Learning To Lose Part 4

When the game was over, they shook hands. Sartor was from Cordoba and he greeted him with a warm embrace. Like a tamed mastiff. They arranged to meet after the showers to have dinner in an Argentinian steakhouse owned by a friend. Ba.s.si was in a bad mood because he had only gotten to play the last five minutes. They bring me out just to waste time. Sartor had been living in Spain for five years. Ba.s.si had played in Italy for three before coming over. It's more relaxed here. Sometimes you even have fun playing. Sartor has the face of a B-movie killer. They call enormous, curly-haired Ba.s.si "Gimp" because of his prominent limp.

They drank quite a lot, spoke pa.s.sionately about Argentinian soccer. Sartor was a Leprosos fan, his first team, while Ba.s.si rooted for Independiente. They walked them back to the hotel. Some drunken fans, who had stopped to p.i.s.s on the colonnade behind the cathedral, recognized Ariel. They were wearing his team's scarves. In the distance, one was vomiting onto his shoes. Another of the young men, with messy hair and gla.s.sy eyes, stepped in front of Ariel. This guy is great. You're the best, the best. Oe, oe Oe, oe, and they started to sing at the top of their lungs, calling to the others. Ariel and his companions quickened their pace toward the hotel.

But the worst was yet to come. Ariel woke up with a start, hearing shouts in the hallway. It was Charlie's voice. He dressed quickly in sweats and left his room. Curious heads peeked out a nearby door. He saw Charlie, standing naked except for some black briefs, kicking and punching a half-dressed woman crawling along the floor. Ariel ran over and tried to hold his brother back. He was drunk and out of control. It was obvious he had done too much cocaine. During dinner he had gone to the bathroom three times, though no one mentioned it. Two of Ariel's teammates helped him hold Charlie down. The woman, redheaded, was bleeding from her nose and shouting indignantly. I'm going to report you, call the police. Ariel held his brother back as if he were a wild stallion. They think I'm a f.a.ggot, those sons of b.i.t.c.hes, repeated Charlie.

It took Ariel a while to catch on. Ba.s.si and Sartor had played a joke on Charlie. They had sent that prost.i.tute to his hotel room, as a gift. The drama ensued when Charlie discovered she was a transvest.i.te and, instead of letting her go, he took it personally and started beating her up. Ariel locked his brother in the room and helped the half-naked woman compose herself. Someone gave her a damp towel; she dried her nose and cleaned her face. Ariel apologized, he's drunk, it's probably best if you leave. She calmed down, thanked Ariel for tending to her, and refused the money he offered. No, no, that son of a b.i.t.c.h has already paid me plenty.

Everything would have been forgotten if she hadn't shown up hours later at the hotel manager's office threatening to report the establishment if they didn't give her the name of the guest in that room. Fearing that it was a player, the team delegate was woken up to take care of the matter. It wasn't easy. She wanted to call the press, the police. There in the wee hours of the morning, over the reception desk, they agreed on a sum of money for her to forget the incident.

On the trip back to Madrid, Pujalte exchanged words with Charlie, at the back of the plane, far away from everyone else. Ariel saw them, but wasn't invited to join the conversation. A little while later, Charlie collapsed. The girl was suing the club. She didn't know the name of the player, but the police had issued an injury report. The hotel admitted that the room had been paid for by the team, but claimed not to know which player was using it. Pujalte gave Charlie a week to leave the country. We can buy a few days' time, but then we'll have to give them a name, we have to protect the club. You wouldn't want what happened to that English team in Malaga to happen to us. Around that time, four players from a British team staying in a hotel had been arrested for rape. It was a national scandal until a few days later a shameful agreement was reached with the women in exchange for money. These stupid things can s...o...b..ll in the press and end up taking us all down, explained Pujalte.

Ariel immediately knew it meant separating himself from Charlie. His serious expression, his irritated silence, his anger at his brother's stupid behavior turned into panic, into sudden, unexpected loneliness. Later it was the car accident and once again the team's protective hand, his dependence on Pujalte. Now his bad performance on the field.

From the front seats, Ariel sees Pujalte walking. He is headed in his direction, although he stops to greet the executives and the players. When he gets to his row, he kneels in the aisle, waits for Ariel to take off his headphones. They told me you went to the hospital to see the girl from the accident. That was stupid. If what you want is to get yourself into more trouble, keep on doing whatever you feel like.

I don't know, just in case, it seemed like the right thing to do, check up on her, replied Ariel. A s.h.i.+ver ran up his spine. The right thing? You'd be better off focusing on playing and leave the rest to us. I don't know how things work in your country, but here it's different. This isn't a banana republic, there are judges here. And with a change in his tone of voice he stands up and jokes around with Osorio, you don't play at all on the field, but you really sock it to that little machine. Then he returns to his seat in the back of the plane.

Ariel feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar again. He finds Pujalte's authority repugnant but he is more offended by his own submission. His rage contained, he puts his headphones back on. Dragon often repeated a Chinese proverb: "When things go bad, your walking stick will turn into a snake and bite you." Ariel had trusted that that wasn't going to be the case. That at least his walking stick would still be a walking stick. Returning from a defeat, alone with his music, he was afraid he was experiencing a slow, but uninterrupted, fall from grace.

17.

The two invalids, says Sylvia, and hops over to her grandmother Aurora's bedside. They hug; Sylvia leans over in spite of her cast. Her grandmother gets excited. What happened, girl? Well, you see, Grandma, I ran over a car. Lorenzo picked her up at the station, but they hadn't let him go onto the platform to help her. The porters would take care of it. After the terrorist attacks in March, the security measures had increased. Atocha Station still kept a corner free for messages, lit candles, and photos of those killed on the tracks. Sylvia appeared, walking along the platform, leaning on her crutches, with a porter carrying her bag. Should we go visit Grandma? She's home now, right? she asked. Lorenzo nodded, give me a kiss, come on. Was Pilar very irritating?

You're missing a lot of school, says Grandma Aurora. Sylvia explains that she doesn't have any exams until December. It's cold. Grandma spreads a blanket over the bed. I'll come pick you up in a little while, okay? says Lorenzo. Then he asks Aurora, where's Papa? He went out for a walk. They hear Lorenzo's footsteps fading away. Your grandfather is so mad...It turns out the boiler broke down and no one came to repair it. We have no heat, no hot water. Grandma lifts the blanket. Get in here beside me. Sylvia carefully lies down very close to her and they cover themselves.

