Learning To Lose Part 13

Leandro had still not gotten over his surprise at hearing the madam at the chalet tell him, with an almost offensive sarcasm, Valentina doesn't work here anymore. It had taken him a few minutes to react. The woman offered him a drink, but he didn't want anything. Well, you already know the other girls, none of them will disappoint you. Or do you only like chocolate? Leandro wasn't ready for her jokes. He scratched his head for a second and dared to ask, is something wrong with Valentina? What happened?

She wasn't right here, black girls don't know how to be in places like this. I'm not saying it to be racist, it's just the plain truth.

After several questions that only got half answered, Leandro managed to find out what happened. It seems that the day before, it must have been five in the morning, one of her last clients of the night had gotten into bed with Osembe. When the guy left, he couldn't find his car. A Mercedes, to top it all off, said Mari Luz. It wasn't parked where he left it and when he stuck his hand in his pocket he couldn't find the keys, either, so it wasn't too hard to connect the dots. He came back to the chalet, and made quite a scene, that the black girl must have taken his keys, and I don't know what else. We had to get serious with him. Leandro thought it was her way of saying they called in the guy who watched over the place, the same one he had seen that afternoon at the garage gate.

Of course Valentina had already disappeared. I'm sure she took advantage of the guy being distracted and threw someone the keys through the window, down to the street, piece of cake. The madam continued explaining undramatically. The man got aggressive and I had to tell him, come on, if you want to go to the police, go ahead and quit bluffing. The only good thing about this business is that n.o.body wants to get the police involved. We all have too much to hide, right? What was that about the stone? Let he who is without sin throw the first one, right? So the man left, I felt bad for him, really, because I know the black girl robbed him, with some accomplice, who knows. The thing is she won't be back here, and it's for the best because that's one less problem for you. A thief around here is the worst thing you could have.

Leandro tried to get Mari Luz to give him a contact number, an address, something to find Osembe. Even if I had some phone number, I wouldn't give it to you, she told him. Take my advice, don't go looking for trouble, you've got plenty as it is. If you want to have some fun, you got plenty to choose from here, there are new girls you haven't even met. Sit down, have a drink. Why get obsessed with one when the world is full of pretty girls?

When Leandro began to insist, you must have something, a phone number, a last name, I don't think it's so hard, the madam ended his visit. Look, forget about it, that girl's no good, getting rid of her was the best thing that could have happened to us. And as she spoke she pushed him toward the door, as if Leandro were an annoying Sunday visitor. On the street, a woman pa.s.sed by, staring at him. Leandro thought he could see her wagging her head, as if she were judging him.

Why did he want to see Osembe again? What was it about her? Was there something about her he hadn't yet got his fill of? He knew very little about her. He remembered that she had once mentioned she lived in Mostoles, near Coimbra Park, but to Leandro that sounded like a foreign land, a new city.

On a long walk with his friend Almendros, he dared to ask, don't you have a son in Mostoles? No, in Leganes, he said, but it's pretty much the same thing, why? It's my son, lied Leandro, he's thinking about selling his apartment and moving someplace cheaper. He should think about it, he should really think about it. Yeah, I'll tell him.

The loudspeaker announces that the concert is about to begin and Leandro looks at the program in his hand. Two parts divided into a first half of pieces by Granados, his waltzes, and a second with Schumann's "Kreisleriana" and Schubert's "Musical Moments." Joaquin hadn't played for more than a year because of chronic tendinitis in his left wrist. It had been almost ten years since they'd seen him in person. The last time was after a performance of the symphonic orchestra where Joaquin played as the soloist in Mozart's Concerto no. 25. Leandro had envied his naturalness, the polish of his execution, although he had thought, I prefer Brendel. Then he felt somewhat ashamed of his judgment. They invited him to the c.o.c.ktail party afterward and Joaquin was friendly with him, as always. He asked for Leandro's phone number again, as he had done the last four times they saw each other, but he never called. He played in Madrid on two more occasions, but Leandro didn't go to the concerts.

Joaquin comes out on stage and applause accompanies his smiling wave and vigorous walk toward the instrument. He pushes back the tails of his coat and sits in front of the keyboard. There is the deepest silence, which he allows to build, broken only by the crunch of the wood or a woman's cough. Aurora looks at Leandro and smiles to see him concentrating. He plays the armrest of the chair and brushes Aurora's hand through her shawl. Joaquin places his fingers on the keys and the music rises up from his delicate left hand. He has his back to them, but Leandro can make out his profile. His hair is white and thick as ever. His straight back is a powerful presence that extends in perfect continuation of the piano. His feet are together, leaning forward on the tips of shiny shoes with gray heels.

When the music envelops the blond wood auditorium, Aurora closes her eyes. Leandro remembers the teenage friend he shared his life with on the streets, in their open houses. He doesn't really know why he remembers the afternoon when they shut themselves in, sitting beside his father's radio to listen to Horowitz play the "Funerailles" by Liszt and then trying to imitate the octaves with great swings of their arms. And on that same program "Patetica" by Tchaikovsky was played. They turned up the volume the way they always did when they were alone in the house. The music echoed loudly and could be heard from the street. By then they had both decided to become professional musicians and at barely fifteen they devoted themselves to it with enthusiasm and sn.o.bbery. Joaquin's eyes that afternoon were flooded with tears. It is G.o.d playing, he said grandiloquently.

That could be where the great distance between them lay. Leandro was incapable of such emotional exhibitionism. His friend spoke without fear in the midst of some sort of torrent, he let himself get carried away by what he was listening to, what he was playing. He had no problem with shouting, no, no, when a performer played a piece differently than how he felt it should be approached. Years before, their teacher, Don Alonso, would repeat to them, afternoon after afternoon, the same correction, no, no, emotion is not enough, intensity isn't enough, it has to go hand in hand with precision, precision. Forget about poetry, this is sweat and science. And yet when he noticed an excessively cold and technical way of playing he would repeat to them in German the now cla.s.sic quote by Beethoven that introduces "Missa Solemnis." Von Herzen, moge es wieder zu Herzen gehen Von Herzen, moge es wieder zu Herzen gehen, let that which flows from the heart reach your soul.

