Learning To Lose Part 15

It's ridiculous. I can't study, I think about you all the time. Don't blame me when you fail your cla.s.ses, please. Can I help you? he asked. How much time do we have? We have to be downstairs to go to the stadium in two hours. Sylvia's expression twisted. I have bad news, I have my period. It doesn't matter, this way we can use the time to study. Ariel tried to read a page of her notes. I had my period timed to coincide with your league games, it was a perfect schedule, but today it got screwed up, of course. Don't worry about it, I didn't bring you here to f.u.c.k. What are you studying?

Two hours later, his teammates traveled down the hall toward the bus parked at the hotel entrance. The place was filled with fans. The police were discreetly keeping an eye on the surroundings. Kids were asking for autographs. Even violence became part of the routine and they always expected insults from some group, some rocks getting thrown at them near the stadium. Madrid se quema, se quema Madrid Madrid se quema, se quema Madrid, Madrid is burning, sang others. If some people didn't want to kill us, there wouldn't be others willing to die for us, a player in Buenos Aires used to say when things sometimes got ugly on the way out of a stadium. There they would keep the local fans in the stadium for thirty minutes postgame to give the visiting team time to get back to their neighborhoods. But the ride with police escort was pleasant; the bus ignored red lights, like they were VIPs in a world that stopped to make them a priority.

Sylvia's gaze found Ariel's when he went out among his teammates. He winked at her; she smiled. He was still on the bus when Sylvia called him on the phone. I'm on the Ramblas, it's full of tourists, she told him. Is it pretty? asked Ariel. There are human statues with costumes on, they remind me of mimes, I don't know why they make me sad. Mimes make you sad? I always want to kill them, said Ariel. Every two steps is a stand selling soccer jerseys, but I don't see yours. Well, I'm on the rival team. Yeah. Sylvia kept describing what she saw. A guy offering cans of drinks that he carried in a backpack, bars open to the street, pets in cages, pigeons that ate parakeets' birdseed, a herd of j.a.panese tourists with wheeled suitcases, portrait artists who used up charcoal reproducing the impossible faces of their occasional clients and exhibited pathetic caricatures of celebrities. Once, when I was little, my father insisted on having my portrait done on the street, I had to ask my mother to hide it, it was horrible. Sylvia, I have to go, we're getting to the stadium. Good luck.

Ariel went out on the field on the terrazzo stairs. Cleats echoed like horseshoes. Some players crossed themselves, others ripped up a blade of gra.s.s when they leaped onto the field, others carried out highly elaborate superst.i.tious rituals. In Argentina he played with a center halfback from Bahia Blanca who went out onto the field with his right foot, then had to place his left hand on the field and kiss the crucifix he wore against his chest five times and say, mother, mother, mother three times. No strategy for feeling protected was too small in this profession, to survive in the void.

Less than an hour later, a car takes him with the doctor to a clinic in the upper part of the city. There he is subjected to an X-ray that rea.s.sures them. It's just a sprain. Two weeks of recovery, the doctor says, and for the first time Ariel feels able to relax the tense line of his lips. A more serious injury would have left him out of the end of the champions.h.i.+p. He knows, like everyone does, that the last ten games are as important as the last ten minutes of each game. No one remembers the dull first half after an electrifying end, no one remembers the whistles in the middle of the season when they hear the ovations at the end of the champions.h.i.+p. An old Argentinian midfielder who had come back to San Lorenzo after almost a decade of European soccer always told them, a s.h.i.+tty season is saved by a decisive goal in the last minute of the last game. This amnesiac business was just that absurd.

The doctor speaks calmly to him about the recovery process. They get into a taxi directly from the clinic to the airport. They gave him a crutch so he doesn't put any weight on the ankle and wrapped it up tightly in a bandage. The doctor asks the driver for the results of the game, and Ariel feels guilty about not having worried all that time about the score. They lost. At the boarding gate, he is joined by his teammates, heads bowed, tired, not in the mood to talk. Everyone asks about his injury, the coach comes over to talk. Ariel finds him cold, he blames him for the result of the game, which complicates their chance for winning the t.i.tle. Amilcar sits next to him in the waiting area. We missed you on the field, there was nowhere to pa.s.s the ball.

Sylvia didn't make the flight. She sends him a late message. I couldn't find a f.u.c.king cab in the area. Later she writes again to tell him that she's getting on a flight at almost midnight. In Madrid, Ariel doesn't go with the team to the bus. I'll get a cab, he says to the delegate. He shouldn't drive, so he leaves his car in the parking lot. When enough time has pa.s.sed, he tells the taxi driver that he forgot something at the airport and he has to go back. The man kindly insists he'll wait for him, but Ariel says it's going to take him a while and gives him a generous tip.

