Learning To Lose Part 19

The recriminations grew. It was your l.u.s.t that made me lose my job. I provoked you and wasn't able to keep you out of the house. l.u.s.t? What century is that word from? Why don't you say love? Because love is respect. And I don't respect you? Of course you do, but we didn't respect their house.

It was perhaps a terrible coincidence that these discussions took place during Holy Week. Daniela seemed to be steeped in a martyr spirit. It was impossible to find a new job during the holidays, and that gave her more than enough time to fret. Lorenzo's mother was in the hospital and it kept his nights filled. Wasn't that a sacrifice? During the day, he looked for Daniela, he tried to piece back together what was broken. They went to his apartment; Sylvia had gone camping with some cla.s.smates. They had three days to themselves. But Daniela was worried about being in the building, being so close to the couple she had worked for, what if I b.u.mp into them? You have nothing to be ashamed of. You really believe that? Why would I lower my head if I saw them?

During lunch at his place, they worked on a strategy for finding another job. There is a nun that has a placement agency, she helped me the first time. I'm sure Wilson could find you something, he has hundreds of contacts, suggested Lorenzo. I don't like Wilson's contacts, she said, abruptly closing the chapter. He takes advantage of people, it's ugly. Well, he also helps them, interjected Lorenzo. No, helping is something else.

Daniela continued to have a devastated outlook. They had started helping me with my papers. I'll take care of that, don't worry. I have to send money home. I can lend you some. Don't even say that. Lorenzo felt a real desire to hold her and make love to her, but he held himself back, he didn't want to be rebuffed. Your daughter must think I'm crazy, seeing me cry like that, she said to Lorenzo. No, not at all, she told me you were very pretty.

When they finished eating, she insisted on was.h.i.+ng the dishes. Lorenzo embraced her from behind. He played with her hands under the water and foam and then he wet her bare forearms. He remained glued to her. You're aroused, warned Daniela. Very much so, he responded. Come on, wait for me in the bed, I'll be there soon.

Lorenzo obeyed. He went to his room and undressed. He got between the sheets of his unmade bed, which he straightened with two flutters. Then he thought better of it and put his underwear back on. She took her time coming. For a second, Lorenzo no longer heard the sound of dishes in the sink and he thought she had gone. But then there was a sound of the toilet flus.h.i.+ng. When she opened the door to his room, Lorenzo smiled at her from the bed. Daniela went to the window. She lowered the blinds. The room was in almost complete darkness. Lorenzo felt the mattress sink when she sat down. She took off her sneakers, then her pants. Then her T-s.h.i.+rt, which she folded and arranged beside the pants on the floor, on the little rug. Lorenzo hugged her. He kissed her on the shoulders and ran first his fingers and then his lips over the marks on her back. Are they injuries? My father was very strict, until he left us, was all she said.

Lorenzo caressed her body, you're so lovely, but Daniela said nothing. She didn't stop him from taking the straps of her bra off her shoulders or removing it, after a struggle unhooking it that made them both laugh. Lorenzo caressed Daniela's s.e.x over her panties and then beneath them. She seemed aroused, willing. When Lorenzo lay on top of her, he heard her whisper, yes, come on, give it all to me, let's go. Following Lorenzo's rhythmic movements, her hands invited him to speed up. Like that, like that, you like it? I'm your wh.o.r.e, I don't mind being your wh.o.r.e, give it to me.

Lorenzo had never heard her talk like that. Twice he tried to lie down and put her on top of him, but Daniela's hands clung tightly to him. She turned her face and panted with closed eyes. It was so different from her usual att.i.tude that Lorenzo even wondered if she was faking it. He stuck his thumb in her mouth, Daniela bit it without hurting him. She kept repeating obscenities into his ear. Lorenzo pulled out to come onto her belly, they remained there, damp, stuck to one another.

You're afraid, right? You finished outside of me, she added a moment later. I don't know if you are taking anything. What does it matter? Are you afraid of getting me pregnant? It was the first time Lorenzo thought, with the detachment of a recent o.r.g.a.s.m, that she was crazy. But her tone was sweet and affectionate. It wasn't psychotic or threatening. I thought that was normal, he said. It's easy to have s.e.x without going all the way, as if it were just a game, but it's nicer to have s.e.x and go all the way. I would have really liked you to finish inside me.

I don't know, it's better to talk about these things first, discuss them calmly. You never asked me. Okay, Daniela, please, let's be straight with each other, does this have something to do with religion?

What makes you say that?

For the first time, Daniela acted offended. You don't understand anything. Did I force you to do anything? Did I ask you to go to church, to believe in anything? I went to bed with you without getting any promises out of you...Excuse me, I don't understand.

