Learning To Lose Part 14

The snow falls without sticking along the promenade beside the river. The clock on the enormous building on the opposite sh.o.r.e marks almost five. Sylvia can make out the slanted roof of a small building, almost like a Tyrolean house. Ariel has just laced his fingers through hers. Yesterday you were wearing gloves, Sylvia says. You looked funny, with your wool gloves, like a little old lady. It was incredibly cold. Halfway through the game, Ariel took them off and threw them to the bench, remembering something Dragon used to say when they were kids, a cat with gloves catches no mice.

Sylvia had come to Munich the evening before. She took a taxi to the InterContinental Hotel and at the desk they handed her the key to the double room. An employee insisted on taking up her tiny travel bag and she found herself forced to share the elevator with him. He rewarded her with a friendly smile for having broken the record for lightest luggage in the history of the hotel. She tried to hide her nervousness beneath an indifferent face. She didn't tip the porter, who was slow in leaving, showing her the obvious working mechanisms of the room. Next he's going to show me how to flick the light switch, thought Sylvia. The room was well lit, lined with wood, with a double bed with two feather comforters, one for each half. The Germans had solved the problem of couples stealing the covers from each other at night. She took a long hot bath, with her headphones on, wrapped in steam, her eyes closed. Ariel called to see if everything had gone well. She gave him the room number. Five-twelve. I'll wait for you here, I'm not going out. Where are you? In the bus, on the way to the stadium.

Sylvia watched the game on television. Ariel seemed contaminated by the cold until well into the play. Sylvia, lying on the bed, watched him. She ordered a sandwich during halftime. The waiter who brought it to her room delivered it with some brochures that suggested a raft trip down the Isar River. He explained something to her in English. She said, isn't it too cold? and he explained, there'll be beer and bratwurst.

She called her father. She had already told him she wouldn't be sleeping at home that night. Are you watching the game? Yes, he said. And how are they doing? Scoreless, but if we push it we'll beat them. Sylvia, from what she had seen, found that a pretty optimistic report. Good luck, said Sylvia before saying good-bye.

Ariel had taken care of everything. The electronic ticket in her name at the airport, the hotel reservation. If you want I can send a driver to pick you up with a sign that has your name on it. I'd rather take a taxi. The official version she gave her father was that she was staying at Mai's house to study for an important test. No boyfriends? No, no, I just don't feel like coming home so late, that's all. Mai, on the other hand, had demanded more explanations than her father.

It was the Germans who pushed it in the second half. They crashed a ball so hard into the goal's crossbeam that it looked like it was going to break. In five minutes they shot seven corner kicks into the penalty area. In one of their rebounds, the ball was sent over to Ariel, the target as the only forward. He set off racing; his long run didn't end when the first fullback hit the ground trying to knock the ball off Ariel's foot, since Ariel was able to get around him. Sylvia hugged the pillow tightly. Come on, she shouted, keeping her voice down so she wouldn't alarm the neighboring rooms. Come on, come on. The ball got a bit ahead of Ariel in the dribble, which encouraged the goalie to come out of his box. But Ariel was faster and managed to get the ball just out of the keeper's reach. The goalie didn't hesitate, he knocked Ariel down brutally hard, sending his entire body into his standing leg. Ariel plunged almost into a somersault before hitting the field. Sylvia chewed a lock of hair between her lips.

The goalkeeper was expelled from the game before Ariel recovered from the blow. He looked like he was in pain. Now they're gonna take him to the hospital with a broken leg and I'm gonna be alone in this hotel room in Munich. It's ridiculous, thought Sylvia. But Ariel got up and was still readjusting his socks when a teammate sent the foul shot right into the genitals of a German player who was part of the wall. The game was interrupted again. The Spanish commentator was insisting that the player had gotten a very hard blow to the knee, as the guy twisted on the ground, his hands clamped over his groin. Sylvia would later say to Ariel, if that had been you, you'd have a bag of ice over your b.a.l.l.s right now, for sure.

No one managed to score, but Ariel's run was replayed several times and ended up being the play of the game. Although n.o.body managed to shift the balance of the score in their favor, he had stopped the German a.s.sault cold. A psychological blow, said the commentators.