Joaquin's mistakes were huge mistakes, but hopeful ones. That was how the teacher defined them when someone asked. Leandro began to feel that a breach was opening up between them, the same abyss between someone who plays like the angels and someone who correctly interprets a score. The professors they studied with in the conservatory barely corrected Leandro. But they gave Joaquin torrential explanations to win him over with their critiques. They knew it was a challenge to guide such spectacular, extraordinary talent. Many times Leandro surprised himself by thinking, how unfair, I'm the one who struggled to play, the underdog, the one who fought not to give it up, and the success will go to him, as if it broke with some poetic sense of justice. For Joaquin life was easy, satisfying, comfortable. Soon Leandro got a job as a copyist and handed over his meager wages to his mother. Joaquin wasn't forced to do that.

He invited Leandro over to listen to Bach records, paid his way into concerts, bought him drinks in bars, included him in plans and outings that Leandro couldn't afford himself. Joaquin was the only one who allowed himself the brashness of getting up in the middle of a concert and walking out along the row of seated audience members as he muttered, I can stand it, but Beethoven can't. Then came Paris and the distance. Aurora's appearance that filled his orphaned free time. The slow shift of his friend becoming someone foreign. I'm more French now than the French, Joaquin would say to him when he returned to Madrid and mocked the pious provincialism of his hometown. I chose Paris, those born there don't have to work at it, but I do, I want to stop being what I was before I went there.

When his parents died, Joaquin's visits became more infrequent. He would ask Aurora, behind Leandro's back, if they needed anything, once his international success was already confirmed. In Austria they gave him the Hans von Bulow medal in the mid-sixties. Leandro never felt jealous, he was pleased to have shared in the rise of someone gifted, he was pleased by Joaquin's success, and he never thought it took anything away from him. Leandro defended Joaquin if in a conversation among musicians someone committed the typical injustice of discounting him, usually for being local. But he stopped writing him, stopped keeping him up-to-date on his life, and even though the countless ties that bound them wouldn't fade until many years later, in the sixties the gulf between them was so great that Leandro began to hide the fact that he knew him when his name came up. Often, like now, if he went to one of Joaquin's concerts it was at Aurora's insistence. He didn't have time to call you, you have to be the one to make the first step, don't mistake his lack of contact for a lack of affection. But the day came when Leandro realized he was just another audience member watching that man up on stage.

At one time, their hands had been placed together on the old Pleyel piano. The same piano Leandro bought from Joaquin's father to bring home when no one played it anymore. It pleases me for you to inherit it, the old man had told him. Joaquin's hands were still capable of moving through a score and extracting its pleasure for an auditorium full of people, they still had the const.i.tution and the strength, the fingertips reinforced with glue and Band-Aids. Leandro's hands had grown tame, in order to be the correct working instrument for an academy teacher. For years Leandro thought his friend believed he'd been wounded by the sting of failure, by the unfairness of art, and he struggled to show him that wasn't the case. Until one day he discovered his friend wasn't thinking about him, wasn't noticing him, wasn't suffering over him. What's more, he might have even forgotten that Leandro was a pianist, too. He didn't grasp, of course, that they shared the same profession.

At the intermission, Aurora wants a drink of water and Leandro goes toward the bar with her. The usher asks if everything is okay and in the vestibule a boy comes out to greet them. It is Luis, his former student. His last student. h.e.l.lo. The boy greets them both, not letting his gaze linger on Aurora's chair. Leandro had always been irritated by Luis's perfect image. He dressed tastefully, his manners were always correct, and he had a deliberate way of speaking. A couple of times, Leandro had warned him that music had to be accepted as something superior, not like an escort, but more like a G.o.ddess to be worshipped. But the boy always took refuge in his confessed lack of ambition. I already know I won't go far, but I want to play as well as I can. He was an applied student who progressed at his own pace. Leandro knew he wanted to finish college and not to make music his profession, so he wasn't surprised when he dropped the cla.s.ses. Are you enjoying the concert? the young man asks. Yes, yes, of course, replies Leandro. Very much, says Aurora. Okay, I'll see you later, says Luis before heading off.

Leandro hands Aurora the water and he quickly drinks a gla.s.s of wine. The sharp taste does him good, perks him up. The tone of surrounding conversations had risen, bit by bit, and now echoes in the hallway. Leandro wonders if Joaquin still has the peculiar habit of washing his hands with warm water during the intermission and lying down with his shoes off on the hard floor with his legs up on the seat of a chair at a perfect right angle. His wife would fix him a tea, which he would drink barely two sips of before returning to the stage. Aurora holds out the almost empty gla.s.s. Do you want more? No, no. Leandro quickly finishes the wine.

When both of their heads are at the same height, back in their places again, Aurora asks him, do you like Schumann, too? Who doesn't? What he is about to play now is masterful, but Schumann suffered a lot, from a very young age, a tortured soul as they'd say now. She nods as if she wished the cla.s.s would never end. Do you remember when we were dating, we saw that German movie about his life, Traumerei? Traumerei?

The second half of the concert is fast, goes by quickly. Joaquin plays the "Kreisleriana" barely using the pedal, combining the most unbridled, violent movements with odd ones, which he plays excruciatingly slowly. If someone coughs during one of them, they get a recriminating look. Soon drops of sweat start to slide down his forehead. For the first time, he uses a nearby towel. When he finishes, the audience, on their feet, demand another piece and he sits and plays solemnly, letting himself get tangled in the more disturbing harmonies of Fantasy and Fugue for Organ in G minor. The audience really gets into the somber atmosphere, letting themselves be transported. Serious things are always more valued, thinks Leandro, who finds the approach predictable. Yet everyone smiles as if it were a nod to levity when Joaquin chooses to close the performance with a Jerome Kern song whose swing borders on jazzy improvisation. The shift in mood leads to a boisterous send-off in which Joaquin offers several versions of the grateful nod of the head. Their applause has a metallic resonance. Leandro looks at Aurora, who also smiles as she claps with barely any strength.