Beneath the sheets, Daniela took Lorenzo's hand and placed it on her still damp belly. She dragged it from the top of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her pubic hair. All this is yours, I am giving it to you.

Daniela turned her back to Lorenzo. He turned over and took her by the shoulders after a moment, which was a relief, because his hemorrhoids were killing him, but he didn't say anything. He started to brush up against her again. He said, do you want to have a baby with me? Is that what you want? Well, let's go for it, let's do it, come on, I want it, too. But Lorenzo stopped, fell back onto the mattress. This is ridiculous, he said, I can't have a child now, I'm sorry.

You're a coward, Lorenzo. You still have so much to change.

They stayed there for a long time, without moving, without saying anything. Daniela stood up sometime later and dressed. Are you leaving? Don't you want to shower? No, I like to take you with me. Lorenzo wanted to keep her, pull her back down beside him. When he stood up he asked, what do you want from me? What can I do?

p.r.o.nouncing the words with a firm but sweet musicality, Daniela told him, I only ask that you don't turn me into your wh.o.r.e. That's all I ask of you. Respect and love.

Days pa.s.sed. They saw each other again as if nothing had happened. They went out for a walk one evening, took the metro out of the neighborhood, and Lorenzo took her by the waist. He liked to do that in front of everyone. He believed it made her feel good. A group of teenagers came into the car, there weren't more than five girls, but they made a scene and attracted the pa.s.sengers' attention. Profusely made-up, coiffed with dubious taste, several of them wore miniskirts above their thighs. Daniela looked at them with a certain displeasure. One of them, the most willowy, drank from a liter bottle of beer that she carried inside a white plastic bag. n.o.body said anything to her, but she spoke loudly. She was talking about boys in a crude way. Lorenzo always thought of his daughter when he saw a group like that. Maybe when she was out of the house she acted the same, but he doubted it. He had been lucky with her. Lorenzo looked at the group of girls sadly. Time will crush them, all that defiance they now spit disdainfully in our faces will dry up one day and they'll turn into what they most hate.

Lorenzo and Daniela went to the Retiro, they looked at the kids on the swings, on the ropes, on the slides. Neither of them brought up the conversation that had been interrupted. What can I offer her? Where am I going wrong? Her last comment in his bedroom had remained in his head, unsettled. The moral abyss between them was so vast that the couple he longed for seemed impossible.

Lorenzo accompanied her to a job interview in a house on the outskirts of the city. He waited for her in the van. It wasn't far from Paco's neighborhood, from where he had died. Lorenzo thought of him. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Daniela the truth, to open up to her. What would he say? She emerged from the interview with her head bowed, they want someone who knows English and can teach it to the children. Lorenzo wanted to take her to the old folks' home where he went to visit Don Jaime. She thought it was a good idea. He's a curious guy, Wilson and I emptied out his apartment, now he lives in a home. He's alone, he doesn't have anyone, sometimes I pa.s.s by and sit with him.

The visit wasn't different than other times, the same polite phrases, the same absence. Don Jaime smiled when they came in, or at least Lorenzo thought he did. Daniela stroked his hand when they stood up to leave. Why do you go to see him, Lorenzo? she asked on the way home. I don't know, I honestly don't know. But it makes you feel good. Right?

Yeah, I guess so.

That night, like the previous ones, he invited her up to his place, but she didn't want to come. Then he suggested taking her home and sleeping there together. She said no.

No, not tonight.

4.

Ariel wasn't surprised the day his name didn't appear on the blackboard listing the eighteen players chosen for the final game. In the previous match, in Vitoria, he had spent the best minutes on the bench and the coach only conceded him the last ten to overcome a score of one to zero. His subst.i.tution was justified. He was coming back from an injury. And it wasn't the ideal field for a vulnerable ankle. It was as muddy out there as a stable. Every stride forced two movements, the forward one and the one to extract your foot from a puddle of mud. But Ariel remembered something Dragon used to say, in the worst conditions, on the worst fields, the best is still the best. Husky tells him about the statements the coach made in the press conference postgame. At this point in the champions.h.i.+p, I also start to think about the upcoming season and the players who are going to continue with us.

Days earlier Husky had devoted an article to him. He interwove his praise with the idea that nothing on the team had worked out the way they expected. "Ariel Burano Costa was a jewel stolen from San Lorenzo. A team that's not working undervalues all its parts, just as a team that's winning does the opposite. This is a good player devalued by a broken system."

