Learning To Lose Part 10

Leandro walks toward his house with the bulging envelope in the inner pocket of his coat. The money seems to beat to the rhythm of his heart, as if it were alive. He goes up the stairs too quickly, and when he gets to his apartment he is worn out. Benita is putting away the cleaning supplies, although she always forgets the gla.s.s cleaner on the arm of the sofa and the duster on top of a radiator. I left some potatoes and meat in the pan, you just have to heat them up. Someone called asking for you but didn't want to leave a message, said that you would know who was calling, asked if I was your wife. Do you know what I answered? I wish...sorry, it just came out that way.

Leandro wasn't paying much attention to Benita but he smiles along. She raised her voice too much because she was deaf in one ear from her husband's beatings. But her laughter doesn't distract Leandro. He is upset about the call.

Aurora begrudgingly eats the stew Benita cooked. Leandro doesn't tell her anything about his conversation with the doctor. He goes through the daily routine of bringing the radio over so she can listen to the cla.s.sical music program. The only change from his usual behavior is that when the hostess announces a Brahms piece, he explains to Aurora that the composer had written it while he was having an affair with Clara, Schumann's wife. Schumann was a marvelous pianist, he says, and he tells her two anecdotes about the composer.

He knows how much she enjoys his commentary. Leandro doesn't want to feel bad about having rationed out the few, simple pleasures his wife had asked him for in all those years as a couple. And he had been so miserly.

Leandro remembers in detail the night, years earlier, when he came home from the academy and she asked him how his day had been, and he replied with a laconic good. Then his wife broke the silence with a slight moan and Leandro realized she was crying. Even though he asked her why, she didn't answer right away. She only said that she was expecting something more than a good when she asked about his day. Aurora had gone to her room. She never repeated the complaint so overtly. Leandro knows that the countdown set by her illness couldn't make up for an entire life. He trusted that the sum of all the good moments made a profitable balance of their years together, but she'd never be able to forgive him for what he had denied her, his stupid stinginess of emotion. She hadn't deserved it, she had worked to create a livelier, full atmosphere.

Leandro separated out the money he would bring to settle the debt at the chalet. And with that, I will fill in this hole in my life. Like someone covering up a crack, like someone blocking a well, like the displaced earth that in time will get mixed back up with the dirt around it. It will be his Christmas present, his renunciation, his last visit to the chalet.

15.

Lorenzo hadn't been back to that upper part of the Tetuan neighborhood since the days he played soccer with other kids on the open stretches of ground. He had seen the outskirts of the Plaza de Castilla grow, but the side street he was now on had barely changed. Humble, cl.u.s.tered houses, some low-lying housing, almost redbrick shanties, that revealed the poor neighborhood it had been. From some streets, he could see the plaza's leaning towers and beneath the clock of the old water tower on the ca.n.a.l a defiant gla.s.s building owned by a bank or a big company. When he and Pilar were looking for a house, they even considered the rich strip on the other side of the plaza. But by then the prices were already prohibitive and he had an immediate feeling of nostalgia looking at them. Nostalgia for a kind of life and city that they would never enjoy.

Finally they found the apartment on Calle Alenza. Pilar was pregnant and they had ruled out leaving Madrid. Lorenzo didn't know if moving to Saragossa had been hard for her or easy, if it was something she accepted as part of Santiago's delusions of grandeur, his social climbing, or as another advantage of distancing herself from her past with Lorenzo.

He looks at his watch. It is three minutes past eleven and the cold off the street isn't conducive to much waiting. Lorenzo is in front of the place, which is lined with people. It must have been an old workshop. A wide elevated platform barely ten inches above the sidewalk is crammed with chairs arranged on either side of a central walkway. Old, not particularly elegant folding chairs. The entrance is a gla.s.s and aluminum door, almost completely covered by taped-up posters, advertis.e.m.e.nts, photocopies. On the door an ugly sign composed of orange adhesive letters reads: THE CHURCH OF THE SECOND RESURRECTION THE CHURCH OF THE SECOND RESURRECTION. There is a muted television screen showing images of religious acts. The largest poster on the door says: G.o.d IS CALLING, ARE YOU GOING TO ANSWER G.o.d IS CALLING, ARE YOU GOING TO ANSWER? And the somewhat naive drawing depicts a cell phone.

Lorenzo watches the people who go in. Mostly Latin Americans, women in their Sunday best, men who have tamed their thick manes of hair with s.h.i.+ny gel. Some have tattoos peeking out from beneath their clean, brightly colored s.h.i.+rts. The doorway is crowded with kids playing on the sidewalk, their complexions dark and their accents local, dotted with the strong Madrid j j.