When the audience begins to file out, Leandro lifts the brake on Aurora's chair. Are you going to say anything to him? she asks. No, no, Lorenzo is waiting for us at home. He doesn't care either way, let's go, you can't leave without going backstage and just saying hi. Leandro changes his expression and, somewhat nervous, looks around. When he finds the usher he asks, is this the way backstage? I don't know if you can, go over to that door. She points to an entrance flanked by two or three employees. Leandro doesn't feel like going through the filter, giving explanations. Luis comes over to them when the seats are almost empty. I wanted to ask you something, it seems like this semester isn't going to be too difficult and I'm thinking about taking lessons again and I don't know if you...

Leandro looks at the boy, who stops in the middle of his explanation. I don't know if I...Luis lifts his hands in a gesture similar to pleading, it could be whenever it's convenient for you, I don't want to do that many hours, I'd rather finish my degree...Leandro looks at the boy. There is a blond girl waiting for him. She is pretty, she belongs to a new generation of girls, like his granddaughter, who have nothing in common with the serene women of his adolescent years, the silent land of bowed heads. The girl, as she waits, runs a finger over the fabric on the back of a seat. Okay, call me and we'll see. The boy beams and before leaving he bends over Aurora's chair to say warmly, a pleasure to see you again. Leandro watches him go back over to the girl and put his arm around her hips. Aurora always knew how to win over Leandro's few students who came to the house. She'd open the door for them, lead them to the room, offer them something to drink, and, often, before saying good-bye again at the door, once cla.s.s was over, she would say confidentially, he's not as much of an ogre as he seems. The money would come in handy, was the only thing Leandro said to Aurora as he watched them head off.

The woman guarding the entrance to the dressing rooms asks for his name when Leandro requests permission to say hi to Joaquin. She is a little while in returning and when she does she gestures for him to enter. Leandro goes to push the wheelchair, but the woman says, the chair, too? There are stairs...You go ahead, says Aurora quickly. Leandro wants to protest, but Aurora insists. I can wait here, right? she asks the woman. If he isn't too long...

Leandro goes down the stairs to a lit hallway. He can hear voices and laughter. Leandro isn't in any hurry to reach the dressing room. When he sees him, Joaquin leaves the group circled around him and walks over to Leandro. Well, what a surprise, I didn't have time to call you, I just got in yesterday and I can never find your number. He gives Leandro a big hug, engulfing him in his arms. He has splashed water on his thick, snow-white hair and taken off his jacket. He turns toward his wife, twenty years younger, thin, with very pale skin, blue eyes, you remember Leandro, Jacqueline? She greets him with her fragile hand extended, of course, of course.

Joaquin is cordial. He asks about Aurora and Leandro explains that she's not in very good health. He doesn't want to tell him that she is waiting upstairs, stuck in a wheelchair. He finds Jacqueline's aged, with a certain strain she didn't have before, as if she is holding on tight to her beauty as it slips away. She wasn't prepared to stop being a radiant statue, and the surgical machinations on her face were disastrous. Leandro doesn't want to prolong his visit. Joaquin holds him by the elbow and takes part in another conversation while he turns toward Leandro and unleashes a barrage of rhetorical questions, your son doing well? And your granddaughter? How are you handling getting old, I can't stand it, Madrid is unrecognizable, when they finish all the construction it's going to look like some other city, they'll have to rebuild it again, Jacqueline wants us to buy a house in Majorca now, she fell in love with the island, how long has it been since we've seen each other? You're so lucky to be retired, I can't...

When Leandro insists on saying good-bye, Joaquin brings his face to his friend's ear. I'm going to be in Madrid for three days giving a master cla.s.s for the foundation of I don't know which bank, why don't you call me and we can have a coffee. Jacqueline, give our cell phone number to Leandro, I want to talk to you about something, call me. Jacqueline hands him a business card with a number written on the back. I have the mornings free, is the last thing Joaquin tells him. Before Leandro leaves the dressing room, he has already turned around to merge effusively with the elbow of some other acquaintance. He liked to touch elbows, avoid having hands touch his. He protected those hands from any contact, using them only to gesture, raising them to the height of his eyes, as if he were conceding them the same relevance as his lively and intelligent clear gaze.

In the taxi on the way home, Leandro is curious about why exactly Joaquin wanted to see him. Maybe it was just another formality. Aurora seems tired but happy. He's the same as ever, was all she had said about Joaquin. And it was true. Joaquin even still wore those shirts with his initials sewn above the pocket. Leandro had always considered that a detail somewhat inappropriate to an elegant person, no matter how necessary it might be when traveling so much and not trusting dry cleaners. He knew Joaquin, ever since he was young, liked to brag that the initials of his full name, Joaquin Satrustegui Bausan, JSB, were the same as Johann Sebastian Bach's. He's the only person I wouldn't mind switching shirts with, he had said to Leandro years earlier, the first time he had made a comment about the monogrammed shirts. That was when he still traveled to Spain with his first wife, a German journalist he divorced when he met Jacqueline. Without really understanding why, Leandro suddenly thought of the different initials with which Bach ended all his compositions. SDG. It wasn't a personal stamp, but rather a fit of Christian modesty. Joaquin, on the other hand, didn't share that virtue. It was a Latin phrase, Soli Deo Gloria Soli Deo Gloria, something like Glory Only to G.o.d. Unlike so many who dream of having all the glory for themselves. Leandro erases the cruel thought before getting out of the taxi and ringing the intercom for Lorenzo. We're here.

7.

Lorenzo looks at his friends, who feel scrutinized. He does so brazenly, searching out their eyes. Challenging them. None of the four meet his gaze. Lorenzo thought of it right when he arrived. If I stare at them, they won't dare stare at Daniela. They are six in the dining room of oscar's house. The extendible table is covered by a white tablecloth striped with colors. On the wall are three engravings with wooden frames. They used to live in a tiny apartment near the Retiro. Taking advantage of the market increases, they managed to sell it at a good price and move into a recently built building in Ventas. They have a communal garden area and pool. Fifteen years ago, we bought the apartment for twelve million and we sold it for sixty. How is that possible? asks Daniela. Ana stops to clarify that they are talking about pesetas and then tells her about the factors that cause sales to increase. n.o.body rents here, the banks love people with debts, explains Lalo, more cynically. That's how they control us.

