When they get back, Sara is sporting the flaming-red cheeks that are her trademark. Her face is covered in sweat and visibly giving off steam. She says that her husband, the dentist, wants to have a barbecue at their place, and the group is invited. Then she takes his arm and pulls him aside as if she wants to tell him a secret.
We still haven’t settled one thing.
What?
How you’re going to charge for the lessons.
I’m still not sure. We’ll talk about it later.
But don’t you have a price?
I’m going to think about it. We’ll talk about it later.
It’s just that it’s been almost a month, and they want to know how much they’re going to have to pay.
Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk about it later.
She looks frustrated but lets it go for the time being.
After the students have gone, he gets the backpack he left hidden behind the wall of a house and puts his running shorts, T-shirt, and shoes in it, leaving on the swimming trunks he is wearing underneath. He gets his goggles and heads out for a swim. The water is cold but bearable. The wind is blowing hard enough to whip up the waves, and he heads through the choppy sea toward the catamaran, planning to swim around it, return to the beach, and repeat the circuit until he is tired. He doesn’t want to swim to Preguiça Beach, as it might anger the fishermen, who are still exercising their right to exclusive access to the bay during the mullet season.
As he approaches the catamaran, he hears warning cries. Puffing and with fogged-up goggles, he raises his head out of the water and sees two crew members in the stern shouting and waving their arms. He takes off his goggles and looks around, trying to see or hear a boat coming in his direction or perhaps a porpoise or goodness knows what. One of the men in the catamaran beckons him over and points at something in the back of the boat. He swims over cautiously, and as he gets a little closer, he is able to see over the top of the waves. An animal is glistening on the stern platform. It is a large, round seal, its fur mottled with patches of light and dark gray. The men are laughing, enchanted by the awkward, whiskered mammal swaying back and forth from flipper to flipper. He stops a few yards from the boat. One of the men says that it was there when they woke up and isn’t showing any sign of wanting to leave. They think it is hungry, and the other man goes into the cabin for a minute and comes back out with a small fish. The seal takes a look at the fish that the man is shaking over its head, gives two short, loud, nasal grunts that sound like pure mockery, and after a dramatic pause, flips effortlessly into the sea and slips beneath the water without a splash. They look at each other, not knowing what to say. He asks who the catamaran belongs to, and the men start to explain that they are just looking after the boat. The owner, a guy from São Paulo who is sailing around the world, stopped there to see to something in Garopaba. The seal leaps out of the water with a somersault worthy of a gymnast and lands in the same position as before on the stern platform. It has a large fish in its mouth, at least three times bigger than the one offered by its hosts. The fish flaps about until the seal tires of showing off and devours it.
• • •
That same afternoon he is explaining to the twins how to do a drill to extend their strokes when a woman appears at the entrance to the pool and runs toward him with a worried face and flailing arms.
Your dog’s been run over.
He doesn’t recognize her.
It can’t be mine, he says. My dog’s here.
I saw it! she shouts in exasperation. It was right in front of me, over on the avenue.
He strains to recognize her. She is a slender woman in her early forties, with veins like tree roots running down her arms to her hands.
It isn’t possible. Beta’s lying at the entrance to the gym, he says with impatience that sounds affected to his own ears. She always waits outside reception or with Mila in the snack bar.
He takes two steps toward the door but realizes he doesn’t know where he is going, so he stops and hesitates. The twins take in the scene wide-eyed. They look more identical than ever. He is sweating in the warm air, pungent with the smell of chlorine. The woman grabs his arm.
Come on, let’s go. The man who hit her took her to Greice’s. That’s where you should go.
Do I know you?
Before he has even finished saying it, he knows it was a mistake. He hasn’t rushed in with a question like this in a long time.
What? Are you nuts?
He stares hard at the woman’s face, glances at her sandals, her green and gold sarong with Indian patterns, the blouse without any distinguishing characteristic, earrings, hair, teeth. Nothing.
She places her hand on his face and gives him a maternal look. As if he were a sick child.
Stay calm. I’ll come with you, come on.
He follows her, breathing quickly. His vision has tunneled, and outside of it everything is blurry and no longer of interest.
It’s me, Celma, your student, she says, glancing at him.
I know, sorry. I’m a bit confused.
So this is what Celma’s face looks like. They ran together earlier that morning. She told him much of her life story. He apologizes again. She shakes her head as if to say she doesn’t mind.
As he leaves the pool building, he can’t help but look in the places where Beta normally spends her time. Débora says she hasn’t seen her. Celma loses her patience.
I’m telling you, your dog’s over at Greice’s! Get down there before she dies! Do you want me to take you there? If not, I’m going home.
Who’s Greice?
The vet over in Palhocinha. The guy said he was going to leave her there.
They pass through the front gate of the gym. Celma climbs onto her bicycle and turns to fiddle with something in the wicker basket lashed to the bike rack with bungee cords.
How is she?
Celma presses her lips together and sighs.
He ran right over her. He got her good.
But is she alive?
I don’t know. She was in a bad way. But he stopped the car and asked where there was a vet. Lúcia from the coffee shop told him to take her to Greice and explained where it is. He went to pick her up, and she tried to bite him. Someone gave him a hand, and they managed to get her in the car, and the guy sped off.
It’s the clinic over by the highway, isn’t it? The one with the greenish sign.
That’s the one. Near the fire station. Want to take my bike?
But before she can finish, he thanks her and sprints away. He runs three blocks to the main avenue, where he turns left and almost collides with a cyclist riding down the bike lane with a surfboard under his arm. He runs in his T-shirt, Speedos, and flip-flops. When the strap of one of the flip-flops breaks, he slows down, kicks them off his feet in a kind of clumsy dance step, and keeps running. The soles of his feet pound the cracked tarmac and hard sand at the shoulder of the road. He passes a shop selling Indian decorations and one of the many pizza parlors that closed right after Carnival. In the swamp on the right side of the road, which extends for several miles to the hills, a column of gray smoke is rising from a fire. He hears the crackling of burning bamboo and sees pink tongues of fire in his peripheral vision. There is no time to look now. His breathing is becoming more labored. The vegetation along the side of the road stinks of carrion. He stares straight ahead as he runs with long strides, his feet stinging from the friction, and wonders why he is running to the vet’s, why he didn’t take Celma’s bike, why he didn’t ask for a lift, or better, why he didn’t take his own bicycle, which was where he always left it back at the gym. Idiot. He approaches the turnoff to Ferrugem Beach. At the back of his throat, he detects the zincky taste of being out of breath. He runs until he sees the green sign saying PETVIDA.