Learning To Lose Part 9

It was him. He's the one who started it. He sent the first message at sundown on Sunday. "h.e.l.lo. You want to get together tomorrow?" Almost all the soccer games of the day on both continents were over by then. The results would allow his team to move up three spots in the standings. "OK, but not too late." At night he'd watch the rebroadcast games in the Argentinian league. But he still had some hours to kill. "At five? In the usual spot?" He knew he would eventually send the message to Sylvia, but he tried to put it off as long as he could. I want to see her. "OK." She conveyed a strange calmness. It was her clean gaze, her almost childish mannerisms, the lack of calculation, a certain innocence. He remembered her trembling caresses, somewhat furtive, her unfamiliar body, her kisses where she lets her head drop, partly terrified and partly aroused, her nervous, tentative smile. It all seemed so close that Ariel couldn't believe he'd let so many days pa.s.s before seeing her again.

She responded instantly to the messages. They were short, direct. Of course. I set the cold tone, admitted Ariel. "But not too late," she had written. It was a subtle way of saying, we won't end up in bed this time. And Ariel understood that. The night has its own rules. Theirs will be an evening love, like teenagers, he thought. With orders to be home before eleven.

On Sat.u.r.day he had experienced the tedium that precedes a game. Expectant tedium. A stroll through the street with hundreds of kids asking for autographs, lunch with the team, the tactical discussion, the fifteen-minute prep video of the rival team, the nap, the brutally harsh conversations of men in a group. Lastra had come up with a new nickname for the coach. Lolailo. It's like in songs, he explained, when they don't know what to say, there's always a chorus that goes lolailo. That's what it seemed like to them, that once he'd used up the three concepts and three details that they had to look out for in their rival, the coach would start talking to himself, repeating the chorus. And in a whisper some of the players murmured lolailo, to make the guys who couldn't hold it in burst out laughing. A bit childish, but effective. The technical staff appreciated a good atmosphere. When the joke spread, Lastro turned to one of the younger guys. Don't you say a word of this, we all know you're a stool pigeon. The boy tried to deny his bad reputation, but the group imposed its own law.

He had tried to nap, but Osorio, his roommate, called his girlfriend and spent two hours whispering sweet nothings into his cell phone. When he hung up he turned toward Ariel, she's already got a car out of me, the b.i.t.c.h. Then he became engrossed in playing a video game on his PlayStation. Amilcar came to find Ariel for a coffee. Someone said that Matuoko was f.u.c.king a local celebrity in his room, somebody related to a duke of who-knows-where. The Spaniards all seemed to know her from television. She called him up on the phone in his room, just like that, brazen as can be, said Matuoko's roommate. The chick must be fortysomething, but she's amazing, said another.

They loaded the bags into the bus, since they'd go straight from the stadium to the airport. Don't leave anything in the hotel, warned the delegate. This guy left his blow-up doll, shouted one of the players. And you and your f.u.c.king mother, they answered from the back of the bus. When a frantic Matuoko was among the last to board, his teammates received him with a burst of applause that he acknowledged with a show of his enormous teeth and pink gums. The coach lowered his head, somewhat somber. The head of equipment told two or three very celebrated jokes. My wife screams so much when she's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, sometimes I hear her from the bar. Some people put on headphones; others chatted.

At the entrance to the stadium, a group of local fans insulted them, showing their fists. They threw oranges that burst open against the bus windows. A drunk fat guy lowered his pants and showed them an ugly, hairy a.s.s. Paco, don't look, you might like it, shouted Lastra between laughs. I prefer your f.u.c.king mother, answered Paco from his seat up front.

The hour and a half before the game seemed to last forever. Warm-up on the field. The murmur of the people who started to fill the stands. Changing in the locker room. The smell of lotions. Ariel kicked around a ball made of two knee socks with one foot. One, two, three, four, he kept it in the air, pa.s.sing it from one foot to the other. Some players watched him, smiling. Another shouted, on the field, man, on the field. Then they waited in the hall from the locker room. That was the moment when Ariel felt the most nervous. Someone shouted, come on, come on, come on. We have to win. Let's go, let's go, let's go guys, we have to win, we have no choice, the goalie coach reminded them. If things get ugly, strike hard, advised the second coach.

The game was grueling. The play was interrupted by constant fouls. The team playmaker kept the ball close to his foot instead of making long pa.s.ses. Dragon used to ridicule that kind of player, they're mailmen, he used to say, they come up beside you, shake your hand, ask you about your kids, and nothing can get them to let go of the ball. You should touch the ball a lot but hold on to it as little as possible. Ariel grew frustrated by the lack of pa.s.sing. His marker followed the first feint and when Ariel recovered the ball unexpectedly he got knocked down. The referee showed the defender a yellow card halfway through the first half and that kept him off Ariel's back a bit. Three or four times he went over the sideline and managed to cross the ball. But it seemed like Matuoko's headers were badly placed, as if he couldn't locate the goal. His shots were high and off-mark. On one rebound, Ariel took a chance with a bicycle kick, but the goalie managed to knock it the other way from above the crossbar. It would have been a gorgeous goal, the kind they replay on TV for days.