In the middle of the week, oscar had called Lorenzo to invite him over for dinner. So you can see the new apartment now that it's finished. Lorenzo didn't think too long before saying, can I bring someone? They joked for a while about women, but Lorenzo didn't give him any details about Daniela. He only said, I'm like a teenager in love. Daniela, on the other hand, was reluctant to go. They're your friends, they're going to think it's strange that you're with someone like me. Hey, come on, don't invent stupid stories, they're great people, you'll see. On the way to oscar's house, Lorenzo told her they had met years ago, at college, and that oscar and his wife, Ana, didn't have any children even though they'd been together for years. Lalo is my oldest friend, we went to elementary school together, he knows my parents. You'll see, we are nothing alike. Marta, his wife, is a child psychologist and they have a nine-year-old son.

When Ana opened the door and saw Lorenzo with Daniela, she smiled radiantly. He introduced them. Welcome, said Ana, and then she seemed embarra.s.sed when Lorenzo explained that Daniela had already been living in Spain for almost three years. Lorenzo wanted to make clear he wasn't going to tolerate any special treatment of Daniela. When Marta vaguely asked Daniela during dinner, how are things going, he felt forced to interrupt, don't expect one of those tragic stories you hear on the news, Daniela shares an apartment with some friends and has a great job. I can't complain, she added. What do you do? asked Lalo. I take care of an eight-month-old boy, and before Marta or Lalo could add anything, Lorenzo was already explaining that Daniela worked in the apartment above his.

Lorenzo's friends went to great lengths to be tactful. They didn't hound Daniela with questions and even less so when they saw that Lorenzo was on the defensive. They joked about the food and about a couple of news items that were perfect for an inane conversation. In sporadic questions, someone asked Daniela about her family, her hometown, and if she missed her country. To Lorenzo's satisfaction, his friends seemed tenser than Daniela. When Lalo asked her if she was planning on visiting her country soon, Lorenzo felt the need to explain, she can't, she still doesn't have papers.

It's a strange feeling, described Daniela, like being in a cage with the doors open, and I don't dare leave. I'd love to see my mama, but I don't know if I'd be able to come back in.

Well, it seems like there's going to be a legalization, said oscar. You think so? corrected Ana, I think people want them to keep working without papers, they're cheaper that way.

Lorenzo keeps his gaze fixed on his friends. Daniela isn't inhibited. After a somewhat shy start, she dares to ask Marta about her job as a child psychologist. She had worn some stretch jeans that were tight around her powerful thighs. Lorenzo places his hand delicately on the right one. She lowers her hand and caresses his, but doesn't linger. She puts hers back on the table and he pulls away. She is wearing an orange T-shirt glued to her body that stands out vibrantly amid the more discreet decoration. Daniela doesn't taste the wine even though Lalo keeps insisting, it's a wonderful Priorato. No, no, I don't drink alcohol. Lorenzo, on the other hand, refills his gla.s.s.

oscar and Ana seem thrilled with their new house. They have more s.p.a.ce. Lorenzo tells them that Sylvia has a boyfriend, the other day she brought him by for lunch. He seems like a really nice kid. But, of course, imagine the scene. It's incredible, explains Marta in a professional tone, now all s.e.xual behaviors have accelerated, kids have to put up with tremendous pressure, we have cases of twelve-year-old girls and boys with an addiction to p.o.r.nography, and then there's the media, which forces them to feel s.e.xually active. Their lives have been sped up. It's a social thing. What a shame, comments Daniela in a very soft voice. No one contradicts her.

I called Pilar to tell her the news. It bugged her to find out from me something so personal to Sylvia. Well, then she shouldn't have abandoned you guys, interrupts Daniela. She spit out the sentence with a contained aggressiveness that surprises everyone. It is followed by a thick silence. Lorenzo tells them about Pilar. She's fine, well, you know, she loves Saragossa. Do you have more family here? asks oscar in an attempt to redirect the conversation toward Daniela. Yes, a sister, she came over before me, but we hardly see each other, she lives near Castellon. I don't think highly of the life she leads.

No one digs any deeper; they all retract when they sense how harsh Daniela's judgments are. The conversation turns away from her and Lorenzo announces that they'll be leaving early. He goes to the bathroom. He is a bit tipsy and his hemorrhoids have been bothering him for days. He can't take sitting so long. He sensed the awkwardness of the situation, as if Daniela had to pa.s.s an exam. Angry, he pees outside of the bowl, staining everything around it. Then he's embarra.s.sed and tries to clean it up with wads of toilet paper that he scrubs along the floor before leaving it sticky and dirty.

They stand up and start their good-byes, the pleased-to-meet-yous, the when-will-we-see-you-agains, the I'll-call-yous. In the elevator, which still smells new, Lorenzo and Daniela are silent until she says, they didn't like me.

You don't like being liked, replies Lorenzo with a smile. She thinks it over.

Lorenzo resists taking her home when they get in the van. It's still early, you must know someplace where we can have a drink. Daniela gives in, she tells him there's salsa every Sat.u.r.day night at a place her friends go to. Lorenzo starts the car and heads toward the neighborhood. It's a place on Calle Fundadores. The traffic is dense at that hour, the Sat.u.r.day night traffic jam. He has to drive around the area several times before finding a parking spot on the sidewalk.

The place is called Seseribo. In Quito there is a salsa place with the same name, Daniela explains. Seseribo is a beautiful G.o.d that no one can touch-whoever touches him dies. It seems an Indian fell in love with him and dared to touch him. He died that very instant. They made a drum with the Indian's skin and from it they say music was born. Lorenzo nods while he walks, what a lovely legend.

At the door are two muscular mulattos watching over the street as if it were enemy territory. There are some men nearby hanging around the entrance; it's not clear whether they just came out of the place or if they weren't let in. Lorenzo and Daniela get to the door and the men step aside. He has to pay; she gets in free. In the doorway, one of the guys pats Lorenzo down quickly, from the armpits to the ankles. I don't know if you're going to like it, but this is where we come sometimes, says Daniela while they go down toward the magma of music, smoke, and bodies in motion.

