Learning To Lose Part 2

The agent was named Solorzano and he wanted exclusive rights to negotiate on his behalf. Let's not lose our heads, Charlie said to him, but he was the one who most wanted to lose his head. The Spaniards come loaded with money, soccer over there pays anything you want, anything you want, repeated Charlie. That same night he took them out for dinner at Piegari. If you're not playing on a Spanish team next season, I'll cut off my ponytail, Solorzano told them, and Charlie cracked up laughing. The guy is bald, we've got nothing to lose. I don't work alone, Solorzano explained. Ariel's team preferred quick money, they were already in talks to sell his player rights to a company owned by two well-known middlemen who moved Iranian capital and had bought a club in Brazil and were in negotiations with another in London. They had to act fast. It seemed that Boca was offering a million and a half dollars for 50 percent owners.h.i.+p of the player. I don't want to end up where they tell me to go, I want to choose my team, Ariel insisted to Charlie.

After signing the exclusive with Solorzano, they realized what he meant when he said that he didn't work alone. An article appeared about him in the Spanish soccer press. "Everyone wants to sign the player of the moment, the winger from San Lorenzo, Ariel Burano Costa." In the next match against Rosario Central, Ariel made the second goal and the wife of Puma Sosa, the Uruguayan center midfielder, told him that he had also been on the international Spanish news channel. Solorzano called from Madrid, you're all set up perfectly, next week I'll tell you about the offers.

Days later he had a live telephone interview with a Spanish radio host who asked him things like, is it true what they say, that you can make so many feints on a patch of field that the defenders stop to watch and then applaud? Ariel started to understand Solorzano's domino game. How he set up the pieces so that they all worked in the same direction: Madrid.

By fax Solorzano sent them another clipping from a Spanish newspaper, the peninsular equivalent to Clarin Clarin. They profiled Ariel as one more player who had sprung from hards.h.i.+p, a born compet.i.tor, quick, intuitive, an artist. "In the streets of a poor section of Buenos Aires, Ariel 'the Feather' Burano learned to keep the ball at his left foot at all times. They call him 'Feather' because he moves with the weightlessness of a dancer." Ariel smiled at the cliched image. It must not sell as many papers to say he was the son of a middle-cla.s.s family from Floresta and that he had learned his mastery of the ball during endless cla.s.ses at the Lincoln School, where they scuttled the ball from left to right, beneath the desks, as a distraction from the tedium of the lectures. They really called him Feather because they said he could be sent down to the ground just by blowing on him. In rival stadiums, every time he fell to the gra.s.s, they chanted: fall, fall.

Ariel later learned that a scout had written to the Spanish club recommending they sign him: "In two years he'll be playing for Boca or River and he'll cost twice as much." Someone from the board of directors leaked to Solorzano the names of the players they were going to try to sign and then Solorzano would work his way in. The first thing he would do was raise the price, don't worry, the more expensive a player the more interest, because a lot of people live off the money that falls by the side of the road in the process. Solorzano shared commission with the deep throat inside the board of directors and then stirred up a media storm, greasing palms with privileged information and the occasional banknote. The idea was to multiply the price, get other buyers interested, and force the signing with expectations created by the media. If the public starts pus.h.i.+ng, you get the president on the ropes and he'll pay whatever, as long as you always let him make a little, send a pinch of dough to his account in the Caymans and everybody's happy. The important thing is that everybody's happy, right? Isn't soccer all about making people happy? lectured Solorzano.

For Ariel Spanish soccer was familiar. He knew players who had gone over there, and on satellite TV they showed live games on Sundays. Even though many players return from abroad without having succeeded, going over there was still the dream that year for Martin Palermo and Burrito Ortega and, on his own team, Loeschbor and Matias Urbano. But on Solorzano's next trip, things seemed less close. It's gotten complicated, but we're working on fixing it. The club filled all its spots for non-European foreigners. They're leaving us with our pants down. They don't want to bring over an Argentinian and this is after it was all sewn up and the press already said you're the next Maradona. He showed him the cover of a sports newspaper with his photo and a huge headline: "Bring over this kid."

Burano is an Italian last name, right? Solorzano asked them one day. Charlie nodded unconvincingly, they say my father's grandfather comes from over there. Two weeks later, Solorzano showed them the birth certificate of a Burano great-grandfather expedited by an Italian parish. For a modest sum, I'll make you a family tree where your mother's the Mona Lisa. Carlo Burano was the name of the forebear, their made-up great-grandfather. With his Italian roots, Ariel would take a European spot, he wouldn't have to fight for his place with Brazilians, Africans, Mexicans. With that c.o.c.ky face and that gangster hair, you could only be Italian, Solorzano said to Ariel. We aren't doing anything wrong, just finding some lost family papers. There's no stopping the machine.