They talk about Pilar. Is she happy? Are things going well? Sylvia thought about her during much of her trip back. Her mother is fine. Her mother is happy. Santiago arrived from Paris and brought her a very thin cashmere wrap. Then they all three ate dinner together. The next morning, Pilar took her daughter to Delicias Station. Don't go down until the last minute. There's a terrible draft on the platforms. The fall was colder and more unpleasant than usual. The winter is in a rush, Sylvia heard an older gentleman say as he boarded the train, loaded down with bags of vegetables. Old people often talk about the weather; she's never been the least bit interested in what temperature it'll be the next day. Through the train window, Sylvia watched the continuous metal fence that blocked access to the tracks. It was as if someone had put boundaries on the countryside. The fence, mile after mile, conveyed something demoralizing, as if every inch of the planet were condemned to be fenced in.

Your father is really thin, does he still eat? Aurora asks her. Boy, does he ever, you should see his potbelly. Sylvia asks after her grandmother's pains, if she gets bored all day in bed. I've got visitors all the time, I have more of a social life now than when I'm healthy. It exasperates your grandfather; you know he doesn't like people. That reminds her of something. She asks Sylvia to get her some tickets for the Auditorio. Do you know how to do it over the phone? Of course. Because I get mixed up with those things and your grandfather's not going to do it, I know him.

Grandma Aurora asks her how she's managing with the cast. Fine, the worst part is showering. She tells her how she sits in the tub and wets a sponge and runs it over her body so as not to get the cast wet. She doesn't tell her that she got aroused doing it the other morning, so much so that she was embarra.s.sed. She imagined the sponge was someone else's rough hand, which gave her goose b.u.mps of restless pleasure. What made Sylvia most nervous was identifying that hand as Ariel's. My child, I bathed that way for years. In a washbasin. And your grandfather used to go to the bathhouse on Bravo Murillo before we built the bathroom in the house. You want me to read the newspaper to you? asks Sylvia. No, no, your grandfather reads it to me in the mornings. I know it annoys him to read aloud, but I like to see the faces he makes over the crime pages. Have you seen the things that happen? It's all husbands killing their wives. And today, what a shame, some pilgrims coming back from the sanctuary of Fatima were killed in a bus accident.

Sylvia offers to read her a book. I started it on the train. That morning, before leaving for the station, Santiago had given it to her. Now you'll have more time to read. I wonder if you'll like it, he had said. What's it called? asks Aurora. Sylvia shows her the cover of the book she's just pulled from her backpack. It's not new. It's been read before. Sylvia likes used books. New books have a pleasant smell, but they're scary. It's like driving on virgin highway.

Sylvia tells her grandmother what she knows of the plot up to that point. There are five daughters of marrying age. A rich heir arrives in their town, and their mother wants to offer them in marriage. There is one, the smartest one, who feels scorned by the rich n.o.bleman's best friend, after hearing him make a disparaging remark about her. And you know that they're going to fall in love, those two. So you are liking it, says her grandmother. For the moment, yeah. Sylvia doesn't admit that several times on the train she had to go back over the pages she'd read, starting again. She's not used to reading, it's a challenge for her.

When she was a little girl, she didn't like her grandmother to read her stories, but preferred she make them up. Her grandmother knew what she wanted to hear. Princesses, monsters, villains, heroes. There was always a little girl with black curls who had a million and one misfortunes before finding love and happiness. Sylvia reads aloud to her grandmother: "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment."

When her grandmother falls asleep, Sylvia remains lying beside her for a while, relaxed by the rhythm of Aurora's breathing. Then she gets up and leaves the room. The house was like a refrigerator. Her grandmother's room was at least somewhat warm because of a small electric radiator. The door to her grandfather's room was ajar. She approaches the upright piano. She touches a key without sitting down. She remembers the rigorous cla.s.ses her grandfather used to give her. He was strict about the posture of her hands, her back, her head. Once he covered her eyes so she would play without looking at the keys. It's a piano, not a typewriter, he used to say. It's not taking dictation, it's listening to someone else's imagination. But her grandfather didn't have the patience, and it seemed she didn't have much talent. One day she asked her mother, please, Mama, I don't want to study with Grandpa anymore. Let's see when we can catch up on your lessons, he had suggested one Sunday after lunch, but they both knew the cla.s.ses were over forever.

Her grandfather arrives around eight in the evening. He comes in immaculate as usual, his expression serious, irritable. Did the heating guys call? n.o.body called, Sylvia tells him. Through the intercom, Lorenzo says, I'm parked on the sidewalk, ask Sylvia to come down. She goes in to say good-bye to her grandmother, who's awake. I heard a beep from your backpack. Sylvia checks. Oh, it's a message. Her pulse starts racing, but she doesn't say anything. I'm leaving. Her grandfather helps her down the two flights of stairs. I don't know what we're going to do without an elevator here.

"How's that leg?" The message isn't very telling, but at least it's something. And it's from Ariel. Many days have pa.s.sed. She was sure he'd erased her from his life after visiting the hospital. And what more could she expect? She has the cell phone on her lap as her father drives, but she doesn't know what to write. Have I fallen in love with him? she thinks. Could I be that stupid? She hadn't mentioned his visit, their meeting, to anyone. She hadn't been able to talk through what she was feeling and thinking, she couldn't make light of it. Like everything you keep bottled up, it was growing, growing like an untreated infection. He's handsome, with a baby face, seems like a good person. I'm sixteen years old. He's famous, a soccer star. I didn't ask him. Maybe he's married and has three kids. Soccer players are like that. They seem old at thirty. She'd have to ask her father.

I could talk to Mai about it, she'd think of something clever. But she's obsessed with Mateo and wouldn't be able to put herself in Sylvia's place. She'd have to explain so many things to her. Besides, last weekend her trip to Leon had just gone okay. We went out with his friends and they didn't pay any attention to me, like my being around bugged them, Mai complained to Sylvia. I'm not going back there, let him come to Madrid if he wants to see me.

Finally she wrote a message: "The worst part is having to drag it around all day." She sends it, biting her lip. She regrets it almost immediately. She should've written something more brilliant. More daring. Something that forces him to respond, that draws him in, something that creates a chain of messages that eventually brings them together. When the phone's beep announces a message received, Lorenzo turns his head. You kids spend all day doing that, what a ha.s.sle, you're going to forget how to talk. It's cheaper, Sylvia explains. A second later, she's disappointed as she reads Ariel's response. "Don't let it get you down." Sylvia wants to laugh. Laugh at herself. She looks into the side mirror, searching deep into her eyes. It's broken, cracked. The mirror. It's broken, she says to her father. Yeah, I know, it's been like that for a few days, some son of a b.i.t.c.h.