By then Lorenzo begins to worry that Daniela isn't going to show up. A man approaches the door to call the kids in, and when he sees Lorenzo he comes up to him cordially. The service is about to start, join us if you'd like. Lorenzo goes into the last row, still standing.

Days earlier he had watched, beside Detective Baldasano, his house being searched. His state of mind had been much less calm. He was surprised at how unscientific it all was, seeing four men spread out through the rooms, particularly insistent on going through Lorenzo's clothes, deep in his closet. The work lasted barely twenty minutes, during which Baldasano looked out the living room window onto the street. He put out his cigarillos under the kitchen tap. The policemen took some of Lorenzo's clothing in sealed plastic bags and left the apartment in a disorderly fas.h.i.+on. Baldasano insisted on inviting him for a coffee in a nearby bar. Do you know the Rubio? It's right around here.

There was a fish tank with sh.e.l.lfish in the window and a lobster that looked more like a pet than something available to customers. He ordered a coffee with milk. The kitchen spat out the smoke of reheated oil. The bar concealed tapas: potato frittata, anchovies, potato salad, meatb.a.l.l.s, and soft empanadillas empanadillas sweating grease beneath the gla.s.s display cases. Baldasano waved from a distance to another man who was sitting at the end of the bar and flipping through a sports newspaper. Maybe another cop. Lorenzo tried to locate their pistols, near their armpits. They both wore thick jackets, but not coats. sweating grease beneath the gla.s.s display cases. Baldasano waved from a distance to another man who was sitting at the end of the bar and flipping through a sports newspaper. Maybe another cop. Lorenzo tried to locate their pistols, near their armpits. They both wore thick jackets, but not coats.

Baldasano smoked his short cigarillos. His skin was lined along the chin and he had a scar hidden on his neck. The first thing he did was rea.s.sure Lorenzo. I just wanted to have a chat with you, I don't want you to think that a search incriminates you in any definitive way. Lorenzo felt nervous, but he adopted a pa.s.sive att.i.tude.

The detective explained to him that every investigation proceeds by fencing in the territory. More than following leads we rule out possibilities. In Lorenzo's particular case, he had called him in mostly just to close, once and for all, the trail that led to him from Paco's corpse. Of course, you have to understand that our evidence rules out bands of marauders or the robbery motive. We are convinced it was someone in his circle, someone who knew him, who knew for example that on Thursday nights he wasn't home, and that makes the investigation more complicated. The idea of organized crime doesn't hold water.

Lorenzo realized that the strategy was quite simple. It consisted of pressuring him to see if he'd collapse.

Closing the circle, continued the detective, one arrives at the conclusion that we are dealing with a hired killer. Someone who had something against Mr. Garrido. Economic problems, romantic problems, who knows. Maybe everything was precipitated by the victim's unexpected return home. Or it was a paid job, these days you can hire a Romanian or Bulgarian thug for chump change. And the guy who killed him was a big lug, he wore a size twelve shoe, I can tell you that.

Yeah, Lorenzo felt obliged to say.

From the time when you were close friends, I'm sure you can remember people, powerful people that Mr. Garrido didn't get along with, who he owed money, something that could give us a lead.

A long time ago...Lorenzo produced two or three names of large companies at random, debts from the final months of the business that suddenly came into his head. The detective didn't take notes. All he did was brush the ash of his cigarillo on the base of the ashtray. Bit by bit his interest in what Lorenzo was saying languished.

Mr. Garrido had a relations.h.i.+p with a married woman. The wife of an acquaintance. Something sporadic, but ugly. You know, these things...You and your wife just separated, too. Was there also...? Lorenzo shook his head at the vulgar gesture Baldasano made with his hands. We weren't good, things weren't going well for me, and my wife and I grew apart and then she met someone else. Yeah, the detective hastened to say, out of the frying pan, into the fire.

They talked about the neighborhood, of the widespread fixation on Colombian gangs, the payback deaths that were never resolved. Until the detective, as if declaring the end of a ceasefire, went back to Lorenzo's personal life. I was surprised you were free this morning. Are you working? I do some little jobs, but I don't have steady work. Mr. Garrido's wife told me you have a little girl. Not so little anymore, she's fifteen, sixteen already...At that age they're only girls in their heads, the rest is a woman.

The comment made Lorenzo uncomfortable. He comes to hunt me, to provoke me. Otherwise, it wouldn't make sense for him to waste his time like this.

I'm going to be honest with you, because I can see you're worried. There is only one thing that surprises me about you. You are going through a bad patch, financially, I mean, I don't know if in other ways, too. My experience tells me these situations occur when someone suddenly, cornered by problems, reacts unexpectedly. Somehow you could blame Mr. Garrido, Paco, for your current state. You don't have a family that can help you, you're not in an easy situation...How old are you? Forty-five, answered Lorenzo. That's still quite young.

