to fix his bike, a brown Barra Forte that he used to ride.
Whatâs your brotherâs name?
Dilmar.
Any chance I could talk to him?
No. He passed away.
Is it true my granddad was murdered here?
I donât know. But donât go around asking that kind of thing.
Why not?
Because you donât talk about that kind of thing. It doesnât matter if it happened or not. People donât know certain things after some time has passed because they donât want to. Do you follow?
He stares at Zé for a moment, then nods.
Youâre a good kid. Let it go. And come back here to shave that beard off when you get tired of it.
Will do.
Take care.
Thanks, you too.
Now I know why I thought I knew you from somewhere.
What do you mean?
You really look like Gaudério.
Yeah, I know.
The penny will drop for some people. It probably already has.
No one remembers him. Itâs as if he never existed.
There are some whoâll remember. If they want to. To remember you have to want to.
But why wouldnât people here want to remember him?
It doesnât matter. Just remember what I told you.
Thanks for your concern. But I think I need to get to the bottom of this.
This place is blessed. So much beauty everywhere you look. Right, gaucho? A person can be really happy here.
FOUR
T
he cold nights torture the summer
with a slow death. Dália rests her cup of coffee on her legs, which are extended on the small canvas sofa in the living room, as she stares through the window at the crystalline surface of a lazy sea that looks as if it is stretching, like them, waiting for the sun to come up and warm it. He is sitting on the fabric sofa pushed up against the opposite wall, but the room is so small that they could touch hands if they held out their arms. He looks at Dália in profile, her curly hair, the delicate features in a broad face, the upturned crest of her top lip backlit by the light from outside. He enjoys in silence the pleasure of being in the presence of such a beautiful woman. He maps the circumstances that put her there as if they were of his own doing. Outside, local children run past, laughing euphorically and shouting, wearing only bathing suits, carrying pieces of wood and primitive fishing rods, packets of cookies and colorful plastic buckets, and staring unashamedly through the window into the apartment. The sky is blue, but he can somehow tell it is going to rain later. Several weeks in Garopaba have enabled him to make this kind of intuitive meteorological reading based on signs that he still canât put a finger on: the direction of the wind, the humidity inside the apartment, the behavior of the birds, the background noise of the ocean. Dália uses her big toe to turn on the tiny television set on the chest of drawers near the window, and says she wants to watch the morning cartoons. A popular talk-show host appears on the screen and warns her that the TV will turn itself off in a minute at the most, which is exactly what happens. It has been like this since his second week in the apartment. Cecina explained that it is a common problem caused by the same salty ocean air that has already started to rust the barbecue knife that he got as a present from his father and to cover all surfaces with a slippery film that corrodes all kinds of metal at an alarming speed no matter what anyone does to protect them. The door is open, and he hears Betaâs firm footsteps, as her long nails rasp on the cement outside and then the beige-tiled floor of the living room. He snaps his fingers, whistles, and calls her, almost simultaneously, because he isnât really sure how she likes to be called now that his fatherâs familiar gestures are no longer there for her. In the last few days she has responded to his calls more enthusiastically and accompanies him on walks without the need of a leash. He likes the responsibility of looking after her, the objective simplicity of his mission
Whatâs your brotherâs name?
Dilmar.
Any chance I could talk to him?
No. He passed away.
Is it true my granddad was murdered here?
I donât know. But donât go around asking that kind of thing.
Why not?
Because you donât talk about that kind of thing. It doesnât matter if it happened or not. People donât know certain things after some time has passed because they donât want to. Do you follow?
He stares at Zé for a moment, then nods.
Youâre a good kid. Let it go. And come back here to shave that beard off when you get tired of it.
Will do.
Take care.
Thanks, you too.
Now I know why I thought I knew you from somewhere.
What do you mean?
You really look like Gaudério.
Yeah, I know.
The penny will drop for some people. It probably already has.
No one remembers him. Itâs as if he never existed.
There are some whoâll remember. If they want to. To remember you have to want to.
But why wouldnât people here want to remember him?
It doesnât matter. Just remember what I told you.
Thanks for your concern. But I think I need to get to the bottom of this.
This place is blessed. So much beauty everywhere you look. Right, gaucho? A person can be really happy here.
FOUR
T
he cold nights torture the summer
with a slow death. Dália rests her cup of coffee on her legs, which are extended on the small canvas sofa in the living room, as she stares through the window at the crystalline surface of a lazy sea that looks as if it is stretching, like them, waiting for the sun to come up and warm it. He is sitting on the fabric sofa pushed up against the opposite wall, but the room is so small that they could touch hands if they held out their arms. He looks at Dália in profile, her curly hair, the delicate features in a broad face, the upturned crest of her top lip backlit by the light from outside. He enjoys in silence the pleasure of being in the presence of such a beautiful woman. He maps the circumstances that put her there as if they were of his own doing. Outside, local children run past, laughing euphorically and shouting, wearing only bathing suits, carrying pieces of wood and primitive fishing rods, packets of cookies and colorful plastic buckets, and staring unashamedly through the window into the apartment. The sky is blue, but he can somehow tell it is going to rain later. Several weeks in Garopaba have enabled him to make this kind of intuitive meteorological reading based on signs that he still canât put a finger on: the direction of the wind, the humidity inside the apartment, the behavior of the birds, the background noise of the ocean. Dália uses her big toe to turn on the tiny television set on the chest of drawers near the window, and says she wants to watch the morning cartoons. A popular talk-show host appears on the screen and warns her that the TV will turn itself off in a minute at the most, which is exactly what happens. It has been like this since his second week in the apartment. Cecina explained that it is a common problem caused by the same salty ocean air that has already started to rust the barbecue knife that he got as a present from his father and to cover all surfaces with a slippery film that corrodes all kinds of metal at an alarming speed no matter what anyone does to protect them. The door is open, and he hears Betaâs firm footsteps, as her long nails rasp on the cement outside and then the beige-tiled floor of the living room. He snaps his fingers, whistles, and calls her, almost simultaneously, because he isnât really sure how she likes to be called now that his fatherâs familiar gestures are no longer there for her. In the last few days she has responded to his calls more enthusiastically and accompanies him on walks without the need of a leash. He likes the responsibility of looking after her, the objective simplicity of his mission
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