Ariel's reply brought Sylvia back to reality with a slap in the face. She reminds herself of who he is, who she is. Feet on the ground. She'll have to avoid Ariel slipping in through the cracks of her fantasies. She'll have to watch that he doesn't intrude on her dreams, her musings. That he doesn't find his way into her reading, into the music she listens to. That her free time isn't filled with longing for him to call, for contact that will never happen. She knows that the only pleasure available to her comes with a stab of pain, a sort of dismal resignation. She's sad, but at least the sadness is hers. She created it with her expectations, no one brought it on her, she's no one's victim. She's fine with that suffering, it doesn't bother her. She lies back. To wait. She doesn't know for what.

18.

Leandro sat down in the kitchen. He's helping the boiler technician with his work. He doesn't feel like talking. He's mad. The man ignores his discomfort and jabbers on incessantly. He took the metal top off the boiler, revealing the sickly, malnourished belly of the motor, along with the burners that refuse to light. Leandro admires his rough, damp, greasy hands, which move skillfully. He has never known how to use his hands for anything besides extracting music from pianos, correcting his students' positions, sometimes marking a score with a pencil.

He moved his things to sleep in the studio. He cleaned the bedspread of record jackets, papers, scores, and books. He pushed the old newspapers he hadn't finished reading under the bed. He'd rather Aurora slept alone. He's afraid of rolling over in the night and hitting her. He wants her to be comfortable. Also he's ashamed, though he doesn't say it, of grazing her clean body with his, just back from spending an hour or two with Osembe's sweaty and acrid-smelling skin. He has always had respect for Aurora's body. He's watched it age, lose its firmness and vitality, but it has never lost the almost sacred mystery of a dearly loved body. Which is why now, when he brushes against it, he feels dirty and evil.

In recent days, his bad mood has gotten the better of him. Friday night the house was cold and he wanted to turn on the boiler. He couldn't. He called the repair service. They didn't work until Monday. That meant spending the weekend without heat or hot water. They suggested he call an emergency repairman. So he did. A hefty guy came, with a black leather jacket. It was almost eleven at night. He took out a Phillips screwdriver and knocked on various pipes. It's a question of spare parts, you should contact the manufacturer. Leandro explained to him that he had called, but they weren't working until Monday. The man shrugged his shoulders and handed him a bill as he checked his watch. He wore his cell phone on his belt like a gunman. When Leandro saw that the man was billing him 160 euros, he was shocked. The guy itemized the amount. Emergency house-call, at night, on a weekend, plus the half-hour minimum for labor. Leandro was seized with indignation. He gave him the money, but as he led him to the door he murmured, I'd rather be mugged, you know, I'd rather have a knife put to my neck, at least those people need the money. You guys are the worst. Come on, man, don't say that, the repairman said in an attempt to defend himself, but Leandro refused to listen, slamming the door on him. Aurora's voice was calling out, and he had to explain the situation to her. Okay, don't get upset, there's an electric heater in the attic, see if you can reach it, she said.

The next morning he tried to shower with cold water. He stood inside the bathtub awhile, his hand in the freezing stream, waiting for his body to get used to the temperature. Then he gave up. Somewhat devastated, he sat on the edge of the tub and studied his naked body. Old age was a defeat that was hard to bear. It was disgusting. His whitish skin trembled with cold. His flaccid chest, diminis.h.i.+ng body hair. The dark patches on his skin, his arthritic fingers. His bony hands like a sickly person's, the calves, the flabby forearms, as if someone had let go of the cables that kept the skin taut. He recalled those paintings he had always thought little of, where Dali paints the pa.s.sage of time as melting viscous matter. Now he was seeing his skin slip away like that, toward the floor like old clothes, leaving only a corpse's skeleton visible.

He thought of Osembe's tender flesh, young and exuberant, of the repugnance she must feel at licking his pale decrepitude. He held up his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es for a second, his pink, fallen p.e.n.i.s, useless, languid, poultry skin. He couldn't explain the power it still held over him. Who had said that it was the faucet of the soul? It wasn't the erection, now intermittent, unexpected, random, that dragged him toward Osembe all those afternoons; it was something else. The contrast of their bodies, perhaps the escape through physical contact, the feeling of abandoning his own body to possess the body he touches and caresses.

He left the chalet with dismal regret; seized with guilt; later he was flooded with pleasurable memories; then anxiety came over him again, as much as he resisted. Leandro accepted the moment his finger rang the doorbell on number forty as a defeat. But it was such a short gesture, so quick, that it didn't give him time to think, to run away. He felt compelled. He, a man trained in loneliness, used to monotony. He was able to beat the urgency for a day, two, to say no, an emphatic no, to put his mind on other things. But he always ended up succ.u.mbing, kneeling before Osembe's black nakedness, before the reflection of her white teeth, before her absent gaze that now, as he studies his own body, he understood as a necessary barrier against disgust.

Leaving the chalet, he despised himself. He considered the female body coa.r.s.e. He thought of Osembe and told himself she's just a mammal with b.r.e.a.s.t.s, muscular and young, a ma.s.s of flesh that shouldn't attract me. He denied her all mystery, any secrets. He found her folds dirty, her orifices despicable, he visualized desire as a butcher does a piece he's flaying or a doctor the tissue through which he traces his incision. But that rejection mechanism collapsed under another, a higher order. And so he returned to visit the chalet on Sat.u.r.day, Sunday, and Monday.

Contemplating his own body turned Leandro's morning into a sad one. He immediately threw himself into pleasing Aurora, tending to her. He read her the newspaper supplement with its absurd leaps in stories, from the painful subsistence in Gaza to a feature on the benefits of chocotherapy, ill.u.s.trated with photos of models slathered from head to toe. He prepared her a tea and sat with her to listen to the cla.s.sical radio program. He avoided the news so it wouldn't leave its violent, sinister fingerprints in its wake. As his friend Almendros, who came to visit Aurora often, would say, we old folks tend to see the world as hurtling toward the abyss, without realizing that really we're the ones headed toward the abyss. The world goes on, badly, but it goes on. Leandro often delights in the fact that he'll die before seeing total hate unleashed, before violence swallows up everything. All signs point toward inevitable destruction, but when he expresses his pessimism aloud his friend smiles. It's us, we're the ones on the way out, not the world, Leandro, don't be like those old guys who stupidly console themselves by thinking everything will disappear along with them.

