. It’d end up driving me crazy. I’m just going to forget about it.

Bonobo deals and says he is going on a retreat at the temple in Encantada the following week. A whole week waking up at four-thirty in the morning to stare at the wall and pray. I think you’d like it, swimmer. You should try going on a retreat sometime.

I like staring at walls, but not praying.

Count me out.

Me too.

Why engineers?

Huh?

Nothing, I’m just thinking out loud. The guy at the hotel said fast women, slow horses, and engineers. Doesn’t make any sense.

Shit.

What’s wrong, Altair?

Shit, I’ve got a leak.

Altair gets up and dashes to the bathroom.

Argh, fucking hell.

Life isn’t for amateurs.

EIGHT

The emaciated dog hobbles over the tiled floor of the pet shop. Her front paws move forward even though one of them is slightly crooked and weak after weeks in plaster. Her back paws can make only short, quick movements that look more like involuntary jerks and sometimes cease altogether. Her tail doesn’t wag. Nevertheless, she is able to move without any help. She is walking. He and the vet are standing side by side, watching. Beta breathes in the cool air with her mouth shut. One of her ears has a ragged edge, and her fur won’t grow back over certain scars, but apart from these things, she is fine, alive. He lets her walk around a little, then picks her up and puts her down somewhere else, provoking her with a toy duck that was sitting on a shelf. She yelps and gives a few shrill barks. Greice provides him with a list of instructions. Beta may experience some incontinence and will have to be given medication for a period of time. She will need physiotherapy to get some of her movement back. As she is, she won’t need a trolley in order to walk, but she can’t move as she would like to either. The vet teaches him some exercises that he can do with her at home. She says they were very lucky. She is emotional and can’t hide it. She uses the word miracle. She takes a while to say good-bye to Beta and smiles that kind of nonstop smile that is an attempt to ward off tears. Before he leaves, he tells her that Beta was his father’s dog for fifteen years. She followed him everywhere like a shadow. If necessary, she’d lie for hours in front of a restaurant or shop until Dad came out. Dad wasn’t the affectionate sort, and he never picked her up or let her lie on his lap or anything like that. He had a gesture of affection that I’ll never forget. He’d give Beta three or four slaps on the ribs with a force that sometimes seemed excessive. At times it would make her skittle sideways, and she’d echo like a small drum. It was obvious that she liked it, something between the two of them. Private codes between close companions always seem somewhat eccentric to anyone looking on. She’s got this shrill bark that can be a bit irritating, but she doesn’t bark much. She likes kids, but she isn’t that fond of other dogs. You have to keep an eye on her, or she’ll lunge at them. She likes to nip at people’s heels too. It’s her breed, I think, the herding instinct. When he’d drive somewhere not too far from home, Dad liked to let her chase the car instead of taking her in it. He’d go at twenty-five, thirty miles an hour, and she’d chase the car to the grocery store or even as far as Trabalhador Highway, which was a few miles away. When I saw Dad more often and Beta was younger, I’d take her running with me sometimes. She’d run five or six miles with me, without a problem, on a leash. She was really depressed when Dad died. I reckon Beta was what kept him alive for his last ten years. I think caring for a dog helped keep his feet on the ground, gave him a sense of responsibility, the will or obligation to care about something. My mother isn’t very fond of her. She calls her a pest. Get that pest out of here.

Greice asks how he intends to get Beta home. He confesses that he hadn’t thought about it and calls a taxi. He leaves a check for what he still owes Greice, and she gives him a packet of dog biscuits as a present. When the taxi arrives, he taps Beta on the side and carries her into the car.