Solorzano didn't inspire trust in either Ariel or Charlie. He drank red wine and smoked cheap cigars. His teeth were like an unmopped floor that ended in two gold molars. Even though he a.s.sured them that the only flag he bowed before was a waving banknote, several times, egged on by alcohol, he would confess that what Spain needed was another Franco and Argentina another Peron. He was sarcastically nostalgic, and a veteran barhound. He traveled with a young lawyer, a representative of the club, to close deals, and they all met in the offices of Ariel's financial advisers. Charlie acted as a security guard, but Solorzano, his laughter breaking into a cackle, relaxed the atmosphere with his endless anecdotes. He told them where the team's president-the one they called "the mother from Psycho" Psycho"-found his love for soccer. He bought a team in the north, which shared owners.h.i.+p of the stadium with the city hall; he managed to get the team knocked down to Second Division and then lower than Second, and then bankrupt it. It was absurd. Instead of trying to get the team to win, he did everything possible to make them lose. It looked like the world turned upside down. But the whole business brought about the demolition of the stadium, which was near the beach, and on the site they built fourteen hundred luxury apartments, splitting it with the munic.i.p.al government, of course, so there were no legal qualms. The season ticket holders wanted to kill him and, in a gesture he carried off with the utmost dignity, he sold the team. At that point, the team's legacy was all in its name and its coat of arms, that's it. A few years later, he was so solvent they practically sought him out to preside over the Madrid team. Now it gives him social prestige; a box seat in Madrid is tantamount to the king's court. You can do business with those kinds of people, concluded Solorzano, because they're like me: there's only one thing they respect more than money...and that's a lot of money. This chatty, obnoxious guy, with his bad breath, his rust-colored hair, golden tie clip, and woven leather shoes, took him to Spain, and judging by his s.h.i.+fty charm Ariel should have suspected that nothing was going to be easy.

In early July, Ariel went to visit Dragon. He followed the kids' practice from the sidelines with his sad, bespectacled eyes and his old whistle with the tiny wooden ball in it. I'm going to Spain, Ariel told him. I heard. Dragon's eyegla.s.ses were old, from twenty years ago. I came to say good-bye. The coach nodded his head without taking his eyes off the kids. Ariel stood by his side for a long time, waiting for him to say something. Once, after watching a Korean World Cup game at his house, during which his wife laughed at him for getting up to urinate every five minutes, Dragon had told him that soccer is for the humble, because it is the only line of work where you can do everything wrong in a game and win and you can do everything right and lose. Ariel hadn't forgotten that and he feared his old coach would now think that with his million-dollar signing and his move to Spain he had lost humility. He wanted to tell him, I'm the same kid you used to pick up in the afternoons to take to practice, with Macero and Alameda. They remained in silence for a while longer, until Dragon pointed out a boy that was playing. He has the same name as you. Send him an autographed T-s.h.i.+rt, he'll flip. Sure, said Ariel. It's rare for good players to come out of here; the only promising kids come from the countryside. Dragon turned toward him and grabbed him hard by the shoulder. He gave him a talking-to. In this game, the worst thing that can happen to you is thinking you're a little better than you really are. That was his way of saying goodbye. He crossed the field to correct some player's move. Ariel watched him from a distance and left.

For a while, he thought that good-byes were harder than arrivals, but he was wrong. Now he saw himself, alone, his only companion the line down the middle of the highway, not caring about where he was going, the bottle of orujo orujo between his thighs and the same song over and over again, "Four roads ahead, all four lead nowhere." He was afraid of failing in this country, a country that was sometimes welcoming, sometimes hostile. After his first game, in a friendly tournament, he returned to the locker room feeling ripped off. Now they'll come in and tell me it was all a joke. We know that you're totally mediocre, you can go back to Buenos Aires now. Perhaps it was all just a terrible misunderstanding. But then Charlie was still nearby, he showed him the details of the plays that worked, the good vibes, he calmed him down. They called home and Charlie told his kids about the game as if he had witnessed a different one in which Ariel pulled off his feints, and Charlie said that he's the fullback everyone was waiting for. between his thighs and the same song over and over again, "Four roads ahead, all four lead nowhere." He was afraid of failing in this country, a country that was sometimes welcoming, sometimes hostile. After his first game, in a friendly tournament, he returned to the locker room feeling ripped off. Now they'll come in and tell me it was all a joke. We know that you're totally mediocre, you can go back to Buenos Aires now. Perhaps it was all just a terrible misunderstanding. But then Charlie was still nearby, he showed him the details of the plays that worked, the good vibes, he calmed him down. They called home and Charlie told his kids about the game as if he had witnessed a different one in which Ariel pulled off his feints, and Charlie said that he's the fullback everyone was waiting for.

He takes an exit off the highway and follows the signs back to the city. From there he can get his bearings. He only really knows the route home from the stadium and he has to go back there. It's his starting point in Madrid. The center of his world. The stadium is hidden and then suddenly appears all at once. He chooses a wide, deserted avenue, but the traffic lights seem to be against him. Once he pa.s.ses a green light, the next one turns to red again, as if they were holding the car prisoner. Finally it changes and he floors it to catch the next one, but from the nearby darkness a shadow emerges, he twists the steering wheel but can't dodge it, the bottle falls between his legs, and he brakes hard. He hears a loud knock against the hood and the car stops. Ariel remains motionless in an instant of panic. He has. .h.i.t someone. The song keeps playing, but now out of sync with the moment. He is afraid to get out, to open the door, to face reality. He feels like his drunkenness has disappeared suddenly; only terror remains. His sock is soaked with orujo orujo. He gathers his forces. It all lasts no more than three seconds.

9.

