Blood-drenched Beard

He hangs up just as Leopoldo, a Buddhist with size-fourteen feet and large, equine lips who moves through the water as if propelled by an outboard motor, touches the edge of the pool and looks up with an expression of panic, wanting to know his time.

What did I do?

Sorry, Buddha, I took a call and got distracted.

You’re kidding, he exclaims with his São Paulo accent. His mouth opens in a half-smile, and he peers at the poolside chronometer through his misted-up goggles.

It was more or less the same as the last one. One twenty-five. Bend your arm a little more in the water. It’s too straight. Ten seconds. On your mark.

Leopoldo turns with a horrendous cry of exhaustion, stares at the lane extending before him in the empty pool, and exhales three times, whistling like a pressure cooker.

Get set…

Leopoldo positions his feet on the wall underwater, raises his torso out of the water, and starts to breathe in.

Go.

Leopoldo sinks under, stretches out his arms, and pushes off the wall without hearing the beep of the chronometer. He emerges a few seconds later, and the warm pavilion is filled with the din of his kicking. He’d be a champion if he trained more often, but he spends two-thirds of the year on travel, fashion, and sports photography assignments all over the world for a number of publications. He attends the Buddhist temple in Encantada with Bonobo. After his workout, they both shower quickly in the dressing room.

Bonobo’s been asking about you. He said he hasn’t seen you lately. He wants you to come and see the temple.

Is he still going on about that? I already told him I don’t want to.

He thinks you’re a Buddhist and you don’t know it.

He tried to indoctrinate me. When he got to the part about reincarnation, I stopped.

There isn’t actually reincarnation per se in Buddhism. Because the concept of rebirth—

That’s it, rebirth. Same thing. I’ve got to fly. My girlfriend’s in trouble. You swam well today, Buddha. See you tomorrow.

His dripping beard gets cold in seconds outside. He rides his bike at full speed down the road to Ferrugem and skids to a halt outside Jasmim’s cabin before he has even had time to break into a sweat. He can’t see anyone on the sloping property but hears monosyllabic complaints, the sound of a shovel digging, and an electric drone punctuated by sharp rings. Jasmim opens the door before he can knock, careens down the five steps, and falls into his arms.

Thank God you’re here. They started digging under the house about twenty minutes ago.

They walk around the right side of the house, where a ramp of tall grass descends as far as the light green rushes at the side of the lagoon. On the way they pass a rectangular hole the size of a kitchen sink, about two feet deep and full of stringy roots, where earlier on the invading duo dug up a couple of beer cans from another era. At the corner of the cabin, they come across a wizened old man with a cloudy eye in light brown corduroy pants, a threadbare gray jacket, and a black beret. He is leaning on the ground with a kind of robotic extension attached to his arm, watching a boy of about sixteen dig a hole near the foundations of the house.

Hey. Stop right there. You can’t dig here.

It takes them a moment to show signs of attention, but when Joaquim turns his head and sees him, the old man gets a fright, loses his balance, and stumbles down the slope a few steps. He almost falls, and the contraption extending from his arm lets out shrill noises full of static. The boy stops digging, looks at his grandfather or great-grandfather until he is sure he is okay, then turns to face him. The brim of his cap casts a shadow over his face, where there is an expression devoid of feelings or intentions of any kind. It is getting dark.

Who said you could dig here?

The old man looks afraid to speak but eventually blurts out, There’s treasure buried there. Did she tell you about the treasure?

It doesn’t matter if there’s treasure or not! shouts Jasmim. You can’t dig around my house without my authorization. It’s private property.

With all due respect, you’re a tenant. The property belongs to Abreu.

Who’s Abreu? he asks.

The owner of the house, says Jasmim. They know each other.

So fucking what? It doesn’t matter. You need to leave now.

Joaquim scales the rocky terrain to the position he was in before and readjusts the contraption on his arm.

But let me show you. We found it. It’s right here. Just listen to the device.