Ariel appreciated his comments. At the same time it bothered him that it had to be a friend who praised him. He preferred the silence. He was hoping the executives would value his performance and put a stop to the war that had been unleashed. He was uncomfortable about the personal information Husky revealed. "For a young man from Buenos Aires, it was hard to integrate into a team filled with veterans, a young man who listens to music with intelligent lyrics, watches movies with subt.i.tles, who visits the Prado regularly, and even reads! It wasn't so long ago that this same team punished kids for reading during prematch preparations with a double gym session. He came alone, without any family, without knowing the country, without enough time to understand a very different kind of soccer, which is as similar to the Argentinian game as a walnut is to an orange. He has run hard along the touchline, but he hasn't won over the stands. Perhaps he will return at a better time-after all, there is rumor of a lovely young Madrid native who gives him good reason to never completely leave this city."

You could have kept that last paragraph to yourself, reproached Ariel. Sorry, I had a poetic hemorrhage. And I only went to the Prado for half an hour the whole year I've been here, don't make me out to be some f.u.c.king intellectual. Well, compared to your teammates, they could give you the n.o.bel Prize for literature and n.o.body in the First Division could argue. Tell me the truth, it got you a little emotional, didn't it? I don't cry easily. Do you know what my boss told me? That it was the most spectacular display of a.s.s kissing since Mother Teresa died. Your boss is right. You forgot to say that I played like s.h.i.+t the entire champions.h.i.+p.

Ariel clipped out the article and mailed it to his parents. He showed it to Sylvia first. Your friend is a softie. Does that last sentence refer to me? I think you made an impression on him. Yeah. And as far as I know, you only went to the Prado once. I told him, but that's just how he is.

He watched the game in which they were eliminated from the European compet.i.tion at home with Sylvia. He didn't travel with the team because the coach considered him to be in poor form following his injury. But we've got the season at stake, please. The coach shook his head. Ariel left the locker room with a huge slam of the door. Ariel was infuriated to see the season go down the drain without being on the field. Beside him, Sylvia was amused to see him punching the sofa cus.h.i.+ons, cheering them on, come on, keep it up, you gotta attack, let's go, there's time, there's still time. When Sylvia said, f.u.c.k them, those a.s.sholes kicked you off the team, he turned and said, that's my team, can't you understand that?

The loss depressed him. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Wlasavsky had brought one back for everyone on the team from his trip to Poland. It was white liquid scented by a little herb branch inside and had a mammoth drawn on the label. They both drank. They heated up some empanadas.

They went out with Husky a couple of evenings. Suddenly, when their relations.h.i.+p seemed doomed to a dead end, it became more stable than ever. They could share a friend, walk along the streets of the city without caring about onlookers' curious gazes. Husky served as the third man and that guaranteed them peace. If Ariel was surrounded by a group of teenagers who wanted to photograph him with their cell phones, Husky would dissolve them authoritatively or entertain Sylvia with comments on the people's looks, their way of speaking, of addressing a famous person. He teased Ariel all the time, he told him he'd soon be playing on some Russian millionaire's team, dribbling stalact.i.tes. He also said to Sylvia, you don't fit the Lolita mold, and then he recommended the novel to her, although I warn you it ends badly, Lolita grows up.

When the conversation inevitably turned toward soccer, Husky confessed to Sylvia, soccer is a very strange sport played by brainless perennially teenaged millionaires but they propel a mechanism that makes hundreds of thousands of brainless, not-as-wealthy people happy. He told her about the guy who, after his father died, kept bringing his ashes to the field inside a Tetra Pak, and many others who asked to have their ashes spread over the gra.s.s of their favorite team's stadium, fathers who bought members.h.i.+p cards for their sons the very day they were born, or tried to sneak their dogs into the stands, collectors of cards, jerseys, b.a.l.l.s, people who took away pieces of the goal and the field on the day of the final game.

Husky made them laugh. He relaxed the tension that sometimes acc.u.mulated around them. He went with Ariel when he dropped Sylvia off at her door at night. Often Sylvia complained bitterly, why didn't I meet you sooner. Yeah, before you met Ariel. Husky drank beers, sweated, and wiped his forehead with paper napkins that he balled up and threw to the floor. You could use my sweat to water the African continent daily.

When are you playing your last game? Sylvia had asked two evenings earlier. Ariel checked the calendar he carried in his wallet, along with the photo of his parents he had shown Sylvia several times and his juvenile league card with his twelve-year-old photo that was good for a few laughs. Sat.u.r.day, June 6, at home, he answered. Why? No reason.

Ariel feared Sylvia's reaction to the end of the season. He would say, we'll have the summer to spend together. And she nodded, as if she knew better than anyone what was going to happen.

The ma.s.seur comes into the locker room when the players were finished picking up their things. He approached Ariel. I saw that you're not traveling with the team. Do you want to come to the bullfight with me on Sat.u.r.day? Okay, said Ariel. A promise is golden, I've got season tickets at Las Ventas. At that moment, a gesture of affection or support was hugely valuable. Ariel watched him head off, walking with a comical limp.