Look, detective, I know that you think I might have been able to do something like that, Lorenzo spoke confidently, but you don't know me. Violence terrifies me, paralyzes me. I see a street fight and I'm sick for two days. I'm going to tell you something. A while ago, years now, from my car I saw some young men, one of those bands of young kids, run and chase another kid. And they threw him to the ground and they kicked him furiously, you can't imagine it, it was a terrible thing. Kicking him in the head, the ribs. I couldn't do anything to stop it, they left him there on the ground, like an old rag. It made me sick. It's something I still can't forget. That violence.

Lorenzo was telling him about a real episode. It had happened years ago. Sylvia was a baby then and maybe her being so young had made him feel the aggression as something personal and terrifying. The detective observed him carefully and sat up in his metal chair. Yet Mr. Garrido's wife told us that, once, you almost hit her husband. That's not true. It was an argument. I didn't even touch him. But you were about to. She saw you. I know you know what I'm referring to.

Lorenzo shrugged his shoulders. He was surprised at the insistence of Paco's wife in pointing to him as a suspect. Her intuition was so dead-on that it hurt.

Look, the detective told him, if I thought you were guilty or a suspect I would have stuck you in the can for a few days, I would have hounded you with some incriminating leads, and I wouldn't be here having a coffee with you. The only thing I'm saying is that it intrigues me how the crime coincides with your bad patch.

Once again the cop's veiled insinuations. He thinks I'm guilty, but he doesn't have anything on me. He's digging around like a dog, but he can't find what he's looking for. He's hoping I give myself away, that something will sink me, that I'll lower my guard.

The detective spoke again. I've seen it all, husbands reporting their wife's disappearance and fifteen minutes later collapsing, swearing they killed her by accident, lifelong friends.h.i.+ps ending in a fraction of a second, a junkie son who kills his parents with an ax. I'm not distrusting by nature, but life has shown me that I can't close any door. I don't want to make you waste more time, but I'm going to tell you the truth. I'd like to take you off my list of suspects, but I can't manage to eliminate your name. There is always something that tells me it could be you. Do you know what's probably the biggest strike against you? Deep down you think Mr. Garrido deserved to die. I can see it a mile away. Friends.h.i.+p is like love in that way, a double-edged sword, wonderful on one side and deadly on the other. Those are emotions with a horrible flip side.

He lit another cigarillo after offering one to Lorenzo, who turned it down. You bought a van. You're planning on starting over, huh? Lorenzo shrugged. I wish you luck. We still haven't managed to find the guy who bought your old car, because you switched cars right around the time of the murder, right? Yeah, I think so. I might have to take some more of your time later on, there are some DNA tests pending, you know, these modern things. You can't imagine how much we hate those f.u.c.king television dramas, now people show up at the police stations and they basically think you're useless if you don't come out of the laboratory with the guilty party's name. Boy, would I like to give them a tour around the lab so they can see the c.r.a.ppy s.h.i.+t we've got to work with. Everything in this country has gotten so modern, except us...Well, I won't take up any more of your time. Don't worry, I'll pay.

Lorenzo realized that was his way of saying good-bye. He got up slowly, they shook hands, and Lorenzo left the bar.

He felt constant fear during the following days. He barely slept. He was hounded by memories of the murder and the detective's presence at every turn. He heard a distant echo when he spoke on the telephone; he was convinced someone was always following him, keeping their steps in time with his so they wouldn't be discovered.

He heard Sylvia come home at dawn and he could make out the sound of a car engine heading off when the gate closed with a metal clang. Maybe someone was watching the door.

He had trouble answering his friends' messages. He didn't go near Daniela because he thought the detective was shamelessly watching his advances, that he enjoyed stalking him. He heard her move around the apartment upstairs, take the boy out for a walk, but he didn't try to b.u.mp into her in the stairwell. He even went so far as to think that ten or twelve years in prison wouldn't be worse than what he was living through those days.

Wilson got him two or three moving jobs and they worked together with the van. In a corner in the back, there was still that cardboard suitcase from the apartment they had emptied out. One day around noon, he drove along the airport highway toward the senior citizens' home. At the reception desk, which was covered with papers, he explained that he had come to deliver some belongings to a resident. When he mentioned the man's name, Don Jaime, the woman seemed to show more interest. It was obvious he didn't get many visitors. I took care of emptying out his apartment, and I wanted to return some things to him. The woman jotted down Lorenzo's name and the number of his ID on a file card and gave him the room number on the third floor.