A memory of Grandma Aurora comes back to Sylvia. As a little girl, she spent a lot of time at her grandmother's house; they played together on the double bed. They made up vacations for Sylvia's favorite doll. First they had her scale the pillows as if they were snow-capped mountains. Then they lowered the bedspread and pretended she was frolicking in the sea. The folds were the waves the doll swam over. As their game progressed, the waves grew, the sea got choppy, and eventually, in a fit of inspiration, they created a big wave that covered Grandma, the doll, and Sylvia, who cracked up laughing. Sometimes, when they came out from underneath to catch their breath, Grandpa Leandro was watching them from the doorway, taken aback by the commotion. He smiled, but said nothing. Then Grandma Aurora always turned to Sylvia and said, now you're going to have to help me make the bed again.

Her father had just left the room. He had taken note of all the room's details, the venetian blinds, the television that hung in the corner, the new wall lights, comparing them to the hospital her grandmother is in, where everything is old, and used. The worn walls don't give you the feeling you get here, that you're the first patient to occupy the room. What a difference, you're like a queen, Lorenzo had said to Sylvia, Grandma has to share her room with a patient who snores like a buzz saw.

That morning she woke up with her mouth dry, her father sitting on the sofa reading the sports pages. After the operation, Sylvia had her leg in a cast, lifted up into the air. Mai had signed it with a marker. Her friend hadn't stayed long, just long enough for Lorenzo to get a bite to eat. Does it hurt? A little. Mai told her about her weekend. Sylvia didn't say anything about her time with Dani, about her absurd birthday party. When his name came up in conversation, Sylvia got nervous. He asked about you this morning, Mai told her. I told him what happened to you, but I thought it was better if he didn't come, right?

Yeah, that's better.

She was sitting at the foot of the bed when the door opened and Pilar came in. Sylvia's mother and Mai greeted each other and then Pilar hugged her daughter. How did it happen? Mai said, good-bye, I'm outta here, I'll come see you tomorrow, okay?

Sylvia felt her mother's tears on her face. I'm okay, it's nothing serious. Pilar sat up and put her hand on the cast. The national soccer team's doctor operated on me, Sylvia explained to her. He says that in two months I can compete again, of course the coach will have to give his say-so first. Pilar smiled. You're coming to my house until you can move around on your own. We'll see, answered Sylvia. And your father? He went out for lunch. He can't take care of you now, said Pilar, he has his things. Mama, I can take care of myself, I'll have some crutches, I'm not an invalid. Sylvia pulled her arm out from under the sheet and Pilar saw the bruises. The son of a b.i.t.c.h really hit me hard. Sylvia, don't talk like that. Well, then that very lovely man struck me harshly.

Sylvia wasn't trying to hurt her mother, but she didn't have the patience for talking to her. Often she used sarcasm to shorten the distance between what her mother wanted to hear and what she felt like telling. When they lived together, Sylvia was unaware of how lonely that made her mother feel, how frustrated she was by being denied access to her daughter's worries. What do you feel like eating? I don't care. Are you going out? Yes. Where? Just around. With who? With Mai. Just you two? No, with a couple of Civil Guard officers. Sylvia's caginess was hard for Pilar to accept. She's starting to have a private life, she told herself.

If you are going to see Grandma, don't tell her anything, she's got enough on her plate..., Sylvia told her. The door opened and Lorenzo came in. He and Pilar looked at each other and after a moment's hesitation he approached her and they kissed on both cheeks. It was more a mechanical gesture than a kiss, their cheeks brus.h.i.+ng strangely after twenty years of kisses on the lips.

I told her I think she should come stay with me for now, until she can walk well. I don't know, whatever she wants. A little bit later, they argued again, without really arguing, both of them offering to spend the night. Sylvia insisted they leave. She didn't like to witness those parental compet.i.tions, the hundredmeter sprint to prove their filial love. She had gained independence thanks to their separation, maybe out of negligence, but she was happy, less protected, less scrutinized. Living with her father was the closest thing to living alone. With her mother gone, Sylvia had matured at a spectacular rate. She had realized what it means to not have someone around to take care of all her daily needs.

Doctor Carretero visited her late that evening. He greeted Pilar and explained Sylvia's recuperation process to her, with the same patience he'd had with Lorenzo that morning. She'll be in a cast for five weeks and then she'll have very minor rehabilitation. He was a man in his fifties, his gray hair combed with a part and his hands delicate. In two months, she'll be skipping rope again. Sylvia's expression twisted. I think it's best if she spends the night here and I'll release her tomorrow, okay? She has several contusions and I'd rather not take any chances. He left the room and Lorenzo explained to Pilar that all the expenses were being taken care of by the driver of the car. He had brought her here and asked to be kept informed. We're lucky, because she was. .h.i.t by good guy, these days most of them hit and run.

Yeah, incredibly f.u.c.king lucky.

Don't talk like that, Pilar corrected her daughter. Then Sylvia said, I was totally out of it. This morning the guy came in to talk to Papa and I didn't even remember his face. I think there were two people in the car and I saw the other one. Did you black out? asked Pilar. I don't know, maybe...It was all really strange. After I got hit, I tried to get up and it felt like my leg was made of rubber, so I got scared. That's when he put me in the backseat.

She was pretty lucky. Crossing illegally without looking, in the middle of the night, interjected Lorenzo.

Peace. That was what she felt when they left her alone. First her mother. I'll call you later, she said. Do you want me to bring you some clothes? But the question died on the vine. It only took Lorenzo's proud expression to remind her that the clothes were at his house and not within Pilar's reach. Lorenzo stayed a bit longer, as if he didn't want to leave with her.

