Learning To Lose Part 5

When the meeting with Pujalte and Requero was over, Ariel walked through the offices. At that time of day, there was a lot of activity. Offices with stuffy atmospheres, the distant noise of a fax, secretaries typing on computers, cell phones going off. You only notice that the place has a relations.h.i.+p to soccer from the photos of legendary players that adorn the hallway and some trophies scattered in the display cases, details that remind you that it isn't just any old company. We'll prepare a press release announcing that you are voluntarily renouncing the tournament for the club's best interests, Pujalte had suggested to him, that right now your only focus is on the team. The fans will eat it up, you'll see. You want to add anything special? Ariel shook his head. No, it's fine like that.

He dials Charlie's cell phone in Buenos Aires, but that early in the day it's still turned off. He calculates that it must be seven in the morning. He only knows one person who's up at that hour. When he sits in his car, he dials Sinbad Colosio's home number. Dragon's voice answers. It's Ariel, the Feather. How are you, Spaniard? What time is it there? Ariel checks his new, enormous watch, a gift from the Italian brand. It's one. Something happen in training? Are you okay, kiddo? Ariel is silent, listens to the old man's breathing on the other end of the line. Everything's fine, I wanted to talk to someone from home, but the only one I know who gets up this early is you. He explains that the club won't let him travel with the under-twenty. He tells him slowly, not wanting to seem fragile. I could force them, but things aren't going so well here and I can't just do whatever I feel like.

Well, he hears him say. They haven't seen your left leg s.h.i.+ne yet, right? Once in a while, answers Ariel. You have to win people over, get them on your side. Otherwise...Are you coming for Christmas? I hope so. Let's see if we can get together then. There's a long pause, Ariel senses he won't say anything more, but it calms him to hear the cadence of Dragon's breathing.

Do you remember that exercise I used to force the forwards to do over and over? The one with the tire? Ariel remembered. You had to shoot the ball so that it went through the hole in a car tire hung from a rope on the goal's crossbar, from farther and farther away and faster and faster. You remember that at first you all thought it was impossible? But then you'd always manage to find the hole.

The old man seems to have finished talking, but suddenly he adds, it's always the same, at first it seems impossible, but then...Yeah. Ariel wants to say something, but he's afraid Dragon will notice he's upset. Did somebody tell you this was easy? He doesn't wait for a reply. It's not easy, you already know that.

It's not easy.

part two

IS THIS LOVE?.

1.

To save herself the awkward climb up the school stairs with her crutches, Sylvia uses the teachers' elevator. That morning, when she arrived, Don Octavio, the math teacher, got in with her. He was always rod straight; the lack of mobility in his neck forced him to turn his entire body to look either way. When he saw the cast, he asked her, how long do you have to wear it? It's a drag, I think they're taking it off in a week. Oh, well, mine is worse, it's forever. And he pointed to his stiff neck. Was it an accident? asked Sylvia. No, it's something called Bechterew's syndrome, I guess when Mr. Bechterew went to the doctor and they told him he had Bechterew's syndrome, he must have really freaked out, don't you think? He laughed alone, Sylvia chiming in with a delayed smile. He got out on the floor before her. Have a good day. You, too.

During recess Sylvia stays in the cla.s.sroom. Mai sits on her desk and rests her boots on the edge of Sylvia's chair. The heel of her cast is propped up on a nearby desk. Sylvia has achieved an impressive agility with her crutches. She leans on them when she's standing still, with her bent knee on the handle; she brings them together when she sits down as if they weren't the least bit heavy; she fishes her backpack off the floor using the bottom end of one, and on the street she pushes aside littered paper or cans off the sidewalk as if she were playing hockey. The idle hours have given her time to be alone. Her days, before the accident, hinged completely on her school schedule and Mai's plans. They went home together from school, they hung out in the afternoons, they went over to Mai's house and locked themselves in the "pigsty" to listen to music, or sat in the hall and chatted.

But the last few weeks had been something of a retreat. She lay in bed with headphones on, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars she had stuck up years earlier, when her room's ceiling aspired to limitlessness. She read for the pleasure of following a story, of losing herself in something beyond her, for the first time. She had overcome the anxiety that usually pulled her attention to her own worries when she had tried to read in the past. She finished the novel that Santiago gave her in six days of marathon reading, sometimes until one eye got red and felt gritty when she blinked. Then she searched the shelves of the study at home, read the first lines of other novels, and made the fatal mistake of asking her father, what should I read? Lorenzo stumbled through the books for twenty minutes, from suggestion to suggestion, with confused enthusiasm, until he held out a thick novel written by a woman. I didn't read it, but your mother loved it. Pilar always carried a book in her purse to read on the way to work.

When Sylvia talked to her mother on the phone, she told Pilar that she'd finished the novel Santiago had given her. That weekend, when she came to visit, Pilar brought her another book. It's from Santiago. He inscribed it for you, he was embarra.s.sed but I insisted. Sylvia opened it to the first page. "Sometimes a book is the best company." His handwriting is strange, but pretty, she told her mother.

On her first day back at school, her cla.s.smates circled around her. Some even kissed her on both cheeks. Some, like Nico Veron, signed her cast with obscenities: "What's it like f.u.c.king with a cast on?;" others, like Sara Sanchez, with schmaltz: "From a friend who has missed you;" and some with surprising surrealism, like Rainbow, who wrote: "long life Spain." That first morning, the cast ended up like a graffitied wall, filled with teenage signatures. Dani approached her in cla.s.s, too, and they chatted for a while in front of Mai, until he had the guts to suggest, if you want I can come by some afternoon and keep you company. Sure, whenever you want, replied Sylvia. Dani left and Mai spat out her diagnosis. That guy is hung up on you.

Two days later, Dani visited her at home. Sylvia took her time letting him in. Her father had just left. Dani sat on the floor, leaning against a piece of furniture. Sylvia lay on the bed, reclining. They talked about school, an upcoming concert, a recent movie, about the beating two skinheads had given Hedgehog Sousa last Friday. Dani brought two beers from the fridge and Sylvia asked him, do you like soccer? Dani was surprised by the question. Just the finals, he said eventually. When someone loses and they cry on the ground and they don't seem so c.o.c.ky and sure of themselves. Sylvia had seen an ad on TV that afternoon for Ariel's team playing in Turkey. Dani suddenly said, I've been racking my brains over what happened on your birthday. Sorry, I was an idiot. No, I felt ridiculous, he said. Why? I don't know.