In the hall, Amilcar was waiting for him and Ariel told him about not being in the lineup. They walked together to the parking garage. Did you read what my wife gave you? I'm working on it. Don't give up, don't be stupid, any help will do you good. Don't give in to it. No, no, of course.

At the fence where the walkway ended, like every day, there was a group of fans asking for autographs or taking impossible photos. According to Husky, hundreds of thousands of rooms around the world were adorned with out-of-focus photos of the back of some idol's neck. Many of them followed the players' expensive cars with their eyes until they vanished onto the highway.

Driving back home that afternoon, Ariel thought the route he had traveled so many times would soon be a fuzzy memory, subst.i.tuted by other facilities, another temporary home, and most likely another loneliness. He understood more and more why many players started a family with kids in their early twenties. They needed to put down roots in the quicksand, grab on to a pa.s.sing cloud. If he could drag Sylvia along with him, it would all be different, but how could he force her to pay such a high price? It was enough for him to be a slave to this profession, albeit a highly paid slave, but asking her to change her life would be too selfish. Without knowing why, he felt that his drive home was the start of a journey that would take him far, far away, that he would soon leave all this behind.

But then, what was all this?

5.

Once in a while a small detail changes everything. The language cla.s.s is over and the cla.s.sroom empties out at a dizzying speed to shake off the lethargy. Sylvia's cla.s.smates go down to enjoy midmorning recess. It is hot. Sylvia takes off her thin sweater and pushes it into her backpack. She slouches down at a desk and checks her cell phone. She turns it on and waits to see if any message has come in. Barely a week has pa.s.sed since Ariel's fate was sealed. He will leave, transferred to play on a British team. His current club will have to pay a third of his salary and he'll remain their property until the end of his contract. Four more years. Sylvia doesn't understand and doesn't want to understand the business details of the operation, but it seems clear that Ariel's future will lower his value. She hasn't said anything, but the name of the city he's heading to, Newcastle, sounds like carcel carcel-prison-Newcarcel.

They surfed the Web for information. The place is only five hours by bus from London, and it has a university. I still have two more years of high school. You could learn English. They say that in the next few years a lot of money is going into British soccer, Ariel told her.

In the front desks, near the blackboard, there is still a small group of four students whom Sylvia doesn't know that well. They are talking about a television program from the day before that she didn't see. It seems they mistakenly invited a middle-aged man into a debate about new technologies. He was really just on his way to a job interview at the station offices. The guy responded intelligently to the questions during a good part of the broadcast, until the confusion was revealed and they took the guest off the set.

The last one to leave the room is her friend Nadia. You coming? she asks. I'll come down later, answers Sylvia. After the suspense of hoping for a new message to fall like a drop of rain, there's nothing on her cell. Sylvia puts it back into the pocket of her backpack. The math teacher, Don Octavio, walks through the hall with his outstretched neck and his lopsided gait, pa.s.sing by the open door. Sylvia sees him greet her with a lift of his eyebrows. But a second later he retraces his steps and peeks through the doorway into the cla.s.sroom. You're Sylvia, right? Sylvia nods. Do you have some time later this morning to stop by the department office? Sylvia says yes and he leaves with, well, I'll see you there later then, and disappears again.

Sylvia wonders why the teacher wants to see her. She doesn't jump to any conclusion, it seems random, he obviously wasn't looking for her. She pa.s.ses by the open door of Mai's cla.s.s but she isn't inside. When she turns, she b.u.mps into Dani, you looking for Mai? She's in the cafeteria. They go downstairs together, but when they get there Sylvia changes her mind, it's nice out, I'd rather go out to the yard. Should I go with you? Sylvia just shrugs her shoulders.

They look for a place to sit in the sun. Did you see that show last night? Sylvia shakes her head. My mother was watching and called me over. The hostess was halfway into the program and someone must have warned her that they'd messed up. She turns to the camera and says, it seems there's been a misunderstanding and one of our guests is sitting in on the debate by accident. They all looked at each other, I think they were scared s.h.i.+tless. The guy in question was a pretty chubby Guinean, he seemed charming. He apologized, I'm sorry, I told the hostess that I wasn't sure if I had to partic.i.p.ate in the program. He explained that someone at the front desk took him to the set and invited him to sit on the panel of experts. The best part was that he seemed like the least fake of them all. If it had been one of those contests where you call in to identify the imposter, they would have gotten rid of everyone else before this guy. He seemed to have more common sense than any of the real experts. It was incredible.

Three of Sylvia's cla.s.smates joined the conversation. One of them was eating a large sandwich that he offered to the others. Dani was obviously uncomfortable for a second, until Sylvia's gaze calmed him down. It was a look that was outside of the conversation, just for him. Stay.