Finally, because of an awkward clearance, a ball came over to him near the penalty box. He moved into the box and toward the endline, searching for a teammate coming up behind him. He saw the fullback going down to the ground to take the ball off him and he just had to make his foot meet up with the defender's leg. Ariel fell in the box and the referee whistled the penalty shot. Amilcar scored with a powerful shot at mid-height.

Then the coach decided to maintain the team's advantage by switching Ariel for a defender. He didn't mind. He sat on the bench. The coach said something to him that Ariel didn't understand. The subst.i.tute goalie, who was working on his fifth bag of sunflower seeds, whispered into his ear, lolailo lolailo, and they both laughed.

In the airport, two pa.s.sengers complained angrily about the wait. It's outrageous, they've had us here for an hour. One of the center midfielders shot him a look filled with sarcasm, relax, don't have a heart attack. The man looked at him with fury and disdain, and the delegate started gathering the players so none of them got left behind. During the flight, some of the journalists who shared the plane with them came over to congratulate Ariel. Husky dropped onto the arm of his seat, you must be happy. Ariel nodded vaguely. You want to have a drink when we get there? Ariel looked at his watch. They would land in Madrid around one. It's Sat.u.r.day night, you won, the referee bought your dive, Husky said, what more do you want?

Ariel smiled. It wasn't a dive. The guy touched me.

He thought it'd be good to go out. His teammates joked with the flight attendants, who smiled, somewhat embarra.s.sed but flirtatious. One of them, her hair dyed a reddish tint, was waiting on Ariel. Can I have a tea? She smiled at him. Thanks a million, he said. As she headed back toward the cabin, a player shouted, don't run, there's enough c.o.c.k here for everybody. Soon the attendant brought Ariel the tea. I'm sorry, we don't have any mate, she said. Ariel smiled with his green eyes. At some point later, from a distance, they locked gazes and she waved. Ariel's seatmate elbowed him. Are you flirting with the flight attendant?

You know the saying? Flight attendants and nurses, condoms in their purses. Ariel laughed. The player was a subst.i.tute who hardly played, though he'd been in the club for three years. I'm from Murcia. Have you ever been to Murcia? Ariel shook his head. Land of milk and honeys. And the guy started cracking up again. Ariel decided to listen to music. He was about to put on his headphones.

Dude, you have to come some day, I've got a mansion there, near La Manga, that you would not believe. What are you doing for Christmas? You going to Buenos Aires? Ariel hesitated, that was his plan, but he hadn't hammered it out yet. And you think such a long trip is worth it? For the four vacation days the sons of b.i.t.c.hes give us? My parents are there. They say it's crime-ridden. I read about the soccer player whose father got kidnapped. And I used to play with an Argentinian, Lavalle, you know him? When he went to Buenos Aires he took two bodyguards with him. He made it out to be pretty f.u.c.ked up.

The vice president, a young lawyer with a pale blue tie, got up and said, the prez called and asked me to convey his congratulations. And our bonuses? shouted a player, he should double 'em. People laughed at the remark. You know that at the Christmas dinner I'll give you each a gift. The team applauded sarcastically, sure they'd get a fountain pen or a watch. Ariel wanted to put on his headphones, but he didn't want to offend his seatmate, who showed no signs of reading his car magazine. My wife is pregnant, he told him then, the fifth. You know what they say, the fifth one can't be bad. It's the middle one that turns out screwy. He doesn't even want to hear the word soccer soccer. Ever since he was real little he's been playing with his sister's dolls and my wife, the b.i.t.c.h, goes around saying the kid is gay. You think you can say that? The kid is only nine years old, well, she says you can, that you're born gay and she's fine with it. And I've tried to talk to the school psychologist several times, but she won't have it. Don't laugh, this is serious, f.u.c.k, I really get embarra.s.sed sometimes. One day he says to me, do you always have to wear that jersey, can't you change the colors? Imagine how screwy this kid's head is.

A bit later, the conversation devolved into politics. I don't vote, his teammate told him, but if I did it would be because somebody like Pinochet or Franco was running; for me, if I'm gonna get robbed, I rather it be by someone with authority, someone who'll get tough on all the sc.u.m around here.

Before landing, the stewardess collected the trays and had everyone put their tables in the upright position. On Ariel's she placed a coaster with her cell phone number written on it. Ariel put it in his pocket before it caught the eye of his seatmate, who was then talking about why the Spanish national soccer team usually lost. It could be because Spaniards aren't compet.i.tive by nature, but, f.u.c.k, we've got Ballesteros and Fernando Alonso, they're from here, Spaniards, not Martians. What do they say in Argentina about our team? Ariel shrugged his shoulders, well, everybody there knows it's because of that guy, the one with the ba.s.s drum, that guy is mufa. Mufa? mufa. Mufa? asked his teammate with exaggerated interest. Yeah, asked his teammate with exaggerated interest. Yeah, mufa mufa, brings bad luck. A jinx? Yeah, that's it, the guy with the drum is a jinx. No s.h.i.+t, no s.h.i.+t. But everybody there knows that, insisted Ariel to the astonishment of his teammate. You mean M...No, no, don't name names. Ariel knocked on his head as if it were wood. We had a president that was mufa mufa, and they had to beg him not to go to the national games.