After a pause, Sylvia patted the bedspread. Come on, come up. Dani took a while to get comfortable, and when he sat next to her he brushed against her body. Sylvia directed him to lie down beside her. They kissed for a long time, he buried himself beneath her hair, and when he breathed he dampened her neck. Sylvia put her hands on his back. Their bodies moved rhythmically, he was careful not to hit her cast or put all of his weight on it. Their crotches began to rub against each other. Sylvia could feel his excitement through his clothes. Dani lifted her s.h.i.+rt up to her neck and kissed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, taking them out of her bra. Sylvia was uncomfortable with her s.h.i.+rt tangled up around her neck and the elastic of her bra hanging around her shoulder, but she was turned on by the friction and his damp bites. Sylvia put her hand into Dani's pants and ran her fingernails over his a.s.s. They made love with their clothes on, without stopping. The clothes protected them. Sylvia, with an intense pressure in her thighs, gripped Dani when he splattered with a wheeze.

They laughed at the wet stain around his pocket. With my coat on no one will notice it. Do you want to wash up? said Sylvia. No, I should go. He left quickly. Sylvia realized how Dani changed after he came, going from relentless pa.s.sion to cold discomfort. It was as if he were landing in reality with an abrupt lurch. He went from floating inert to being aware of where he was, of what had happened, of who they were, of the earth spinning on its axis, and of the Canary Islands being an hour behind. Not her. Sylvia would have liked to remain intertwined for a while, for him to twist a finger around her favorite curl, for him to kiss her even if her saliva didn't taste quite as warm after his o.r.g.a.s.m. But she had been left alone almost without realizing it.

Her father came home later and found her reading. He noticed that it was a different book than the one he had laboriously recommended. You're not tired? He smelled of smoke and soccer. Who won? We did, said Lorenzo. And how'd that Argentinian guy play, the one you hate so much? Eh, he wasn't too bad. Sylvia finished a chapter before falling asleep.

The day after, Dani wasn't able to meet her eyes. He sat with her and Mai awhile in the cla.s.sroom and then disappeared before the break was over. She wanted to tell him, relax, I'm not in love with you, but maybe he already knew it. Sylvia again felt stupid about the incident, but calm, with no desire to take their relations.h.i.+p any further.

Now, Sylvia listened to Mai talk about the latest mishaps with her boyfriend. Mateo wanted to go to an antiglobalization march in Vienna, and he had asked her to go with him. It could be romantic, right? A little trip together. Sylvia doesn't say anything. She is thinking about Ariel.

After no contact for weeks, she had gotten a message from him yesterday afternoon. He asked for her address. Sylvia sent it to him and then ran to change her clothes, thinking he would show up at the house. She was tense for more than two hours, she changed her s.h.i.+rt six times, finally deciding on a thick sweater over her bra. She decided that her hair was dirty and she put it up in a ponytail over and over until her wrists hurt. When the doorbell rang, she was about to scream.

At the door was a man holding up a bouquet. Sylvia signed the delivery slip with a disappointed scrawl and was left alone with the flowers. She put them down on the table. There was a little envelope with her name and inside a card that read: "Accept this, please, with a million apologies and a kiss. Ariel." Beside it, folded in half, was a check made out to the bearer for twelve thousand euros. Sylvia dropped onto the sofa. The bouquet was enormous, excessive, impersonal. The brush of the sweater on her skin aroused her. She tore the check into pieces as tiny as confetti and let it fall into the ashtray as if a party had just ended.

Later she sent him a message: "The flowers are lovely. I tore up the check. It's not necessary." Barely a second later, her phone rang. Are you crazy? You have to accept it, it's the least I can do. Sylvia interrupted him. Stop feeling guilty. It was an accident and that's it. Ariel said something about the insurance, but Sylvia didn't let him go on. Your friend took care of it. That's what my father told me. They worked it out. "Your friend" sounded ugly, harsh. There was a pause, which Sylvia cut short. You didn't even invite me to see you play. Ariel asked her if she would like that. She said yes. More than a check. I thought maybe...Yeah, I know what you thought. That maybe I was thinking of taking advantage of the fact that you're famous and get some cash out of you. Well, no, you don't have to worry.

On the other end of the line, all she heard was Ariel's breathing. This Sunday we're playing here, he said. Should I leave you two tickets? Is two enough? Yes, agreed Sylvia. And if you score a goal, will you dedicate it to me? Ariel laughed. I doubt I'll score. But if you score, how will I know you're dedicating it to me? I don't know, but I'm telling you I don't think I'll score. You could lift all five fingers in the air, for the five weeks I'm going to spend in this f.u.c.king cast. Deal. The flowers are pretty, did you choose them or is there a flower-selecting employee at the club?

When they hung up, Sylvia felt a strange power. She had always been the youngest in the group, used to being told what to do by older friends who imposed their authority. With Ariel she took the initiative. She allowed herself to disparage his check, make jokes, be sarcastic about the bouquet of flowers. It was the first time in her life anyone had ever sent her flowers.

In the afternoon, she took the bouquet to her grandmother Aurora. They are lovely, your grandfather used to bring me flowers every Sunday, from a gypsy woman who set out her wares beside the newspaper stand. But the gypsy left and the flowers stopped coming, oh well.

Sylvia returned home with her father. While he drove, she told him, they gave me two tickets for the soccer game this Sunday, do you want to come? With you? he asked, surprised. Yes, with me. And who gave them to you? Do you want to come or not? Sylvia smiled without moving a muscle on her face.

When recess ends and the cla.s.sroom fills up again, Mai drags herself lazily away from her friend, toward her cla.s.s on the upper floor. I'll walk you home later. Sylvia moves her cast to create s.p.a.ce for people to pa.s.s between the desks. Nadia offers her the last bite of a roll. Rainbow collapses into his seat with a snort of antic.i.p.ated boredom. The science teacher comes in and closes the door behind him, even though two or three stragglers have yet to make it to cla.s.s. How's it going? he asks from his desk. But n.o.body responds.

2.