He goes to sit far from the door where Sylvia's flight is set to arrive. Husky calls him on his cell phone. I guess you're already at home, how's your ankle? Ariel chats with him for a while. He's out drinking. He tells him about the game. I didn't travel to cover it because the newspaper's cutting costs. Soon I'll be back to writing about games while I listen to them on the radio like when I started out. Then he says I wish you came back out to play, you playing lame could have done more than some of them with two good legs. I think your team only got in three shots at goal in the whole ninety minutes. In one of them, the goalie almost insisted on scoring a goal on himself, he must have been bored.

Ariel waits another half hour until he gets Sylvia's call. Where are you? He explains. She finds him sad, his forearm resting on the crutch. Is it serious? We'll have to take a cab. Sylvia picks up his bag off the floor and carries it over her shoulder, they walk slowly to the taxi stand. I was about to go out and scalp my ticket. How boring. My subst.i.tute didn't do a good job. No, even though he's pretty cute. That guy? They call him "the Mirror" because he spends almost two hours combing his bangs, he's a real pretty boy.

The cabdriver looks into the rearview mirror when they are already out of the airport. Are you out of it for a long time? No, no, nothing broken, luckily, just two weeks. From that point on, Ariel finds himself forced to maintain a long conversation with him, focused particularly on the endemic problems, as the driver calls them, of the team. Sylvia makes mocking gestures, showing two fingers like a pair of scissors for him to cut it short, but Ariel shrugs his shoulders. In my day, says the man, players were on a team for life, it was a marriage, but, now, it's a little like well-paid wh.o.r.es, excuse the expression, they put out for one night and if they lose, well, it's the fans who suffer, because the players couldn't give two s.h.i.+ts.

Don't say those things in front of my sister here, please, says Ariel.

A while later, the taxi searches for Sylvia's address. She has her hand on Ariel's thigh, which seems like it's about to bust through the worn denim. Come to my house, he says, stay with me tonight. I can't. The cabbie keeps talking. Soccer today is pure business, money, money, and money, it's the only thing that matters. Ariel decides to get out with her.

They walk to the high step of the doorway. The street is dark. They sit down. Ariel extends his leg. I'd rather be out in the cold than listen to more of that guy's chitchat. I'd invite you up to my house, but my father will be there. This isn't the time of night to introduce me to him. Can you imagine? We can go into his room and wake him up. Sylvia laughs. Look, Papa, look who I brought you. Does it hurt? Ariel shrugs. I don't remember a single day in the last three years that my legs didn't hurt.

Now seriously, there's nothing I'd like more than seeing your room.

13.

Sylvia is surprised to hear whispering voices in her father's room. At first she thinks he's talking on the phone, which would be unusual at that time of night. But from her room, while she undresses, she hears a restrained and sporadic female voice. Although the conversation reaches her as an unintelligible murmur, the movement, the brus.h.i.+ng of sheets, the squeaking of the bed frame, and a bridled panting convinces her that they are making love. In her bed, she has two feelings. On one hand she is happy her father is with someone. On the other she is terrified by who that someone will be. Although she tries to repress the idea, she wonders if it will be someone whom she will have to develop a new, as of yet undefined, relations.h.i.+p with. Her independent coexistence is threatened. Today the house is a pit stop, a refuge, a rest, she doesn't think she can accept it becoming a couple's home again, and finding herself obliged to partic.i.p.ate in their lives.

The tiredness, the hours of missed sleep, helps Sylvia fall asleep in spite of the hushed voices that come from the room next door. She left Ariel at home with his ankle resting on the living room coffee table. That afternoon, Sylvia had found him more worried than other times. Somewhat caught up in himself. Team problems, he explained. The two weeks off had been, at first, good news for Sylvia. They broke the routine of separations and trips. But soon she realized that not playing was tragic for Ariel. Decisive games are coming up, he complained.

That evening they didn't make love. Sylvia had stopped to buy pasta at the Buenos Aires-Madrid deli. On the brick wall, they had hung a long picture with a printed phrase: "There's only one thing Buenos Aires has that Madrid doesn't: Buenos Aires!" How's the chief? asked one of the owners. Fine, recovering from his sprain. Oh, he has a sprain? Yeah, Sylvia explained, he can't play. The girl insisted on giving him a box of dulces de leche dulces de leche. He loves them, tell him they're from me.

Ariel saw all the games on television, while Sylvia skimmed through some notes on his lap. Can you call me a taxi? she said when she looked at the clock and was surprised to see it was almost eleven. He gave her money; he always had an envelope around somewhere filled with bills. The trip to her house cost a fortune, but he gave her extra money. You don't have to give me so much, she protested. You paid for the pasta and the cab here. Keep it, and that way you have some for the next few days. But this is three thousand euros, that's quite a chunk of change. So? Aren't you with me for my money? said Ariel. It's obviously not for my brains.

Sylvia leaves the house before there is any movement from her father's room and his door remains closed. The morning of cla.s.ses holds some charm of normality for Sylvia. She sees her schoolmates and laughs at their jokes more indulgently because she knows that in the evening she will be far away. She enjoys her lunch break with Mai, the conversation with Dani when he joins them. A normal life hemmed in by the gray walls of the high school.