When the airplane's wheels touched the runway asphalt, there was an immediate commotion. People undoing their seatbelts, reaching for their suitcases, turning on their cell phones. Ariel watched as his seatmate turned on two different cell phones. Two? he asked. s.h.i.+t, one for my wife and one for all the others, you wouldn't want to get a call mixed up. Our goalie two years ago sent a p.o.r.nographic message to his wife by mistake. You can't imagine the scene. The guy was slick, especially for a Catalan, and when we asked him how he patched things up, he said he had made her believe it was meant for her, to spice up their relations.h.i.+p a bit, breathe some life into it, the a.s.shole. And you should meet my old lady, she's a piece of work, she goes through my messages, my address book. When I screw some random chick, I stop at the gas station on my way home and rub gasoline on myself, she can sniff out perfume a mile away.

Ariel searched for the flight attendant among the tangle of heads, as if he wanted to have a last look at her. Now I'm s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g one of the salesgirls at the club store, one of the brunettes, the curviest one, I'll introduce you to her. I got her the job, and it's an awesome one. You know what turns the little s.l.u.t on, when I f.u.c.k her with my uniform on. I don't know, it makes her hot...but with s.h.i.+n guards and everything, what a scene. Once you scratch the surface, you find out women are very s.l.u.tty.

They got out of the plane and Ariel felt relieved to be rid of the conversation. The flight attendant said good-bye in the breezeway with a nod of her head, biting her lip that she had glossed in bright pink.

They picked up their suitcases from the baggage carousel while the head of equipment organized his a.s.sistants so Ariel wouldn't have to carry a single piece of luggage. Husky was waiting for him beside the Civil Guard's control booth. Let's go to a place near here, I'll lead, said Husky, speaking quickly. Didn't you have a flas.h.i.+er car? Ariel told him about the conversation he'd had on the plane. He used to be a decent player, the kind who dedicate themselves and get their jerseys sweaty, but he's not getting the n.o.bel Prize in physics this year, he's old now, Husky said. Look, there it is, the Malevo. It's a horrible place, but this is where the action is.

At Husky's insistence, they parked in a pedestrian crossing. Who's going to give you a ticket now? On the street, Ariel pulled out the airplane coaster from his pocket and showed it to Husky. The flight attendant's number? And now you tell me? Tell her to bring a friend, but what are you waiting for? Husky dialed the number on Ariel's phone, but there was no answer. What were you thinking? She must have gone off to f.u.c.k the pilot, like always.

They settled in at the back of the bar. The music was deafening. Husky drank beer like it was going out of style. He teased Ariel indignantly for having let the flight attendant get away. A little later the door to the place opened and to their surprise they saw Matuoko come in, accompanied by a woman with reddish hair. It's her, said Ariel. It's the flight attendant.

They waved from a distance and watched them sit at the other side of the bar. Well, looks like she pa.s.sed out her number to the entire team, said Husky. There's no way I could compete with that guy, said Ariel in his defense, you haven't seen him naked, he has a perfect body. Showering next to him is depressing, admitted Ariel. Husky made a disgusted face, don't go on, thinking about a group of naked men makes me want to puke.

They talked about soccer for a while, without taking their eyes off Matuoko's moves on the flight attendant. Every once in a while, she looked toward Ariel and smiled, almost with a trace of apology. Young men came over every so often, to tell him their stories, shake his hand. They all had their line, now my girlfriend is becoming a fan, I played in the juvenile leagues, you need someone in midfield that can bring some life into the team, I'd sign another goalie. Someone even said, from under his breath, less partying and more sweating that jersey. The whole jersey-sweating thing is one of the most overrated things in soccer, don't you think? Husky asked him. Ariel remembered that Dragon would tell them, you've played very badly, you ran too much, if this sport was about running they'd sign the hundred-yard sprint champion. Then another guy shouted from the end of the bar, fewer nightclubs and more goals, and Husky challenged him. What does that have to do with it? The best players in the world have always been serious party animals. What you need, Ariel, is to be more of a layabout. Sometimes you don't even seem Argentinian. In the goal area, what shows are the nighttime hours spent around a bar, in every dribble, the delinquent comes out. Two years ago, a group of fans showed up at practice with a big sign that said fewer hookers and more allegiance to the team colors. It's people's fantasy, that you guys are out there living it up as if you had three b.a.l.l.s and you can't let them down, it's like when some Hollywood actor says his life is very sad, boy, do they ream him a new one, people don't want to hear that, they already have their own f.u.c.ked-up lives.