Sometimes he would follow a beautiful woman whom he pa.s.sed on the street. From fifteen steps behind, he'd delight in her gait, the swinging of her hips, her curves, her rus.h.i.+ng about. He speculated on her age, the type of life she led, her family relations.h.i.+ps, her job. He fixed his gaze on the wavy hair against her neck or pursued a glimpse of her bust in profile. Sharing the street with these women was enough for him to feel he'd met them; accompanying them for several blocks was like making love. On occasions they would disappear into a doorway, or a car, they'd descend into the metro or enter a store, and Leandro would wait on the sidewalk across the street like a patient lover. Sometimes he followed a woman through the Corte Ingles department store, and studied her through the shelves, floor after floor, and savored her face, with its absent look of someone shopping, unaware she's being watched. He was satisfied with a.s.sessing the harmony of a pair of lips, the brush of a sweater over the curve of a breast, or the veiling and unveiling of a knee in play with a skirt. Trailing along in her sensual wake, he sometimes ended up on a bus ride to a strange neighborhood where the woman kissed a man or joined a group of friends, the spell suddenly broken when she was no longer alone.

Watching was admiring. Watching was loving. But never had obsessive s.e.x taken a hold over Leandro like now. He had never felt overtaken by instinct, unable to control his desire. He had never served his s.e.x drive morning, noon, and night. s.e.x at all hours of the day. The mere gleam off an object was enough to remind him of the sheen of Osembe's skin, a shape could pull his mind to her muscular thighs, a slight sway of flesh reminded him of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, seeing pink painted anywhere suggested the palms of her hands. Any accident was s.e.x. Any gesture was s.e.x. Any movement was s.e.x. The roundness of a cold saucepan, the shape of a bottle placed on the table, the underside of a spoon. s.e.x. s.e.x when he woke up aroused, alone in his bed. In the morning shower that reminded him of the quick showers at the chalet before and after making love. s.e.x at noon when the regular hour of their encounters approached. s.e.x at night when he returned to his bed repentant, yet the touch of the sheets aroused him again.

Fear was s.e.x, too. The lack of control. The obsession. The shame was s.e.x. The sheer drop he sensed behind his incomprehensible pursuit of the pleasure he enjoyed every evening. Every evening because after the first two weeks, during which every encounter was followed by at least forty-eight hours of anguish, regret, and attempts to forget, his defenses had been defeated. The previous week he had only missed one day. He went on Sat.u.r.day and Sunday, too. He even went in spite of the persistent rain of the last week of November, which swept the street's pollution and filth, leaving it gleaming under the streetlights. At six in the evening, punctual as an employee, he rang the bell beside the metal door that opened with a groan.

Osembe received him in underwear one day, in street clothes the next. She varied the undressing ceremony, but the process was the same: Leandro's old body a.s.sailing her fortress. In Benin she used to work at a stall in the market and on weekends she enjoyed the beach. There she had started to earn a little extra money by going up to the tourists' hotel rooms or by accompanying them to nightclubs. She explained to Leandro that the first Spaniard she ever met was an engineer who worked for an NGO. Andoni, very drunk, but he treated me lovingly. He told her about Spain. He worked in the Delta, on an environmental cleanup project, but every time he was in Benin they met up. His sister had a business selling African handicrafts in Vitoria and Osembe helped him get a good price for the pieces that he brought back in an enormous s.h.i.+pping container once a month. When I arrived in Madrid, I called him. I saw him one day, explained Osembe. He gave me a little money and then he asked me not to call him again. He has a girlfriend here. She also met another Spaniard from the consulate in Lagos, a civil guard who gave her a Real Madrid T-s.h.i.+rt for her little brother and some earrings for her. We used to f.u.c.k twice a week in the Sofitel Ikoyi. Spaniards are very affectionate.

On occasion Osembe mentions a name: Festus. Leandro asks her about it, but she never gives more details other than that he is the one who brought her to Madrid. Nothing more. When Leandro asks, do you have a pimp? she laughs, as if it were a ridiculous question. Here I go halfsies with the house. Is he your boyfriend? Are you going to marry him? More laughter. No, not him, how awful. No, I told you already, Africans are not good husbands. Leandro questions her about her gold bracelets, her rings, the necklace around her neck, which she sometimes delicately removes and places on the nightstand. I like jewelry, she says, but she never admits whether they are gifts from anyone. I earn my money. She also changes her hairstyle often, telling him she spent fourteen hours on her day off having her friend do her braids. Her brightly colored underwear is carefully chosen, sometimes even to match her nails, painted with designs that end up chipped and dulled.

He enters Aurora's room with chamomile tea, steam rising from the mug. He puts sugar and jam on the toast she will eat in tiny bites. Leandro caresses the white lock of hair with gray glints that falls toward one side of his wife's face. Yesterday their granddaughter came and washed Aurora's hair in a washbasin of steaming water, ma.s.saging her head with delicate hands, and today her hair s.h.i.+nes when the light hits it. I have to go to the bank, he tells her. Then I'll come up and read to you. He leaves the room after filling it with the upbeat saraband of one of Mozart's capriccios on the cla.s.sical radio station.

On the street, he is received by an intense sun that doesn't mollify the cold. A street sweeper smokes a b.u.t.t beside his pail, dustpan, and bristle brush. He reads a wrinkled, faded sports page and spits green phlegm into the street. They've already hung the Christmas lights along the avenue. Earlier and earlier, someone says every year. He pa.s.ses by the windows of the various bank branches. He can see the busy employees in their cubicles decorated with friendly advertis.e.m.e.nts for financial offers and their clients waiting like fish in waterless tanks.

A few days earlier, he had been with Osembe and two other girls, one recently arrived from Guatemala with a huge rear end and lovely sad eyes, and a Valencian he had met on the very first day, and who explained to him that she had been at the chalet longer than anyone else. She had just had her b.r.e.a.s.t.s enlarged and she showed them off, firm and plastic, and poured champagne over them during the party. Leandro noticed her gold crucifix, so out of place that it was comical during their frivolous ceremony, which stretched over almost three hours. Naked among all that young flesh, caressed by different hands, hearing whispered voices from three continents, seeing clean smiles, for a moment he felt on top of the world. He emptied his gla.s.s onto the girls' skin and then licked their bodies. Drunk and somewhat feverish, Leandro went out into the cold street, convinced that the spiral threatening to pull him down was a reaction against the formal, moderate life he had been leading. That afternoon he paid for his indulgences with his debit card. Three days later, he received a call from his bank. An icily friendly female voice told him the funds had been covered, although they exceeded his balance, so it was urgent that he pa.s.s by the office to replace the amount. It was almost an hour before closing time, and in a very low voice Leandro responded, tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be there for sure.