Sylvia flips through the television channels with the remote control. There's news at that hour. She finds a music video station. She leaves it on in the background, not paying much attention. A lead singer deliberates between a dozen women who stroke and caress him, begging longingly for the chance to be with him. Lorenzo had left newspapers piled up on the sofa, but she's not tempted to look at them. A nurse brings her dinner. Sylvia eats with a good appet.i.te. She gets a message from Dani on her cell. "Take care of that leg." Sylvia replies with concise coldness. "I'll try."

A while later, they take away her dinner tray. The nurse wishes her good night, shows her the call b.u.t.ton. On the television, a woman sings in a bathing suit, slithering along the ground near a pool like a snake in heat. When she hears a short tapping of knuckles on the door, Sylvia puts the remote control down on the bedside table. Mama? The door opens very slowly and a coppery face, surrounded by a messy, longish mane of hair, peeks in. A small but stocky body. He has a box of chocolates in one hand.

You're not my mother, I don't think.

No, I don't think so, answers the young man. You're Sylvia, right?

It's his accent, the sweet cadence of his speech, that attracts Sylvia's attention. She watches him as he turns to close the door behind him. He holds the chocolates out to her. I brought you this, it's the least I could do. Thank you. Sylvia grabs the box, and lifts the sheet to cover her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She isn't wearing a bra under her T-s.h.i.+rt. She doesn't want his gaze, those honey-colored eyes protected by incredibly long lashes, to be distracted. He has pointy eyebrows, the left one interrupted by a small scar. His slightly deviated septum gives him a tough look that contradicts a delicate mole halfway between the corner of his mouth and his left eye. Tough and sweet.

You're the one who ran me over, right? asked Sylvia.

10.

On Tuesday he goes back.

Leandro is received by the same madam. She leads him to a different room, smaller, narrower. Leandro realizes this is all set up so the customers never meet. Call me Mari Luz, please, says the woman. Leandro prefers the cold, professional treatment he got the first day. He finds the warmth disquieting; it makes him feel worse. A moment earlier, still on the street, while schools were letting out, he had considered turning around. The bustle on the street was threatening. A school bus pa.s.sed, more cars. It was impossible that the neighbors on a residential street like that one didn't know what went on at number forty, where the blinds were always drawn. Clients, like him, would be scrutinized indignantly. There goes another one.

Leandro doesn't want anything to drink. I would like the same girl, he says. Valentina, right? asks Mari Luz without waiting for a reply. Let me see, you're going to have to wait a little bit, not long, ten minutes, if you want I can show you some other girls. No, no, Leandro cuts her off, I'd rather wait.

Leandro sits down. In front of him there is a window through which he sees a gust of wind blow leaves off a plane tree. There is a sound of footsteps. A woman's voice. But nothing that betrays what is going on in the rooms. He supposes Osembe is with another client. He left Aurora in the hospital, sleeping. Esther had come to spend some time with her in the afternoon. I'm going to go out and stretch my legs, Leandro had said to them.

He had spent Monday wracked with guilt. Less for what had happened the evening before than for his irrepressible desire to do it again. He had arrived early to the hospital to relieve Esther. He soon learned about Sylvia's accident. At first he was scared. She got run over last night, he heard from his son, and he connected what happened to Sylvia to his meeting with Osembe. It was the punishment. His granddaughter run over at the same time he was...She's fine, there's nothing to worry about, Lorenzo told him. They agreed not to mention it to Aurora.

He slept horribly on the sofa bed. Arousal and shame. He heard Aurora's breathing, very close by, like he had so many nights. He thought of the few occasions he had looked for s.e.x in someone else. In his room, he kept a book of nude female photographs. They were artistic nudes, most of them in black and white. Masturbating brought him back, with cruel irony, to his teenage years. He never imagined himself sitting alone in the little reception room of a chalet like that one.

Some nights he and Aurora still had something similar to an erotic encounter. It would happen on those strange nights when she could tell he was having trouble sleeping. She would feel between his legs and find him aroused. She relieved him with her hand. Sometimes Leandro would sit on top of her and they would make love without penetration, which hurt her, so they just rubbed their genitals together, caressed each other. They never spoke about it. When they finished they turned over and went to sleep. No one teaches us how to be old, do they? she said to him one night. Desire should have died out long ago and should rest buried unceremoniously beneath the springs of their bed.

Tuesday morning when the doctor came by the room, he was calmer, but still had the same chorizo stain on his white coat. He took Leandro to a nearby room and showed him some X-rays. The cleaning ladies had just left and it smelled of disinfectant. The doctor opened the windows as wide as possible. He spoke while he moved the pen like a pointer. Let's see, a broken hip isn't anything serious, as I told you. It's a common thing, we consider it an epidemic of old age. Every year in Spain we treat forty thousand broken hips in the elderly, particularly women. So that's incidental.

Leandro felt fear. He feared the moment the doctor would start to talk about what wasn't incidental. The problem is that with these type of fractures sometimes they're the first clue to a general debilitation. We are going to send your wife home, but we are going to do some serious tests on her, aside from the fact that she has advanced osteoporosis she was already being treated for...Leandro stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He was cold. I had no idea, he said. The doctor smiled, opened the folder with Aurora's information. You know how women are, they keep their problems to themselves.