Mai had been a bit low since she broke up with her boyfriend, Mateo. He moved to Barcelona, to a squat. She went to see him with hope of reconciliation. She had gotten Ma+Ma tattooed onto the inside of her arm, in gothic letters. Mai plus Mateo, she explained, but it ended horribly. There I was was.h.i.+ng everybody's dishes. The house stunk, there was a group of French kids who had never heard of the invention of the shower, I can't even tell you...And on top of it all, they had dogs covered in fleas. Is it completely necessary to be so s.k.a.n.ky? f.u.c.k, it's one thing to be against the system and another thing altogether to be against soap. She carried over her annoyance to the small inconveniences of the cafeteria, the schoolyard. She now used her sharp wit for aggravation rather than irony. The failed relations.h.i.+p had made her lose a lot of her self-confidence, even though she talked nonstop. When I came back I showed my mother the tattoo. I did it for you, I told her, and she got all choked up. Sylvia appreciated the interruptions from other students and Dani's arrival, despite the fact that she sometimes detects his sad eyes.

The night Ariel got injured in Barcelona, when they returned to Madrid on different planes, they ended up sneaking into her room. He asked to with a childish smile and she agreed with a challenging expression. Sylvia opened the door without making any noise, but could barely stifle her laughter when Ariel went through the living room, in the half light, hopping with his crutch. From her father's bedroom came some monotonous snores that stopped abruptly when Ariel crashed his crutch against the edge of the coffee table. Is that you? Yeah, Papa. What time is it? Sylvia approached the door. One-thirty, see you tomorrow.

Sylvia put a T-s.h.i.+rt over her desk lamp, creating an orange glow in the room. Ariel looked the place over. The computer on the desk, the messy pile of CDs, the clothes overflowing from the open closet, hanging from the door and the k.n.o.b, on the chair, and at the foot of the bed. There is a teddy bear on the bed and a yellowed poster of the vegetarian singer of a British band. Who is that? asked Ariel. You still haven't given me a photo of you. They laughed, sitting on the bed, and talked in a whisper. Every once in a while, she lifted up her hand and shushed him, listening to make sure her father wasn't moving around the house. They kissed for a long time. Sylvia noticed his erection beneath his pants. You want me to jerk you off? Ariel threw his head back. How can you ask me that? My G.o.d, you're so crazy...Then Sylvia led him back to the door of the apartment. They parted in silence on the landing. He waited to call the elevator until she had gone back to her room.

In the afternoon, she stops by to visit her grandmother before taking a cab over to Ariel's apartment. She finds her weak, unable to have a long conversation. Your father came to introduce us to the girl he's dating. Her grandmother's remark surprises Sylvia so much that she reacts strangely. Oh, yeah? He introduced her to you? She pretends she had met her already and adds a nod of the head when her grandmother says she seems like a nice girl. Sylvia thinks that Lorenzo's interest in meeting her boyfriend and finding out about her relations.h.i.+p was just a way to open the door for him to introduce her to his own new partner.

She's shocked to discover that her grandmother is wearing a diaper. Her grandfather comes in to change it and makes her leave the room. Sylvia peeks through the half-open door of her grandfather's studio. The piano lid is open and there are scattered scores. Your grandfather's going to start teaching his student again, Aurora had told her with excitement.

Her grandparents' home conveys an atmosphere of illness and lack of life. Even the stairs of the building are sad like worn tears. She had promised her mother she would spend this weekend with her. That was before Ariel got injured. And now she doesn't want to leave him alone. When she calls her mother from the street and suggests postponing the trip for next weekend, Pilar responds with an extended silence.

I knew this would happen, that we wouldn't see each other for weeks. And it sounds more like she's punis.h.i.+ng herself than recriminating Sylvia. Come on, Mama, we talk on the phone every day. I just have to do some work for school, with other kids in the cla.s.s. I swear I'll come next weekend for sure. It's not such a big deal, is it?

Yeah, but I'm not seeing you grow up, isn't that something?

Sylvia laughs into the telephone. Relax, Mama, I promise I haven't grown up. I don't grow anymore. If anything, only my a.s.s is growing.

14.

It's the third time in ten days that the bus drops him in the plaza, beside the jardinieres glistening from recent watering. From there he walks three streets, to the blocks of apartments with small balconies and green awnings. Mostoles is a remote and unfamiliar place to Leandro, a man raised in old Madrid, ignorant of those margins, cities around the city. Osembe gave him the name of the street, the number of the building, and the apartment. He wrote it down and then searched for the most accessible route in the street atlas, put together the itinerary as if it were an adventure. He left from the traffic circle under construction in front of the old North Station, and the bus went along the highway to Extremadura.

It was a shared apartment, divided into small rooms, originally designed to house a conventional family and which thirty years later held seven people. Osembe had told him that she shared the apartment with six girlfriends. It was quite messy. The kitchen was a corner filled with furniture and junk. At that time of day, they were alone. They cross through the square living room, where the blinds are down, and light from the outside barely enters. She leads him directly to the room. She says, this way, and then, how nice to see you again. She is wearing jeans with a gilded design along the hem. She seems younger and more cheerful than in the chalet. But when she closes the door and invites Leandro to sit on the bed, she regains her old serious expression and her mechanical style. The money first, of course, she says. She wears pink slippers with thick soles.