Leandro waits in line in front of the teller's window while an old lady tries to update her bankbook, barely able to see, with blind trust in the woman who tells her her balance. The branch director touches Leandro's shoulder and greets him with fake cordiality. He invites Leandro into his office and as he offers a chair he makes a sign to one of the employees. They talk about Christmas approaching, the weather, the mountains that are already covered in snow, while Leandro thinks that, if the director were an animal, he would be a mosquito, nervous and distrusting. When he asks Leandro about his wife, the conversation turns serious. Bad, to tell the truth, I don't know if you know she broke her hip a month ago...Oh my G.o.d, I had no idea, how is she? Well, pretty weak, says Leandro, and lets the pause lengthen, her recovery is long and difficult.

Leandro explains that Aurora has to learn to walk again, like a child, but that she doesn't have the strength. The other day, she insisted on sitting but wasn't able to. She couldn't hold herself up. The doctor who visited that morning had tried to be rea.s.suring. It's a normal process, she needs rest. But Aurora went to pieces; that same afternoon she whispered to Leandro, it would be better if I just died now. Leandro took her hand and stroked her face. He talked to her for a long time and it seemed to lift her spirits.

The female employee puts a statement of recent activity in Leandro's account in front of the director. Leandro defuses the alarm growing in the director's eyes. My wife is dying, I have to spend up to the last peseta of my savings on anything that can extend her life or at least make her suffer less. The director points out the almost constant withdrawals from ATMs, the excessive charges on the card. Leandro doesn't say much, just names nurses, expensive medications, second opinions in private clinics. He doesn't say wh.o.r.es, ma.s.sages, foam baths, paid caresses. He reaches for his wallet and suggests covering the overdraft, but the director stops him. Don't think of it, don't think of it, there's no rush. We put people before numbers, at least in this bank.

Leandro lies naturally, finds it simple to just let himself be dragged along. The bank director pulls out a calculator and scribbles various amounts. He suggests a higher line of credit, which could help Leandro during the coming months. We could take your home as collateral, a part of it, maybe just 50 percent, and that will provide you the liquidity for peace of mind as you face your wife's illness. Otherwise, I don't know if you are familiar with our offer of reverse mortgages.

Leandro hesitates. I'm not sure, I would have to talk to her about it, he says. Here, of course, we are going to give you the best terms on the market, the director a.s.sures him. Yeah, but my pension is so ridiculously small, I'm afraid to take on something that size...No, Don Leandro, please. Let me explain how our credit system works.

He leaves the branch with the hypothetical bank operation written on a piece of paper. He thinks his entire life story is summed up there, in the intersection of four or five figures. They gave him his most recent statement and Leandro felt a humiliating stab when he recognized the fake name of the wh.o.r.ehouse. Every afternoon with Osembe, every excess, shows up there. A petty amount appears for the tickets to the Joaquin Satrustegui concert that Aurora bought over the phone a few weeks ago; in the end she insisted on getting them. Then the house expenses, the bills. But among them all the withdrawals of money for his vice stand out, accusatory. He is even further debased by the director's expression as he watches him leave the branch, that sort of condescension, respect, pity.

If only they knew.

If only they knew, he thinks, the people who look at him now and see a decent old man bitterly facing his wife's illness, the honest decline of old age, if they only knew his hidden vertigo of moral degradation. If they knew what he knows, that he'll go back to the chalet that afternoon, around five-thirty, and he'll give himself half an hour of doubting, he'll torment himself with antic.i.p.ated guilt. But he knows in the end he'll ring the bell beside the metal door and he will watch through the frosted gla.s.s to the reception room as Osembe arrives with her long stride, her little jump on the final step, her straight-toothed smile as she discovers he's returned, another evening, punctual and vanquished.

Perhaps because of all that, and because when he returns home he finds Aurora more fragile and somber than ever, as he lies down beside her on the bed, instead of consoling her, he breaks out in tears. It is the slow, m.u.f.fled cry of an old man broken inside. On the radio, Beethoven's adagio from the Emperor Concerto plays, a little bit mosso, and Aurora reminds him that sometimes, long ago, he dared to play it for her. Do you remember? When was the last time you played it? No, I only knew the beginning, he apologizes. Oh yes, I remember now, when Lorenzo decided to quit school and I was so depressed and it seemed like you didn't care and you said that I shouldn't blame people for choosing a different life than the one I would've chosen for them. And I was sad and you played it for me. Aurora dries the tears from Leandro's face with her soft, thin fingers, without even being able to turn toward him. Then they hold hands, lying on top of the bedspread, and she tells him, don't be afraid, everything will be okay, you'll see, I'm going to get better. Why are men always so cowardly?

Why are you so afraid of everything?

3.

Her grandstand seat in the stadium is almost at field level, with the gra.s.s before her eyes like a damp, springy carpet. Soccer isn't so simple from there. The ball is more intractable. The s.p.a.ces tiny. The players human. You can smell the sweat, you can hear the groan of a collision and the whistle asking for the ball. Sylvia is seated beside Lorenzo, her leg in a cast. With every breath, steam comes from her mouth. Dress warmly, Lorenzo had told her before leaving the house. He wears a wool cap, but Sylvia is protected by her cascade of curls. They shared the row of comfortably upholstered seats with some players who are sitting the game out and the wives of some others, ma.s.s-produced beauties, who instead of following the game keep their eyes fixed on their husbands and s.h.i.+ver slightly every time they are tackled. Look, that's the wife of the Pole who wears number five, points out Lorenzo, they say she spent a hundred thousand euros on a pedigreed dog, but Sylvia doesn't pay attention to the gossip. And the Argentinian? Which one is his girlfriend? she asks. Haven't the slightest.

When Sylvia was fifteen months old and had just started walking, Lorenzo watched her looking at herself in the mirror. She held a jar of her mother's face cream in her hands and offered it to her own reflection, convinced that it was someone else. Lorenzo dressed while keeping an eye on her. At one point, Sylvia peeked behind the mirror, trying to figure out where the h.e.l.l the other girl was hiding, the girl who was watching her and also offering her a jar of face cream. She looked for her several times. Lorenzo didn't say anything, didn't explain it to her. He just watched, smiling as he enjoyed his daughter's concentrated calm as she stared at her reflection, unbeknownst to her. Sometimes he remembered that moment and wondered if something as simple as that was happiness.

