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

then either.
    He could say his mind is always elsewhere or apologize a second time, but neither solution is satisfactory, the first because it is a lie, the second because it is unfair. Until a few years ago, he was always apologizing for not recognizing people—it was part of his routine—but he started feeling silly and stopped. The forgetting isn’t his fault. The only thing he can do is keep quiet in the face of people’s indignation and wait to see what happens next. He has learned that most people can’t stand not being recognized. There are some who rise above the momentary awkwardness, who don’t take themselves so seriously that they are truly offended, and joke about it, and even make an effort to situate him and provide him with the context of their previous encounters even though they aren’t aware of his handicap. And there are some who take offense and end the conversation, even going as far as never speaking to him again or paying him any kind of attention.
    Come join us, says Dália.
    He moves to the empty chair at their table. The boy brings him his sandwich, playing his waiter role ceremoniously. The girls talk as he eats. He tries to participate in the conversation between one bite and another. One of the friends, Neide, is thin and quiet. She lives in town, worked the summer in a little bikini shop, and doesn’t know what she is going to do for the rest of the year. The other one, Graziela, is plump, an attention grabber, and is there only on holidays. She is heading back to Porto Alegre in a few days to continue her law degree. Compared to Dália, neither of them is attractive. He never has conflicting impressions about a woman’s face on different occasions. A beautiful woman will be beautiful each time. For those who remember, it isn’t always so.
    After half a dozen bottles have crossed the table, the four of them pay the bill and walk down the sidewalk to the beach. Graziela rolls a joint, and they smoke it. The sand is already cold, and the sea breeze relieves the sting and lassitude of a scalding-hot day.
    March is the best month, says Neide.
    It’s the month for those who live here, says Dália. The best is left for those who worked all summer long.
    How amazing a day was that? Graziela says slowly. I wish I could stay another two weeks. I wish I could stay forever.
    The perfection of the month of March is a fertile and ongoing topic of conversation. The dog sprawls on the cool sand but at a given moment gets up and stands in front of him with her tongue hanging out, panting.
    I think she’s hungry.
    Girls, there’s a party at Bar da Cachoeira today. Shall we?
    Let’s go!
    Dália asks if he can give them a lift.
    He isn’t at all partial to the idea of getting his car from the gas station, but he says yes. Before he does, though, he has to take the dog home.
    Have you found a place already? Whereabouts?
    He points at the right-hand corner of the beach.
    Over there at the foot of the hill. In front of the lamppost. With the brown windows.
    We’ll wait for you here, says Graziela, lighting a cigarette.
    He stands and picks up Beta’s leash. He waits a second and looks at Dália. She gives him a sleepy smile, eyes half shut from the marijuana.
    Okay. I’ll be back soon.
    He takes a few steps and turns.
    Want to come keep me company?
    Dália gets up immediately.
    Sure. I think I need to use the bathroom. May I?
    Grazi and Neide give them suspicious looks.
    We’ll be right back, girls.
    Yeah.
    Don’t be long.
    Dália is wearing a colorful ankle-length skirt that flutters rhythmically around her long legs. The circular movements of the hem allow him to see only the tips of her long feet clad in pink plastic sandals, with burgundy toenails. Her sleeveless white lace blouse shows off her narrow waist and broad hips. She isn’t wearing the silver necklace today, but she has on a pair of spiral earrings, two