The place was more ugly than sordid. He knocked on the door. Even though n.o.body answered, he opened it. He found the man sitting on the mattress, watching television. He hadn't imagined him like that. Stout, immaculately clean, with a dreamy gaze on his kind face, not dangerous in the least. His face was shaved in irregular patches. At first glance, there was no trace of insanity or eccentricity. Lorenzo explained why he had come and placed the suitcase beside him. The man looked at him and seemed to understand, but he made no gestures of acquiescence nor did he open his mouth to say anything.

Inside the suitcase were the watches, the clippings, some records, but Lorenzo didn't open it to show him the contents.

You can keep it all, said the man suddenly. I don't need anything, thanks. I'd rather you have it, Lorenzo tried to explain. I also found this. Lorenzo still had the piece of paper with the telephone number in his wallet. It was on the door of your refrigerator, maybe it was important to you, he said to the man.

That's Gloria's phone number, was all he said. As if it explained everything. Lorenzo nodded. I called her, but she told me she didn't know you. That's true, nodded the man. Lorenzo left the piece of paper on the bedside table, giving it an importance that perhaps it didn't have. The man spoke again. Someone called my house one day. It was a young woman, in a hurry. I could barely talk to her. She told me, I'm Gloria, take down my number in case you need anything. I wrote it on that paper. But you never met her? Never. It must have been a mistake. She dialed the wrong number and thought she was talking to someone she knew. So why'd you keep the paper with her number?

The man sighed deeply, as if he had no easy answer to the question. It kept me company, he said finally. Sometimes I would call her, but I never dared to speak. I listened to the woman, to Gloria, answer and wait and then hang up on me.

Lorenzo, without really knowing why, used the long silence to sit delicately on the bed beside the man. Without brus.h.i.+ng against him. He stayed there a good long while. The man watched television and when a gossip program ended he said, now comes the news, and he turned off the television with a remote control that he had in the pocket of his pajama top.

They spent a few minutes more in silence. Lorenzo asked him if he needed anything, if he was feeling okay. The man nodded. I'm fine.

Lorenzo stood up. He heard the nearby highway as if it were running through the middle of the home's tiny yard. And every two minutes an airplane made the walls tremble. They were very close to the airport, near the old Ciudad Pegaso.

Maybe I'll come back some other day.

There was no one at the entrance desk. It was lunchtime. An old woman was sitting in a wheelchair on the path in the garden. From behind, her badly combed white hair looked like a resting dog.

At home Sylvia was locked in her room. Music flooded the house. Lorenzo knocked on her door and she invited him in.

Did you eat? he asked Sylvia. No, but I'll fix myself something. Lorenzo waited a second before turning around. He paid attention to the music. Saturated guitars. A woman's voice, powerful, strident, imitating the singer from the Pretenders. What's this band?

Sylvia showed him the CD cover. A brunette, wearing a white s.h.i.+rt without shoulder pads. Lorenzo left her room for a moment and came back with a CD. Put on number six, he told Sylvia. She, somewhat lazily, stood up and did as she was asked. See how they're similar? Do you know this band?

Sylvia shook her head. They both remained there, listening to the song together.

All the music today only makes sense when you know what came before, explained Lorenzo. Now it's a little softer, a little more conventional, and all cut from the same pattern. They don't make bands like they used to.

Sylvia knew the kind of music her father liked. Bands with legendary names, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin. When Pilar left him, like a teenager, he listened to the same Queen song over and over, with that singer's extreme voice. Sylvia would sometimes stop in the stairwell, before opening the door to the apartment, so as not to interrupt his exorcism. She heard him sing loudly over the recording. Too much love will kill you. Then he stopped, got over it. Just like you can have a love song, you can have a breakup song.

I remember one day when your grandfather asked me to put on some of my music for him to listen to, Lorenzo told her. I chose something by the Stones. I think it was "Honky Tonk Women" or something like that. He sat down and listened to it on the record player, paying full attention. And then he said, it's good. In my opinion, the harmony is very predictable, but you know that taste is a form of memory, so you only appreciate what you know. I'd have to hear it more. And then he looked sad, like your grandfather does sometimes. Parents and kids have never understood each other's music.

I like some of your stuff, Sylvia rea.s.sured him. She named Bob Dylan. Recently she had heard him at Ariel's house. It seems his friend Marcelo Polti was obsessed with Dylan and he had turned Ariel on to him.