And another time Lorenzo had taken his daughter to a soccer game. Sylvia was eight years old. After half an hour, she had lost all interest and was playing in her seat, talking to herself, looking around. Being back at the stadium, sitting beside her, sharing the bag of sunflower seeds, his gaze searching for the woman who raucously shouted insults at the referee and his family and trying to find where the cigar smoke was coming from, it felt like he was getting that day back. At the VIP door, Sylvia had picked up an envelope with her name on it that held two tickets. I won them in a radio contest, she told him. Lorenzo helped her get through the turnstiles that led into the stadium. In their special seats, Lorenzo joked, sang the team song out loud, and recited both lineups to her, leaving time to comment on some of the player's particular traits. He was enjoying the luxury of sharing a moment with his daughter again, a rare gift in these days when she's so independent.

Pilar had suffered Sylvia's adolescence before he had. As mother and daughter, they argued and got mad at each other over trivial things. The way she dressed, the long silences, her table manners, her friends. Sylvia turning fifteen had been decisive in Pilar's daring to end their marriage. We still have a lot of life ahead of us and she doesn't need us so much anymore, she had said, suggesting a separation. Lorenzo can't seem to pinpoint when their home stopped being a place of refuge, their family a guarantee of happiness, how their partners.h.i.+p, their love, died. Before he even realized it, the three people living under the same roof were strangers. Each one had their own interests, worries, priorities. In Sylvia's case, that was normal, part of her growing up. But in theirs, as a couple, it was a symptom of something darker, sadder. Pa.s.sion dies out in small trifling moments, and one day there's none left. Lorenzo sensed that there was a moment when Pilar let go of his hand and decided not to get dragged down with him. She jumped in a parachute from a cras.h.i.+ng plane. He was too busy avoiding his own catastrophe to hold on to her. He doesn't blame her for not wanting to share in his breakdown.

In the past, when Lorenzo reflected on his relations.h.i.+p with Pilar, he used to think that she made him a better person. She infected him with her tranquillity, her confidence, her generosity. She allowed him to choose, to establish himself, to grow. She celebrated him each time he made progress. The marriage was a support structure, a driving force. Getting married, living together, having a daughter, those were the natural steps of their harmony. When Sylvia was born, Pilar stopped working, but after a while she needed to escape the house. I feel like my life is on pause, she said. She drifted through unsatisfying jobs until she found her place, but Lorenzo was convinced it was at that moment they started on diverging paths. Paths that crossed at home at night, in shared details about their little girl, in the quick s.e.x on Sunday mornings. The union ended, the coexistence ended, and, as happens, someone new came into her life.

When Pilar announced her escape, Lorenzo couldn't hold on to her. He knew his wife well. Once she had made the decision, there was nothing that could force her to change it. No tears, no promises to change, no emotional blackmail. Pilar's decisions could be slow in coming, but they were rock-solid. She was indulgent, but her sentences were definitive. And that was how it happened. In two days, she no longer lived there, in four there was barely a piece of her clothing, in two weeks they had negotiated the separation and worked out the accounts, done the math, divided expenses, savings. It was easy. She left him almost everything. I'd rather stay in my home, Sylvia told them. Lorenzo took it as a victory, that she had chosen him, but he also knew it was the most comfortable choice for her, as well as the most respectful of her mother's new life. Really, he thought, she is choosing her neighborhood, her friends, her high school, her room, not choosing me over Pilar.

Since the separation, Lorenzo hadn't been with another woman. s.e.x was something he could do without, something dormant, pushed into a corner. Too many problems. He didn't have enough money for the drinks he'd have to buy to wait out the arrival of a woman lured by his lonely soul or his desperation. He was too proud to admit defeat. He wasn't going to beg in matters of love, either. Everything would work itself out once he recovered his true standing.

Looking for work in a waning field wasn't easy. For three months, he worked as a salesman on commission at a computer company, but the contract expired and Lorenzo found himself out on the street again, without the energy young people have for stringing together six or seven c.r.a.ppy jobs a year. Thanks to a friend's help, he got a position at a telephone equipment distributor, but the workdays were endless and the chemistry with his coworkers was soured by a stupid accident. During one of the little five-a-side soccer games they played on Thursdays after work at a munic.i.p.al gym, he tackled hard on a disputed ball and one of the young guys at the company, a c.o.c.ky little guy who often feinted and nutmegged, was badly hurt. He suffered a cranial fracture, a broken collarbone, and a concussion that scared them for a while. Lorenzo apologized a hundred times and they all chalked it up to an unlucky play, but he stopped going to the games, and shortly after he quit the job. He didn't have the energy to make new friends, start new relations.h.i.+ps. At that point, he was already considering the heist that would give him back some of what was rightfully his, taking justice into his own hands. Stealing from Paco what Paco had stolen from him, which wasn't only money.

His father had lent him some cash to get over the rough patch: I don't want Sylvia to have to change her lifestyle. He worried that his daughter would suspect his money problems, feel she was a burden, and go live with her mother. It would mean losing everything. For Lorenzo power had always been something physical that travels with you, that's conveyed, like some sort of body odor. That was why he struggled to show everything was the same as always, when really nothing was the same.

So the young woman who took care of the neighbor's kid had showed up at the right moment, when he most needed new people, people who wouldn't judge him for what he had been, but rather for what he could be. Who didn't know about the skids he was coming off, and who could appreciate his ability to bounce back.

When he had offered to drive Daniela to the airport, they agreed to meet at the metro entrance. Lorenzo drove up and she got in with her friend. This is Nancy, said Daniela, introducing them. The young woman's smile was bridled by braces. It was her cousin they were picking up at the airport.

In the arrivals terminal, they waited more than three hours for the flight from Quito and Guayaquil, which had constant delays. A little girl waiting for her father rolled on the floor. Other families waited restlessly, checking the clock, pacing back and forth. All foreign faces, distrusting looks, tension. Sometimes they seemed more like mourners at the door to a morgue than people waiting for an airplane. Daniela and her friend Nancy accepted a bottle of water from Lorenzo to make their waiting more bearable, but that was it. He asked them questions about how they had come to Spain, their working conditions. Neither of them had papers. They both worked without contracts in domestic service. Daniela claimed to be happy with the family on the fifth floor; Nancy was more critical of the family of an old man she took care of. They shared an apartment with three other girlfriends, on the first floor of a building near Atocha Station. Nancy had a daughter in Ecuador, left in the care of her grandmother, whom she sent money to every month. I didn't leave anyone behind, said Daniela, although she explained that she supported her mother and her younger siblings in Loja.