Love on the clock, thought Leandro. Because Osembe could go from licking his stomach to lifting the alarm clock to check the time without changing expressions. When the time was up, she became slinky and sweet again and she said, stay another hour, and if Leandro handed over the money, another 150 euros, then she went back to killing time indolently and chatting a bit and she got up to talk or send messages on her cell. Leandro was aware that she stretched out the time to make more money. She didn't want to spend a second with him if it wasn't in exchange for cash. He didn't deceive himself about that. But he didn't do anything to avoid it. She, for example, would lick and dampen his ear, something that bugged him and made him worry about getting an ear infection like he had in the past, but he couldn't find a way to say, stop, it bothers me. He let her do it, like a puppet on a string. He hadn't seen her for weeks and now he focuses on her skin again, her hands, the calf muscles of her legs when she leans over him.

A noise is heard in the apartment. A roommate coming back. Do they have the same job as you? asks Leandro. No, no, and they couldn't even imagine that I do this, but Leandro knows she's lying. Only with special clients like you, she had said a little earlier, and then she had smiled. She kept the money in a drawer of the night table. The same place where she hides the condoms. On the table are a fas.h.i.+on magazine and scattered clothes. Also perfumes and lotions. And a large bottle of body oil that she rubs over her skin and which Leandro suspects she uses to interject a film of distance between their bodies. Photos are stuck into the frame of the mirror on the wall, of her with friends and maybe her boyfriend, a young smiling guy sitting with her on the outside table of a bar. In spite of the lowered blinds, the unbearable noise of the street comes in. There is construction nearby that causes an annoying rumble. When the s.e.xual activity quiets, Leandro is cold, but she doesn't invite him to get beneath the sheets. There is a thick, worn blanket on top of the bed. The place is dirty and Leandro finds it unpleasant.

Days earlier his friend Manolo Almendros showed up at his apartment with his wife. It was almost lunchtime. They convinced Leandro to go out to eat with Manolo while she stayed behind. They strolled to a restaurant on Raimundo Fernandez Villaverde. From there they could see the black skeleton of the Windsor Tower, which had burned on the night of February 12, with immense tongues of flame. There were still speculations about it. Someone had recorded images of shadows inside the building during the fire; there was talk of ghosts, later of firemen ransacking the safes of the many companies in the skysc.r.a.per. The workers took apart the remains in a fenced-in area.

During lunch Leandro was about to confess to his friend about his dates with Osembe. They had known each other for a long time. Unlike him, Almendros was still enviably vibrant, able to get excited about a book or a new discovery. It's strange, he told Leandro that day over the meal, we lived through the cafe period, when we were young and the only way to discover the truth about things was to put your ear to the bar. You remember? Now all that has disappeared. There's a giant virtual cafe and it's called the Internet. Now young people have a peek in there, and it's not like, let's see what Ortega or Ramon is saying, no, everything is anarchic and over the top, but that's just the way things are. You know, in this country n.o.body wants to be part of an a.s.sociation or a group, but everybody wants to be right. That is the old cafe. And then you can find a lot of information, but that's all chaotic, too. I already told you I'm writing a piece in praise of and in answer to Unamuno, right? Well, I go to find some new information and when you type in Unamuno the first page that comes up is about Unamuno, but all jokes about his name, rude jokes, some of them fun, all making light of his name. Imagine. Leandro was familiar with Manolo's pa.s.sion for Unamuno. Manolo used to quote entire paragraphs of his tragic perspective on life, shared his pa.s.sion for origami, but also made jokes at his expense and speculated about the phimosis operation he had when he was already an old man. Has anyone wondered if there is a before and after in his painful view of the world? Spain hurt him and maybe what was hurting him was something else.

Then the conversation about the Web turned to p.o.r.nography. Almendros had been completely taken aback by the things one could find with just the click of a mouse. It's like a huge erotic bazaar devoted to masturbation in all its forms. There are girls being spied on, exhibitionist couples, perversions, humiliations, aberrations. Sometimes I think it's better that we're going to miss out on what's coming next. People will live in cubicles and never step out onto the street, we will be a planet of onanists and voyeurs.

Maybe, answered Leandro, but street prost.i.tution hasn't decreased, it's gone up. People still need to touch each other. Well, we'll see. I think humans are going to touch each other less and less, until one day we don't touch each other at all. Those women who put in plastic t.i.ts and plastic lips. You tell me, they don't want them to be kissed or touched, they just want them to be looked at.

And you, you never?

Almendros lifted his shoulders. I find that world depressing. Who would be so stupid as to pay for something faked? And give money to the mafias that traffic in women. No, it disgusts me. I think anyone who contributes to that market is swine. Then, during that second, while a Polish waitress brought their first course, Leandro didn't confess to his friend out of shame, out of fear of not being able to explain himself and not having enough of a justifiable reason. Did he have one? There wasn't even love, which justifies everything. I fell stupidly in love with a girl, but it wasn't true. That wasn't it.