Yeah, replied Leandro. The doctor talked to him about densitometry and degrees of mobility, he named other tests that he was going to perform, but he never seemed to get to the point. Leandro asked him about rehabilitation after leaving the hospital. The important thing is to not let her get too frustrated, was all the doctor said. It's just part of old age.

The conversation languished. Confused, Leandro walked through the hall on the way back to Aurora's room. His inept.i.tude for domestic tasks infuriated him. Up until that point, Aurora had taken care of the house. For Leandro the was.h.i.+ng machine may as well have been a refrigerator that washed the clothes. He took care of the financial stuff, the bank's itemizations, paying the bills, buying the wine, attending the miserable building meetings, but he didn't attend to the inner workings of the house. He knows that on Sundays Lorenzo and Sylvia come for lunch and there is almost always rice soup and batter-fried hake. And that on Thursdays when Manolo Almendros shows up at midday Aurora always invites him to stay and offers him his favorite chocolates for dessert. But he doesn't know how she manages to have them on hand. It upsets him to think of his wife disabled in a house that isn't prepared.

In three days, we'll be at home, he announced to Aurora, who was reading in bed. Then he sat close by her and opened the newspaper. They were both silent, reading almost in unison. Perhaps they were asking themselves similar questions, but they didn't say anything to each other. Mugshots of Islamic fundamentalist terrorists. The death of Ya.s.ser Arafat. The recent elections in America.

Osembe had come down to find him. Leandro sees her through the gla.s.s. She smiles and they kiss on both cheeks, yet she conveys the same absent air of their previous encounter. She brings him upstairs to a different room, somewhat larger. The window opens onto the backyard and the blinds are not completely lowered. The afternoon light streams in. Different room, he says. It's better, she says. The bathroom is bigger, with pale yellow tiles. Above the sink is a fixture with three oval mirrors. Leandro notices that it is almost identical to the one in his apartment, which unnerves him. She sits over a bidet and soaps up. Leandro feels a stab of disgust at the idea that she was underneath another client just a minute ago. He runs his fingers through his hair and looks in the mirror at the blotches on the skin of his forehead and cheeks. His is the face of an old guy. There's a Jacuzzi, you want to go in? asks Osembe. Maybe later, replies Leandro.

When he sits down to undress, he looks out into the back garden. He sees a half-filled pool and a white seesaw with rusty axles. Take off your clothes, Leandro tells Osembe. She places herself in front of him and undresses, without adding any intention to the purely mechanical act. She is slow to take off her last pieces of underwear, as if she wants to seem modest. She looks at herself and tenses the muscles in her thighs and b.u.t.tocks. For a moment, she seems to forget that Leandro is in front of her. She chews gum. Leandro gets up to kiss her and gets a strong waft of strawberry breath. She doesn't move her mouth away, but she kisses him without pa.s.sion, hiding the gum between her teeth.

Leandro hugs her and finishes undressing her. She laughs, without arousal, distant. I'll do it, lie down. Leandro obeys, going over to the bed. She is in control of the situation. Leandro tries to defy her authority because he finds no pleasure in her series of mechanical caresses. Do you want to f.u.c.k? she asks. Leandro feels ridiculous. He wants to make the encounter intimate, but he realizes that she refuses to break with her routine. She would rather everything be predictable, flat, professional. Leandro senses there could be a more distant, hidden pleasure, but he is forbidden access to that place. She chews gum, her thoughts far from there. It is obvious Leandro isn't managing to excite her as he rubs her s.e.x, more like industrial than erotic manipulation. Come on, grandpa, she says. As if that's going to encourage him. A bad mood overtakes Leandro. That's okay, forget about that, she says and sits on the bed.

He wants to leave. What am I doing here? he asks himself. Her eyes look empty, as if nothing matters much to her.

The situation is then uncomfortable for them both. I suck, she says. No, says Leandro. He sits behind her and hugs her tightly to his chest. He caresses her arms and stomach. She tries to move, to change position and get back to the routine, but Leandro doesn't let her. She only wants the client to come. It is the only way she has of understanding her job. Like a craft. She doesn't aspire to get into his head. In fact it makes her uncomfortable to know Leandro is after something more than just an o.r.g.a.s.m.

Leandro buries his face among Osembe's bands of hair. She laughs as if he were tickling her. She doesn't understand how he can find pleasure in running his hands over her back, her shoulders, in traveling the entire length of her body with his fingertips and resisting penetration. He, on the other hand, knows that that is what brought him back.

Early that afternoon, he had accompanied Luis, his student, to a store that sells used pianos where he knew the owners. It was an appointment they had scheduled a while ago. The owner was very friendly and the boy didn't dare try out the pianos. Leandro did it for him. They had a price limit. My parents won't let me spend more. Don't worry, Leandro told him, we'll find something good for that amount. They went to another store and there Leandro noticed a perfectly restored black upright piano that was less than thirteen hundred euros. He played it for a moment. It sounds wonderful, he said. As he ran his finger over its smooth black wood, Leandro knew that, as hard as he fought his desire to meet Osembe again at the chalet, that very afternoon he would go there again. And then he was overcome with an enthusiasm that his student and the salesman misinterpreted. Ah, Don Leandro still has the same pa.s.sion for music as he did when we met. And it's been almost thirty years now, hasn't it?