Almendros always reminded him of a cartoon that made them laugh. Two cavemen dressed in animal skins beside their cave, and one says to the other: here we are without pollution, without stress, no traffic jams or noise, and look, our life expectancy is only thirty years. Almendros laughed in spasms. Wasn't it Maurice Chevalier who said old age is horrible, but the only known alternative is worse?

The last afternoon with Osembe, as he fought to maintain his erection, Leandro told her about the news of the sit-in in Nigeria, two hundred women protesting ChevronTexaco. Osembe didn't seem impressed. Where did you read that? In the newspaper, he answered. They only mention bad things about my country in the paper. And she seemed mad, as if no one believed in the beauty of her homeland. My country very rich, she insisted. But she also told him she'd lost a brother in an explosion when he was stealing gasoline from a refinery with some other boys. They pull half a million barrels of petroleum a day from the heart of that country. The politicians steal everything, she said.

Leandro spent the morning repeating to himself, I'm not going, I'm not going, I'm not going. But he went. At a quarter to six, he was already on the sidewalk in front. He usually rang the bell at six sharp and he now considered that time reserved for him. Waiting nearby, he saw Osembe arriving in a taxi. A black man was in the cab with her. He didn't get out. She rang the bell and they opened the door for her.

Do you have a boyfriend? Leandro asked her that evening. My boyfriend is in Benin, she said. Does he know what you do for a living? Osembe nodded. I did this there sometimes, too, the tourists have money. Leandro was surprised he allowed it. He knows that with him it's different. If you aren't from Benin, why does your boyfriend live there? Leandro asked her. Osembe told him about the violence, about a ma.s.sacre in Kokotown and how she had moved to Benin before coming over to Europe. Leandro imagined she had arrived in a makes.h.i.+ft boat, but Osembe burst out laughing, showing her teeth, as if he'd said something ridiculous. I came on a plane. To Amsterdam. I worked in Italy, first. A friend of mine used to work in Milan. She made a lot of money.

Osembe had come to Spain four months ago in the car of a friend, someone who took care of her. Leandro thought of the man in the taxi. I saw you arrive this evening, he told her, there was a man with you. I don't like to take taxis alone, a friend of mine was raped by a driver. But Leandro insisted on asking her about the man with her, and she ended it with, I don't want a black boyfriend, they're lazy, I want a boyfriend who works. Black guys are good for f.u.c.king, they have big d.i.c.ks, but they don't make good husbands.

Leandro laughed when he heard her categorical, steely opinions. Are you laughing at me? I'm not smart, right? She usually responded to his personal questions vaguely. They spoke lying on the mattress, letting the hour slip away, and when she felt that his questions were pus.h.i.+ng the envelope, she put up a barrier, brought her hand to Leandro's p.e.n.i.s, and started up the s.e.xual activity again, as a way of capping the conversation.

Leandro knew that the first place where she had worked in Spain was on a highway on the Catalan coast. And from there she came to Madrid by car. Arriving at this chalet, she said, was an accident. They needed an African girl for a good client, a Spanish businessman who was getting into the diamond business in Africa and had to close the deal with an exporting company. After dinner he brought his new partner to the chalet. In Spain it seemed to be a tradition to close business deals with an invitation to a wh.o.r.ehouse. The steakhouse, the after-dinner drink, a cigar, and some hookers. One day Almendros had told him that his daughter worked at a large agricultural mediation company and that after meals she took their out-of-town customers to a trusted brothel. It disgusted her, but it was something imposed, something inherited from her predecessor, and the men didn't seem to mind that it was a woman who accompanied them and took care of the bill.

They had me come in for the man who wanted an African woman. He was drunk, but he paid well and came back two more times, but he had trouble keeping it hard, his c.o.c.k, because he had had a bad hernia operation, explained Osembe. He was affectionate, but very drunk. They asked me if I wanted to stay. Here you work with good people, it's not like the street, where you do it in cars, sucking guys off in the front seat or in the park, you know? Here there's even a doctor who comes to see us. I don't have AIDS or any disease, she told him in an almost threatening tone.

Do you like this job? Leandro realized he had asked a stupid question. I know it's not right, she said. I know it, but it is just for a short time. Leandro had seen on some lame television program how these women were extorted by networks that paid for their trip to Europe and then demanded one or two years of prost.i.tution. Exploited by threatening their family members back home in their country, they were forced to work until their travel debt was paid off, with their pa.s.sport held hostage by some compatriot until they earned ten thousand euros to buy their freedom. There were also stories of kidnapping, savage rapes, and blackmail with superst.i.tions or voodoo, where they made a ball with menstrual blood, pubic hair, and nail clippings and then threatened to enslave them with supernatural control. Osembe laughed at the stories he told her. Did you read that in a novel?

They know the girls and they know where their families live, that's enough. Forget about witchcraft. Besides, I don't believe in that, I'm Christian. Aren't you Christian? Leandro shakes his head. She is very surprised. You don't believe in G.o.d? Leandro was amused by the question, her almost shocked tone. No. Not really, he replied. I do, I believe G.o.d is watching me and I ask him for forgiveness and he knows one day I'll quit all this. In long sentences Osembe's tongue crashed against her upper lip. She had trouble making certain sounds, but her intonation was very pleasing. And it doesn't bother you to have to be with an old guy like me? asked Leandro. You aren't old. Of course I'm old. There was a silence. She kissed him on the chest, as if she wanted to show him some sort of false loyalty. I guess my money is the same as anyone else's, sighed Leandro. You like money, huh, what do you spend it on? I don't know, clothes, things for me, I send some home. I have brothers and sisters, five. And me and my boyfriend are going to open a store in the New Benin Market or on Victoria Island if things go good for us.

I want to see you outside of here, said Leandro when he finished getting dressed. Give me a phone number. She refused. It's not allowed. All the money would be for you. Osembe shook her head, but with less conviction. Think about it. She said, no, it can't be. Leandro was convinced their conversations were being listened to, that Osembe knew she was being watched. Someone knocked on the door-that was how they announced the time was up. Osembe jumped from the noise, then reacted with an enormous, relaxed, honest smile.