There is barely any s.p.a.ce, but Lorenzo and Daniela manage to make their way toward the bar on one side. The music is deafening. Vocals rise over a drum machine, a cry of love betrayed. The chorus is repet.i.tive. The couples dance, sometimes without their hands touching, but with their thighs, knees, the folds of their bodies in contact. The men put one hand at the base of the women's spines to pull their bodies closer together. Is it like this in Ecuador? And she nods above the noise.

Daniela drinks a bottled juice in a tall gla.s.s with ice. Lorenzo orders a beer. Domestic? The waiter asks him. Lorenzo shrugs. Club Verde, Club Cafe, or Brahma. Club Verde, he says finally. He isn't the only Spaniard there, as he had thought when he first came in. He is comforted to see a few dancing and a couple near the main bar. Lorenzo tries to talk to Daniela, and to make himself understood he has to bring his mouth so close to her ear that it brushes her hoop earrings. He doesn't say anything important, just something like, this place is a sauna. Then he begins to follow the rhythm of the nonstop music. For him it's all just salsa, although he listens to Daniela explain with each song, this is a bachata bachata, a c.u.mbia c.u.mbia, a vallenato vallenato, or just a merengue. It doesn't make sense to be there and not dance, and Lorenzo leads Daniela to the dance floor.

He is surprised that she doesn't object. In fact, she quickly lets the movement of her shoulders get in time with the movement of her hips and knees and allows the music to take hold of her. She lifts her arms in the air and spins around. Lorenzo feels stiff compared to her and tries to wave his arms and wag his hips. He can't get past feeling ridiculous until he grabs hold of Daniela's waist. She runs her hand through her hair and keeps the rhythm.

There is a presenter with a microphone on the other side of the dance floor. He cheers on the dancers, let yourselves go, multiplying the s s's in the word until it is coiled like a snake around a tree branch. Most of the women wear tight clothes and most of the men unb.u.t.toned shirts.

Lorenzo can now feel Daniela's b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his body. Her thighs mark the sway of both of their bodies. Lorenzo wants to kiss Daniela, but their faces aren't close. Then he has to put his energy into hiding his uncomfortable erection, shrinking his groin back when she brushes it with her hips. Stopping in the middle of the swaying would be like shouting in a place of silent worship. He is pleased Daniela isn't rejecting his proximity or advances, although Lorenzo's hands have been fixed on her hips for quite a while.

He remembers the last time he danced was at the wedding of some friends, with Pilar. And it was more a mockery of dancing itself. She didn't like to dance and neither did he, though they listened to music often. His friend Paco used to say that dancing was the orgy of the poor, but he said it with the same cla.s.sist disdain as when he stated that making love was for the working cla.s.s and he preferred getting sucked off. f.u.c.king is work; getting blown, a luxury. Living with a woman is a sentence; seducing her, a hobby. Having a cell phone is great if you're the boss and a kick in the b.a.l.l.s if you're an employee. Our point of gravity isn't in our brains, it's in our c.o.c.ks. Those were typical Paco phrases, his way of speaking. Categorical and sarcastic. He used to say, kick a stray dog and he'll come back for more. And Lorenzo always secretly felt that particular phrase referred to him, to their friendship.

But why is he thinking about him now? Or about Pilar? Yes, he feels they would both scorn this ridiculous image of him, they would mock his sweat and his dance partner. Stray dogs think a kick is a caress, that's what Paco would say about his relationship with Daniela. Like the voice of a cynical, provocative subconscious whispering, why don't you dare tell her the truth, that you just want to f.u.c.k her. Maybe neither of them, Paco with his warm disdain and Pilar with her cold demands, would be able to understand that I feel happy right now.

Let's leave, says Daniela. Lorenzo pulls away from her and lets her lead him to the exit. The stairs are filled with people, too. They're in the mood to party, she says. They leave the trancelike atmosphere behind as the cold of the street hits their sweaty bodies. They don't say anything and head toward the van.

I had a really good time, it's been a while since I went dancing, Daniela says when they get to her door. Lorenzo stops her before she gets out, holding her gently by the wrist. Let me come up and sleep with you. Daniela lifts her face toward him, without smiling. The expression in her eyes isn't serious, but rather indulgent. Not tonight. She hops out of the van and before closing the door asks, will I see you tomorrow? If you want to, he replies. Daniela nods, I do, and runs to the door. From inside she waves good-bye to Lorenzo. Not tonight, he thinks, the words resounding like just a postponement of inevitable victory.

He drives home slowly. It's not hard to find a parking spot. The streets of his neighborhood are asleep. There are barely any open after-hours bars or shady spots with cheap neon. The next morning, he would go to Ma.s.s and settle down next to Daniela, listening to them sing, but he would be thinking about her movements as they danced, the l.u.s.t unleashed from her hips.

At home he peeks into Sylvia's room and sees her sleeping facedown, hugging the pillow, her clothes a mess. Lately he finds her so adult, too grown-up for her age. That makes him sad. He wishes he could protect her forever, but she is headed far away, where he won't be able to follow. In bed he makes a valiant attempt to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e, but he can't, and after fifteen minutes he gives up on his half-erect c.o.c.k, red from the furious friction, and sleeps with his mouth dry and a dense smell of cigarette smoke in his hair and on his face and hands.

8.

Ariel hears Sylvia paying the pizza delivery guy. The kid glances around behind her back and, seeing the apartment empty, asks innocently, are you a squatter or just allergic to furniture? Sylvia laughs. He is Colombian. A little bit of both, she answers. Sylvia reappears in the living room and Ariel asks her, what did he say? She tells him. She brings over the cans of beer in a plastic bag. Your dinner, Mr. Apartment Owner. And she gives him the change. They even gave us napkins, how thoughtful. They sat on the floor, the wood creaking at their every movement. The house speaks, she said when she first came in.

Ariel had had the keys for a week, but he hadn't come to see the apartment with Sylvia until today. From the terrace, they watched a violet sunset behind the buildings. Spectacular sky, he said. This morning it rained, she explained, and when it rains the twilights in Madrid are clean. Ariel held her by the waist and kissed her on the lips. I thought you were never going to bring me here, Sylvia said, gesturing around the apartment. This week we barely saw each other. Sylvia dropped down into one corner of the terrace. She looked out onto the street. That was when he suggested ordering a pizza and having dinner right there.

