Blood-drenched Beard

Now his mother stands back a little, without taking her hands off his waist, gazes into his eyes, and studies him with a smile on her lips. They don’t look much alike, but staring at a close relative is a little like staring in the mirror, and there must be something of him in his mother’s watery black eyes, wide open and earnest. Perhaps it is more a question of faith than recognition, but he sees something of himself in them. She must be seeing her ex-husband in her son’s features now. And he knows that she feels relatively young and safe as she looks at him, because he doesn’t have any way of knowing what has changed in her. The car’s radiator fan turns itself off, and they realize it was on. His mother takes off her gloves and strokes his beard.

You look good like this. But you’re too thin.

I’ve missed you.

You’d better have.

Is that your boyfriend’s car?

Yes. Ronaldo lent it to me because it’s an automatic and has a heater. I was nice and warm on the way up, and there was hardly any traffic on the road. Want to make your mother a coffee?

The sun is framed by a clearing of clouds, and the forecast is for fine weather until Monday. He carries her bag down the steps, and she follows him, taking photos of the view of the bay. She looks worried when she reaches the bottom of the steps and sees the front of the apartment.

Isn’t there a danger the ocean might come up here?

Of course not, Mother. If the ocean came up as far as my window, the whole of Garopaba would be underwater.

He puts her bag in the bedroom and smooths out a wrinkle in the clean sheet that he has just changed as he explains in a loud voice that she’ll be sleeping in his bed and he’ll sleep in the living room. She doesn’t answer, and when he returns to the living room, she is sitting on the sofa with her hands together between her knees, dumbfounded, staring at the dog standing on the rug in front of her.

What happened to her?

She was run over. It was nasty. She almost died.

She’s limping and missing an ear.

It’s just a piece of her ear. She’s getting better. If we take her to the beach, you’ll see. She can already run a little.

How old is this dog?

Fifteen or sixteen. You haven’t seen her in ages, have you?

Not since I left your dad.

Beta takes a few steps toward the sofa, and his mother draws back.

She remembers you.

Get that pest out of here, please.

He opens the door, puts the dog outside, and closes it.

After drinking a black coffee and chatting some more, he takes the key to the Honda and drives her to lunch at a fancy restaurant on a hill overlooking Rosa Beach. It is early for the weekend surfers, and the place is still empty. The wood and stone building is decorated with furniture made from recycled timber, Indian statuettes, African masks and totems, turtle shells and whalebones. Ballads are playing softly on hidden speakers. They pick a table near the deck with a view of the beach and the lovely Meio Lagoon, where it is said that many people have drowned after getting tangled in the seaweed. In the background enormous waves break and march staunchly across the sand with lacy swaths of foam in tow. His mother is enchanted with the crystal glasses, the votive candles, the sunflowers in test-tube-shaped vases. They order a seafood moqueca

. The waiter suggests some wines, and his mother chooses a South African pinotage. He spots a right whale’s spout and points at the blue ocean. His mother puts on her glasses and manages to see the next two spouts, but then the whale disappears. The stew arrives, and the penetrating smell of the seasonings and seafood wafts across the table.

This puréed arracacha is really good. Have you been here before?

No. A friend who has a bed-and-breakfast nearby recommended it.

Have you made many friends here?

A few.

I thought you’d become a bit of a hermit.

Life here is normal.