The alcohol ended up arousing Ariel. A girl split off from her group of friends to come over and say hi. Husky encouraged him. Come on, give her a kiss on each cheek, don't be shy. Ariel focused on the girl, who didn't stop talking. She put her tanned hand on Ariel's thigh and whispered in his ear things like that she wasn't really into soccer. Husky continued his jokes, are you sure you don't have a friend who likes ugly guys? I can a.s.sure you I look a lot better naked. When Ariel leaned over the girl and said, wouldn't we be better off just me and you somewhere? she smiled proudly. Let me finish my cigarette and we'll go, okay?

The girl lived in a white brick building in the north, near the Chamartin Station. She shared an apartment with three friends. She studied business management. Her family was from Burgos. No b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs, eh, I'm telling you that from the get-go, she told Ariel in the elevator, when he grabbed her roughly by the hair. Ariel had a hard time getting her clothes off, the girl had put music on and was dancing in her panties and bra as if she were showing off her body. I'm crazy, I never do this, I'm crazy, she kept repeating. Ariel took slow sips on a can of beer she had brought him from the refrigerator. Their lovemaking was out of sync. She turned up the music as if she didn't want to hear herself, just the trilling of Celine Dion. Ariel didn't understand what he was doing with a woman he didn't really desire, who wasn't particularly beautiful and didn't attract him any more than the alcohol dictated. The girl said, whisper dirty things in my ear, ay, I love your accent, and then she asked him to spank her bottom, not so hard, like that, like that. Ariel felt ridiculous. He hated her kisses and when he had finished and yanked off the condom he could only think about escaping to his car parked on the street. By that point the girl, who had come in the midst of what seemed like an attack of the hiccups, was moaning weepily in bed. I never do this, s.h.i.+t, I have a boyfriend in Burgos, now what do I tell Jose Carlos? Huh? What do I tell Jose Carlos now?

Ariel got lost trying to navigate the outlying highways. He went back to the city center as if he could only find his way from there. In the Plaza de Colon he was stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. The policeman approached the driver's side window. Ariel lowered it with his best smile. I got lost on my way to Las Rozas.

I bet you've knocked back a few, haven't you? I'll let you go because we won, eh. He called his partner over, you'll see, he's a big fan. Ariel gave them a couple of signed photos that he had in the glove compartment. Then he received some confusing directions to the nearest highway entrance. The cop sent him on his way with an alrighty then, good luck, we're gonna get back to hunting for drunks.

The sun was already coming up as he got into bed. It took him a while to fall asleep. He was wiped. He woke up at three-thirty. He answered his e-mails. Marcelo wanted to get together with him during Christmas vacation, and told him that he was going to compose a song about an eighteen-year-old girl who killed a twenty-one-year-old kid in a suburban disco. It seems she didn't want to dance with him, they got into an argument, he insulted her, she took a knife out of her sneaker and killed him. Fifteen years in the slammer. But what Marcelo liked was the girl had written that very night in her diary, "Today I really f.u.c.ked up. I stabbed a guy and I'm really scared." Someone has to write the great Argentinian song and it has to come out of things like that. Ariel wrote back, count me in for the Christmas barbecue.

After a little, while he couldn't find any excuse not to write Sylvia a message.

"h.e.l.lo. You want to get together tomorrow?"

He picks her up at five. He finds her gorgeous when she approaches the car window. She's a girl, he tells himself. It's starting to rain and two Chinese guys are selling umbrellas by the stoplight. Sylvia's face is freezing. It's cold, she seems to justify, as she blushes. Her pink lips stand out against the paleness of her face. She's wearing a thick wool sweater, and when she takes it off it lifts part of the s.h.i.+rt underneath with it, revealing the skin of her belly. Her jeans are black. They go to a downtown coffee shop, kind of sw.a.n.k, she says. There is a piano that no one plays. Let's sit here, she points, but he prefers to be away from the large window. Oh, sure, says Sylvia.

A pompous waiter comes over. She orders Coca-Cola, he a beer. I saw the game, congratulations, Sylvia says. He says thank you. Are you becoming a fan? It's your fault, and she smiles above the gla.s.s.

I felt terrible the other night, after I dropped you off, begins Ariel. Sylvia shrugs her shoulders. He continues. This is a little confusing for me...A mess, she says. But I wanted us to talk, Ariel goes on. Was this a good time for you to get together? Anything's better than studying for my exams, she replies. I have three this week. Maybe today's not a good day for you, he insists, awkwardly. Today's perfect for me.

Ariel looks around. He once again feels her strange authority. She always manages to gain control of the conversation, leaving him behind like a slow fullback. Sylvia sticks an ice cube in her mouth and then drops it back in the gla.s.s. She drank her c.o.ke quickly. There is a moment of silence that Sylvia breaks with a smile.

I don't think we're going to be able to kiss here, she says to Ariel.