He didn't tell him that he had spent three mornings walking aimlessly around Coimbra Park in Mostoles. Curiously watching the people who pa.s.sed, those who stepped out onto their balconies, anyone driving by in a car. He stopped to carefully observe the African women walking by with their grocery bags. On a few occasions, when one of them was alone and in spite of the frightened expressions his approach provoked, he dared to ask them about Osembe. Do you know a Nigerian girl named Osembe? And they shrugged their shoulders, suspicious, and said no.

He didn't tell his friend Almendros that the third morning, sitting near the park, as he read the newspaper, he saw a black girl get off a bus. Her hair was different, shorter, but it was her, no doubt about it. She was walking with two other women and wore a very striking red leather jacket and high-heeled shoes at the end of her jeans. He followed them for a while, to see if they parted at any point. He couldn't hear their conversation except when they erupted into laughter or an exaggeratedly loud sentence, and in the end, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his courage, he dared to raise his voice and call her, Osembe, Osembe, and after the second time she turned and saw him. She showed a sarcastic, but dazzling, smile.

Osembe separated from the group and walked toward him. Well, well, my little old man. Leandro explained he had been looking for her in the neighborhood for several days. Ah, but I don't do that work anymore, no, no. Not anymore. Leandro looked at her with interest. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Chat with you for a minute? No, I'm with my friends, not now, really. She must have sensed Leandro's devastation because she said, call me, call me on my cell. And she dictated a phone number that Leandro didn't need to write down. He memorized it. It was filled with even numbers and that made it easier for him. Even numbers had always seemed friendly to him, ever since he was a boy; he found odd numbers, on the other hand, objectionable, awkward. Her number floated in his head as Osembe returned to her friends, who received her with giggles. What would she tell them? That's the old guy who can't get enough of me, the one I told you about?

He let a few days pa.s.s before calling her. Osembe's absence had made him feel better. Getting her out of his sight was the end of a nightmare. One afternoon he dialed the number from home. Aurora was being visited by her sister and Leandro spoke in a soft voice. She laughed, as if their meeting put her in a good mood, gave her power. And then she said, but, honey, why don't you come see me?

Osembe shows off her muscles for him. It amuses her to tense and relax areas of her body. She laughs like a teenager. She's vain. That afternoon she won't agree to take off her bra. The only thing she doesn't like about her body, she had told him many times, are the lines on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Stretch marks, Leandro tells her. They look like an old lady's, she says. Leandro tries to take off her bra, but she won't let him, she laughs, they struggle. She has small nipples and white lines that run along where her b.r.e.a.s.t.s meet her chest. He tries to kiss them, but she says it tickles and she pushes him away again and again, as if she wanted to be the only one in charge of the game.

Leandro likes her dawdling. He doesn't mind her gaze constantly s.h.i.+fting to the alarm clock. When they talk, they tell each other simple things. He asks what she spends all her money on, she says that's my business, I like to be pretty for you, and other lies so obvious the conversation grows grotesque.

I don't want to see you here again, Leandro tells her. I don't like coming here. It's very far, it's dirty. I don't want to b.u.mp into your roommates. n.o.body's going to say anything to you, we're comfortable here, no one orders us around, she says. The next time I'll find someplace else, says Leandro, ending the conversation. He doesn't shower there. He is repulsed by the plastic covers on the toilet, the rusty little tub, the worn bathmat and the pistachio-colored tiles.

The street is jam-packed with people. There are children playing ball. Almost all of them the children of immigrants. The trip home takes Leandro almost an hour. Aurora's sister, Esther, is still beside her bed. They kid around and try to remember, with absurd doggedness, the name of the chocolate shop where their father used to take them for fried dough strips after Ma.s.s when they were girls. They say names at random and Esther laughs with her dynamic, horsey smile.

In the hallway, before leaving, Aurora's sister starts to cry in front of Leandro. She's dying, Leandro, she's dying. Leandro tries to calm her down. Come on, come on, now we have to be strong for her. Esther speaks in a bereaved whisper, but she's so good, my sister has always been so good. There's n.o.body like that anymore.

Leandro waits for Aurora to fall asleep and then dials Joaquin's number. Jacqueline answers. They speak for barely a second. He can't come to the phone right now, but call back in twenty minutes. When they finally speak, Leandro tells him that he's made a date with the biographer for next week. Ah, perfect, he's a charming kid, don't you think? And Leandro tells him the reason for his call. I wanted to ask you about your apartment. If I could use it one of these nights. Joaquin's silence is thick and tense. Only if it's not a problem, of course. Of course, when do you need it? I don't know, it doesn't matter, maybe Friday. Sure, sure, tomorrow I'll talk to Casiano and you can come by and pick up the keys, before eight, okay, the doorman goes home at eight. Perfect. You want to impress someone? Joaquin asks him with a laugh. Well...At this point, what can we do. But please, do leave the sheets in the was.h.i.+ng machine. There's a woman who comes by to clean on Mondays. Yeah, sure, says Leandro, it'll just be this once, eh. That's good, because if Jacqueline finds out...