Nancy feared that they were holding her cousin at customs. Daniela rea.s.sured her. As time went on, they were more sincerely appreciative that Lorenzo had come with them. It's nothing, it's nothing, he said, but they insisted. They were afraid of the Spanish taxi drivers, who often ripped off foreigners, and if Wilson came with a lot of luggage, going on the metro would be a drag. If you ask someone you know for a favor, said Daniela, they almost feel like they have something over you. Lorenzo didn't say anything. He asked Nancy if she missed her daughter. I'm spoiling her, she answered, she's got the best toys in the neighborhood. Daniela smiled with her cheeks and squinted her lovely indigenous almond-shaped eyes.

Wilson appeared, loaded down with a ton of poorly wrapped packages. He was well built, his face speckled with pockmarks, his hair black and wiry, and he had a wandering eye that observed his surroundings. He wasn't yet thirty, but he hugged his cousin with paternal authority, with one hefty arm, while the other, suspicious, held on to the cart filled with boxes. Lorenzo noticed that Daniela's greeting was somewhat more distant; she stepped forward to exchange a kiss on each cheek. They introduced Lorenzo as an acquaintance who brought us in his car.

Lorenzo went up to their apartment with them. It had a small living room attached to the entryway and a long hallway lined with bedrooms. It was old, with paint on the walls half peeling off, and enormous doors of sagging wood. Two windows in the living room opened onto the back of Atocha Station; the rest faced a dark inner courtyard. When the terrorist attack happened, the windows shook. It was horrible, explained Nancy. We were looking for a friend, for many hours we thought she was dead, but then she turned up in a hospital, with one leg destroyed. She was lucky, they're going to give her papers.

Daniela and Nancy insisted Lorenzo stay for lunch, and they prepared a stew with rice and goat meat they called seco seco, accompanied by a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola. In spite of the large iron radiators along the walls, there was a small butane heater in the room. While the girls bustled about in the kitchen, Lorenzo talked to Wilson on the sofa, which that night would transform into his bed. He was coming without work, with a tourist visa, but convinced that the next day he'd find something. Noticing Lorenzo's interest in his situation, Wilson asks him, and what do you do? Lorenzo grew visibly worried before answering. Right now nothing, I'm unemployed. But Wilson took it as great news. Why don't we do something together? Hauling, anything. In Ecuador, Wilson worked as a driver. From trucks to limos, for a little while I worked as a bodyguard, too, for a guy who had an enormous hacienda in San Borondon. But your license from there won't be valid here, Lorenzo told him. Well, answered Wilson, and he added an open smile, I could use your license, we look a bit alike, don't you think? Except for the crazy eye. Lorenzo laughed.

Wilson faded a bit after eating, subdued by the time difference. By then Lorenzo was already captivated by his outlook. He had listened to his offers. If you had a van, tomorrow we'd already be working as a little business, keep me in mind for whatever you need. What else do I have to do except stay here at home with these five chicks, and Wilson smiled as if they shared a secret. Lorenzo made excuses, I'm looking for a different type of work, but I'll think about it. Then he went down with Nancy and Daniela and two of the other roommates to a nearby bar, an Ecuadorian bar. He was the only foreigner in the place, which was attached to a Dominican-owned business where immigrants could call home cheaply. The bar was called Bar Pichincha, spelled out in orange adhesive letters stuck on the plate-gla.s.s window. Its old sign, Los Amigos, was still hanging in front of the building, above the door, unreachable it seemed, except for the rock that had broken it. It was a wide s.p.a.ce with a tall bar, a terrazzo floor, and metal tables where many of the customers were still finis.h.i.+ng their meals.

No one looked at Lorenzo as he approached the bar and the girls cl.u.s.tered around him, but he felt uncomfortable, foreign in that place belonging to another lat.i.tude. The music transported him to another country, as did the faces. Daniela wore a tight black s.h.i.+rt, with silver embroidered letters that read MIAMI MIAMI, which were sometimes covered by a lock of her straight hair. People approached to talk to Nancy or Daniela and soon Lorenzo found himself alone with his iced coffee. Daniela realized and went back over to him. We come here a lot. Sure, of course, he said. They started a private conversation, on the side. He asked her about her job; she talked about the rest of the neighbors in the building. About the man in 2B who once, insolently, rubbed up against her in the elevator. It was gross, sometimes Spaniards think we're all wh.o.r.es or something like that. Lorenzo smiles. The guy from 2B? He's a retired military man. Retired? Maybe from the army, not from the other thing. She said "dother," melding the two words. They both laughed, but she covered her mouth, as if she got a charge of shame from saying it.

Daniela told him that almost every Sunday morning she went to church, but she'd made an exception that day to accompany her friend. Are you religious? she asked him suddenly. Lorenzo shrugged his shoulders. Yes, well, I believe in G.o.d, but I'm not practicing...A lot of people in Spain are like that, she said. It's like they don't need G.o.d anymore. But if you don't believe in G.o.d, you don't believe in anything. Lorenzo didn't really know what to say. He looked around him. It didn't seem like the right place for a mystical conversation. She continued, and to think it was the Spaniards who brought religion to the Americas. Yes, among other things, said Lorenzo. The dance music resonated.

A burly guy approached the bar to one side of Lorenzo. As he leaned onto the counter he pushed Lorenzo, on purpose. Lorenzo turned to look at him, but said nothing. The guy fixed his defiant, deep black eyes on him. He was thick, not very tall, with the physical decisiveness of a refrigerator. I've got to go, said Lorenzo. Don't pay any attention to him, they drink too much and they get aggressive. No, no, it's not because of that, said Lorenzo after moving toward her and away from the guy at the bar. My daughter is at home and her leg's still in a cast.

He said good-bye to Nancy, who was chatting vivaciously with her friends, and Daniela felt the need to accompany him to the door, as if she were protecting him. Thanks again. It was nothing, said Lorenzo. Tell Wilson he should call me if he needs anything. Daniela seemed surprised, ah, okay, but I don't have your phone number. Lorenzo searched his jacket for a pen. It's okay, she said, I know where you live. They said good-bye with a kiss on each cheek. On the second one, Lorenzo's nose brushed her hair. It smelled of chamomile.

Lorenzo met up with Sylvia, who had eaten at her grandparents' house. He had called earlier, don't wait for me, I'm out with some friends. He felt a bit embarra.s.sed about lying to his father, but he found it hard to explain that he was having lunch with the girl who took care of the kid who lived upstairs. Sylvia was with her grandmother, in the bedroom. They were playing checkers on the bed with the board tilted and the pieces sliding. Leandro walked through the hallway, restless. Lorenzo spoke to him about Aurora's condition. Her spirits seem better. She likes seeing her granddaughter, said Leandro, with her she pretends she's feeling good. I think I'm going to buy a van, he said to his father, I want to start something on my own, I'm tired of working for other people. Lorenzo didn't get the enthusiasm he was hoping for out of Leandro. His father offered him money, although we aren't doing too well right now. No, no, refused Lorenzo, I have some, I made some, but he chose to hide that it was from Sylvia's settlement.

