But why don’t you pay someone to demolish it?
I don’t want to spend money on it.
Altair knows his shit, says Bonobo, setting down the bottle of vodka and picking up the sledgehammer. This guy knows his shit. He takes three steps back, lifts the sledgehammer over his head to his back, and with a frighteningly ample movement that explores the limit of his short reach, hurls it with all his might at one of the walls that are still standing. Not a single piece comes loose — it doesn’t even make a crack — but the wall vibrates and fragments of dry paint and cement fly everywhere with a dry thud that echoes in his head and slides down his throat to his stomach. Bonobo gives it another few blows, lets out a crazy laugh, and does a little dance. Then he offers him the sledgehammer.
Have a go, man. It’s really cool.
He hits the wall with all his might. The impact travels up his arms and sends a tremor down his spine. He experiences a deep pleasure transferring so much energy in a single blow to the pile of bricks and mortar, and the structure appears to cede a little.
Awesome, isn’t it? Give it a few more tries.
By nightfall they have brought down another wall and are working on the last one, alternating between blows with the sledgehammer and kicks. They have finished the bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla and take turns going to the nearest tavern to get cans of cold beer, which they guzzle down. Altair and Bonobo have been at it since daybreak and midday, respectively, and are showing alarming signs of tiredness. Altair falls asleep sitting up for about half an hour, snoring, but wakes with a start, takes a swig from a can of warm beer that is within reach, gets up, asks for the sledgehammer, and attacks the wall again. Bonobo looks catatonic from time to time, staring straight ahead, but returns to action within one or two minutes. The sky is full of stars and the air is warm. The three of them talk little and pass the sledgehammer back and forth at regular intervals that, to anyone observing them from the entrance to the supermarket or the hot dog stand on the opposite corner, look carefully measured and synchronized. A well-oiled team with a method.
Bonobo tells him that he is from the south zone of Porto Alegre but many years ago he moved to Rosa Beach, where he opened a bed-and-breakfast.
It’s just before Canto do Mar. You know it? The small bed-and-breakfast on the left. Last year I opened a café too.
Altair falls asleep again, this time lying on the gravelly ground, hugging the sledgehammer, his head resting on a backpack. A third of the last wall is still standing, but they are too tired. He and Bonobo pool the change in their pockets and go to the tavern to get their last few cans of beer. They return and drink them sitting down, leaning against the remaining section of wall. Exhaustion installs a feeling of companionship in them. Before he realizes it, he is talking about his dad’s suicide and the dog he decided to adopt. Bonobo listens, nodding his head the whole time, wanting him to be sure he is listening and understanding.
That’s heavy shit. But why did you decide to come here?
He wonders if he should tell him the truth. Altair is snoring. He gives Bonobo a good look and decides that he likes him. He tells him that his grandfather disappeared or was murdered in the town in the late sixties. Bonobo doesn’t understand why anyone would want to go digging up that kind of story but is moved when he tells him about his father’s death. His own father, he explains, lives in Porto Alegre and is very ill.
I think about visiting him all the time, you know.
So go.
Yeah, I really should one of these days.
Do it.
To be honest, I keep putting it off ’cause the bastard left my mother to bring us up on her own and never had much to say for himself. I also don’t like going back to Porto Alegre much. I had some pretty hard times down there.
But he’s family. Go. If he dies, you’ll regret that you didn’t go.
Bonobo has scars on his face. Marks that are fading with time. Vestiges of stitches in his eyebrow, spots on his full lips. The movements of his misproportioned body are harmonious and remind him, improbably, of a dancer. Even now, drunk and exhausted, he appears to have everything under control. He stares into his empty can, burps, and tosses it onto the grass with the others.
Damned beer’s gone.
Who’s going to drive this pickup?
Altair.
He can’t even breathe properly — look at him.
I’d have another beer.
Me too.
Bonobo gets up and riffles through Altair’s pockets.
Try the backpack.
The backpack’s mine. There’s no money in it.
We can go back to my place. I’ve got beer. And cachaça.
Bonobo shakes Altair violently. Altair gets up onto his knees, where he stays for a time with a twisted expression on his face, as if everything he sees is unfamiliar and disgusting, then finally he stands up and starts walking in circles and talking to himself, excited about something or other. They leave everything as it is and walk down the main avenue toward the ocean. Bonobo and Altair wave to a few acquaintances, stop to chat here and there and sometimes introduce their new friend. They look like a trio of peaceful madmen or happy zombies at the end of a long journey to the beach. Bonobo improvises dance steps that make him think of Michael Jackson dancing samba. Altair eggs him on and claps, like the straight man in a comedy duo.
When they pass in front of the pizza parlor, he identifies Dália, who is swiping a credit card through a hand-held terminal at a table on the patio. Their eyes meet, but she pretends she hasn’t seen him. After the machine has printed out the receipts, she comes out to the sidewalk. He affectionately pulls her to him by the apron and tries to give her a kiss.
Hey, I’m working.
Oops.
You look disgusting. What’s going on? You reek of alcohol. Did you pick up Pablito?