Ariel was slow to bring her to the apartment on purpose. Wait until they decorate it, they recommended someone who did the places of several guys on the team, he told her a few days ago. Typical, you buy an apartment and you have it decorated by some sn.o.bby b.i.t.c.h who specializes in soccer players' houses. But Ariel didn't want Sylvia to think of his buying the apartment as a commitment between them. He knew it was unfair, but it was one way to avoid misunderstandings.

Last weekend he was glad to be playing out of town, to travel to Valencia. He scored the tying goal against the local team and that gave them the push they needed to win the game in the last few minutes. Ariel didn't celebrate the goal by chewing on a lock of hair, and he didn't find a message from Sylvia on his cell phone when the match was over. They gave them the night off in the city and he went out with his teammates. They ate paella in the private room of a restaurant on the beach and then they were taken to a well-known nightclub. There they sat in a private booth that looked out over the full dance floor, but where no one could bother them. The owner of the place offered them girls, but Amilcar warned his closest buddies, be careful, they record everything here. If you want wh.o.r.es, take them to the hotel with you.

In spite of the warnings, ten minutes later the private room was filled with dissonant laughter. The girls divided up into groups. They are really nice, said the owner, making it clear that they weren't professionals. Ariel talked to one who said her name was Mamen and after a very brief conversation about nothing she let drop, you know what? I'm having an awesome time. Her only worry seemed to be maintaining her blond curl behind her ear and showing off her excessive, uniform tan. I thought Argentinians were more talkative, she said at some point. He smiled. Only with our a.n.a.lysts. When you come from a small country, you must flip over how superpa.s.sionate we are about soccer here, right? Ariel felt himself shiver. Amilcar rescued him with a trip to the bathroom. There the right fullback was finishing taking a p.i.s.s. How's yours? he asked. Too stupid, answered Ariel. Stupid girls turn me on, you're not into them?

Look, for me to f.u.c.k one of these s.l.u.ts I'd have to be incredibly drunk, said Amilcar. Well, your wife is lovely, answered Ariel. That's what you need to do. Find a decent girl who keeps you on a short leash. Now with the money we make you're always gonna have one flitting around, but it's a waste of time. I've been playing fifteen years, if I didn't have the life I've had I'd be in jail somewhere, or retired.

When he went back to the private room, Ariel was glad the girl was talking to some other teammate. Some of them had gone downstairs to dance reggaeton. He sat next to Amilcar and they made sarcastic cracks about their teammates. One of them had been caught by his wife in bed with the nanny. She threw him out of the house.

The next day, they went back by train, most of them dozing, hung over. At the station's exit was a group of people waiting to ask for autographs. It took them almost half an hour to get onto the bus. On the way to the stadium, Ariel looked at the line on a Sunday morning in front of the Prado. I've been in Madrid six months and I still haven't visited the museum, he said to himself. He decided to do it that same week.

He spent the evening at home. Husky stopped by. They watched the last game of the day on television. Husky put on the radio while they watched it on mute. I used to work on the radio, rebroadcasting games. But with this voice, s.h.i.t, people called in to complain all the time, get rid of that guy who lost his voice. I still think I could have been successful, the Tom Waits of sports newscasting, but the plebs like a commentator to sing out the goals with a trill. I say the plebs because my boss at the station always called the listeners that, the guy used to say to us, now pa.s.s me another call from the plebs, or, the plebs are gonna love this bit, we owe it to the plebs, we can't let the plebs down, the plebs want entertainment.

After the Argentinian league game, Ariel took Husky into the city. It made you all nostalgic, Husky said, seeing him so quiet, you shouldn't watch games from your country. The truth is sometimes I wonder what the h.e.l.l I'm doing here. Money, man, making a lot of money, isn't that enough? More money than you could even imagine when you were a pibito pibito in Rio de la Plata. Ariel is amused by the ludicrous Argentinian accent Husky puts on. in Rio de la Plata. Ariel is amused by the ludicrous Argentinian accent Husky puts on.

Turn, turn down this street, wait till you see. Ariel obeyed and drove alongside a sidewalk filled with North African women in lingerie offering themselves up. Go slower, I can't get a good look at them, said Husky. Incredible, right? Some of the women approached the car or gestured at them; the more daring ones went out to meet them and stood in front of the headlights. Stop, stop, shouted Husky, that one is gorgeous. No way, you're s.h.i.tting me. Dude, they'll give us a quick b.l.o.w.j.o.b for twenty euros. Ariel started to think that he wasn't kidding around.

Most of the girls wore impossibly high heels that clacked against the asphalt. Your disdain for hookers can only mean one thing, said Husky when they had already left the area, that you're in love. What are you talking about, said Ariel evasively. You're in a strange moment of a man's life when his heart has more say than his c.o.c.k, I don't think it's ever happened to me. How is it? Is it nice? Ariel smiled at Husky's jokes. You f.u.c.king idiot, shut up for once.

On the way home, Ariel remembered that it had also been a Sunday, driving alone through the city, when he ran over Sylvia. He convinced himself he'd be able to resist calling Sylvia for a few days, letting their relationship cool off until she realized herself that it was impossible. She's strong, he told himself, she'll understand.

On Monday Arturo Caspe called to drag him to a dinner, they're giving out awards from some magazine, they need famous people. They sat him at a table with a successful writer and a television host who was trying to seduce a young model. The girl smiled, amused, and shot "save me" looks at Ariel. He played the role of shy and silent. He presented a prize to a tall swimmer whom he enjoyed chatting with for a while afterward. When the dinner was over, he went out with Caspe and his group, mostly actors and television people. They went into a bar behind Callao and met up with the young model there again. They were leaning against the bar. She was nice and smoked incessantly. Her name was Reyes. Ariel took it up a notch. The girl knew Buenos Aires and had friends there. Ariel asked her if she wanted to go somewhere quieter, just you and me. She smiled, exhaling cigarette smoke and told him, you're not going to believe this, but I have a boyfriend I really like and I don't want to go around cheating on him, not even with guys like you, with really cute beauty marks like that. Ariel accepted defeat, they joked around for a minute, and then she left him alone to ponder his failure with a drink before saying good-bye to Caspe's group. He was in a bad mood, embarra.s.sed to have been turned down. It was an appropriate response to his clumsiness and inelegance. Ariel thought about his inability to reach any other kind of girl besides nocturnal predators. Sylvia might have been the only normal girl he'd come in contact with since he arrived in Madrid.