The first day that Sylvia got into the van it was on their way to the game. I was tired of the car, at least with this I can look for little jobs. It was chaotic approaching the stadium, but he wanted to leave Sylvia in a nearby bar so she wouldn't have to walk too far. Lorenzo's friends, oscar and Lalo, met up with them. It was their usual meeting place. The bar filled up when there was still an hour until the game started. Seven draft beers, a call came out, another round over here. Checking Sylvia's tickets, one of them let out a whistle. What good seats, if you stretch out your hand you can grab the players.

And it was almost true. Although Ariel rarely came close to that area. In the second half, Sylvia had to strain her eyes to see him from her seat. The game wasn't going brilliantly. Lorenzo had to explain some plays to Sylvia, but she wasn't paying attention. They're making mincemeat out of number ten. Number ten was Ariel Burano. Right before the end of the game, it was that player who took advantage of a muddle in the penalty box to edge the ball into the net. Sylvia lifted two fists to celebrate the goal. Lorenzo held her tightly in his arms and they both let loose with untempered joy. It was number ten, she says. Lorenzo feels his daughter's body glued to his and savors the moment. When she was a little girl, he squeezed her in his arms or tickled her and gave her affectionate bites, but as she left childhood behind their regular contact was also lost.

He was always envious of Pilar because she shared Sylvia's most intimate moments. He remembers the night Pilar told him that she had found her crying in bed. Why was she crying? Pilar smiled, but her eyes were damp. She says she doesn't want to grow up, that it scares her. She doesn't want to stop being the way she is. And what did you tell her? asked Lorenzo. Pilar had shrugged her shoulders. What do you want me to tell her, she's right. And the next morning Lorenzo had gone to wake her up to take her to school and he tried to talk to her about it. She didn't seem too interested in listening, as if the alleged trauma had vanished overnight. In spite of everything, Lorenzo told her, you'll see, life always has good things, at any age. If I had stayed a child forever, I never would have met your mother and you never would have been born. Sylvia reflected for a moment at the school entrance. Yeah, but when you were little you didn't know everything that was going to happen later, that's the bad part. Sylvia couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old.

After freeing himself from the embrace of his teammates, who had buried him beneath their bodies beside the corner flag, Ariel Burano runs toward the middle of the field and celebrates the public's applause. The goal is the work of number ten Ariel Burano Costa, announces a euphoric voice over the loudspeaker. An ugly goal, but it counts just as much as a pretty one, says Lorenzo. Let's see if those a.s.sholes open up a bit now and there are more chances at goals. But it's not going to happen. The game cools off. The last few minutes go by with hardly any opportunities; both teams seem to accept the results. With five minutes in the game, Ariel is subst.i.tuted. He walks toward the sideline in no rush. He is applauded, although some whistles are heard. Why are they whistling? asks Sylvia. After he made a goal. Lorenzo shrugs. There's something about him people don't like. Too artistic.

4.

Ariel lets the hot water run over his body. But he still can't get the chill out of his bones. When things go well, the condensed steam in the locker room, in the shower area, looks like heaven, the promised paradise. One guy whistles, another jokes, someone imitates a woman's voice, another asks for the shampoo. There's no trace of that thick silence, of the low gazes, the twisted expressions of when they lose. They call the Czech goalie Cannelloni for the size of his c.o.c.k and that night he can't escape Lastra's joking, who screams, I'll bring you the hand broom so you can scrub the foreskin. Last Sunday Ariel had scored the winning goal in their stadium and this Sat.u.r.day the second one was earned as part of his play. In Valladolid, with a wind that s.h.i.+fted the ball in midair, they had to mark the lines of the goal area in red because the field froze. Ariel had the feeling he was playing on razor blades. Right on the end line, he eluded tackle by two fullbacks and he faced the goalie with barely any angle. He took a step back and pa.s.sed it to a forward who barely had to blow on the ball to get it into the net. They call it the "death pa.s.s," because scoring is something like killing. When the team embrace broke up, Matuoko came over to Ariel in an aside and patted his cheek, that was your goal, man.

From that moment on, every time the Ghanaian touched the ball, the younger fans made monkey shrieks, ooh, ooh, ooh, to insult the player. They moved their hands like macaques and the voice over the loudspeaker begged them to stop with the racist insults because it could result in a fine for the local team. Last week, in his own stadium, Ariel also had to hear whistles from the fans, in the area reserved for an extreme right-wing group that goes by the name of Young Honor. The board of directors treats them with kid gloves because they are loyal and pa.s.sionate, they travel with the team at ridiculous discounts, and their organization has their own office in the stadium. Last season they had taken the team's bus by storm on the way back from a game that had ended in defeat. They threatened the players and insulted them with shouts of mercenary and slacker. He had made a date to meet them in their office on the first floor of the stadium. Ariel pa.s.sed Husky on the way out of the locker room that morning. Are you going to give them an interview and take pictures with them? he asked, shocked. I know everybody does it, but come, look, and he showed him their Web site on his laptop. n.a.z.i symbols, the usual threatening, bullying tone hidden behind the team colors. Most of the players on staff were posing in photographs with the scarves and insignias of the group in an exercise of submission. Ariel found an excuse and got out of his commitment through one of the press employees. So when he heard the whistles and shouts of Indian, spic, he didn't feel too hurt. The atmosphere around soccer is the same everywhere. Matuoko, for example, was fighting against an accepted fact: a black player had never succeeded on their team.

Ariel dresses quickly and tucks his long wet hair into a wool cap. The visiting locker room, sad, tiled in white like a public restroom, contrasts with their home locker room, which was renovated with no expense spared. Some credentialed journalists and recently showered players mill around. He wants to say hi to one they call "Python" Tancredi, a guy from Santa Fe who inherited the nickname from the legendary Ardiles, even though he had been such a slow center halfback that in La Nacion La Nacion someone wrote that "it would take more than ninety minutes and two overtimes for Tancredi to reach a free ball." Journalists sometimes showed off their wit cruelly. They say that Python sent a gift to the newspaper's staff, his stool in a gla.s.s jar. Tancredi has been in Spain for six years and he greets Ariel with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. You getting used to it? Dude, you see how chilly the reception is here. someone wrote that "it would take more than ninety minutes and two overtimes for Tancredi to reach a free ball." Journalists sometimes showed off their wit cruelly. They say that Python sent a gift to the newspaper's staff, his stool in a gla.s.s jar. Tancredi has been in Spain for six years and he greets Ariel with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. You getting used to it? Dude, you see how chilly the reception is here.