Leandro had lost some of the enthusiasm he'd had earlier, even though now he was touching the skin he craved. He noticed a long scar beside the crease in Osembe's elbow. The wound intrigued him. Perhaps an accident in the village, a wild animal. Her dangerous childhood in Africa.

I got caught in an elevator when I was a little girl, she explained. In a department store.

And he busies himself with the rough skin on her elbow for a long while. Then he puts his fingers on her shaven s.e.x. He feels the sandpaper of her pubic hair and how she tightens her strong muscles to impede his access. You want to f.u.c.k? Time's running out, says Osembe. Leandro notices she's uncomfortable with being touched. And he doesn't want to do anything but touch her. He discovers her ugly feet, with twisted toes and deformed toenails badly painted with white polish. He strokes her legs and arms, touches her nose, which flares when she breathes. I just want to get to know you, he explains, but she can't understand. Osembe gets up and shakes her a.s.s comically up to Leandro's face. She moves her gluteal muscles up and down just by changing the muscle tension, happy as a girl who's proud of being able to wiggle her ears. You like my a.s.s? Leandro studies it in front of his face, high, weightless, muscular.

No. I like you. And then he kisses it and she laughs and pulls away.

You want to pay more? asks Osembe when the time is up. You can pay for another hour. Osembe fondles her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, sticking her hands under the bra she hasn't taken off. Whitish stretch marks peek out.

Okay, says Leandro.

11.

Lorenzo had painted the kitchen when Sylvia was seven years old. He remembers this now, sitting in front of the cordless phone. The wall is tiled halfway up and crowned by a blue braided stencil. The rest is painted by him. Salmon, said Pilar. But as Lorenzo made the first brushstrokes, she said, that isn't salmon, it's orange. They argued about the tones and the true color of some salmon slices they had eaten days before. They were like this, said Lorenzo pointing to the wall. No, salmon is salmon, she said. Then Pilar went to pick Sylvia up from school. The little girl went into the kitchen and saw her father up on a ladder, brus.h.i.+ng a second coat into a corner. The kitchen looks so pretty painted orange, Sylvia said to him. Pilar smiled. I swear I didn't tell her anything. He never knew if Pilar had mentioned something about it to her on the way home. He does remember that they laughed. Those were other times.

The orange color had faded somewhat, as had the kitchen. A tile was still chipped from the day he had tried to screw in a hook to hold a rack for pots and pans. On the floor, a piece of the terrazzo was broken where Sylvia had dropped the flour tin while helping her mother make a cake. The door to one of the cabinets had been replaced, and the new one wasn't the exact same shade of white as the others.

Scars.

In the phone book where they kept frequently called numbers, many had acc.u.mulated that they had long since stopped calling frequently. Sylvia's pediatrician, various offices, the home phone number of a secretary, the babysitter they used to call when they went out for the night, three or four deceased relatives who remained in the limbo of the phone book, someone completely forgotten, some friend of Pilar's whom they didn't see anymore, the number of the school Sylvia used to go to, and there, under the letter p, were Paco's numbers. Home, cell, in-laws, and the summer place in Altea. Lorenzo inhaled before dialing the digits into the telephone.

The previous days had been intense. His mother in the hospital, his father fearing she'd never walk again, Sylvia's accident, Pilar's arrival. He spent two days in a row with her at the clinic. He offered to let her stay at the house. No, I can stay with a friend, she told him. Pilar asked how everything was going for him, if he was still looking for work, if he needed money. No, no, I'm fine, he lied. And then he said, did you hear about what happened to Paco? He was killed at home, it was in the newspapers. Pilar was silent. The news seemed to affect her. Lorenzo had decided that he could talk about it, that he should. He mentioned it to his father, to his friend Lalo; he told Sylvia about it.

Tuesday around noon, he had found a message on the answering machine. A detective named Baldasano identified himself as a part of the homicide team and left a phone number. When Lorenzo called, the man was very brief. I just want to ask you a few questions, he said. We know that you were Mr. Garrido's partner. Yes, of course, I found out from the newspapers, said Lorenzo. You understand that we want to have a little consultation with you. The word sounded ambiguous, worrying. Lorenzo explained that that afternoon he had to pick up his daughter from the hospital, he told him about the accident, asked if it would be possible to postpone the appointment until tomorrow. Everyday life, normality, was the best evidence in his defense.

A policeman led him into an office where he was received by Detective Baldasano, who was drinking coffee from a short brown plastic cup. He offered Lorenzo a coffee as he opened a file. No, I just had breakfast, thanks. Lorenzo was nervous and thought that the best thing would be to admit it. I'm kind of nervous, to be honest. There's no reason for you to be, the policeman rea.s.sured him. Look, it's very simple. Everything points toward a robbery by one of the regular gangs that operate in the city, the violent ones, Colombians, Albanians, Bulgarians. But there are some things still up in the air. We asked Mr. Garrido's wife to give us an update on her husband's business dealings, to tell us about people he might still have unresolved conflicts with, and I'm gonna be honest with you...your name came up.

Lorenzo nodded, without allowing himself to be surprised. Paco and I had a relations.h.i.+p, well, we were friends and partners and the whole thing ended terribly, that's true, said Lorenzo. We know, the detective rea.s.sured him, but his tone wasn't rea.s.suring at all. It happened a while ago and we hadn't seen each other in a long time. We stopped being friends, but that doesn't mean we were enemies. I don't hold any...Well, I don't know, Paco was a slick operator, the term had slipped out casually, lightly. Lorenzo was glad he had said it. It was effective. The detective chewed out a yeah.

