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 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 delicate metallic structures that manage to find room under her mane of curly hair. The lampposts on the beach promenade project bright, orangey light over the sand. It is like walking through an empty stadium ready for a rock concert at night. Their long shadows drag their heads through the calm sea.
What are you looking at?
Your earrings.
She fiddles with them.
Did you manage to get back from the party that night?
Jesus. I was really out of it. I can hardly remember a thing. But it was okay, a guy gave me a lift.
That dickhead with dyed-blond hair?
Don’t remind me. I hooked up with him once, and he thinks he can just rock up talking shit and it’s going to happen again whenever he wants.
Next time I won’t let him bother you.
Tough guy. The worst part is that I hooked up with him again.
He raises his eyebrows and doesn’t say anything.
Why did you leave?
I was a bit worried about the car. And to be honest, I haven’t got much patience for parties.
You left me there alone. You didn’t feel sorry for me. Not nice.
So I passed you on the beach yesterday, did I?
You did, and you pretended not to see me.
When?
Yesterday afternoon. You were running. I was with Pablo.
Who’s Pablo?
My son.
I didn’t know you had a son.
Didn’t I tell you? Pablito, my love. I did so tell you.
No, you didn’t. How old is he?
Six.
I didn’t know you had a son. But that kind of explains it. If you had been alone, I think I would have recognized you. By your hair.
Man, you’re really weird.
The stream that runs into the sea in front of the row of fishing sheds is too wide to jump over. Near the old stone bridge, a footbridge has been improvised with a plank. He touches Dália’s arm and nods to indicate where to cross.