Free Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) by Daniel Galera Page A

and the ocean’s vapors instantly unblock his nasal passages. He jumps carefully from the rock, so as not to cut his feet on the tiny barnacles, and his body is annulled by his own reflection, shattering the water’s filmy surface. His feet disappear with a swallowing noise, and concentric circles ripple out for a few yards before he reappears much farther along, near an anchored boat, and starts swimming out to the deep. He swims following the coast, happy with the freedom of the cold, salty, endless pool, a little wary of the growing darkness and the probable proximity of some marine animal. It is almost night when he leaves the water. He is relieved, still a little giddy from the effort and musing over everything he thought about while swimming. He has decided to sell his car.
    The waning moon is rising behind the hill when he gets his map of the town and heads for Nestor Gas Station. He talks to the manager and, in exchange for a commission of three hundred
reais,
leaves the Fiesta parked next to a flower bed at the entrance to the gas station with a for-sale sign printed out in an Internet café and taped to the window. The market value of the car is fifteen thousand, but he offers it for fourteen. He buys a can of guarana soda in the corner shop and asks the girl at the cash register about gyms in the town. There are three main ones. He marks them all on his map. Academia Swell is opening a new heated indoor semi-Olympic pool, the first in the region.
    With Beta on her leash, he walks the six blocks from the gas station to Bauru Tchê and orders a cheese-and-chicken-heart sandwich. This time the owner of the trailer strikes up a conversation and introduces himself. His name is Renato. Three girls are drinking beer at a table, and the TV on the counter is showing the eight o’clock soap opera.
    Who’s the mutt? shouts Renato.
    My dog. Beta. She was my dad’s, but now she’s mine.
    Didn’t he want her anymore?
    He passed away.
    Oh, pardon me. Sorry to hear it.
    It’s okay.
    Renato asks where he is living and ruminates on his answer as if he really doesn’t care much. The subject is redundant, and people come and go from these seaside dwellings year after year. Registering who comes and who goes is like talking about the weather, which is what he does next.
    It rained all summer. Then March comes along, and it’s all fine and dandy, sun every day, no wind. It’s not fair.
    His wife prepares the sandwich on a hotplate behind the counter, wearing an apron and a hairnet. They are going to close the snack bar in two weeks’ time. He says this year wasn’t very good. There won’t be much left after he’s paid the rent. He plans to return to Cachoeirinha, where his home is.
    Hey there.
    The person who says this is one of the girls sitting at the next table, and the voice is familiar. It is the tallest of the three who is looking at him. Her curly hair is down, and he had memorized it on top of her head. It would be silly to pretend that he has only just noticed her, as she is sitting right in front of him at the next table, and it would be equally ridiculous to try to make her understand, under the circumstances, that only her voice or some more complex form of interaction could have revealed her identity to him. It is an explanation that he has learned to give a little further down the track, when he has had more contact with a person. People tend not to believe him straight up, and the bad first impression can almost never be undone.
    Dália.
    He pronounces her name in a cautious, almost interrogative tone. It is inappropriate, but he can’t avoid it in these situations.
    I wasn’t going to say anything, man, but you’re pretending not to see me so openly that I couldn’t keep quiet.
    Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.
    Well, then your mind’s always elsewhere, because I passed you on the beach yesterday, and you acted as if you didn’t see me