• • •
Academia Swell is located at the bottom of Silveira Hill, a short distance before the steep and winding road gouged into the hillside that provides access to the beach on the other side. Just inside the gate is a small structure made of thick planks of wood, which houses a snack bar with round wooden tables. He peers through the door and sees the waitress behind the counter, a girl with indigenous features and straight black hair. She explains the way to reception in Spanish. He walks down the driveway past a long, tall building with exposed brick walls and an asbestos roof, which, judging from the dimensions and fogged-up windows, must house the recently opened heated swimming pool. He opens the glass door at the back of the complex and enters reception. To his left is a large weights room. Half a dozen gym-goers are straining their muscles on outdated gym equipment. There are vases of plants everywhere and colorful reproductions of what he thinks are Hindu gods hanging on grubby walls, creatures with female or pachydermal features and a slightly arrogant serenity plastered across their happy, erotic faces, some blue-skinned with several plump arms and thin fingers holding tridents and other ritualistic objects. The afternoon light tinges the walls and metal equipment with a golden color and the mild March temperatures make air conditioning unnecessary. It is an atypical gym environment, more reminiscent of a religious temple in which physical exercise is a ritual practiced as a means of attaining enlightenment. Hidden loudspeakers are playing reggae at a low volume, which sounds out of place. The blonde sitting behind the counter wishes him good afternoon.
Hi. I hear you’ve opened a pool.
She gives him a photocopied pamphlet with the opening hours and prices of the gym and swimming pool.
Do you know if they need a swimming instructor?
You’ll have to talk to Saucepan.
Saucepan?
The owner.
They smile at each other.
And where’s Saucepan?
He should be here in about half an hour. Or you can come back at night and talk to his partner.
She stifles a smile and looks at him. She is a little chubby with a freckled face, deep lines from too much sun exposure, and a round nose. He hears explosive noises coming from the pool, as if someone were beating the surface of the water with a spade. Both of the receptionist’s arms are covered in colorful tattoos. There is a Japanese-style wave, a tribal bracelet, a dolphin. He chuckles.
Am I going to have to guess the partner’s name?
He’s got a nickname too. Try.
I’ve got something in mind, but I’m afraid it might be wrong.
Spatula.
No way.
Yes way. Spatula’s the one who comes at night.
The two of them laugh silently and look at each other as if they know each other well and have a plan to get revenge on someone. It is a pleasant feeling that appears to have sprung from nowhere.
Okay, I’ll wait for Saucepan.*
Okay.
Can I take a look at the pool?
Yes.
What’s your name?
Débora.
The pool room looks much smaller from the inside than from the outside and is filled with white steam and the strong smell of chlorine and clay tiles. He breathes in the warm, moist, slightly caustic air. It feels like home to him. In indoor-pool areas he always remembers the sessions he had with a nebulizer to treat a brief bout of bronchitis when he was a child: the green plastic mask, the noisy little machine like a small pool pump, his mother looking on approvingly as she oversaw things. The semi-Olympic pool is the narrowest he has ever seen, with only three lanes demarcated with lines of navy blue tiles and still without floating lane dividers. There is a swimmer at each end. Both are finding it hard to breathe properly in the choppy water. The swimmer on the left is older and fatter and wearing a yellow snorkel, goggles, and flippers. He is the one responsible for the explosive sounds he had heard earlier. The man raises his right arm completely out of the water, very slowly, as if trying to project his hand as far as possible from his body, holds it out of the water for a moment, then brings it down with supersonic speed, like the arm of a catapult, slamming it into the surface of the pool with a deafening bang and splashing water several yards away. His left arm doesn’t even leave the water properly and makes an atrophied movement that generates zero propulsion. If it weren’t for the flippers on his feet, the guy would barely leave the spot. The world’s swimming pools are full of these comical, extreme cases that can rarely be remedied. The swimmer on the right is younger and swims well. His rhythm is firm, and he takes a breath every four strokes, but his legs are scissor-kicking and his right arm is coming down a little too far to the side. He turns swiftly and fluidly, surfaces quickly, crosses the pool again, and stops at the edge, panting, consulting his watch to count the interval before his next sprint. Twenty seconds. He is doing a set of one-hundred-meter sprints, and he does each in ninety seconds, some in eighty-eight, eighty-seven. As he watches the man swim, he can’t help but count the seconds in his head. Swimmer’s tic. Over the years his inner clock has become precise, almost infallible.
• • •
A barber by the name of Zé calls about his Ford Fiesta early one Friday afternoon. They meet at the gas station. Zé looks under the hood, inspects the engine, and says he can pay that day. They go straight to Laguna in the car itself to transfer the ownership of the vehicle and arrange for the deposit. The whole operation takes less than two hours, and soon they are back in Garopaba. They park in front of the barber’s shop. He hands the new owner the car key and orders a Coke at the bar adjoining the barber’s. Zé offers him a shave.