Lorenzo picked up his CD. This chick was so hot, he said, pointing to the singer on the cover. She was virile, strong and stringy, but we loved her. I'll lend it to you if you want. Okay, Sylvia said, but it sounded more like a consolation than real interest. She was pleased to find her father talkative, expansive, more animated than she'd seen him the last few days. So much so that Lorenzo dared to ask, Well, you never tell me anything about your life these days. Have you got a boyfriend? Because with these hours you're keeping...I'm on vacation, Papa. So if you did have one you'd tell me? I don't know, it depends, if it was something serious...And what do you call something serious? Everything is serious, he said. No, everything is not serious, maintained Sylvia, convinced.

A few months ago, a friend of Lalo's told us over dinner that one day she found her daughter, who must be about your age, necking with a girl, this wildly pa.s.sionate thing on a street bench, near where they live, smoking a joint, I don't even know what else, and the lady was super-p.i.s.sed at her daughter because she hadn't told her anything, even though they have a really good relations.h.i.+p. I told her that kids don't ever tell their parents anything. Right? I never told mine.

The conversation bored Sylvia. But she appreciated her father's effort, possibly contrived, to access a part of her private life.

One day, when I still lived with your grandparents, I came home for dinner and my father tells me, that girl called a little while ago, your girlfriend. And I hadn't told them anything, they hadn't even met Pilar, but my father said your girlfriend so naturally that it killed me. They asked me what her name was, I said Pilar, and your grandmother said, I wonder if she'll come up to the house one day so we can meet her. And one day she came up to the house and I introduced her. I don't know, it just seems normal to me, no big confessions, "Papa, I have something important to tell you," he said in falsetto.

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. I don't know, are you trying to get something out of me or what? she asked her father. No, no, not at all, I just felt like telling you, we're talking, right?

Lorenzo left the room. His burst of energy drove him to cook something beyond his skills, even with the help of one of the cookbooks that adorned a nearby shelf. Sylvia headed out a bit later. Lorenzo didn't hear her come back until late at night. After one.

The liturgy began with group singing. The pastor took center stage. He greets those present and talks to them with a syrupy accent Lorenzo can't quite place. He tells them it's Sunday and on this day we give the Lord our reflection, our thoughts, and our joy in this shared s.p.a.ce of church. He speaks straightforwardly and makes eye contact with the paris.h.i.+oners. He's wearing a white s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned all the way up. In the first row sits a stocky guy, his rear end spilling over both sides of the folding chair, holding a guitar in his big mitts. He plays a song Lorenzo thinks he's heard before. Someone told me that life is quite short, and that fate mocks us, and someone told me life is filled with duties, and sometimes it will fill us with pain, but someone also told me that G.o.d still loves us, he still loves us. G.o.d still loves us.

The door opens and Lorenzo turns to see Daniela come in. She is surprised to see him there, but she doesn't walk toward him. She moves along the side wall and joins the people in the first rows. Lorenzo can just make out when she discreetly greets them and joins the ceremony. He doesn't take his eyes off her. Daniela barely turns a couple of times to check that he's still there. On one occasion, she does it while singing, along with everyone else, a song about G.o.d's mercy for the poor.

The pastor talks about everyday life, of G.o.d's presence in the most trivial things, of his definitive presence in daily events. At the bottom of the wastepaper basket where you throw the remains of the day, he is there; in the stairs of the metro and in the elevator he watches to see how you react with strangers; forget those endless discussions about the soul and faith, imagine him in every corner of your lives. But he isn't judging, he already knows you, he is accompanying you so that you don't ever forget him. Do you see those security cameras they put in certain buildings? Well, G.o.d has those cameras installed inside us. Every once in a while, the paris.h.i.+oners answer him out loud, as if they were striking up a conversation. And then they break out again in songs and clapping.

Any believer is a pastor of souls. You are pastors, in the street, at work, in your family. You can see the light that illuminates the invisible. That is our mission. To save ourselves and save as many of the people around us as possible. We are neighborhood missionaries.

When the service ends, the group moves the chairs and chats for a while in a circle before escaping into the street. Some of them bring packages of rice, beans, or eggs and leave them in plastic bags on the pastor's table. We will hand it out, of course, he tells them. Daniela approaches Lorenzo with the pastor and introduces them. Welcome, the man says, I hope to see you back here often. Thank you, replies Lorenzo.

He goes out to the street with Daniela. He suggests they take a walk. But she says that she has to stay to prepare the bags of food for the needy, to help the pastor hand them out among the poor. If I had known, I would have brought something. No, it's not required, explains Daniela. They remain standing for a moment on the sidewalk.

I didn't want the other night to end badly. Maybe I went too fast, Lorenzo starts to apologize. But it's important to me that we don't let that come between us. I want to get to know you better. For you to get to know me, too. Lorenzo hears himself, he sounds ridiculous, influenced by the pastor's way of speaking. It might seem weird to you, but I don't want to let you get away, like something pa.s.sing through my life I didn't really get to know. That's why I'm here, I wanted to tell you that. Wilson told me this was your church. Wilson knows the way? Daniela smiles. I thought he only knew how to get to the bars.