I found the letters, the letters you sent me from Paris and Vienna, they might be interesting for the book. Leandro knew Aurora had kept them, surely he could find them. Joaquin's voice regains its enthusiasm, fantastic, that'd be fantastic, although they must be infantile, well, it will be amusing. Of course.

Leandro feels a stab of cowardice again. Why am I doing all this? Why do I dirty everything around me? He asks himself questions he can't answer. He knows the weakness of others almost as well as his own. And yet that's no consolation, and doesn't stop him.

15.

He had gotten up so early that he was exhausted by nine. His stomach was growling and he suggested stopping somewhere. They were in the middle of a move and they had filled the van with boxes and furniture. Wilson brought his two usual friends to lend a hand. Chincho, a young man whose neck was wide enough for four heads, and Junior, a strong, thin man with slanty eyes. Lorenzo elbows up to the bar. He orders the coffees and a slab of freshly made potato frittata. The others have a look at a sports newspaper. They seem familiar with Spanish soccer teams and had chosen to root for rival teams, so they joked around and argued. Junior was from Guayaquil and had switched the Barcelona there for the Barcelona here. I like the team colors, the blue represents the ideal and the red the struggle. You have to show your affection for Madrid, that's the city you live in, says Wilson. He had become a fan of Lorenzo's team. Even though they're having a bad year, he says. When they get to talking about players, about Ariel, Wilson says, a lot of guaragua guaragua but that's it. A lot of swerving and bobbing, he explains, even though he's the best at it. In Ecuador he was a fan of the Deportivo Cuenca, this year we won the national t.i.tle, with an Argentinian coach, Asad "the Turk," and this is the first time we've won it. Over there we call the team the Southern Express. You have to see Cuenca, it's beautiful, the cathedral is incredible, and the university. The two friends start messing with him, Wilson knows the cathedral and the university really well, but only from the outside. They also bring up some acquaintance who last week won the compet.i.tion for best Jabugo slicer in Spain, it's incredible, fifteen months ago he had never even seen a leg of cured ham. but that's it. A lot of swerving and bobbing, he explains, even though he's the best at it. In Ecuador he was a fan of the Deportivo Cuenca, this year we won the national t.i.tle, with an Argentinian coach, Asad "the Turk," and this is the first time we've won it. Over there we call the team the Southern Express. You have to see Cuenca, it's beautiful, the cathedral is incredible, and the university. The two friends start messing with him, Wilson knows the cathedral and the university really well, but only from the outside. They also bring up some acquaintance who last week won the compet.i.tion for best Jabugo slicer in Spain, it's incredible, fifteen months ago he had never even seen a leg of cured ham.

Lorenzo had opened up a local paper and he flips through the pages without paying much attention. He sees a photo of Paco in a small box beside the image of a chalet. There is only vague information about a band of robbers arrested by police. They were described as extremely violent and the police believe they were the ones responsible for the murder of the Madrid businessman Francisco Garrido, several months earlier.

Lorenzo skims through the lines searching for information. Albanians, hired thugs, armed, cold cruelty. The bitter smell of espresso and milk from the bar hits Lorenzo's nose. He doesn't know what to think. Now he reads the entire news story, dwelling on each sentence. Everything sounds circ.u.mstantial, vague. It could be an effort by the police to pin unsolved cases on someone or just the journalist's invention.

Relief and panic. Can those feelings be mixed together? Paco's face in an unflattering photo. Maybe from his ID. He always said no one should ever allow a bad photo and tore up any he didn't like. He definitely would not have accepted that one. How ironic. It didn't in the least reflect his magnetic personality, it actually made him look common, like an insignificant victim. Lorenzo thought the arrests would open up criminal proceedings and then someone would be forced to look for conclusive evidence. Nothing is closed.

They go back to work. Lorenzo and Chincho make the first trip in the van to the new location with the furniture. The others finish packing up. The street is jammed solid. In Ecuador you must not have traffic like this. Chincho shrugs his shoulders, hiding a centimeter of his immense neck. I drove a taxi in Quito and the downtown is rough, it's super-hard to drive around there, worse than this. The move is exhausting and doesn't end until almost two. It is Wilson who receives the money and distributes it among the four after settling accounts in his little notebook. Lorenzo has the strange feeling of being just an employee. They say good-bye. As Lorenzo approaches his building, he is filled with a certain euphoria. If the crime was committed by someone else, then he had nothing to do with it.

He goes up in the elevator to his apartment, but he changes his mind and goes up one more floor. He knocks on the door of his fifth-floor neighbors. Daniela opens it. Lorenzo doesn't give her time to say anything; he slips into the apartment. She closes the door and makes a gesture for him to keep quiet. The boy is sleeping. Lorenzo kisses her, hugs her. I needed to see you. You can't be here. They're not coming home until later. But it's not right. I can help you, what were you doing? Don't be silly.