All of a sudden they've relaxed. Their knees are brus.h.i.+ng against each other beneath the table. Sylvia extends her hand over the tabletop so he can put his above it. Ariel hesitates. When the waiter approaches, they avoid contact. He brings the check and asks Ariel for an autograph. For my son, I don't like soccer. What's his name? asks Ariel. Pedro Luis, but put Pololo, that's what we call him.

Ariel signs, trying to hold back his laughter, tears in his eyes. Sylvia covers her face when she sees his hand trembling. They leave and double over, bursting with laughter. In the car they are still joking about the terrible life of a boy who grows up with the name Pololo. With that name I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up throwing himself off a bridge or busting into a McDonald's and killing thirty people, for revenge, says Sylvia.

In the underground parking garage at the Plaza Santa Ana, they kiss. Ariel keeps a watch out when he hears any sound. This is where bosses come to f.u.c.k their secretaries in their cars, says Sylvia. He secretly feared someone would film them with a cell phone. It had happened to a teammate a few weeks ago. They kiss for so long, sunk into the seat, that the time runs out on Ariel's garage ticket and he has to pay extra to the attendant, who is in a bad mood because someone took a s.h.i.+t in the nearby toilet and the smell is unbearable. What did that guy have in his guts? d.a.m.n, whatever it is, it's rotten. When he gives Ariel the receipt, he recognizes him and says, let's see if you've got enough time to get out now, because if you're this slow on the field, we're really in trouble.

They get to his house as dusk falls. They make love leisurely, with extended preambles exploring skin, studying it as if their bodies were the subject of an upcoming test. They remain in an embrace, stroking each other. Ariel can't remember ever being better, but he tells her, I'm scared s.h.i.+tless, you're underage, I don't know what I'm doing.

Sylvia places herself on top of him. She wants to rea.s.sure him. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are half covered by her hair, which he pushes away. They are lovely, and she tenses her shoulders. I'm in love with you, she says to Ariel, I don't think that's a bad thing. You're only four years older than me, you're not my grandfather.

Take me home early, she asks him shortly after. I don't want another lecture from my father. Can I see you tomorrow? asks Ariel. Sure, but if you don't mind I'll bring my notes and look them over a little. I can't help you out, I was a horrible student.

In the car, parked at the beginning of Sylvia's street, their mouths don't seem to want to separate. They want to be together even as she gets out of the car. She has her hands hidden in the sleeves of her sweater, j.a.panese style. When Ariel goes back home, he has Sylvia's fractured moan stuck in his ear.

The fractured moan of someone losing their virginity.

13.

Two weeks pa.s.s in a heartbeat. Sylvia says good-bye to Ariel. It is almost one. Christmas break from school has already started and that gives her freedom to stay out somewhat later. They are in the car, in front of a car repair shop. How long until I see you again? she had asked him a second earlier. Eight days. We have training on the second. Sylvia wanted to go with him to the airport the next day. Sure, he joked, so we can make the cover of the gossip magazines for the Christmas special.

These constant references to the impossibility of their relations.h.i.+p make Sylvia uncomfortable. For Ariel it was something insurmountable. You're sixteen years old, he would repeat as if it were a sentence, a definitive obstacle. Age is corrected by time, she would say to him.

They went to the movies twice. In the darkness, they held hands and shared popcorn, but on the way out he distanced himself. Sometimes, annoyed, she would joke and approach him, asking in a loud voice, aren't you that Argentinian soccer player? Alone on his way to the parking lot, he signed several autographs and listened to someone's tactical advice for the next game. You have such patience, said Sylvia.

His house was a refuge. They went in through the garage and found the house had been tidied by Emilia on her daily rounds. She's on guard, Ariel confessed to Sylvia, this morning she told me that nights are for resting, that I'm still very young. Well, imagine if she met me me, joked Sylvia.

She no longer felt so inhibited at his place. The night they made love for the first time, she wanted to leave the second it was over. She found everything threatening. She was afraid she had stained the sheets with blood and when Ariel discreetly removed the condom, she heard it land on the wood tabletop with a comic, ridiculous sound. Love wasn't an emotion, then; it was sticky fluids, smells, saliva.

Sylvia warned Mai that her father could call someday to ask if they were together. Only then did Mai realize she had gone too long without asking Sylvia about her personal life. I met a guy, she had said, I'll tell you about it later. Mai, who wore dreadlocks as dried and frayed as seaweed, shrieked in the yard during recess, oh my G.o.d. But Sylvia had already revealed her secret to someone else before her.

It was almost accidental. Dani found her in the hallway. This weekend I have tickets for a pretty good concert. Sylvia's expression twisted. I don't think I'm going to go out, I have to cram. Come on, you can study later...Dani insisted. I'm going out with somebody, Dani. Saying it made Sylvia feel relieved, secure. Her mirage could be real. She said it in a very soft voice so no one else would hear. Daniel nodded and smiled. I'm happy for you, he managed to murmur. Well, I'm happier for him, actually. They went down to the yard together, but there they separated.