Lorenzo ignores the comment and stares into Daniela's eyes, as if he were waiting for something that hadn't arrived.

You're very lonely, aren't you? she asks him. You're very lonely.

16.

Ariel extends the seat back and tries to sleep. In first cla.s.s, there is a lot of s.p.a.ce, and beside him a man in a suit reads a business newspaper as he sips on a sherry. Like on the flight out, the plane is filled with Argentinian families that live in Spain, on their way back from Christmas holidays. In line to get onto the airplane were advertising executives, university professors, the solidly middle-cla.s.s, mixing with more humble travelers holding big bags and showing tense expressions when they had to show their pa.s.sports. January 2, the beginning of the year, always creates some sort of wide-ranging hope, like a blank page.

In the last row of first cla.s.s, stretched out to full length, with a mask over his eyes, amid thunderous snores, sleeps Humberto Hernan Panzeroni, the goalie of an Andalusian team. He had come over earlier to greet Ariel effusively when he saw they were on the same flight.

Humberto is big, a veteran of the Spanish league, where he's spent almost six years. He was chosen as the third goalie of the Argentinian national team in the last few World Cups. He sat on the arm of Ariel's seat to talk to him and every time a flight attendant pa.s.sed by he turned; it wasn't clear if it was to let her pa.s.s or to flirt. I hate traveling in first cla.s.s, they send the experienced flight attendants up here, the tender young things are in coach, the world's upside down. He had one incisor a different shade of white than the rest of his teeth and Ariel remembered that he'd lost a tooth in a collision with one of his fullbacks. Ariel had seen it on television.

I have my wife back there with the three kids, in first cla.s.s they charge an arm and a leg. For the baby who doesn't even have his own seat they charge a thousand euros. They talked for a while about the latest in their profession, the state of the country, and then Humberto announced that he was starting to feel the effects of the pills and he stretched out to sleep.

The days in Buenos Aires had been intense and they reminded Ariel of everything he missed. He thought about Sylvia; they even spoke on the phone. It was four in the morning in Buenos Aires and Sylvia answered the call with a mix of euphoria and nervousness.

In Ezeiza, when he arrived, his brother Charlie was waiting for him at the entrance to the breezeway, chatting with the ground flight attendant. He leaped onto Ariel and squeezed him tightly in his arms, blocking the exit for the rest of the pa.s.sengers. He took Ariel's carry-on and put it over his shoulder. You've changed, he said, now you look like the older brother. When they pa.s.sed a girl dressed as Santa Claus with tight short shorts handing out flyers, Charlie elbowed him. He took him in a new car to his parents' house. I'm testing it out, if I like it I'll keep it. You know now I go around as the brother of Arielito Burano, the Feather who scores goals in Spain, Charlie felt obligated to explain. Here Madrid goals get noticed, not everybody scores those.

On the way home, Charlie brought him up to date on family affairs. Their mother was in a delicate state again, with some depression, taking iron pills or copper or I don't know what, and the old man is fine, spending his free time locked up in the little workshop as if it were his life's business. He mentioned the new names in local politics, he told him about the hards.h.i.+ps of close friends, so-and-so's mother died, they kidnapped so-and-so's son, so-and-so's store closed, the so-and-sos went to Spain...If there's nothing bad to talk about here, people get mad.

Ariel was listening to his brother, but he didn't take his eyes off the city emerging beside the highway. He had missed it, the way the houses are arranged, the serrated profile of the buildings, the different colors, the familiar advertis.e.m.e.nts, the streetlights high up above the streets, the elevated railroad, the stores along the avenue. In the neighborhood, a few days' worth of trash was acc.u.mulated beside the trees, because of the strike, Charlie explained, and they had changed the door to a metal one with a video alarm system. Things aren't as bad as people are going to tell you they are, predicted Charlie. And take off your sweater, it's eighty-six degrees, boiling.

At home they received him with tears. His nephews had grown and Ariel told them, I don't know if the T-s.h.i.+rts I brought you will fit. He gave his father a bag filled with nougat candy, sloe gin, and vacuum-sealed Jabugo ham and his sister-in-law the magazine Hola Hola. Did you win the Apertura? his father asked, and everyone laughed. Ariel told them the league champions.h.i.+p in Spain didn't end until June. And who cares anyway, said his father. You know the painter Dali said soccer wouldn't improve until the ball was hexagonal. Maybe that would suit me even better, said Ariel. His mother had gained too much weight. Ariel found her old and tired.