On the street, Leandro felt stupid about the conversation, his attempts to get to know her, to see her away from there. What did he want? Intimacy? For her to tell him her life story, her particular dramas? Share something, get closer? He could pay to have his desire sated, but that was it. Then he had to go back home, call the boiler repair service again, cry helplessly when another day pa.s.ses and they don't show up, no matter how much he explains that his wife is in bed, sick with a bone disease. He organizes the bills, reads the newspaper, receives a visit from some relative, eats, drinks, washes himself, peeks out onto the street, at other people's lives, trying to reach bedtime peaceful enough to be able to sleep, perhaps dream of something, be it pleasant or unpleasant. And one day disappear. Leandro knew full well that he was seventy-three years old and was paying obscene amounts of money to put his arms around the body of a Nigerian in her twenties. It was a chaotic part of his routine, a time bomb in his daily life.

The repairman is talking to him, this boiler's got some years on it, but once I change this valve, it'll be like new again, you'll see. Leandro shrugs his shoulders. It breaks down every winter. He's been curt with the repairman ever since he arrived. It is his tiny revenge for the humiliating wait of the last few days, with the house turned into an inhospitable freezer, like a cheap motel. The man, his fingers like blood sausages, smiles. Things have to break down, otherwise what would we live on? And besides, now they make things more sophisticated so that not just anybody can fix them. Take cars, for example. Have you noticed? Before, anybody could stick a hand in the motor and patch up the damage, but now you open the hood and you have to have two college degrees just to find the distributor cap. And in the garage there's no repair less than fifty thousand pesetas. Since the euro came in, doesn't sixty euros seem like nothing? Well, that's ten thousand pesetas, which used to be a fortune. Now it's seems like pocket change. Doesn't it seem that way to you? Doesn't it? Huh? Doesn't it seem that way to you?

No, it doesn't seem that way to me.

19.

Lorenzo decides to wait on the street. He walks down the police station stairs, scanning the sidewalk. They'll be ten minutes, they had told him. Lorenzo was following an impulse. It had seemed logical for him to stop by the station and check in on the detective, ask if he had made any progress. He'd gone to an interview near there, for a job as a bread deliveryman, but the schedule was dreadful. Starting the day at five in the morning. I have to think it over, he had said. And, with a certain superiority, the man had smiled at him. Don't think it over too long, I've got a line of people waiting. The previous afternoon, at the kitchen table, he had gone over his accounts. He drew up an amount for set monthly expenses, and added a cus.h.i.+on for unexpected ones. He had stopped receiving unemployment compensation two months earlier and managing his money was going to be essential in the coming months. He couldn't remember ever having so little in his bank account.

The first time he opened an account he was still a minor. During the summer, he had worked at a sample trade fair. His father had gone with him to open up a joint account. When Lorenzo deposited his thirty thousand pesetas, Leandro had surprised him. Here, he said, so you'll have something more to get you started. And he gave him a check for 250,000 pesetas. It was some sort of secret gift. Don't say anything to your mother, the last thing she wants is for you to quit school to work, she doesn't want me to encourage you. But, gradually, Lorenzo's life imposed the need for him to make his own money, to be independent. He soon acknowledged his failure at school, his lack of concentration. oscar told him that his father was hiring at the photosetting company, and he took the job as a salesman. He worked with publis.h.i.+ng houses, stores, printers. From the looks on their faces when he told them the news, it was obvious his parents didn't understand his choice. What's the rush? Lorenzo a.s.sured them that he would keep studying. And he did, for almost two years. More to keep them happy than out of interest in his studies. He met Pilar when he was seventeen. She was still in college. One day, Lorenzo found himself three years into a serious, tranquil, devoted relations.h.i.+p, and with a job that guaranteed him a stable, fixed income. Then he took the last step, said good-bye to his parents' house, to his youth. He became self-sufficient.

When he discovered there was so little in his bank account, he felt a s.h.i.+ver. He circled four job listings and started calling. In one of them, they were looking for younger people, under thirty. Another one was in Arganda, too far from home. Another was for a real estate agent, a job Lorenzo looked down upon, nothing sadder than showing homes on commission. The fourth was the bread delivery job.

His crime had had a paralyzing effect on him. It was as if he were waiting to be arrested, as if he were waiting every morning for his door to be kicked down and the police to say, come with us. Then he would say good-bye to Sylvia with a devastatingly remorseful, sad look. That's why it didn't seem like such a bad idea to show up at the detective's office. I could always collapse, confess everything, cry over my guilt. At least that'd get me out of this gray area, where I don't know if I'm a real suspect or just a sidetrack in the investigation.

But now he regrets coming. He's out on the street, he didn't leave his name with anyone, the detective hadn't seen him, and he decides it's best not to go back up. What's he going to do? Ask awkward questions? Isn't excessive interest a sign of guilt? Better to stay on the margins. He hasn't returned to the scene of the crime as the cliches dictate. But the scene of the crime has returned to him, hundreds of times.

Lorenzo knew that every Thursday, for many years, Paco and Teresa would dine at Teresa's parents' house. Teresa's uncles and aunts and a couple of old friends were also invited. Paco would join the weekly card game. They would go down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where there was a bar and a game table, where the heating pipes were exposed and on the walls hung some ad posters from the business. They smoked cigars and drank expensive whisky. They joked around, and sometimes one of them would get wound up, but n.o.body really talked about anything of importance. Teresa's father, whom Lorenzo had seen only on one fleeting occasion, was a distrustful person, with a cutting sense of humor. Paco sometimes admired him and sometimes despised him, but if he could merge those two emotions the result would have formed an obvious complex. Teresa's father was a confident man who would repeat to anyone listening, I wish I had married my daughter so I could have myself as a father-in-law.

The money was the first reason to attack Paco's house. Lorenzo knew he would find the toolbox in the garage. Maybe Paco didn't even remember that he had seen him take a wad of cash out of there one day. Paco bragged that he got money back each year on his taxes. He wasn't afraid of under-the-table money, just 'cause it's dirty doesn't mean it stains your hands. And if Lorenzo raised any objection, he defended his position. Everybody's the same, lawyers, notary publics, plumbers, don't come to me with your scruples, here the only people who pay all their taxes are people with fixed monthly salaries. Lorenzo knew that the house alarm didn't cover the garage, that the job could be quick. Their Thursday evening outings left him more than three hours to find the toolbox.

He saw Paco's car leave the house. A new, s.h.i.+ny car, a Swedish make. Inside he saw both silhouettes. Teresa was looking at herself in the visor mirror, finis.h.i.+ng her hair. When he got close to the gate, the dog started barking, so it was better not to waste time. He jumped over the fence easily, in two attempts. The dog ran to have his back petted. He broke the lock on the side door to get into the garage. He was carrying a saber saw in a sports bag. He put it together and in six turns had gotten the frame off the lock. The dog barked at the noise, but then calmed down again.