Sylvia is surprised every time she has a strange connection with Dani. She likes his scruffy way of dressing and moving, his shyness about speaking in front of people he doesn't know, which contrasts with his confidence among friends. There's something that keeps him on the margins of the group, as if he doesn't need to join in to exist. Sylvia likes that independence. But she's not physically attracted to him, it's more a friendly camaraderie, a kindred spirit.

When cla.s.ses are over at the end of the day, Sylvia heads toward the math department with a certain reluctance. The door is closed and she waits for a moment while the students file out. The teacher appears with a handful of photocopies. h.e.l.lo, come in, come in. He walks into the office and leaves the papers on the table. Sit down, he gestures to a chair while he closes the door. Sylvia puts her backpack on her lap. Well, Sylvia, I wanted to talk to you if you don't mind, what's going on with you? Sylvia is silent. She doesn't really understand the question. We're at the end of the school year and a few of us teachers were discussing your performance, it's really gone down. Things could start getting complicated for you. I mean, I don't want to put in my two cents when no one's asking for it, but there's always something...He doesn't finish, he keeps his eyes fixed on Sylvia's. She looks over at the bookshelves. No, there's nothing going on with me. Is it that you aren't motivated, you can't concentrate? I don't know, there must be something I can do to help you out. You were doing well, you don't need to end up with an F. You understand that, right?

Sylvia chews on a lock of hair. The teacher's moustache covers his upper lip, giving him a certain serious air, which his eyes, when you looked at them carefully, contradict. They sparkle and Sylvia is intrigued by them. She doesn't manage to give any coherent response. She hesitates over saying, my parents separated, but decides it sounds pathetic. She remains silent. Let's do something to make up some of the work, okay? To see if we can help you out. The teacher stands up and searches in his drawer until he finds some photocopies. Here are four or five problems, they're more logic games than anything else. I want you to prepare two or three pages for me, working out the solutions. Do it at home, reason it out, as if you were explaining it in cla.s.s. You can use the textbook, of course, but make it clear that you understand the concepts. It's very easy and I'll grade it as extra credit. Okay?

Sylvia looks up, she can't quite believe what is happening to her. Would he have done the same thing for other students? Sylvia doesn't ask. She looks into Don Octavio's eyes. You have three days. Bring it to me here, at my office, this is something between you and me, outside of cla.s.s. The teacher obviously considers the conversation over. Sylvia stands up and grabs her backpack. Thank you. Don't let it drop, don't let yourself go, all right, Sylvia, we all go through good periods and bad periods, but now it's a question of stepping up the pace these last two weeks, it's not worth quitting.

On the street, a moment later, Sylvia feels like crying. Is her private life so on display that a teacher can sense it from a distance? With some sort of X-ray vision. What moved Sylvia was his almost accidental interest. He was walking down the hall and suddenly, seeing her alone in the cla.s.sroom, realized that her grades had dropped, he must have remembered her last, lame test, and instead of continuing on his way he stopped for a moment to take an interest in her. Something must have gone through his head in that fraction of a second that made him decide to stick his head into the cla.s.s and talk to her. Sylvia, like most of her schoolmates, was convinced she was inscrutable to her teachers, just another face in the group that occupied a year of their lives and then vanished forever. Worlds that never crossed beyond the obligatory hour of cla.s.s time.

What had left her on the edge of tears was the perception that everything had been abandoned, her studies, her family, her school friends, to get involved in a story that as it was ending left a dry, frustrating, barren hole. She had been on the other side and, suddenly, the teacher, in a professional way, not at all threatening, had brought her back to reality. We are here, where are you? he seemed to have been asking her. The hand he extended meant a lot. She, too, like the Guinean mistaken for an expert on television, had been invited into a world where she didn't belong. She, too, had politely faked it, had pa.s.sed the imposter test, but it was urgent that she stop feeding the farce.

On the way home, she feels her pa.s.sion for Ariel dying out, or that it must die out in order to save herself. She accepts the breakup as if it had happened in that office minutes earlier. That afternoon, before the students take over the oversize tables in the public library, she will sit down with the math pages and try to do the teacher's symbolic a.s.signment. She will read the logic problems she has to solve, but she won't really understand what Don Octavio expects of her until the third problem makes it clear.

"Two people, A and B, are two meters apart, and A wants to get closer to B, but with every step A has to cover exactly half the total distance that remains between A and B." Sylvia will swallow hard, but will continue reading. "The first step is one meter long, the second step half a meter, the third step a quarter of a meter. Each step A takes toward B will be smaller, and the distance will lessen in an eternal progression, but what is surprising is that, if we maintain the premise that each step will equal half the total distance separating them, A will never reach B, as much as A tries."