Euphoric, he pulls her further into the apartment. It's identical to his, but set up very differently. He doesn't have time to realize that the main difference is the familial warmth. Lorenzo pushes her into the main bedroom. No, no, whispered Daniela, somewhat amused and somewhat embarra.s.sed. Lorenzo gets her onto the mattress, and lies on top of her to kiss her and caress her.

Three days earlier, Lorenzo had undressed that body for the first time in his bedroom. The moment had little in common with this one. It was a slow labor, between pa.s.sionate and prudent. Daniela was pa.s.sive. They had gone out for the night, but it was intensely cold. She was the one who suggested, can we go to your place? Of course, he said, he didn't think about Sylvia, she definitely wouldn't come home until later.

They sat on the sofa. He put on some soft music, brought out something to drink. He kissed her and they talked very close together. He pushed her hair out of her face with the tips of his fingers. He told her about episodes of his life and he let on that they had met when he had hit bottom. Daniela seemed to like Lorenzo's confidential tone. She bit her lip when he told her about Pilar, I think we were the happiest couple in the world for a while. Every once in a while, he interrupts his words to kiss her lightly or touch her face. Daniela looked around the house. The bookshelf in the living room, the television.

Take me to your room, she said when Lorenzo kissed her intensely, as if putting an end to the conversation.

On the bed, he removed Daniela's clothes. Her skin had a gray tone and was soft. Her flesh seemed oppressed by her clothes. The bra strap, the tight pants. She had enormous, electric-pink nipples and generous b.r.e.a.s.t.s that when freed produced an expansive wave of eroticism. On her back, Lorenzo discovered some pink scars at shoulder height that she covered when she lay down on the mattress. She crossed her arms above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as if she were protecting herself, or as if she were handing herself over. He took off her shoes and then lowered her pants along with her panties, which were curled up inside themselves. He had trouble getting off her clothes, as if he were removing the top layer of skin. Her belly and thighs rippled seductively. Lorenzo moved to kiss her sunken belly b.u.t.ton. She was tense, but immobile. The mark from the elastic of her underwear was imprinted on her trembling skin.

Lorenzo wanted to go down on her, but she pressed her thighs together and said no, not that, that's dirty. Lorenzo crept up to find her face and neck again. She didn't undress him, so he took it all off without neglecting her body, which he kissed and stroked relentlessly. The light was turned off, but through the window filtered in a glow that allowed him to appreciate Daniela's flesh. Lorenzo lay down on top of her and bit by bit Daniela's thighs allowed him in. Her hands found a place to rest on Lorenzo's back. He took that as the moment to penetrate her and she moaned intensely.

It had happened on the most unexpected evening. Maybe the cold of the street, maybe the time had simply arrived. Daniela had a dark birthmark on her skin, above her hip. Lorenzo came very close to her, after pulling out of her body in an accelerated twist.

There was a moment of silence and then she said, that was what you wanted, wasn't it? Why do you say that? Didn't you want it? I don't know...

Daniela's words sounded sad and forced Lorenzo to be more affectionate. He spoke into her ear about the first time he had seen her, in the elevator. Of the impression her almond eyes had made on him, the mystery they emanated. No other woman except Pilar had been between these sheets, he told her. He didn't talk about how dissimilar their bodies were, the different sensations. He was now a different man, too.

Don't you ever think about her? About your wife? Sometimes. Daniela's hands were very careful not to go near his s.e.x. She had them intertwined on her belly and Lorenzo stroked them calmly.

This is all so weird, me here, with you, she said. Why? I don't know, I guess you got what you wanted, to have me, and now you can feel satisfied, victorious. Why do you say it like that? Don't you trust me? Everything can be so ugly or so beautiful. But that's it, you've slept with me now, fine.

Lorenzo was silent. He didn't entirely understand Daniela's att.i.tude. Her flesh, on the other hand, aroused him.

For men having s.e.x is the end of the conquest. No, for us it's the beginning. I saw your face when you rushed to come outside of me, but you, you didn't look at my face.

Daniela...

You didn't even ask me. Maybe I would have wanted you to finish inside me. To at least have something left when you disappear from my life.

Lorenzo kissed her as if kisses were the best way to refute her doubts. Her lips were dry, but they tasted good. Come here, get under, you're gonna catch cold. Lorenzo lifted the sheets for her.

They heard Sylvia come in, go to her room, and shut the door. In a whisper, they talked about his daughter, let's not make much noise. Lorenzo told Daniela that she had brought over her boyfriend the other night, I pretended to be asleep. She already has a boyfriend, so young, and they sleep together? No, well, I don't know about that, said Lorenzo. How can you not know? She's your daughter.