Do they stop you on the street, do people recognize you? asked his sister-in-law. Oh man, explained Charlie, in Spain they ask you for autographs everywhere, on a napkin, a bus ticket, on their T-s.h.i.+rts. You remember the little kid who asked you to sign his report card?

On the street, Ariel enjoyed people watching, the good weather. Soon the heat would really set in. A lot of his friends had gone out of town to the beaches for the summer. They invited him to Villa Gesell, the beach house of some close friends, but he wanted to stay in Buenos Aires. As he was sitting at an outside cafe table on a corner near Recoleta, they would yell at him every once in a while from the opposite sidewalk, you're brilliant! Or someone would give him the thumbs-up from a car window or ask him, are the Spaniards treatin' you right?

He wanted to use his week's vacation to get together with friends. What are we doing for New Year's? Something at home, mellow, suggested Charlie. He talked to his brother about his adjustment to Spain, the team's playing, about his needs. They told me you have a girlfriend, he said suddenly. Who told you? I have my informants. Ariel didn't really know how much his brother knew and all he said was, yeah, well, there's a girl, but nothing...Later he guessed that maybe Charlie was talking to Emilia.

He went back to his apartment in Belgrano. Walter had it better decorated than when he lived there. He even used the roof, which Ariel had barely taken advantage of. He had put in a hammock up there. They scaled seven metal steps on a shaky ladder and settled in with a thermos of mate. The building, near Monumental Stadium, rubbed elbows with the the highest ones in the area. All with acrylic super-balconies, expensive lounge chairs, and privileged views of the river that looked like the sea. It's so great up here, said Ariel, in Madrid I live in a really different kind of place.

Marcelo invited him to a barbecue with friends, all of them cuervos cuervos, he warned. Cuervo Cuervo meaning a San Lorenzo fan. He played Ariel his latest tracks from the studio, told him that he might be traveling to Madrid on his new tour: Express Kidnapping. I got together a fabulous band, I'm pleased. He looked happy, sure of himself. The record just came out, and it's already pirated in every corner of the Web, and what's more you have to make nice and thank all those f.u.c.king people who rob you, but, well, as they used to say, it's better to get robbed than killed. Ariel wanted to leave early, but Marcelo insisted, today the unemployed are going to be protesting, stay, there's nothing to do out on the street. It's organized by the Bloque Piquetero Nacional, the Corrientes Clasista y Combativa, the Frente Dario Santillan, the PTS, the MAS. Ariel was refamiliarizing himself with local politics. meaning a San Lorenzo fan. He played Ariel his latest tracks from the studio, told him that he might be traveling to Madrid on his new tour: Express Kidnapping. I got together a fabulous band, I'm pleased. He looked happy, sure of himself. The record just came out, and it's already pirated in every corner of the Web, and what's more you have to make nice and thank all those f.u.c.king people who rob you, but, well, as they used to say, it's better to get robbed than killed. Ariel wanted to leave early, but Marcelo insisted, today the unemployed are going to be protesting, stay, there's nothing to do out on the street. It's organized by the Bloque Piquetero Nacional, the Corrientes Clasista y Combativa, the Frente Dario Santillan, the PTS, the MAS. Ariel was refamiliarizing himself with local politics.

They had a family dinner on Christmas Eve. Santa brought gifts after midnight and at four in the morning Ariel was turning in bed, unable to sleep, listening to the birds and some nearby generator, the elevated train pa.s.sing by the house, the murmur of the highway. His room now seemed like a schoolkid's room, a place trapped in time, as if it no longer belonged to him. His childhood trophies, the photographs of juvenile teams on the walls, the boxes filled with games, the few books. All his life he dreamed of playing professional soccer and now that he was, he felt like he wasn't enjoying it the way he used to. He liked practice more than playing; in the morning when he got to the field he found the gra.s.s fresh, welcoming, without the pressure of games. Then he enjoyed the ball, his teammates, the exercises. He found the actual games laborious, difficult. Only in bursts did he get the fulfillment he used to have, when playing was a pleasure and just a pleasure. The stadium often transformed into a pressurized bubble, where he found it hard to breathe, to fly. When he remembered feeling happy, it was always with his hand on the nape of Sylvia's neck, lost among her curls, her peculiarly shaped eyes of intriguing, intelligent green, pulling him in, the expression at the corner of her mouth right after she said something defiant and funny. From thousands of miles away, he was aroused by the memory of Sylvia's busty body, running over it in his mind to savor it again.

He took a long walk with his father to Chacabuco Park. They talked about his mother's health. Otherwise, we'd come visit you, I mean it, but she can't get on a plane now, with her blood pressure the way it is. She looks fatter, Ariel confided. It's the medicine and she doesn't exercise, she never leaves the house.