Paco cheated me. We set up a small business together, I lost my money and, well, he didn't lose as much as I did, and, I don't know, that made me feel ripped off. We're talking about two or three million of the old pesetas, we're not talking about amounts that...Lorenzo stopped himself. He didn't want to talk about the murder. Paco had his wife's family money and, well, for him the business going under wasn't such a big deal. I've tried to remake my life elsewhere and I've never made any claims on him. The detective didn't speak; he was waiting for Lorenzo to add something more. He did. When I read the news I felt sad, I wasn't pleased at all. I felt sad for her, Teresa, more than anything.

Lorenzo thought he shouldn't talk too much, but maintaining the flow of words calmed him. Lying so naturally surprised him as much as it soothed him. It gave him the strength to confront the detective's silences. Did he have many enemies? asked Baldasano. As the detective lifted his face, Lorenzo saw that he had a wound on his neck, covered by his s.h.i.+rt, a pink scar, not very long. It looked more like a burn than a cut. Enemies Enemies is a strong word, said Lorenzo. He didn't make a good impression on people, that's for sure. The detective asked him about Thursday night. Do you have anyone who can testify they were with you? Lorenzo thought for an instant. My daughter. I live with my daughter. I'm separated. is a strong word, said Lorenzo. He didn't make a good impression on people, that's for sure. The detective asked him about Thursday night. Do you have anyone who can testify they were with you? Lorenzo thought for an instant. My daughter. I live with my daughter. I'm separated.

The detective nodded his head, as if he already knew those details. He lifted his eyes toward Lorenzo. I'm going to ask you a question that you have every right not to answer. This is just a consultation, though.

There it was, that word again. Outside the door was such a wide variety of telephone rings that you could mistake them for carousel music. Above the detective's head, on the ceiling, was a gray, moldy, damp leak.

Do you know anyone, from your professional relations.h.i.+p, who might have enough motive to murder Mr. Garrido? Lorenzo pretended to be thinking, going over the list of Paco's acquaintances. For a moment, he tried to find someone and the exercise calmed him, transporting him to a distant idea, making him innocent in the simplest way. No, he said. And, without really knowing why, he felt the need to add that Paco was a person you couldn't hate.

Lorenzo didn't say anything more. He looked up at the leak on the ceiling again. The detective also looked up toward the stain. Can you believe it? It's been like that for six days. It's the bathroom upstairs, in the pa.s.sport department. I can a.s.sure you it's quite unpleasant to sit here all morning knowing you have a puddle of p.i.s.s over your head. Well, I won't take up any more of your time. I will ask you to jot down all your contact numbers. I'd like to have you always on hand, in case I need to consult you on anything.

He was in love with that word. Question Question must have sounded too threatening to him. Tricks of the trade. He held out a sheet of paper to Lorenzo, for him to write down his phone numbers. The last one is my parents' house, just in case. Then he thought maybe that was being too solicitous. He left the office and was grateful that one of the policemen came up the stairs right then, shouting because someone had vomited on his shoes. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, even my socks are soaked, f.u.c.k. Amid the laughter and joking of the other cops, Lorenzo looked for the door. must have sounded too threatening to him. Tricks of the trade. He held out a sheet of paper to Lorenzo, for him to write down his phone numbers. The last one is my parents' house, just in case. Then he thought maybe that was being too solicitous. He left the office and was grateful that one of the policemen came up the stairs right then, shouting because someone had vomited on his shoes. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, even my socks are soaked, f.u.c.k. Amid the laughter and joking of the other cops, Lorenzo looked for the door.

He left the station calmer. Lying had given him the same feeling of freedom as telling the truth. A false confession is still a confession. Talking about it, putting himself in a different place, had helped him get distance. Sometimes a lie fits perfectly over the truth. When he said Paco was someone you couldn't hate, he said it because it was true. He thought that that's where his mistake lay, from having crossed the line. Actually hating him. Paco was the one to blame for his work situation, for his inability to give Pilar what she needed, for his parents' commiserating look when they lent him money, for his fall from grace. Paco was the one to blame for his daughter no longer falling asleep on the living room sofa so he could carry her to her bed. To blame for his having blanked out in a job interview, there in front of some young slick-haired executive who had just asked him, why do you think a professional like you hasn't achieved job stability in all these years? To blame for the fact that he shares the streets at midmorning with housewives and old folks. To blame for pus.h.i.+ng him off the path, a path he now has to find again without anyone's help.

In the kitchen, Lorenzo dials Paco's home number. The same number he called so many times to hear his friend's voice, the voice that arranged to meet him at a restaurant or said, see you tomorrow at the office. The same voice that one day told him, Loren, I think we've lost it all, and he was lying because only one of them had. The phone rang once, twice, three times, before Teresa answered in a whisper. That lifeless, silent presence, that woman whose reserve compensated for her husband's expansiveness. The same one who had pointed Lorenzo out as a suspect. The police often work like that, they have no leads, they have no clues, they have no indications, but they pressure a suspect, they pressure him until he crumbles, and then they work the investigation back from the conclusion, they solve the crime with the criminal. But it wasn't going to be so easy to defeat him.

h.e.l.lo, Teresa, it's Lorenzo. h.e.l.lo. Her voice sounds distant, as if rising from the depths. I heard about what happened to Paco and I've been debating whether or not to call, I don't know, I wanted to tell you that I'm really sorry, if you need...Lorenzo pauses. He doesn't want to be cruel to himself, to the last grain of sincerity rising up inside him. Thank you for calling, she says. No, I...I know it isn't easy, but I wanted...It's okay, thank you, she says, cutting him off. A second later she hangs up the phone.