Telling Mai didn't have the magic eloquence of the first time. She had decided against confessing to her father that one day when he came into her room, euphoric, and they had talked for a while about music. She didn't tell her mother, either, in any of their phone calls where they spoke about exams and plans for Christmas. Or her grandmother on her Sunday visit, right before going to see the game. Going to the game because Ariel had invited her to the stadium.

The game dragged. Her feet were cold and she kept them from freezing by stamping against the cement floor. It was strange to see Ariel on the field. He looked like someone else. A figure in the distance, different, older. She didn't feel that he was hers when the entire stadium whistled at him or clapped at the capricious final result of a play. Near her seat were teammates not playing in that game and a few wives and girlfriends of players who preferred the cold of the stadium to watching the game from home or on the television in the players' bar. They were all beautiful in the same way, somewhere between good genes and daily workouts in the gym. Like their husbands, they seemed older than they were; in the case of the women it was because of their pretentious, expensive way of dressing and their excessive makeup.

Ariel's team won handily. For Sylvia the stadium atmosphere was the most appealing. She missed the television replays and the close-ups that helped her follow the game. She couldn't even figure out how the third goal, which Ariel scored, had come about. She did see Ariel, after the embrace of his teammates, run toward the central circle with a lock of hair between his teeth in an aside to Sylvia that only she could understand. She blushed there in her private box seat and looked around her. She was relieved that none of the eighty thousand spectators could possibly suspect the gesture was meant for her.

The fans protested the referee's decisions and applauded the offensive plays. They ate and drank nonstop; some had brought sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil from home. There were those who smoked cigars and an area where the youngest fans gathered to tirelessly sing and cheer their team on. Their noisy presence gave them their authority in the stadium.

After the game, they were barely together an hour. In the car parked on a dark street. He had a dinner with his teammates that he couldn't miss. It's Christmas dinner. Are they fun? Sylvia asked him. Well, the president gives us a little speech and an expensive watch, then most people get drunk and end up throwing croquettes at the ceiling fans. Have you ever seen what happens when you throw a croquette at a fan? Is it funny? Oh yeah, everything gets all sticky.

Sylvia's nose ran from the cold and he lent her money for a taxi. When she left the car, he said, you didn't congratulate me on my goal, but she walked a few steps without answering and then turned with a lock of hair in her mouth. That night the temperature dipped to freezing.

They saw each other on Monday and early on Thursday they said good-bye in front of Sylvia's door. The next morning, Ariel flew to Buenos Aires. I hate Christmas, this year more than ever, Sylvia says to him. The car that several weeks ago had run her down was now the car she didn't want to get out of, whose appearance in the traffic around the Cibeles fountain she celebrated with a marked increase in her pulse.

Ariel says good-bye with a flash of his headlights and waits for her to go inside the building.

Sylvia lies down on her bed in silence. She has a bad feeling. The trip will separate them. She is terrified that Ariel's doubts will grow without her beside him. Everything will conspire to make him forget her. They are a couple that no one else knows exists. It is a private relations.h.i.+p, one that can be made to disappear very easily. Such different lives will end up pulling them apart. Sylvia knows this. She wants to think that it won't be that way, but she can't manage to convince herself.

There is no future for us, she says. We barely share anything, a bed and long conversations about a song, a movie, trivial things. This is the end.

Christmas is death.

14.

Leandro's hand doesn't shake. And that frightens him. It should be shaking. Otherwise what have I become? He looks at the veins of his hands to make sure blood still runs through them.

He signs.

His signature is a quick stroke, like the flight of a dragonfly. It's the two initials of his first and last names, Leandro Roque. He liked it when he was young, when he imagined it was a name destined for fame. When he practiced his signature in Joaquin's house, dipping the pen in the inkwell of his father's office.

At that point, the old military man was already retired and he fantasized all day about the possibility of writing his memoirs. When the sun warmed the street, he would go out for a stroll, showing off his manners, his war wound, his cordial greeting, his prodigious generosity with everyone. He paid for Leandro's piano lessons; he helped Pedro on the third floor set up a sawmill with a few thousand pesetas; he got the son of the blind woman who sold lottery tickets at the market out of summer military service; he paid for sewing lessons and a Singer machine for the daughter of the guy who fried strips of dough; and he had taken care of the studies of Agustin, a young man who came to visit him some afternoons, who had been his charge since wartime and eventually became a high school Greek teacher.

Once in a while, Leandro wondered if that neighborhood patronage was born of an innate decision or if it was the result of some guilty drive, a way to make up for all the damage caused. Because he never spoke about the war, about his mysterious adventure. In those years, few people talked about the war, except to mention it abstractly as an evil that had darkened everything and to tell, for the umpteenth time, some funny, or grotesque, anecdote almost always having to do with being cold or hungry. Cold and hunger being two enemies devoid of ideology in that recent, uncomfortable war.

Now he was writing that same signature sixty years later. A signature designed for the end of musical scores or for fan autographs but that had only seen bills, irrelevant doc.u.ments, and forgettable administrative operations.