He pored over the local press. Suddenly he felt strange, a newcomer to a city he felt he didn't really know. It was similar to how he felt in Madrid. He had managed to not belong anywhere, to be a stranger everywhere. He drove along Avenida Nazca toward Bajo Flores, he was held up by a pa.s.sing train, and he edged along the Nuevo Gasometro to catch the entrance to Avenida Varela. The neighborhood of Soldati, bleaker than ever, the same message painted on the wall: ENOUGH OF LOW WAGES ALREADY ENOUGH OF LOW WAGES ALREADY. The family that owned El Golazo carwash was getting their barbecue ready on the sidewalk. The security guard opened the gate for him, you back on the job? Just here for Christmas. He parked Charlie's pickup beside the pregame dormitories, he remembered the Sat.u.r.day barbecues beneath the deck, with the team enthusiasm; he really missed that. He crossed beneath the portrait of "b.a.l.l.s Out" Zubeldia, who exactly thirty years earlier won the national champions.h.i.+p for San Lorenzo. The walls bore reminders of the winning team: Anhielo, Piris, Villar, Glaria, Telch "the Sheep," Olguin, Scotta, Chazarreta, Beltran, Cocco, Ortiz. Ariel was surprised to find a framed photo of himself beside the glorious matadors, as that dream team was called. Did you see your photo yet? asked Cholo, the grounds manager. They hugged. Cholo went into the locker room with him, everyone's on vacation. It was humble, with the religious imagery, the thermoses of mate, the little lacquered wood lockers, the piled-up sneakers. It must be more luxurious over there, huh? It's another world, Cholo, it's another world.

He called Agustina. It was an obligation. He had called her a few times from Spain, in moments of desperation, after his brother left. On one occasion, he was about to offer her a ticket and invite her to visit, but he stopped himself when he realized how selfish he was being, having people at his disposal on a whim. The worst call was the last, one night when he came home drunk, after going out with Husky. He suddenly felt the need to talk to her, to go back down that path, and he was crude and unpleasant and ended up jerking off while he begged her to say dirty things into the phone. Since then he hadn't had the guts to call her again, except for a cold, brief apology, but he felt that it was rude not to see her while he was in the city.

They went out in the early evening. Ariel had plans to dine with some friends and he didn't want the night to turn into a temptation. It would only hurt her to prolong something that was over. They met near Lavalle Plaza and she said, you look like a tourist. I am a tourist now, he said in defense. I even wanted to take a walk before we met up. They talked about superficial things. Agustina had chosen her ivory earrings, her ponytail, and her lipstick with extreme care, but she quickly understood that the date wasn't going to end with them getting back together. Ariel established a clinical distance during the two hours. Agustina managed to get him to talk about Sylvia. I don't know, I don't think it's a relations.h.i.+p that's going anywhere, but it helps me be more relaxed, comfortable, to be able to speak intimately with someone. She nodded while she listened to him. His words hurt her, but she pretended they didn't. Ariel said, you know when you love someone so much that you try to protect them from the pain you could cause them, out of fear because you know yourself, but the other person only sees the wonderful side. And Agustina felt like saying, I know what you mean, I know that feeling, but she only said that the best thing was to just enjoy yourself, to not get worked up thinking too far ahead.

I should vaccinate her against me, he said, with a smile.

Maybe she doesn't want the vaccine.

And Ariel realized he was talking about Sylvia, but Agustina was talking about herself. They said good-bye a bit later, she put her hand on his cheek and said, take care of her, and she managed to make Ariel feel guilty for not having done the same with her.

Ariel's friends took him out to eat and he was in rare form. He told them anecdotes about the Mexican halfback who burned out his car driving it in first gear for twenty-five miles, convinced it was an automatic; the one about the inside right forward from Mendoza who played in the Second Division on the Canary Islands and had gotten so fat that fans sang "go on a diet" to the music of "Guantanamera;" the one about the subst.i.tute goalie on his team who ate sunflower seeds at a dizzying rate, and with his gloves on; the teammate whose feet stank so bad that they hid his sneakers in the garbage; about the Pole Wlasavsky, nicknamed Bert, and his collection of gold Rolexes; the one about the wife of the goalie coach who would get drunk in the stadium VIP bar; the gay referee who called certain players before a game to tell them he was a big fan and invite them out for dinner; the one about the right halfback from Paraguay, on a team in Extremadura, who was suspended for three games after telling the press he thought Bin Laden was an admirable public figure; about a Brazilian coach who insisted the team captain play with a radio transmitter in his ear and halfway through it had picked up the announcer's broadcast and the poor guy went crazy.