On Wednesday they played a Champions' League game. And even though it was in Madrid, the coach chose to have them spend the night before in a hotel. It was the first game of the qualifying rounds and the German team had a lot of experience in the compet.i.tion. On Monday he didn't call Sylvia, or on Tuesday. On Wednesday she sent him a message, "good luck tonight." What she didn't say was more telling than what she did, as was usually the case. "Thanks, I've been really busy, I'll call you," he replied.

Ariel played badly. It was nearly impossible for him to break through the German defenders. They played behind the ball, leaving very little s.p.a.ce to work between the lines, convinced that a scoreless tie was an excellent result for an away game. A dry cold had settled over the field, I wouldn't be surprised if it snowed, said a veteran when their bus arrived at the stadium. They took Ariel out when there were still twenty minutes left and the stadium whistled as he trotted to the touchline. Good luck, he whispered to the player replacing him. But he didn't have any. The Germans packed their goal area, allowing them to counter with a fast attacker, who overwhelmed the only center back left in a defensive position and scored a goal before Ariel's team had time to react.

Ariel got a hard blow to the knee near the end of the game. The next day he barely practiced. He lay down on a gurney and the top ma.s.seur on the team smeared the affected area with magic ointments. He rubbed him with hard hands. Ariel had always been treated by the ma.s.seur's a.s.sistants up until then, even though Amilcar always told him, don't let any of the young guys touch you, the old man is a wizard.

He talked a lot, but it was relaxing to listen to him. He had stories from every period. He had been with the club for almost thirty years, he was an inst.i.tution. In his youth he studied with a Galician ma.s.seur who made his own concoctions of herbs, oils, and roots. He still used some of them. Life treating you well? he asked Ariel suddenly. That's the most important thing, the game doesn't work if life's not working. Are you happy here? Have you adapted well? Does it hurt when I press here? He didn't seem to be expecting answers to his questions. You have good ankles, that's important, forwards' ankles take a lot of abuse. Have you ever calculated, for example, the number of kicks in the ankles you can get in a ten-year career? About twenty thousand. Now imagine you got them all at once, twenty thousand kicks in the ankles. A lot of trampoline work, that's what you have to do, but the man is scared you'll get injured jumping and the press would have a field day. Do you have a girl? Are you with a Spanish girl?

Bah, I don't know, evaded Ariel. There is somebody but we're giving it a rest, we're taking it slow.

Women are trouble. But you need someone who loves you, who can talk to you, help you bear the loneliness. It's strange, but when you have sixty thousand people watching you every evening, it's really easy to feel alone, ignored. s.h.i.t, it's like poison. You have to be strong. f.u.c.k, I've heard some stories here on this gurney, let me tell you. I've seen kids grow up and become men here and lose their way, too, there are plenty who lose their way and some of them from good stock. Those boos and whistles you got yesterday, they hurt, they cause damage, too, I can tell you that. Don't be afraid to admit it, that'd f.u.c.k anybody up, but that's the law. You gotta keep your head held high, defiantly, don't let it get you down now.

Yeah, it f.u.c.king hurts, yeah.

Look, this soccer stuff is like riding a train. You got a great seat by the window, all comfy, watching the landscape go by and you never get bored. Until you get to the station, they take you off, and put somebody else in your seat. It all goes real quick. Have you been to the bullfights yet? You have to go see the bulls. You can learn a lot about soccer there. It's just the same. We've had a number of Argentinians here. I don't remember their names, I'm not good with names. They ask me, what was so-and-so like? And I don't remember. Because I do my work here, but I don't deal with soccer players, I deal with people.

Ariel left with his knee loosened up by the ma.s.sage. He felt consoled, wrapped in the torrent of words. It had been a while since anyone had talked to him for such a long time, in that curt Spanish tone. He called Sylvia from the car, but she didn't answer. It was during school. I'm sure she's mad. If I left Spain right now, he thought, all I would have is the memory of her. Sylvia sitting on her side of the car, driving back into the city some night. That tired, clean smile.

He ate at Amilcar's house. He found the conversation in that filleted Portuguese-accented Spanish sweet, with the strong r r's and j's j's taken out. He told himself that Amilcar had been lucky to find Fernanda and he forced them to tell him how they met. He had called her insistently after getting her number from a friend, but she was resistant. I invited her out to dinner, to lunch, to the movies, to concerts, but she never wanted to come. I was about to throw in the towel, explained Amilcar. Until one day I called her and I said, listen, take my number down and let's just do it this way, I'm never going to call you again, but when you feel like it you can call me. I don't care if it's tomorrow, next month, next year, or thirty years from now, I swear I'll be waiting. It sounded nice, said Fernanda, interrupting him. I should have waited thirty years to see if it was true. Unfortunately, I called him a week later. A week. Can you believe it? I was going nuts, he admitted. She smiled flirtatiously. He tricked me, Fernanda said in her defense, like you all do, putting on your best face. He showed me his good side and then, boy, what it takes to find it again. Sometimes you even think you're with a different person, that they pulled the old switcheroo. taken out. He told himself that Amilcar had been lucky to find Fernanda and he forced them to tell him how they met. He had called her insistently after getting her number from a friend, but she was resistant. I invited her out to dinner, to lunch, to the movies, to concerts, but she never wanted to come. I was about to throw in the towel, explained Amilcar. Until one day I called her and I said, listen, take my number down and let's just do it this way, I'm never going to call you again, but when you feel like it you can call me. I don't care if it's tomorrow, next month, next year, or thirty years from now, I swear I'll be waiting. It sounded nice, said Fernanda, interrupting him. I should have waited thirty years to see if it was true. Unfortunately, I called him a week later. A week. Can you believe it? I was going nuts, he admitted. She smiled flirtatiously. He tricked me, Fernanda said in her defense, like you all do, putting on your best face. He showed me his good side and then, boy, what it takes to find it again. Sometimes you even think you're with a different person, that they pulled the old switcheroo.