At the signing, he was surrounded by the bank's branch director, the employee in charge of the matter, and a notary who didn't meet his eye and arrived twenty minutes late. On the way there, Leandro had crossed through various states of being. Ups and downs, depression and euphoria. The morning of Osembe's birthday, he had gone to the bank to start the loan process. We need several doc.u.ments, the deeds to the house, your wife's signature, medical certificates. The bank employee had written down a complete list of everything he would need, with the handwriting of a diligent university student.

Tomorrow I can bring all the papers, Leandro had said to the director, who responded with an expression Leandro hadn't liked. Icing on the cake. What did he mean by that? The director added that later everything would be in the hands of the risk department so they could okay the transaction.

To Leandro the risk department was a sarcastic t.i.tle. He was about to burst out laughing. It wasn't that much of a risk, giving him money with their apartment as collateral. They called it a reverse mortgage, with that ability words have to obscure the truth. The reverse meant death. The day they died they would lose the apartment, no big deal, that same day they'd have lost everything anyway.

He knew that branch on Calle Bravo Murillo from the days he first came to live in the neighborhood, as a newlywed. He had seen it go through renovations, grow and change names according to the evolution of bank mergers. He had seen the staff retire and move on, young people arrive who would get old prematurely in their dark jobs filled with vacuous smiles and forced cordiality. The branch director, with his insectlike appearance, gave him explanations. Everything about him was fake. One could just as easily take him for a pervert, a standup family man, or a skeet shooter. The world seemed to end in his striped tie. As soon as you bring me the papers I'll put the wheels in motion. The previous director, Velarde, had at least flanked his desk with family photos that gave him a real air. He was straightforward and coa.r.s.e, a real chatterbox. The first time he noticed that Leandro's profession was listed as musician, he commented, that must be very unstable, right? And later, over the years when the account stayed afloat with the always-punctual salary from the academy, he never missed the chance to say, you're always surrounded by music, what luck, and, all I've got are numbers, nothing but numbers. Leandro must have heard him repeat that remark close to seven hundred times.

That same evening Osembe invited the girls to her room, they opened champagne and toasted in plastic cups during what seemed to be a break from work. When Mari Luz, the madam, left the room, two of them pushed Leandro onto the bed and tickled him like a game between teenagers. Four or five had to leave for clients, but of the twelve four stayed, extending the party through the whole hour. Let's see, you have to choose the most beautiful, they said to Leandro, or, you're very serious, this is a party. When they finished the bottle, Osembe asked Leandro if he would treat them to another and one of the Spanish girls went down for more champagne.

They forced him to drink a long slug from the bottle. They took off his clothes. You've never done anything like this before, huh, grandpa? They ran their b.r.e.a.s.t.s over his face and laughed their a.s.ses off. At one point, the madam came up to let them know their laughter was above the acceptable levels. Leandro tried to vomit in the toilet when the drink made him dizzy, but he couldn't. The girls put him into bed for a little nap. They covered him with towels.

Leandro awoke with his mouth dry. Outside night was falling. His clothes were piled up sloppily on a chair. Old faded pants, a blue sweater, the s.h.i.+rt with the worn-out collar, a winter unders.h.i.+rt, socks both inside one shoe. He dressed and went out into the hallway. The little reception room was closed and through the frosted gla.s.s he saw two young men sitting on the sofa.

The madam came out to meet him. Come over here, you had a fabulous time, huh? she said with a crow's smile, and she stuck him in another tiny little receiving room. That's fifteen hundred euros, she said to him, and Leandro waited for the punch line, but there wasn't one. Shocked, he only managed to say, I didn't organize the party. The party was the first toast, everything else was on your tab, the girls spent their work time with you. And I'm giving you a discount, if I charged you what I should...come on, okay, write out a check for a thousand euros and we'll leave it at that, the patience one has to have...

Leandro, leaning on the little table, filled out the check. The doorbell rang and the madam left again for a few minutes. Come on out now, Mari Luz said to him when she came back to pick up the check. This is a really bad time, it's when all the offices let out.

That night, after dinner with Aurora, after turning off the television when her slow, monotone breathing revealed she'd fallen asleep, Leandro gathered the bank papers. He dug in the files at the far end of the shelf, bound by slack rubber bands. He reread the deed to the house from 1955, when the apartment cost barely more than the amount he had squandered that afternoon. The signing had taken place in a notary's office on Calle Santa Engracia. He remembers the nervous walk there with Aurora, and the building's owner, a man who had made his fortune in an automobile-importing business backed by several important military men. It was a warm autumn day and he was concerned whether he would be able to make the installment payments. The city couldn't have then suspected the chaotic evolution that would make its limits grow and expand. The disappearance of the night watchmen, the coal merchants, the knife sharpeners on bicycles, the large arched plazas with open workshops, the dairies, the bath houses.