Sylvia's eyes will be red. Perhaps that simple exercise will help to explain the theory of the boundaries that changed the history of science at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Maybe it was true, as the text on the photocopy explained with quotes from Leibniz and Newton. But Sylvia will begin to write her personal explanation of the problem and it will soon transform into a good-bye letter. The same letter that she will not know how to write to Ariel to tell him, in the most logical and simple way, that our story is over. A will never reach B.

6.

Some nights, when Leandro comes back from the hospital to sleep at home, the doorbell rings and he's forced to buzz up the real estate agent who escorts some potential buyers. She is a nervous woman, with an overflowing file and a cell phone that seems to be a living animal. She always apologizes to Leandro for coming at such hours. Leandro doesn't accompany them on their tour through the house, but he can read the clients' expression when they leave. In the distance, he hears things like, the whole place has to be redone, but once you get it the way you want it, it'll be fabulous; during the day it has wonderful natural light, the neighborhood is a real gem, close to everything.

He was the one who gave Lorenzo the deed and the paperwork necessary to get it on the market. The real estate agency is owned by a friend his son has known since childhood. Lalo, a bright, cheerful kid who when someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up would reply, an explorer in China. Fifty million of the old pesetas is what they are asking for it. He doesn't understand euro conversions for big amounts. It's a good moment to sell, said someone in the agency to be polite. The mortgage subrogated to the bank was, according to Lorenzo's calculations, a big mistake. Another one. And his spending had taken a big, excessive, chunk out. Nevertheless, the day of the signing, Lorenzo only said, we've had to face a lot of expenses in these last few months.

I think the best thing would be for me to take care of everything, his son told him. They had transferred the money to his name. If his father refused, he could have had him declared unfit, but they never argued over it. How's the house? asked Aurora from the hospital, does Benita still come to cook and clean for you? Leandro nodded, although the truth was that he asked her not to come anymore now that he was spending more time in the hospital. Benita had started crying and Leandro remembered something she said as she left, after giving him an affectionate hug on tiptoes, we were brought here for taming and they tamed us good, they did.

In Lorenzo's house was a small room where his father could settle in, where he'd stored papers, an old computer, and a desk that Pilar used when she brought work home. There they could set up Leandro's bed frame and his few boxes of belongings. They cleared a s.p.a.ce beside the television for the piano. Sylvia refused to let him get rid of it.

A neighbor had told Leandro, at our age we're not up for moving. He spent his days sitting besides Aurora's bed, trying to be friendly with the visitors who insisted on coming to say good-bye, all those who found out from others, and came to try to hold a conversation Aurora could no longer maintain. Manolo Almendros started crying after kissing Aurora's cheek on his last visit. In the hallway he said to Leandro, I always loved your wife, I was so envious of you.

He had thought of Osembe very few times. One afternoon he was tempted to take the bus to Mostoles and plant himself in front of her door. If he pa.s.sed some girl on the street who reminded him of her, he took pleasure in watching her, studying her gestures, her behavior, as if he wanted to understand something about what had escaped his grasp. In the newspaper, he read the news of the closing of the chalet. It showed a photo of the facade, taken at the same distant angle from which he had so often observed the house before deciding to enter. The climbing vine had grown with the springtime and hid the wall and part of the metal gates. According to the newspaper, the Bulgarian mafia in cahoots with a Spaniard was exploiting the women and had a system for videotaping what was going on in the rooms. Using the tapes, they had started to blackmail lawyers, businessmen, and other wealthy clients. One of the victims had alerted the police and two of the ringleaders and the madam were arrested, and seven women who seemed to have been forced into prost.i.tution were freed.

Leandro imagined the tapes in the hands of the police. Maybe the officers or the civil servants had gotten together to watch the old guy who was such a regular. They would have laughed heartily. Hey, come over and check out this old dude, here he comes again.

Aurora is lying in bed, her mouth partially open, her face relaxed except for some slight momentary tension. The nurses come in. Leandro watches them work. He remembers how the downward spiral all began, with his appreciation of a nurse's bared curves. Now he admits that life requires a high level of submission. Anything else is suicide.

When they are left alone, Aurora speaks to him. Did you go out for a stroll? He nods. She suddenly mentions the canary they were given many years earlier, do you remember? When the neighbor, Petra, left for a small town. Leandro thinks it's just a fickle memory springing from the mental chaos that sometimes makes her delusional or makes her see images superimposed on the wall. Lorenzo had started to go to school and the neighbor gave Aurora her canary, because every morning through the window she commented on how well it sang. It brightens up the whole building, she would say. It drove Leandro crazy with its singing, all it took was listening to the radio or having a conversation to set off its unbearable craziness. Poor bird. Those were the same words Aurora had said when she found it dead one morning in its cage beneath the kitchen towel. Why did she remember that? Aurora repeats the phrase, to herself, in a low voice, poor bird.