They talk about plans for Christmas. Python has four children and he says, no way am I putting them all on a plane. I bring my parents here and my in-laws, let them do the traveling. In Buenos Aires you need protection, a bodyguard, it's disgusting. You can't even trust the cops. Tancredi lifts his hands in an Italian gesture, bringing together the tips of all five fingers, did you know there are 143 crimes reported every hour? The country's gone to s.h.i.+t. The last time I was there, I stopped in a service station with my old man and up come two ghetto muggers with a blade this big, no, no, I'm staying here. Ariel says that he's going home, his mother's health is too delicate to withstand such a long flight. Have you met "Tiger" Lavalle? Python asks him. Ariel shakes his head. It's traditional for goalkeepers in Argentina to be called Crazy, Monkey, Cat, or Tiger. Tiger Lavalle is a veteran goalie from Carcarana who arrived in Spain after years in the Mexican league. Anarchic and genius, he shoots the penalty kicks and is equally loved and hated. The press adores him because amid all the usual cliched answers his are always uninhibited pearls, happy discoveries. Ariel doesn't know him personally. We haven't played against his team yet, he says to Python. He's the one who does the most to unite all the Argentinians here, he explains to Ariel, he always gets us together with some excuse, it's nice.

From the end of the hall, the delegate makes a sign to Ariel with his head when the team is heading toward the bus. Ariel says good-bye to Python. He crosses with the others toward the street. From the fences the kids ask for autographs, throw photos, but it's too cold and they barely stop. On the bus, they choose a martial arts movie, with katana fights and impossible jumps in slow motion. Ariel turns on his cell phone. He brought a book, No Logo No Logo, that Marcelo Polti sent him with such an excessive inscription that it filled the first three pages and that said, among other things: "So you can be aware that those brand-name sneakers you advertise and get the kids all worked up about are contributing to the world's inequality." But Ariel gets nauseous reading on the highway. He isn't much of a reader. Sometimes his father used to say, I must have done something really wrong for my kids to believe that books bite.

They head back toward Madrid on the bus, with a couple of sandwiches and a piece of fruit, a bottle of water and the beer someone managed to sneak in. They emptied out Jorge Blai's hair gel into his shoe since he usually spends twenty minutes in front of the mirror before going out to meet the press, and they didn't want him to make them wait that night. He reminds Ariel of Turco Majluf, who used an entire tin of Lordchesseny for every San Lorenzo game. It's Poggio, the subst.i.tute goalie, who comes up with these cruel jokes. Sometimes Amilcar justifies it, he has to do something, they pay him a million euros to eat sunflower seeds on the bench, he's the luckiest guy in the world. And there is some truth to that, because the first day Ariel was with him on the bench he admired the skill with which Poggio removed the sh.e.l.ls and wolfed them down, even with his goalie gloves on.

The seat next to Ariel is empty, across the aisle from Dani Vilar, who sometimes makes common courtesy look like pulling teeth. They look at each other but don't say anything. His father has Alzheimer's and he's going through a difficult time, is how the other teammates justify it. He often misses training as a show of hierarchy that no one dares challenge. It is dark outside. One of the center fullbacks, Carreras, gets up and opens his sports bag, then starts showing pieces of clothing to his teammates. They are from his parents' store and he promises them good prices. There are T-s.h.i.+rts, sweats.h.i.+rts, sweaters, many of them brand names. Someone shouts, with what you earn you're selling clothes? But he says it's to help out his parents. Everyone on the team knows he's cheap and they tease him about it. To dribble past Carreras, they say, you just have to toss a euro to the right and head for the left. They laugh at his expense for a while, he shouts above the laughter, we're talking about 30 percent off here, eh, 30 percent.

Last Sunday when Ariel turned on his cell after the game he got a message from Sylvia. "Congratulations on the goal. I had a great time. Thanks for the tickets." He replied, "You brought me luck." Then he remembered that he hadn't given her their sign. She wrote: "I don't know if you dedicated the goal to me because everybody stood up and I couldn't see anything." "I forgot, I owe you one," he wrote. The response was slow in coming: "Next time I'd rather you take me out for a drink. I like soccer but not that much." "Done deal, whenever you want," wrote Ariel. "My social life is as busy as a cloistered nun's. You choose a day that works for you." "Tomorrow?" he wrote. They settled on having dinner the next day. "I'll take you to the best Argentinian restaurant in Madrid," he suggested.

When Ariel wrote the last message, he remembered Sylvia's curly hair, her white face with lively eyes, but little more. He felt a slight hint of regret, as if he'd made an awkward date. Yet he felt it was fair compensation for the pain he had caused her. That night he dined with Osorio and Blai and two of the Brazilians on the team. Later they wanted to drag him to a nightclub on the outskirts of town, it's right by your house. But Ariel wanted to call Buenos Aires. We have to celebrate your first goal, they insisted. I don't want to celebrate the first goal as if it's going to be the last, all right? said Ariel as he left. Ah, you never know if there'll be more, Blai said, do you know how many goals I've scored in six years of playing: three. Not much to celebrate. And two in your own side, Osorio managed to say before getting slapped in the stomach.

Ariel agreed to meet Sylvia on the staircase of the main post office. It seemed natural to both of them to meet somewhere close to the place where the accident happened. It could be understood as going back to where they began. He was late, the traffic was exasperating, and while he was trying to zigzag through the cars a taxi driver cursed angrily at him. In order to get close to the building, which from his vantage point looked like a huge umbrella stand, he had to maneuver illegally. He saw Sylvia sitting on the third step, her cast resting on the stone. He honked his horn. There were policeman directing traffic beside the Cibeles fountain and it was impossible to stop for long. As she turned her face, Sylvia's hair floated on the wind. She stood up deftly. She carried just one crutch and it seemed rude to Ariel that he watched her walk toward the car without getting out to help her. He opened the door from inside. I don't think this was a good meeting place, she said. People have started their Christmas shopping, they're insane. Totally, agreed Ariel. Sylvia held the crutch like a cane. Ariel drove toward the Puerta de Alcala, entering the traffic jam again.