Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) by Daniel Galera Page B

and take him home every afternoon, which she will no longer have time to do.
    Of course I can.
    I pick him up by bike. He’s used to it. He sits on the bar or the rack. He likes it. But if it’s too much of a hassle, don’t worry. It’s just that I don’t have anyone else I can ask at the moment.
    Something about the circumstances of the moment moves him. The dog seems happy and at peace for the first time since his father’s death. Dália is entrusting him with the care of her son, whom he hasn’t even met. Maybe it is the urgency with which she is seeking to plant her flag in his life, maybe he just wants to be on his own and is feeling momentarily needy, maybe deep down she doesn’t feel right for him: he doesn’t have a precise diagnosis, but he has a strong feeling that the nascent intimacy between them has just now begun to end. He hopes he is wrong. And at the same time there is a comforting inner coherence in the way in which they have already irreversibly affected each other’s lives. Something good has already installed itself and is protected, and it will last even if these mornings cease today.
    I’ll pick him up. No problem.
    Just until I find someone else. I didn’t want to have to ask you.
    I’ll pick him up for as long as you need. Don’t worry about it. But it’s probably a good idea that I meet the kid first.
    We’ll arrange it tomorrow. I’ll call you. How are you going to recognize him at school?
    There’s always a way. Let me meet him first.
    He’s got big ears.
    I’ll figure it out.
    Okay.
    I’ll put a bike seat on for him.
    Don’t worry about it. He sits on the bar. He never . . .
    She trails off without finishing her sentence. Outside, the
Lendário
blows its long, shrill whistle once, twice, while tourists hurry down the path outside his window. They are couples and small families trying to make the most of the schooner tours during the last few warm weekends of the season. The knowledge that this is a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning before an afternoon of rain in late March is written in their eyes and their reverent attitude before the schooner. He kneels next to the sofa Dália is on and kisses her. The bitter coffee tastes nice in her saliva. They shoo away the dog, close the living-room shutters, take off their clothes, and are soon in the bedroom. The rumble of the diesel engine passes through the walls, the whistle sounds again, and the schooner takes off. A cloud covers the sun behind the closed shutters, and the room slowly darkens. With him on top, Dália comes without a sound, and a tear slides out of each eye. She rolls over and sniffs.
    Shit.
    You okay?
    No, I’m not. If I were moaning like a whore, it’d mean I’m okay.
    The cloud uncovers the sun. Dália rolls back and places her hand on his chest.
    Just pretend I didn’t say anything.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    I t takes about ten minutes pedaling slowly to get from the Pinguirito Municipal School, where Pablo is in the first grade, to Dália’s house, but today he takes a detour past the Gelomel ice cream parlor before handing the boy over to Dália’s mother, who had a foot amputated a few months ago as a result of a diabetic ulcer. She always invites him in for some cake and juice. Sometimes he accepts the invitation. Dália’s mother likes him. She claims to be something of a witch and says she dreamed about him before they even met in person, perhaps influenced by the things Dália had already told her about him. * At each visit she adds some details to the dream, things she has remembered or new interpretations she has made. He has already told her he doesn’t believe in such things, but she doesn’t seem to care. Sometimes he gets the impression that she makes up her dreams on the spot.
    He is still riding down the main avenue to the ice cream parlor when he passes a