Leandro sits on the mattress. The woman in the next bed is sleeping and her daughter went down to have something to eat. Why are you remembering that now? Aurora smiles. It sang so beautifully. Leandro took her hand. We've had fun, he says. We've been very happy. Aurora doesn't say anything, but she smiles. Going through old papers, I found the letters I sent you from Paris. It's incredible how pedantic and conceited I was then. I don't know why you waited for me. I would have run off after reading the nonsense I wrote you, with those airs of grandeur. Leandro wonders if she can hear him. I've failed you so many times. I ended up far below your expectations, didn't I? Aurora smiles and Leandro caresses her face. I've been a disaster, but I've loved you so much. Aurora can see him crying, but she can't reach her hand up to touch him.

That same afternoon, Leandro receives his student. Luis jogs up the stairs. Climb stairs like an old man when you're young and you'll be climbing them like a young man when you're old, that's what they used to say to me, explains Leandro as he leads Luis to the room.

Boxes now hold most of the papers and books that used to fill the walls. We are moving. Your wife...says the young man, but he doesn't dare finish the sentence. Leandro clarifies, I'm moving in with my son, she's still the same. I don't know if we'll be able to continue the cla.s.ses there, I'll let you know. Luis hears noises in the kitchen. Leandro nods his head, they're helping me pack things up. Lorenzo had sent over two Ecuadorian guys. One of them is funny, his name is Wilson and he looks toward the living room with one eye while the other looks toward the kitchen. When Leandro saw him, he thought of a young friend who's an orchestra director and also has a wandering eye and brags about being the only director who can lead both the string and wind sections at the same time. When they stopped for a moment to rest from the packing, Wilson said to Leandro, do you know you're a lot like your son? And, seeing Leandro's surprised expression, he added, no one's ever told you that before? No, not really, maybe when Lorenzo was younger. Well, you are a lot alike, you both hold your tongue, you are men of few words, huh, isn't that right?

Leandro nods toward his student, there are things in these boxes you might be interested in, if you want them, they're yours. The boy approaches to have a look at the pile of scores, a few music-history books. That one is a masterpiece, Leandro says when he sees him pick one up. Don't even look at the LPs, I should throw them out, they're just relics. My father says that CDs don't have the same sound quality, explains the young man. Your father likes music? The boy nods, somewhat unsure. He was a student of yours, at the academy. They gave us your phone number when we were looking for a private tutor. Really? What's his name? The boy told him his father's full name. Leandro pretended to remember him. He always says that you were a great teacher, that you had them play in front of a mirror, so they could correct themselves. Leandro nodded with a half smile. And that you talked to them in Latin and, I don't know, you told them things about the composers.

Leandro interrupts him. Go ahead, take whatever you want, I can't fill up my son's house with all this useless junk.

7.

The news of Wilson's death came as a cruel blow. Lorenzo had tried to reach him on the cell when he was running more than an hour late for a moving job. But no one answered. He a.s.sumed something came up and called the clients to apologize. He invented a story that they'd had a little accident with the van and he would get back to them in an hour. He had no way to reach their regular helpers. He was tempted to stop by Wilson's house, but he didn't. Throughout the morning, he tried Wilson's cell phone repeatedly. An hour later, someone called him back. Are you looking for Wilson? He died last night, they killed him. Lorenzo received the brutal information in the middle of the street. He had left for the market with a long-overdue shopping list. He didn't ask for details, but he headed over to Wilson's house.

Some friends were gathered there, along with his cousin Nancy. They told him the circ.u.mstances surrounding his death. They found him on the floor of the place he rented out at night, his head smashed in by brick blows. There were fingerprints everywhere, but the police still hadn't arrested anyone. Although on the radio they said the murderer was found, someone explains.

Lorenzo waits with Wilson's other close friends for permission from the central morgue to pick up the body. They will be able to bury him only after the autopsy has been performed. They won't let them cremate in case they have to examine the body further. Nancy cries, she's talked to his mother, who wants them to send the remains back to his country. That will cost a lot of money. He must have been carrying all his money on him, as he always did, it was too tempting to see him pull out that wad of bills, says someone. It could have been any crazy person. It was sc.u.m who slept there, the worst. I'm surprised, Wilson knew how to defend himself. The conversations overlapped. Once in a while, one of the women would interrupt them with a cry or a sob. I'll take care of sending the body to his family, whatever it costs, says Lorenzo. Daniela still doesn't know anything about it, Nancy tells him, she works outside Madrid now and only comes home on Sat.u.r.days to sleep.