He didn't go back to the chalet for two days. When he did, it was at his usual time. He was surprised when the bus driver greeted him, as if he were already a regular on the route, and when he recognized some familiar faces among the pa.s.sengers. No one thought he was anything less than a respectable, upright elderly man, well-preserved in his slenderness. No one could possibly imagine the shameful routine I'm carrying out, thought Leandro. But that day the routine was interrupted when the madam stopped him at the door to the house and didn't let him enter. The last check was returned, this is very serious, said Mari Luz without a hint of sympathy. Here we are again.

Leandro tried to say something, to excuse himself on the porch. From the door to the garage, a rectangular structure separated from the house, a man let himself be seen. He looked imposing, with gray hair and light eyes. It seemed to be a scene designed to frighten Leandro. The man was stock-still, he didn't move toward him, but he didn't hide himself, either.

Let's handle it like this, explained the madam, don't come back until you have the cash in hand. And it'll all be taken care of, that way there are no misunderstandings, you know how the banks can be. Leandro turned, but the woman held him by the forearm, authoritatively. But do come back, don't leave this debt outstanding, eh. We wouldn't want to have to come to your house for it...

The notary reads him the terms of the loan and as he closes the doc.u.ment he says, with his lethargic enunciation, Don Leandro Roque, do you know that you are signing a borrower's loan in the form of a reverse mortgage using your owners.h.i.+p of the apartment on Calle Condesa de Gavia as a guarantee? I know. I will ask you for the power of attorney signed by your wife, who is not present due to illness, which is confirmed by a doc.u.ment signed by a medical professional. The notary then recites what he sees, as if he were advancing through a jungle, hacking out a path with machete blows to reach the clearing of the signature.

Leandro had gone through the pitiful step of putting some doc.u.ments in front of Aurora's face, doc.u.ments he only vaguely explained. Aurora signed without asking questions, with her weak hand that could barely hold the pen. Then she asked for the bedpan and Leandro solicitously slid it beneath her body, purging himself, he thought, of some of the malice he was causing. Her urine hitting the plastic gave Leandro reasons to justify his behavior.

The next morning, Leandro went to the hospital to get the certificates he needed. He was surprised the doctor had him come into his office, he had insisted to the nurse that all he needed was a signature and he didn't want to be a bother, but the doctor wanted to greet him.

How is your wife feeling? Weak, but in good spirits, Leandro heard himself say, seated on the edge of the chair without taking off his coat. The nurse will bring the paper as soon as she stamps it with the hospital seal. The doctor looked into his eyes. I have a problem with your wife, you know? Leandro shook his head, sincerely intrigued. Your wife is very brave. Women in general are braver than us, right? Maybe...yes, said Leandro. Your wife doesn't want anyone in her family to know what is really going on with her. I don't want to alarm you or your son. Hers is an att.i.tude I understand and respect, but I don't think it's fair. What do you think?

Leandro nodded. For a second he had a feeling the doctor knew everything about him. That he could X-ray him with a single glance, bare his soul, and point out the black recesses with the tip of his pen. He felt uncomfortable, helpless. What strange power doctors have, even over the healthy.

I don't know what you know about your wife's state, or what she's told you. Well, Leandro rationalizes, some bone thing, I guess with her age and what you told me about osteoporosis...The doctor interrupts him. Your wife has truly resilient cancer that would have finished her off months ago if not for her reserve of strength, I don't know where she gets it from. Anybody else would be depressed, grieving, and finished, but either she fakes it really well or, honestly, you are married to an exceptional woman. There is no chance she'll ever walk again, I already told your son, she let me go that far. What she won't let me tell you is that she has very little time left, and it's not going to be fun. She's going to burn out like a candle. Her lucidity, even, will start to break down.

And do you know why I'm telling you all this? Because I believe that if those around her know how serious her case is, they'll put all their efforts and means into at least making the little conscious time she has left enjoyable, happy, full. These are the hard things about this profession, frankly, sometimes I'm forced to break a promise I've made to a patient, but I guess you'd agree with me when I tell you that in the end each person has to be responsible for the decisions they make. What can you do? I only have one answer: try to make her happy.

He leaves the notary's office and the air is crisp. The bank director offers to share a taxi with him and they set out from the outer curve of Bernabeu Stadium toward the bank. On the radio is the monotonous litany of the schoolchildren who sing out the Christmas lottery numbers. Someone makes a predictable joke about the jackpot. Leandro wants to get out. It's as if he feels oppressed by all the fake kindness that gilds reality.

It'd be good for me to have some cash in the house for an emergency, explains Leandro as he gets out of the taxi at the entrance to the branch. Sure, of course, Marga can help you. Leandro fills out a paper that quickly transfers into several bills. The manager accompanies him to the door. I suggest you keep an eye out, she explains, there are muggers around here, and they prey on retirees and the elderly. I think it's so unfair that they go after the most helpless. They hit them or push them and then they steal their money. And the woman waits there, defending him with her watchful gaze from any possible attack while he crosses the street.