How much do you need?
To get out of the worst of it, about three grand. Three and a half.
Get the pen on the table there, and write down your account number on a piece of paper. I’ll transfer it to you tomorrow.
Man, it doesn’t have to be the whole lot. There are some other people I can ask too. I’ve got a friend over in Silveira who’s given me a loan before.
I’ve still got most of the money from the sale of the car. Pay me back when you can.
You’re going to spend a fortune on vet bills. Seriously, it doesn’t have to be everything. If you can just loan me some of it, it’s already a huge favor.
If I’m saying I can, I can. No sweat.
Bonobo writes his account number on a blank page of the diary.
Now take that same pen, sign this paper, and put it somewhere safe.
Bonobo reads what is written on the piece of paper again.
Man, you’re the most disturbed individual I’ve ever met. I admire you.
He signs the paper, folds it three times, and tucks it inside his battered canvas wallet with a Velcro fastening.
All I have to do is hang on to it?
Yep. Keep it safe. Don’t lose it.
A yellow cat climbs onto the window ledge and peers through the open glass. It looks surprised to find two men in the apartment. It stares at the humans, and the humans stare back until it decides it’s in the wrong place and disappears into the darkness with a leap.
What do you do when you’re here alone?
I cook a little. Sometimes I play a video game.
What about Dália?
We broke up.
Fuck. Right before winter. What happened?
I don’t know. I just lost interest.
She’s a really awesome chick, but she’s a bit of a space cadet.
No, she isn’t. She’s actually got her shit together.
That’s the thing with relationships. We don’t get to choose when they happen. They come and go on the wind of karma. When you least expect it, another one’ll appear. Just be careful with these local girls: they’re easy to knock up.
The locals have already got it in for me ’cause I keep asking questions about my grandfather’s death. If I get involved with one of their daughters, I’ll meet the same end that he did.
Want to rewrite what you put on that piece of paper?
He doesn’t answer, and the two of them sit there smiling for a while in silence.
Hey, do you play poker?
I’ve played a few times. But it’s been ages.
We’re going to play poker over at the bed-and-breakfast. I’m trying to organize it with the gang again. Altair plays, and Diego from the gas station, and some guys from Rosa too. It’s awesome. But you’ve got to be prepared, ’cause the rounds take time. We play geriatric-diaper poker. Everyone has to bring a packet of diapers.
Come again?
Geriatric diapers. That way no one needs to stop the game to take a piss.
You can’t be serious. That’s deranged.
We’ve played for more than twenty-four hours nonstop.
What if someone needs to crap?
In that case, fine. They get up and go. But no one takes a dump in the middle of a game of poker, do they? You drop your boulders before the game. It’s a question of professionalism. You’ve got to take it seriously. I’ll let you know the next time we’re going to play. Get prepared.
When the twelve empty cans are sitting on the table, Bonobo says good-bye with a complex handshake that involves touching fists, patting each other on the chest with the backs of their hands, and cracking their fingers. Then he hugs him.
Thanks for the money. You’re a lifesaver.
No problem. That’s what friends are for.
I’ll pay you back soon.
Don’t sweat. When you can.
Try not to isolate yourself too much here.
Don’t worry.
I worry about you a bit.
Fuck off, Bonobo. Go home.
Later, after Lockjaw’s engine has laughed and started and the noise of the car has disappeared into the distance and the fishermen’s dogs have stopped barking and rattling their chains, he opens one of his backpacks in the closet and takes out a photo album. He sits on the floor and flicks through it. There are photos of his father, his mother, Dante, and Viviane. He takes out a photo of his older brother and compares it to one of himself to see once more how different they are. His brother takes after their mother. He looks at photos of his first girlfriend and his favorite cousin, Melissa, who lives in Australia and hasn’t been in touch in months. Photos of a few university friends. Fellow triathletes. He looks at the images and tries to guess who is in them. He is actually capable of getting his brother wrong, or even his parents in some cases, but he has memorized most of the photos in the album, which he considers his most important album, a catalog of his family, social circle, and love life. He gazes at a photo of five sweaty athletes in the early-afternoon sun posing side by side on their racing bikes with Lami Beach in the background and the corner of a fruit stand on the right, each of them holding a different piece of fruit: Maísa with a bunch of bananas, Renato with a slice of watermelon, Breno with a pineapple, himself with an orange skewered on the end of a kitchen knife, and Pedro on the right with some pink grapes. It was one of the group’s last workouts before the Ironman in Hawaii. The people’s names are handwritten on the backs of the photos, at the bottom or right across the picture itself. “FATHER.” “MOTHER.” “PARENTS.” “DANTE.” “VIVIANE”, “ME AND VIVIANE.” “VIVIANE (2ND ON RIGHT) AND FRIENDS.” “TRAVELING SALESMEN CLUB: RENATO, ME, BRENO, MAÍSA, SANDRA, LEILA” hugging by a poolside and “PEDRO” with an arrow pointing at a smiling face in the pool. There are three portraits of himself, all labeled “ME.”
• • •
Thousands of people flock to the main square on the second Wednesday in June, on a freezing cold night, for the opening of the XIth Garopaba Church Fair with a Gian & Giovani concert. The country music duo’s songs have been playing nonstop on the local radio stations, and a five-year-old girl is now singing one at the top of her lungs while swaying on her father’s dancing shoulders. The square itself has disappeared beneath the crowd, the small stage, the main stage with its green, red, and blue spotlights and the dozens of stalls selling arts and crafts, drinks, pine seeds, mulled wine, and endless sweet and savory snacks. The air is filled with the smells of caramel, spices, baked mullet, fried foods, cigarettes, wet earth, minty colognes, and trampled grass. The whole town has turned out. Younger children climb the trees and sit there with their little legs dangling like rotten branches to watch the concert from above the mass of teenage gangs, hand-holding couples, and families advancing as a solid block. Everyone seems eager to see and be seen in the ant colony of the community in celebration, seeking a promised and greatly desired social catharsis. Some people are wearing their best dresses and suits. Heavy earrings and gold watches flash in the dark. Politicians, the disabled, doctors, police officers, fishermen, athletes, couples with prams, tramps, tourists. The town’s crazies are all there, mellowed by the chaos. There are also the bored, those who can’t sleep because of the noise and those who glance around with looks of disapproval or incomprehension. Everyone.