Later they made love again, or more accurately Lorenzo made love to Daniela. He let her hair get tangled in her face. He tried to place her on top of him. He had a hard time overcoming her resistance. He felt possessed by the cadence of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swaying above him. Daniela rested her hands on Lorenzo's face. I'm no s.e.x G.o.ddess, you know? Lorenzo laughed and stroked her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He told her that they were very nice. She said thank you. Daniela barely moved on top of him, she moaned, but she wasn't enjoying the moment. Lorenzo forced himself to not take his eyes off of hers.

Daniela insisted on going home. She didn't want to spend the night there. She slipped from between the sheets and started to dress. He watched her; the undulation of her flesh aroused him. She begged Lorenzo to stay in bed, but he leaped into his clothes and drove her home in the van, even though he knew full well that it would be h.e.l.lish finding a parking spot when he got back. They parted with a short kiss on the lips. Her smile seemed frank and happy for the first time. Lorenzo felt that there was still an abyss between them, but he said to himself, I love her, she is beautiful and fragile, perhaps I'm not yet worthy of her, but I could be someday.

He wanted to take her right there on his neighbor's neatly made bed, with the stuffed animals placed between the two long pillows, on the bedspread with white and orange flowers, between the night tables where each of them piled their reading, but she drew a hard line. No, no, not that. The day before they had gone out together, but Daniela hadn't wanted to go to his house nor did she invite him up to hers. Come, says Daniela, and she forces him to stand. Lorenzo remains lying down for a second on the bed and points with his hands to the lump between his legs. Look at this, it's not my fault, what do you want me to do with this? What nerve. She smiles.

She takes Lorenzo's hand and brings him to the bathroom in the hallway. Beside the sink, she lowers his pants halfway down his thighs and jerks him off with emphatic arm movements. She looks at his face and smiles defiantly while she does it. Lorenzo caresses her b.r.e.a.s.t.s through her clothes and hugs her when he comes, splattering the faucets. He composes himself quickly. She just says, now go, you can't be here.

He leaves the apartment, glancing first through the peephole to make sure he doesn't run into any neighbors. He goes down the stairs to his landing. I love you very much, he had said to Daniela a second before leaving. Very much. But all he got out of her was, get out of here already. Nothing was going to be easy.

He understood that Daniela didn't want to announce the relations.h.i.+p to her friends, be seen strolling around the neighborhood with a Spaniard. Someone might start spreading rumors if they saw them together. Daniela liked to feel respected. As she had said to him, I'm not one of those girls who think a man is going to solve all her problems, I'm one of those who think that he's just going to make things more complicated.

They would see each other again that evening, when she finished work. They could have dinner together, but she was never hungry. Maybe he would bring her over to his place. The time had come to introduce her to Sylvia. He didn't want more time to pa.s.s without them meeting. He didn't want to be sneaking around his own house, his own life. He wouldn't say stupid stuff to Sylvia like, I have a right to remake my life, too. He'd just say, this is Daniela.

16.

They like that cafe because they can watch the street through the large rectangular window. Sylvia pointed it out one afternoon. Look, it's like a movie theater. Through the gla.s.s, real life pa.s.sed by like a performance projected just for them. Often Ariel is the one who shows up later, and she greets him from inside with a smile. But today he is the one waiting, prepared to see her walking down the sidewalk in his direction. Ariel rests into the chair's back, ready for the pleasure of seeing her.

Luck and pigheadedness, the ma.s.seur had told him that morning. If I had to define what you need to succeed here, that's how I'd sum it up, luck and pigheadedness. If one isn't dead set on tackling obstacles when they arise, he's better off just leaving, because that's when you have to grit your teeth. He said it as if he weren't talking to Ariel, as if he were addressing the injured ankle, and it could hear him and take his advice. Half of the injuries are up here, and he pointed to his forehead. Ariel appreciated the powerful hands on his body. Here, years ago, there was an Italian fullback who always had an expression for these things. Non piangere, coglioni, ridi e vai Non piangere, coglioni, ridi e vai...And that's it, there's no point complaining, he said to end the ma.s.sage.

Pujalte's tan was intriguingly perfect. It was applied to his entire face in a hyperprecise way. It matched his gelled hair and contrasted sharply with his immaculate teeth. Too perfect to be a former player, thought Ariel when he saw him. He wore expensive shoes on the damp gra.s.s. The hems of his suit had gotten wet pacing the field during practice. Ariel came out of the weight room. He walked over to him, still carrying the crutch. Pujalte didn't take a step, he just waited.

We'll be more comfortable in the office, Pujalte told him, and he took his elbow as if he were helping him. It's March. He opened the small fridge and took out two little bottles of ice-cold water. Ariel doesn't drink his. I wanted to talk to you ahead of time, I wanted to let you know that as it stands today we aren't counting on you for next season. Of all the things Ariel had imagined hearing that week from his superiors, this was the most unexpected. And he felt bad about his inability to see it. He didn't like to be surprised, it seemed a sign of stupidity, of lack of foresight. It was important to antic.i.p.ate others' decisions so they didn't catch you off guard. It actually had a lot to do with his att.i.tude on the playing field, predict your opponents' options.