Lorenzo asks Chincho about the van. The previous afternoon, Wilson had picked it up at his house. Lorenzo has an extra set of keys on him, but n.o.body knows where it's parked. He shrugs his shoulders. It must be somewhere near the place.

Lorenzo goes into Wilson's room and looks over the s.p.a.ce. There is barely a mattress, a small wardrobe, and a nightstand. Resting on a lopsided lamp is a postcard of Chimborazo covered in snow. Lorenzo opens a drawer and doesn't find what he's looking for. In the wardrobe, his meager clothes are lined up. Lorenzo goes through his things. Chincho watches him from the door. If you're looking for this...He holds out two notebooks filled with jottings, I took them off the body, just in case. Lorenzo flips through and keeps them. His name appears on several occasions. When he goes back to the living room, Chincho approaches him. You can count on me for jobs. Of course, of course. The man leans his odd neck forward, life goes on, he whispers.

Lorenzo takes the metro downtown. Standing at the back of the car, he goes over Wilson's notes. The jobs already done are crossed out in pencil, but you could still read the information. The pages are overflowing with sums and divisions, street addresses and details, all gathered in an organized mess. There are also telephone numbers jotted on the final pages. In the second notebook is more of the same. Lorenzo gets an idea of Wilson's frenetic activity in recent days. He noted down details so he wouldn't forget them, wrote down things still to be done. Lorenzo could reconstruct his life based on the order of his notes. Once in a while, there was another telephone number and beside it he had written, Carmita, neighbor. Suddenly Lorenzo sees his name, often appearing next to some figures, the division of money, the amount owed, always as an explanation of accounts. But on one page the note has a rectangle around it and isn't related to any business. In his schoolboy's hand is written: "June 10, Lorenzo's birthday. Watch."

Surrounded by strangers in the metro car, by a woman who sits clutching her purse tightly with both hands, by a couple of Brazilians who speak loudly, two women from Eastern Europe, a mother with a baby in a stroller who could be Peruvian, a man studying a city map, Lorenzo stands, in spite of the empty seats, and feels a s.h.i.+ver run up his back. The texture of the notebook, its rough black cover, the rubber band that holds it closed, brings back memories of Wilson, lost but nearby. He remembers that once Wilson had noticed Lorenzo always checked the time on his cell phone. Don't you have a watch? I never wear one, Lorenzo had answered. My mother always said that a gentleman should carry a clean handkerchief in his pocket and wear a watch on his wrist. After the note, that minor conversation was now transformed into a moving detail.

He met Wilson through Daniela and now there was no trace of either of them. Wilson had filled a significant spot in his life, with that frank smile, his intelligent conversations, and that crazy eye. He had seen Daniela for the last time on Sat.u.r.day. She had gone out with some girlfriends and they met up downtown. He was surprised to see she wasn't alone. We've taken a step backward in our relations.h.i.+p, thought Lorenzo when he saw her surrounded by friends. Can we have a drink alone? They went into a cafeteria on Calle Arenal with mosaics of Andalusian motifs. She seemed happy. The pastor had offered to help her find work, he often lent a hand to people in the neighborhood in exchange for the first month's salary.

What is happening to us, Daniela, are we not a couple anymore? I don't know what to think.

At first, when I met you, the way you got to know me, without acting superior or disrespectful, I thought, this is a brave man. Daniela sipped her juice through a straw. Is this about the children thing? You want us to have kids? Look, Lorenzo, I can't have children. One day if you want I can tell you the whole story, it's kind of complicated. Let me just say that a year ago they took a myoma out of me the size of a soccer ball and they completely cleaned me out. Does that make you feel more relaxed?

Lorenzo lowered his head and tried to reach Daniela's hand, but he only got halfway across the table. She was the one who placed her hand over his. She was wearing a little gold bracelet on her wrist. Lorenzo didn't remember ever having seen it before. Suddenly he had a pang of jealousy.

When I met you, you were a strange man. I had the feeling you were lost, alone. I felt very sorry for you, but it was a happy sorrow, because I thought you were someone who could be saved, that I could save you and it made me happy. I've seen you soar into flight, like a bird that gets his strength back. But that's it. Now that you can fly, you don't need me, don't cling to me. Go if you want. I can't give you what you're looking for.

Don't be silly, I don't want to go anywhere. Lorenzo suddenly thought, with cruel clear-sightedness, that the mentality of these young women raised in the warm glow of television soap operas was perversely deformed. He looked up at the lovely composition of Daniela's eyes. In that moment, she seemed more beautiful to him than ever. But she was talking about salvation, about wounded animals. She seemed to want to end their relations.h.i.+p.