Inside the garage he turned on the light. He was wearing latex gloves and put the sports bag down on the ground. He moved tools and cans of paint around on the shelf. But the box he was looking for wasn't behind them. Paco must have changed his hiding place. It had to be around here somewhere. Lorenzo started to search desperately, turning everything over. He was sweating beneath his coveralls.

As he wiped the sweat out of his eyes, he heard Paco's car approaching and the garage door start to rise.

He stopped everything and hid behind the barbecue grill. It was wrapped in a green cover and he wouldn't be seen crouching behind it. The mechanical garage door went up. He dragged the sports bag toward him, but he noticed the saw left on the floor. In that moment, the headlights blinded the garage and the car stopped inside. He didn't understand why Paco was returning. He must have forgotten something. His in-laws' house wasn't far away, he must have left Teresa there and come back. He couldn't ask him why. Now Lorenzo knew that he had come back to die.

Paco left the car door open, which caused the car alarm to sound insistently. He took four steps and stood in front of the messy wall, touched the reshuffled shelves with his fingertips. He turned his head. Lorenzo couldn't see him, but he took the machete out of the bottom of the sports bag. Paco's feet approached and his hand touched the canvas cover on the barbecue grill. Lorenzo jumped up aggressively, leaped onto him, and dealt him two machete blows to the belly. Deep, angry, fierce. The next part was more complicated. Using the blade again wasn't so easy. The two first blows had something of panic, of self-defense. Then they struggled. Paco's eyes discovered Lorenzo's. He didn't scream. But his hands clamped onto Lorenzo's forearms. Lorenzo only stabbed him once more and he did it like a coward, without conviction. Blood was pouring onto the floor, soaking his clothes and covering Lorenzo's hand up to the elbow. Seeing himself like that disoriented Lorenzo, paralyzed him for a second. Enough for Paco to force him to let go of the machete, which fell to the floor. Paco lunged to grab it. Before he could get up, Lorenzo got the saw and, without looking, cut into Paco's back, opening up his suit, which then started oozing blood.

Paco took his time dying. To make sure he wasn't breathing, Lorenzo turned the body over with his foot. He reached for the hose and cleaned off his hands and then his boots and let the water flow freely beside his friend.

It took Lorenzo almost five minutes to move. The car still gave off the monotonous alarm that the door was open. Its persistence was insulting. Lorenzo kicked it closed. He wasn't sure if Paco was dead, but he couldn't kneel beside him, take his pulse, look into his eyes. He had to trust that he was. He put his things away in the bag and decided to forget about the money. He couldn't think. Nothing made any sense. He was sleepwalking, a man without resolve or clear ideas, without a getaway plan. The hose moved like a crazed serpent on the puddle-filled floor.

Lorenzo dragged Paco's body into the car. He laid it down on the backseat. He thought about leaving in the car, but it seemed stupid to drive around with his friend's corpse. Finally he took the hose and stuck it through a slight opening in the window. The car slowly began to fill with water. Lorenzo watched it from the outside, standing in the middle of the garage. The inside turned into a flooded fish tank, drowning Paco's body. The water reached the steering wheel, covered the upholstery, the dashboard, began to rise up the windows. When it began to overflow through the window, Lorenzo decided he needed to leave. How much time had pa.s.sed? Would someone be on their way to look for Paco, wondering what was taking him so long?

Lorenzo lowered the garage door and trusted that the place would become a swimming pool, that the water would erase any trace of their struggle. He took off his bloodstained coveralls and gloves, while the dog rubbed against him, inviting him to play. He threw everything into the sports bag. He crossed the yard and left as naturally as he could muster.

Inside his car, Lorenzo took off his boots and changed his clothes. He was parked three streets past Paco's house, in front of another single-family home. Driving away, he stopped to throw the saw blade into a dumpster. He threw the body into a different one, a few miles away. The saw had cost him more than seven hundred euros, but it was dangerous to hold on to it. Then he drove to a clearing and poured gasoline over the sports bag and lit it up inside a garbage can, convinced that someone was watching him, that none of what he was doing made much sense.

In front of the police station, he struggles to go back in time, to jump back to the day before Paco's murder. He is unable to get himself moving, to look forward, while suspicion still hangs over him. What was the point of looking for work if he was guilty of a crime? Wasn't it better to just start paying his debt to society now? Or could he forget all about it? Leave it behind without punishment? The guilt was uncomfortable, but the uncertainty was so much more. He thinks about it from every angle and decides not to go back into the police station.

He walks along the street. A man violently argues with a woman; they appear to be on drugs. People stare from a distance, but no one intervenes. At the bus stop is a poster of a model in lingerie. Someone has written on it, above her stomach, in blue marker: "b.l.o.w.j.o.bs 10 euros." Three students walk noisily down the sidewalk. A man hails a cab. At the stoplight, a girl cleans car winds.h.i.+elds while the drivers try to evade her. In his little shelter, a blind lottery-ticket salesman listens to the radio. Two women stroll along, walking together but each having a conversation on her cell phone. Lorenzo feels protected, comforted.

He takes a walk over to his parents' house. He wonders if he should ask to borrow some money from his father, but decides it would be a mistake. It would worry the old man even more. He moves the living room television into his mother's room and while he is doing something, organizing others' lives, he feels better. He realizes that his mood is a question of energy. If you stop, you're sunk. The balance is a question of movement, like those plates spinning on the tip of a cane.

He uses his parents' phone to make a call. It takes him two tries to get the person he's looking for. h.e.l.lo, I'm Lorenzo, Sylvia's father, the girl who got run over. The man on the other end of the line changes his tone immediately. He becomes cordial, like when they met at the clinic. When Lorenzo tells him why he's calling, the man doesn't seem to have any trouble understanding him. Getting the insurance settlement means waiting and Lorenzo isn't so sure how generous the system is going to be with a girl jaywalking in the middle of the night. He is willing to negotiate an amount and forget about the bureaucracy. He doesn't want to sound anxious or scheming. Have you thought about the amount? Lorenzo would have preferred not to say anything, he didn't want to seem too self-interested or shortchange the amount. Six thousand euros? he asks. Okay, we can discuss it.

