Better not.
Well, what are you going to do with that bulge there?
He leans his forehead against the waistband of her shorts and sighs.
That’s it, she says.
His cell phone starts to ring.
Don’t answer it.
On the fourth ring he slowly pushes her away and picks up the phone. It is Gonçalo.
Hey, buddy. How’s life on the beach?
All good, Gonça. How are things there?
Same old circus as always. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’ve been swamped and only managed to follow up on that matter in the last few days. I talked to some people in the civil police and the Santa Catarina state court. There’s no way you’ll find the inquest, if there ever was one. Forget it.
Fuck.
He goes to the window and unlocks the shutters.
However—
Gonçalo makes a dramatic pause. He opens the shutters a crack and sees the sunny beach.
— I consulted the old payrolls and found the name of the police chief who probably went to Garopaba to look into the crime. I did some research on the guy and discovered two things.
He glances over his shoulder. Sara is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, almost in a position of meditation, staring at the sandy-colored floor tiles with a vague expression. She looks like a robot that has been switched off.
What?
First, the guy’s still alive. Second, I know where he lives. In Pato Branco.
Is that here in Santa Catarina?
In Paraná. In the west of the state. Near the border of Santa Catarina. His name is Zenão Bonato. He’s a partner in a private security company called Commando. I hope that’s a reference to that Schwarzenegger movie. Give him my regards if it is.
But how do I find him?
I’ve got the company’s address and phone number here.
Hold on. Let me get a pen.
He rummages through the wicker basket on the counter for a pen and piece of paper to write on. He still has a hard-on, and Sara watches his movements with the same empty expression on her face.
Okay, what is it?
He writes down the former police chief’s name, address, and phone number on a pamphlet for an adventure tour operator specializing in whale watching.
Thanks, Gonça. I can handle it from here.
No problem. I’m here if you need me. Are you busy?
No, why?
Dunno. Are you okay?
I’m great.
Good to hear. Okay then. I’ve got an article to write here. I hope the info’s useful. Let me know how you get on.
Will do. See ya.
As soon as he hangs up, Sara comes to life again and glares at him with her slanting eyes. She looks like a patient who has been forgotten for hours in a doctor’s waiting room.
That was a friend of mine from Porto Alegre.
She doesn’t say anything.
Want a glass of water?
No.
She gets up and walks over to him. She puts her face very close, with her nose touching his cheek.
I’m going to have a shower now.
He moves her backwards and to one side with a deliberately mechanical gesture, as if repositioning a mannequin.
Be quick then, she says, and let’s go and buy this fucking flank steak, or rump or whatever it is.
Matambre.
He takes a step toward the bathroom but stops that very second, turns, and goes to close the shutters, extinguishing the beam of sunlight illuminating the room. When he turns around again, Sara is moving in and stops only when her body is flush against his. Fuck it. He has allowed himself to be cornered, and now he needs to act accordingly. Sara wraps her arms around his neck. He wedges his hands under her jacket and runs his palms up her warm belly, sticky with sweat. He works his fingers under her top and fondles her small breasts. Sara kisses him timidly. It is more a series of little pecks than a real kiss, not at all the eager kiss that he was expecting, given the circumstances. It’s her way of kissing. Half the fun of it is that things are never exactly as you imagine. She kneels and sucks his cock. He holds her by the ponytail. She stops for a moment and says, Just today, okay? I promise.
• • •
Before catching the bus to Florianópolis, he stops by the veterinary clinic. Greice is in a good mood and greets him with a kiss on the cheek. He asks how Jander is, and she says he is great. What lovely weather we’ve been having. Come see your pup. The kennel is behind the clinic and has a dozen cement compartments with barred fronts. Some are open at the top, and this is where the animals that need more intensive care are kept. Beta is in one of these, lying on her side on a blanket. There are two small bowls containing water and dog food, and the rest of the floor is covered with newspaper. As soon as she sees or smells him, she starts trying to move. One of her front paws is bandaged. Parts of her fur have been shaved and are covered with plasters and crusty bits of healing flesh. She has lost a piece of one ear. Greice says her spine wasn’t fractured. It was swelling around the spinal cord. She opens the barred door and strokes Beta. Look at this. Greice carefully picks her up and sets her on her paws. Beta stands there but doesn’t move.
Her movement’s slowly coming back. I still can’t say if she’ll be able to walk normally. We’ll have to see how she goes. But she’s a fighter, your dog. I didn’t expect this. It’s a tough breed.
Greice steps aside, and he enters the small space, crouches down, and strokes Beta’s neck while murmuring in her ear. She’s going to walk again, aren’t you? I have to make a short trip, but I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, and I’ll come visit you every day, okay?
The vet lays Beta down again.
How much longer will she need to stay here?
About two weeks. At least.
He smiles to himself several times during the ninety-minute bus trip to Florianópolis, thinking about how things go well when you least expect them to. Beta is able to stand. Sara has still been coming to their morning workouts trying hard to act as if nothing happened. The water has been so warm that he has been swimming in just his Speedos. His more dedicated students haven’t abandoned the pool even though winter is coming, and they are swimming better and better. When he is out and about, he is greeted and waved at by people he doesn’t recognize, and whenever he can, he approaches them and strikes up a conversation until he is able to tell who they are. Nights pass in the blink of an eye and are restorative. The day smells of ozone and the salty sea breeze. The green of the vegetation pulsates on the slopes of the Serra do Mar Range, and the mountaintops framed by the bus windows speak of the mystery of unspoiled places. The vibration of the bus is calming, and the landscape sliding past on the other side of the glass makes him think about the obvious things that one never thinks about. How it is incredible that all the things around him are actually there. That he is there. That he can perceive them. He feels as if he is stationary and moving at the same time and remembers his parents telling him how they used to drive him around in the car to get him to sleep when he was a baby. Across the aisle, a few seats ahead of his, a girl is asleep leaning against her boyfriend with her foot stretched out in the middle of the aisle, and he can see her turquoise-painted toenails, a Mayan sun tattoo on her ankle, the boyfriend’s hand caressing the caramel-colored skin of her calf. The whole composition reminds him of something he once had and that he isn’t sure if he misses. He does and he doesn’t at the same time. It is less the melancholy memory of an absence and more the comforting evidence that it exists and is still part of the world.