That night, alone at home, amid music and movies, he couldn't concentrate. Ariel knew he would call Sylvia. He did it even though it was late and she answered with a sleepy voice. Tomorrow I'm going to the Prado. I have school, she answered. d.a.m.n. What's up, you turned into an intellectual since I saw you last? No, I haven't seen you in a while and I need to look at some art. The things you say always come out so pretty, she said without smiling.

Leaving practice the next day, he confessed to Osorio that he was going to the Prado. Where? You Argentinians are some big flaming f.a.ggots. Ariel laughed as he got into the car.

Ariel strolled aimlessly through the rooms of the museum. He spent a long time studying The Garden of Earthly Delights The Garden of Earthly Delights, by Bosch, at the end of the main corridor. Then he approached a school group to listen to the docent. The "faithful likeness" was the epitome of the portrait in that period. Most of the great painters worked on salary for their lords and had to make portraits of the n.o.bility and the ladies of the court with their best technique. But Velazquez went beyond that to give free rein to his incredible talent. For example, look at this portrait of the jester Pablo de Valladolid. He led the children to a nearby painting, Ariel following a few steps behind. Spanish art, in all its aspects, heard Ariel, stands out for its ability to depict the disabled, the crazy, the eccentric. The representation of a country based on its darkest, most disastrous side is a deeply Spanish invention.

In the Goya room, Ariel finally saw the originals of paintings he had seen so many times in reproduction. Saturn Devours His Son, Fight with Cudgels Saturn Devours His Son, Fight with Cudgels, and Dog Buried in Sand Dog Buried in Sand. Then he discovered a painting called Witches' Coven Witches' Coven and he spent a long time looking at it, as if it were a and he spent a long time looking at it, as if it were a Guernica Guernica painted more than a hundred years earlier. He doesn't know why, but it's similar to the way he sometimes sees the stands, it reminds him of the crowd. The group of students surround him again, accompanied by the guide's explanations, and now we arrive at the most accurate perspective on our country, nourished on Velazquez and El Greco, at the hands of the Aragonese painter Francisco de Goya. painted more than a hundred years earlier. He doesn't know why, but it's similar to the way he sometimes sees the stands, it reminds him of the crowd. The group of students surround him again, accompanied by the guide's explanations, and now we arrive at the most accurate perspective on our country, nourished on Velazquez and El Greco, at the hands of the Aragonese painter Francisco de Goya.

The students began to lose interest. A group of them noticed Ariel and encircled him with their notebooks open. There were students with pimples, others obese, some with their smiles and faces deformed by growth spurts. What are you doing here? Don't you have practice today? The teacher approached them and got them to disperse efficiently, but without clout. That's enough, can't you see this is a private place? When are you going to learn to respect people? I'm sorry. Ariel thanked him with a nod of the head. It's understandable, it's a bit absurd to run into a soccer player in a museum.

Ariel was about to ask if he could accompany them on the rest of their tour, but the henlike laughter of the kids grew and he decided to head off the other way. In front of the curls of Our Lady of Santa Cruz, before her naked white flesh, caressed by the light and transported to the canvas by desire, before her thighs outlined in marvelous harmony beneath the gauzy fabric, Ariel thought of Sylvia.

Suddenly there was a commotion. The kids seemed to be running wild. Ariel peeked into the adjacent room. One of the girls had fainted; several of the others were putting her on one of the benches. The teacher was repeating, give her room, give her room. A woman who identified herself as a doctor approached. Seeing that Ariel had taken an interest, a couple of boys came over to him. No, it's nothing, she's just anorexic.

When he left, he called Sylvia again. He made a date to pick her up three hours later near her house. Along the wide avenue, the slight wind pushed his hair back as he walked and seemed to be pleasantly caressing him. He had to avoid the gaze of people who recognized him because once you give one autograph you have to give more. The first one was essential to avoiding the rest.

He bought the Argentinian newspaper Clarin Clarin at a stand near Cibeles. He went up to a restaurant near the Retiro and ate alone at his table. A young Argentinian player on an English team had been robbed at his house in a posh London neighborhood at gunpoint, and they had threatened his family. A cartoonist referred to it in a strip: "Can you believe I come all this way for this...when in my own country the robbers are first-rate." Ariel smiled. Then he read the depressing op-eds about the state of the country. When he went to pay, they refused to charge him, it's on the house, it's an honor, come back whenever you like. He walked back to the parking garage. He reclined the seat and in the darkness tried to take a short nap with the music playing softly. at a stand near Cibeles. He went up to a restaurant near the Retiro and ate alone at his table. A young Argentinian player on an English team had been robbed at his house in a posh London neighborhood at gunpoint, and they had threatened his family. A cartoonist referred to it in a strip: "Can you believe I come all this way for this...when in my own country the robbers are first-rate." Ariel smiled. Then he read the depressing op-eds about the state of the country. When he went to pay, they refused to charge him, it's on the house, it's an honor, come back whenever you like. He walked back to the parking garage. He reclined the seat and in the darkness tried to take a short nap with the music playing softly.

He picked up Sylvia at the spot they had agreed on. At first it was a bit chilly between them, and they didn't greet each other with a kiss. My father could come out at any minute. She smiled and he started the car. They talked for a while about his trip to the museum. He told her about the girl fainting. Sylvia shrugged, at school Mai and I always go to the boys' bathroom because the girls' is full of vomit, there are a ton of anorexics and bulimics, it's a plague. Ariel drives aimlessly. I think we've been past this street already, she said. Where do you want to go? asked Ariel. That was when he suggested going to the apartment. She hid any trace of enthusiasm. The traffic was slow and dense at that hour.

Even though it was cold and the wood floor doubled the freezing atmosphere of the empty house, Sylvia's bare skin was scalding hot. She undressed messily. Her curls brushed Ariel's chest. They made love among the coats and other clothes piled up. It was like baptizing the new house. Their naked legs intertwined. Sylvia puts on his sweater. Now they embrace and the lack of a home around them doesn't seem to matter much. They've created their own nest. In a little while, they'll feel the cold again.

9.