He heads home. The walk tires him out and makes him feel anonymous, free. The sidewalk is sown with dry yellow leaves: the mimosas and plane trees are almost bare. He gets out of the elevator on his landing, but before entering his apartment he takes the stairs up to the fifth floor and knocks on Daniela's door. She opens it, surprised. The boy is playing in the living room. I can take you to El Escorial this Sunday. Daniela looks at him, somewhere between amused and distrusting. No, I can't, she says. Lorenzo is silent. This Sunday I can't. My friend's cousin is coming from Ecuador and we have to go pick him up at the airport, we have to be there to receive him. Lorenzo nods. Do you have a car? I can take you both in my car. Daniela searches for something threatening in Lorenzo. Really? Of course, I'd love to help you out. I don't know, it's very kind of you. She hesitates. On the landing they set up a time for Sunday. Lorenzo offers to pick them up at the entrance to the metro that's two blocks away, at ten in the morning. Okay, that's fine...Daniela closes the door when the little boy calls her from inside. She barely says good-bye to Lorenzo. She avoids flirting.

20.

The meeting turns out to be humiliating. The sport director's administrative office is in the stadium's wing. Ariel goes up in the private elevator with an old club employee who barely speaks, his mouth sunken and his head bowed. The elevator pa.s.ses the floor that leads to the box seats. They say that sometimes, when games ended in fights or handkerchief waving and the stands demanded someone be held responsible, the executives would take the elevator and lock themselves in the conference room. There, as the fans' disappointment resounded, they would try to hold on to their jobs by firing a coach. That's soccer, thinks Ariel. Power means having other heads that can roll before yours does. Pujalte, Coach Requero, and two other executives he barely knows are waiting for him in the conference room. A secretary has brought them a pitcher of water and three gla.s.ses.

The coach speaks first, making a speech devoid of enthusiasm and dominated by the customary cliches: what's best for the team, putting the interests of the group above those of the individual, we understand what it means, but you have to understand the fans. Everything had started a couple of days earlier, when Ariel got a call from Hugo Tocalli, the Argentinian national under-twenty coach asking him to play in the cla.s.sified round for the World Cup for young players. Ariel had been in the previous game and twice went national with the under-seventeen team. He knew that playing in the World Cup in Holland in June would be a unique opportunity. The Argentinian national team had just won the Olympic Gold in Athens and in the last under-twenty World Cup, in the United Arab Emirates, they had lost in the semifinals to Brazil in a game that left him crying in front of the television. You're talking to me about a juvenile tournament, for boys, a hobby, begins Pujalte. We can't have you miss four essential games. Or send you to Colombia for a qualifying round so you can s.h.i.+ne among the up-and-coming. For Ariel it's a commitment he doesn't want to miss, an international champions.h.i.+p, a confirmation of his long-term career plan, an indispensable step up. Most of the days I'll be missing are during my Christmas vacation. But Pujalte shakes his head. You are going to have to choose between professionalism and pleasure here. You have to forget about your country already, you're not Feather Burano anymore, okay? It's time to grow up, you came to Spain to grow up, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, to come into your own as an adult, not to play with kids. Think about the injuries, is the only thing that Coach Requero adds, his head down as he plays with a pen between his fingers. An injury now would be disastrous.

Ariel misses Charlie. Someone who speaks with authority, who slams his fist on the table. Who fearlessly defends Ariel's personal interests, at least what was agreed to in the contract, the permission to play in national champions.h.i.+ps if you were selected, even in the lower categories. Ariel insists on its importance, in his motivation. But the club isn't giving in. The national team is going to demand I play, and they have every right, the Federation forces clubs to lend their players, Ariel tries to explain. Pujalte interrupts him, of course they force us, that's what we're talking about, you have to voluntarily renounce it. The fan base will appreciate the gesture, your sacrifice. It could be the way you win over fans, wipe away their misgivings. The chosen word, misgivings misgivings, mortifies Ariel. He doesn't respond, he knows he's lost the battle, but he is surprised that Pujalte finds, in that moment, an opportunity to remind him of the public's criticisms, the whistles when he's pulled out of games, the general lack of enthusiasm around his signing. He continues to listen to a string of superficial justifications. He knows it's just a question of power, that if he were at the height of acclaimed success, he would be able to make demands. But he's not there now. He has to accept that.

The last game had gone better. They scored a penalty kick that gave them the win, but above all he had been active, incisive. His best soccer up to that point. He spoke with Buenos Aires every day and Christmas approaching seemed to encourage him. We'll see each other soon, Charlie told him. He had become close with a couple of players on the team, Osorio and the fullback named Jorge Blai who was married to a model. Jorge put him in touch with an agent who represented celebrities, an amusing, foul-mouthed guy called Arturo Caspe, who invited him to parties and got him a couple of fun offers. They paid him six thousand euros to play a new PlayStation video game against a defender from a rival team in front of the media and another three thousand for going to a party sponsored by an Italian watch company. Husky went with him to some of these events and pointed out what he defined as the cut-rate aristocracy of Madrid's nightlife. People who appear on television, sharing their love lives, their breakups, their mood swings, their changes of hairstyle, even their altered b.r.e.a.s.t.s and lips, with the viewing audience, and receiving a fluctuating salary in exchange, depending on their degree of scandalousness. It was Husky who most seemed to enjoy these glamorous outings, though. He stuffed himself with beers and hors d'oeuvres and once in a while saved Ariel from the clutches of some vampiric woman who preyed on celebrities. Yeah, they suck your d.i.c.k instead of your blood, he explained, but the price is usually higher than just going to a wh.o.r.e.

The day they went to the opening of a nightclub, which had debuted four times that year under different names, Ariel was approached by a striking woman, who seemed to have been reconstructed by someone not only insane, but also afflicted with erotomania. Impossible b.r.e.a.s.t.s, swollen lips, accentuated cheekbones, tiny waist. Husky pulled him out of her friendly embrace. This woman comes with her photographer, first she says you're just friends, then that you're involved, later that you dumped her, later that you screwed her six times in one night, later that she cheated on you, and then she tells an afternoon TV program what your c.o.c.k looks like. Each chapter of her story for a reasonable price. If you want to get laid, ask me for permission first. So Husky, from a distance, nodded or shook his head every time Ariel started a conversation with a woman.

Ariel spent three fun nights with the daughter of a veteran model, a lovely, multio.r.g.a.s.mic blonde who looked like a twenty-something clone of her mother and shouted so much when she came that instead of having a stiff lower back the next day, his eardrums ached. Then he bedded the waitress at a stylish spot, right in the manager's office, and spent another two or three nights with random women that Husky cla.s.sified as s.l.u.ts or desperate. The night can be treacherous, he said, I have a friend who used to say I never went to bed with a horrible woman, but I've woken up next to hundreds.

