Fuck, Dad.
His dad’s eyes are red.
It’s Beta.
What about Beta?
His dad waves at the front door and makes an almost inaudible sound. The dog gets up without hesitation and leaves the house.
You know how much I love that dog. We’ve got a real connection.
I’m not doing it.
Why not?
There’s no way I can look after a dog right now. And anyway… fuck, I don’t believe this. Sorry. I’ve got to go.
I don’t want you to look after her. I want you to take her to Rolf, over in Belém Novo. After I’ve… done what I’m going to do. Ask him to give her an injection. I’ve done my homework — it’s painless.
No, no.
She’s already depressed. She knows. She’ll waste away when she’s on her own.
Do it yourself. You’re the one who thinks he doesn’t have any fucking choice. I do. I won’t be a part of this.
I can’t bring myself to, kid.
No, no.
You have to promise me.
Forget it, Dad. There’s no way.
Promise.
I can’t be a part of this.
Please.
No. It’s not fair.
You’re denying me my last wish.
It won’t happen.
You’ll do it. I know you will.
I will not. You’re on your own. I can’t. Sorry.
I know you’ll do it. That’s why you’re here.
You’re trying to persuade me. A few minutes ago that was obscene.
I’m not going to persuade you. I’m done. It’s my last wish. I know you won’t deny me it.
Miserable old man.
That’s my name.
A very old memory comes to mind. The scene is incongruous and doesn’t seem to deserve having been recorded in memory, much less being recalled at a moment like this. One morning before work, his dad was shaving in the bathroom with the door open, and he, aged six or seven at the time, was watching him. After shaving, he washed his face with soap, lathering it up well, then rinsed it repeatedly. There was no more soap on his face by the second rinse, but he kept on splashing his face with water, four, five times. He asked his dad why he rinsed his face so many times if the soap was already gone by the second rinse, and he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: ’Cause it feels good.
My hand’s shaking, Dad.
You’re doing just fine. You’re a superior human being.
Shut up.
Seriously, I’m really proud of you. No one else’d be able to do it.
I didn’t say I would.
I could make you promise something much worse. To make up with your brother, for example.
I’d do it if you told me all this was just a big joke. In a few hours I’d be giving him a hug. You could start organizing the barbecue.
Good try. But to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I wouldn’t forgive him, if I were you.
Good to know.
Yeah, well, I don’t mind saying it now. But I really do need you to spare the old girl. She’s fifteen, but her breed can easily live more than twenty years. She’s my life. Ever seen a depressed dog? If she’s left here without me, I’ll take her suffering with me. Can I consider it promised?
Okay.
Thanks.
No, it’s not okay. I can’t be a part of this.
Love you, kid.
I didn’t say I would. I haven’t accepted. Don’t touch me.
I wasn’t going to. I’m not moving.
TWO
The ocean finally appears at the end of the main avenue of the town, a cold blue sliver at the end of the stretch of tarmac glinting under the throbbing midday sun. It is his birthday. He drives in second gear with the windows down and the fan on to keep air moving through the car on the windless day, the muffled whir of the fan mingling with the shy drone of the 1.0-liter engine and Ben Harper music coming from the CD player, almost stopping at speed bumps so as not to scrape the underside of his overloaded car. In the trunk and backseat of the small Ford Fiesta are two suitcases of clothing, a sound system that he is two installments away from paying off, a twenty-nine-inch TV, his PlayStation 2, a camping backpack full of personal belongings, a carefully folded wool blanket and quilt, plastic bags containing sneakers and shoes, CDs, and some basic kitchen utensils. He has packed photo albums, a barbecue knife his dad gave him, with its armadillo-leather handle and steel blade that rusts now and then and needs to be cleaned with steel wool and greased with oil, his special rubber wetsuit for swimming, and an eight-by-ten-inch black-framed photograph registering his arrival in the Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii. A support attached to the trunk with hooks and chains holds his mountain bike, battered after a few years’ use, an already outdated model with a thick, heavy aluminum frame. Beta is asleep, curled up in the passenger seat, muscles softened by the hot sun, and lulled by five hours of driving on the highway. She sighs often, sniffs, sneezes from time to time, opens her eyes, and closes them again without changing position.
He ate a toasted salami-and-cheese sandwich in Osório and a meat pasty at a gas station near Jaguaruna, so he drives straight past the restaurants he sees along the way and instead pays attention to the real estate agents, with eye-catching signs dotted along the main avenue. They are all conveniently closed at this hour. He continues on in the light traffic toward the blue of the ocean, in the opposite direction from small groups of lethargic pedestrians in bathing suits, dazed by the sun, heading for restaurants or home, carrying folding chairs and beach bags. It has been over a week since Ash Wednesday took with it most of the tourists, and the few who have stayed behind or just arrived behave with the serenity of latecomers.
The main avenue ends in a curve to the right and turns into the seaside boulevard. He parks diagonally between other cars in the parking spaces facing the beach. The sun beats down on the Fiesta. He walks around the car and opens the passenger door. Beta raises her head but doesn’t move. Just as on the other three stops he made during the journey, he has to pick her up and set her down on her feet on the ground before she decides to lap up the warm water he pours from a family-size plastic bottle into an empty ice cream tub. He takes the last few swigs from the same bottle. He takes off his shirt and sneakers, leaving on only his swimming trunks. He locks the car and heads down the cement ramp next to the Embarcação Restaurant to the sand, carrying Beta. Groups of off-season tourists enjoy themselves on the spacious beach. He approaches a woman who is smoking and reading a book by herself under a beach umbrella. The book’s cover is purple. Her knees are dark, her toenails are painted with pearly nail polish, and she is wearing a delicate gold anklet. The umbrella is blue with an insurance company logo on it, and the sunlight that manages to pass through it gives her bare legs a green hue. He memorizes all this so he’ll be able to remember her later.
Hi. Would you mind watching my dog for a bit?
She lifts up her sunglasses and gazes a moment at the animal in his arms.
Can’t he walk?
She can walk, but she’s a bit tired. If I could put her in the shade here, she’ll just lie there until I get back.
Okay, you can leave her. But I’m not chasing after her if she runs away.
She won’t run away. And if she does, just let her go. I’ll find her afterward.