Lorenzo gets up from the chair and drinks water straight from the kitchen faucet, like a kid at a fountain. It bugged Pilar when he did that. Why dirty a gla.s.s? he used to say. He leans on the counter and the world seems to stop. She suspects me, thinks Lorenzo. She has a right. It's not going to be easy. It's not going to be easy.

12.

Ariel drives into the house's attached garage. The living room is cold. When the sun goes down, the weather changes. There are newspapers piled up beneath the table, towers of CDs on the floor, a flat-screen television stuck to the wall. Emilia's hand organizes it all, imposing an impersonal air that rules over the house. Charlie is no longer with him and the only sound is the refrigerator engine and the sprinkler that spits in the yard.

When he overcame his paralysis after running over the girl, he was able to get out of the car and pick her up off the ground. He helped her to stand, but then she collapsed. He got her settled into the backseat. She was almost a little girl, her curly hair messy, covering her face. She didn't say anything, she didn't complain about the pain. Through the rearview mirror, Ariel saw the girl's torn pants, her chest heaving as she breathed. He couldn't get his bearings, he didn't know where the closest hospital was, he feared he had made a mistake in lifting her, moving her. He dialed Pujalte's number on his cell phone, thinking that it was the most sensible thing to do. I just ran over a girl on the street, he said, I don't know what to do. Pujalte calmed him down, didn't ask him for any more explanations. Where are you? Ariel referenced the places he knew. You're very close to the stadium, can you get there? Of course, he said. Wait for me at door fourteen.

It didn't take him long to drive there. He stopped in front of the designated door after going around the building. He got out of the car. Through the window he saw the girl lying down. She was breathing, she seemed calm, as if she had fainted. The waiting seemed eternal. The stadium grounds were still littered with trash from the game. Papers, cans sprinkled around the sidewalk. Finally a car arrived quickly, running a red light. It stopped beside him. It wasn't driven by Pujalte, as he was expecting, but by Ormazabal, the head of security. Did she recognize you? Did you talk to her? No, hardly at all, said Ariel, I just whispered don't worry, we're on our way to the hospital.

From the front pa.s.senger seat emerged a man about forty years old, with short black hair. He took the keys out of Ariel's hand and sat at the wheel of the Porsche. He'll take care of it. Come on, get in, I'll take you home, relax. Ariel saw his car head off, driven by the man. It took him a little while to get into Ormazabal's car. They barely spoke. He seemed to know the way to Ariel's house without any directions. His cell phone rang. Ormazabal nodded, two, three times. Uh-huh, he said. Then he turned toward Ariel. Everything's under control, the girl is fine. Ariel wasn't able to ask him anything. A bit later, the phone rang again. Ormazabal pa.s.sed it to Ariel. It was Pujalte. Well, she's at the hospital, with reliable people. Ormazabal's guy took care of everything, he said that he was driving. You don't need to worry about anything. Is it serious? asked Ariel. It was an accident, nothing special, she has a fracture, but she's in the best hands. Ariel was silent. You were drinking, it looks like. A little bit. Well, tomorrow I'll see you at practice, okay? Go home and get a good night's sleep. Everything's fine. Thank you so much, said Ariel. It's my job.

Pujalte's reply stuck in him like a dagger. That was his farewell. Then he hung up. Ariel felt like the smallest man in the world, paralyzed there beside the stadium. The place where he had supposedly come to make it big. The loudspeaker that would make his name known throughout the world now was merely witness to his cowardice. Up until that point, he had been an exemplary player, never argumentative or aggressive, and now at this new post everything was a problem, unantic.i.p.ated difficulties. Ormazabal left him at the fence that surrounded his house. These things happen, he said as he drove off. He was a cold, creepy person and he went to great pains to seem friendly, but he didn't pull it off.

Ariel had trouble sleeping. He didn't call his family, even though he promised he would after the game. He didn't want to share bad news. Charlie had left him a message. He was already in Buenos Aires.

In the morning at practice, he waited for Pujalte's arrival on the edge of the field. He lay down on the ground for the first stretches and he liked feeling the dampness, the smell of fresh-cut gra.s.s. That was the same in every field. Caressing the green, feeling your cleats sink in like an affectionate bite.

There wasn't a lot of press, just the usual. The cameras would arrive later in the morning. The group of kids who had skipped cla.s.s to collect autographs and the retirees gathered in the stands. Pujalte appeared and stopped to chat with the physical trainer. Then he gestured for him to come over. Ariel ran toward him. That was power. That and his street shoes on the damp gra.s.s, something that always bothered the players.

Pujalte put an arm over his shoulders and walked with him along the sideline. He explained that Doctor Carretero had taken care of the girl, there was total discretion. They had talked to the father, everything was worked out. Your car is in the parking lot. For all intents and purposes, someone else was driving, you got that? Ariel nodded. The girl is sixteen, she'll heal fast.