Ariel didn't much like the smoke, the night, the alcohol, and the girls who were only interested in fame. There was some sort of intersection of interests in those places, a tense lack of genuineness and the threat of wagging tongues. His name would fill thousands of hours of radio and television programs devoted simply to talking about who's dating whom, who's sleeping with whom. It wasn't that different from Argentina, where he'd also been prey for the covers of Paparazzi, Premium Paparazzi, Premium, and Latin-lov Latin-lov, with a naked spread of some girl who mentioned his name among her many conquests. Around him, he felt the presence of hangers-on, people who went to great lengths to introduce him to someone, who wanted to invite him to an opening night, to a private party, to a fas.h.i.+on show. He got offers to use a gym downtown, a cologne, sungla.s.ses. We've got to take advantage of our moment, said Jorge Blai, soon we'll be yesterday's news.

The big empty house didn't help his mood. At night he watched movies on the DVD player, listened to music, or went online, where he read the Argentinian press or e-mailed with friends from home. In a fit of nostalgia, he wrote to Agustina. In a moment of weakness, he was tempted to invite her to come spend a week in Madrid. He was starting to know places where he could get Argentinian food, Argentinian CDs, Argentinian magazines, where he could have a mate and chat for a while with a university professor or publicist from there who recognized him.

He had become close with Amilcar, the Brazilian midfielder whose career was waning, but who seemed to understand the whole soccer circus. He lived in a big house in an upscale neighborhood. He had met his wife, a beauty from Rio de Janeiro who had been Miss Pan de Azucar in 1993, the year he played for Fluminense. They had three kids. Fernanda would raise her voice and get angry in a comic way, more like an Italian than a Brazilian.

On a clear, bright day, they ate in the sunroom of their house. Fernanda was golden brown, with blond hair. I love Madrid's weather, she said to Ariel. When we got here six years ago, this was a dirty, aggressive, ugly city, but it had its charm. Here everybody talks to you, they're friendly, fun. But now it's getting worse, it's the same chaos, but people don't have the time to be charming. Everything has sped up. Amilcar shook his head. Ignore her, you know how women are, if they're nice to her at the hair salon then Madrid is wonderful; if they don't yield to her at an intersection then Madrid is horrible. He p.r.o.nounced it horribel horribel.

Fernanda treated Ariel in an easy manner, as if he were a little brother. She had just turned thirty and she confessed to him that she was depressed over something that had happened a couple of weeks before. The Peruvian woman who took care of the kids was at the house and some guys pulled up in a supermarket truck. In five minutes, they had robbed the entire place. The appliances, my family jewels, even the kids' TV, it was awful. And the worst thing is that they beat up the poor nanny. Can you imagine? She's fifty years old and they kicked her down to the floor. They wanted to know where the money was, the safe, I don't know...The poor woman had a terrible time of it. It looks like they were Colombians, that's what the police told me, because in Gladys's room there was a picture of Jesus and they turned it around, it seems they do that so G.o.d won't see them, I don't know. What animals.

She and Amilcar argued beguilingly, almost as if they were doing it for Ariel. When we first came to Madrid, she got compliments all the time, and now she feels old because no one says anything anymore. She denied it, that's not it, Latin Americans are very crude. They whistle at you from the scaffoldings, they say very coa.r.s.e things, Spaniards used to be more subtle. I remember one short, big-headed bald guy with a moustache who pa.s.sed me on the street and whispered: miss, I would make tea with your menstrual flow, but he said it very respectfully, like someone wis.h.i.+ng you a Merry Christmas. Amilcar was counting on retiring in two years and trying to stay on with the team as a coach, but Fernanda wanted to move back to Brazil. I'm sick of soccer, isn't there anything else in the world? I miss Rio, I miss being surrounded by the sea and the beach.

Ariel drove with Amilcar in his SUV to pick up his kids at the British school where they studied. The entrance was jammed, cars double-parked. The children came through the door in green uniforms with a crest, in gold relief, on their jackets. For a while Ariel felt comfortable, like he was part of a family.

Ariel played soccer in the yard with the older boy and he left before night fell. In one of the streets of the housing development there was a plaza filled with stores. He stopped in front of a flower shop and sent a message to Sylvia to ask for her address. He ordered a bouquet of flowers from the Dominican employee. Weeks had pa.s.sed since the accident and he had only gotten in touch with her once, on her cell, to ask how she was doing. He sent her a cheery text message, but she hadn't continued the exchange, she had just replied briefly and rather sharply. Ariel took it to mean that she didn't have a very good impression of him, someone who ran her over and let other people take the blame. She had every right to think little of him. Sylvia responded instantly to his text with her address and at the end a witty remark: "You coming over to sign my cast?"

He dictated the address to the florist's employee and asked him for an envelope to send a note. What kind of envelope? asked the man. Love or friends.h.i.+p? Ariel raised his eyebrows in surprise. The Dominican showed him the different types, decorated with little bows, ill.u.s.trated with flowers and stenciled borders. It's for a friend, Ariel explained. He held out a sheet of paper and a pen. Ariel couldn't come up with anything to write while being watched. What? You can't think of anything? We have cards that come with messages already in them. Would you like to see some? Ariel shrugged his shoulders and that was when an idea came to him.

Leaving the florist's, he ran to the car. A policewoman was placing a ticket on the winds.h.i.+eld. Excuse me, I'm sorry, I just went in to buy flowers for a friend who's been in an accident. The policewoman, without looking up at him, answered, best wishes for a speedy recovery. And she went on to ticket a car a few yards away. You're not very nice, Ariel said to her defiantly. They don't pay me to be nice. I think they do, I think that's part of your job. The woman lifted her head toward him. What are you, Argentinian? Well, I don't know if in Argentina they pay the police to be nice, but I can a.s.sure you that they don't here, said the woman, ending the conversation. Ariel got into his car after tearing up the ticket, but before he pulled out of the park-ing spot another policeman knocked on his window. Are you a soccer player? Ariel nodded, without enthusiasm. The policeman turned over his ticket book and asked for an autograph for his son. For Joserra. My name is Joserra, too, Jose Ramon. Ariel signed quickly, a scribble and a "good luck." Your partner isn't very nice. The policeman didn't seem surprised by his comment. Did she give you a ticket? Forgive her, it's just that they found a tumor in her husband's colon three days ago and she's taking it really hard. In just two days, she's gone through three books of tickets. Ariel saw the policewoman filling out another ticket in the same row of cars. Anyway, with the dough you guys make I don't think a ticket is too big a deal, right? Ariel replied with a half smile and left.