Sylvia found a channel with music videos where women danced pseudo-erotically, showing PG-friendly parts of their perfect anatomy and performing superficial versions of s.e.x acts. She dozed off. The room was hot. How should I receive him? How much longer is he going to be? She had put on the white hotel bathrobe. She was naked underneath, her hair still damp from the bath. She thought about getting dressed, but she didn't do it.

Ariel showed up almost two hours later. He had left the team on the bus, on their way to the airport. He had permission from the sports director and the coach. I have family in Munich, I'd like to spend the day off with them. Would you like to hang out a day in Munich? he had asked Sylvia a few days earlier. Then he explained his plan. I was there once, it's almost like something out of a fairy tale. I played there with the under-seventeens.

They embraced, undressed, made love. Ariel ordered some dinner and the best champagne they had. By the third gla.s.s of Veuve Clicquot they were smiling and relaxed. We've got to finish it, he said. They were sitting on the bed. Sylvia's head resting on his belly. He stroked her hair. She had her arm around his bended knee. Were you faking it? What? Were you faking it when you were twisting in pain on the field after the foul the goalie made on you? Well, I had to get the referee to kick him out of the game. You're good at faking, I was worried for a little while.

Before falling asleep, they made love slowly. They stretched out each moment as if they didn't want them to end. Afterward they slept in each other's arms on one edge of the bed, relaxed for the first time, with the whole night ahead of them. They were awakened by the bustling of the cleaning woman in the hallway and the murmur of the elevator. They looked at each other to find something they had never seen. Morning faces, waking up with the eyes of a child. They had breakfast from two abundant trays that made them feel fortunate. Sylvia read him the sentence from the Suddeutsche Zeitung that mentioned Ariel. "Die Spurts des argentinischen Linksfusses waren elektrisierend, er war zweifellos der inspirierteste Sturmer der Gastmannschaft "Die Spurts des argentinischen Linksfusses waren elektrisierend, er war zweifellos der inspirierteste Sturmer der Gastmannschaft."* Her German was pathetic and they both joked about the words. What did it mean? Her German was pathetic and they both joked about the words. What did it mean? Elektrisierend Elektrisierend, it sounds good. Then Sylvia said, I have an idea, do you feel like going on a raft?

They started the journey at the pier where the hotel minivan dropped them off. They had paid for the activity at the reception desk. Sylvia was able to make herself understood with the brochure in her hands. In the raft was a gas heater that radiated a bearable temperature thanks to a heat umbrella. The Isar River ran placidly and soon they found themselves with two steins of lager in their hands. They shared the seats with a group of Americans and a young Finnish couple who didn't stop drinking. There was a guy dressed as an American Indian who sang songs in German. Every once in a while, along the sh.o.r.es of the Isar some pa.s.serby lifted a hand to greet them. I forgot to bring a camera, said Sylvia. We don't have any photos of us together. The group of Americans took pictures of each other next to the oarsman and the singer. He says he's a Cherokee from the Isar River, translates Sylvia when she hears him speak English. The trip down was almost an hour long. It was pleasant, a cold day but sunny. The last stretch dragged out a bit. Sylvia joked with Ariel. She didn't want to kiss him. You smell like mustard.

The hotel car brought them back to the city. Ariel and Sylvia went for a walk. The streets were comfortable, allowing them to relax their usual furtiveness. When they pa.s.sed a group that spoke Spanish they lowered their heads and fled onto a side street.

Ariel wore a wool hat that went down to his eyebrows and covered his hair and ears. No one seemed to recognize him among the few people they pa.s.sed, retirees defying the weather and early darkness. They pa.s.sed people on bicycles and a dog sniffed in the gra.s.s while its owner listened to music. Sylvia didn't say anything, but for the first time in her relationship with Ariel she discovered peace and tranquillity. Normality. His slight accent had hardened somewhat since living in Madrid. She liked to listen to him talk. They went beyond the former Turkish bath building with the enormous dome and looked at the cable car that divided the street. Sylvia hid her childishness in an intelligent silence. Ariel jumped up on a street bench and said, it's a lovely day.

The airplane leaves at five minutes to eight. On time. Although they board separately, their seats are next to each other. In first cla.s.s. Ariel jokes with her after takeoff.

Are you Spanish? Yes, what about you? Don't tell me, Uruguayan...Buenos Aires. It's not the same thing. You're a soccer player, aren't you? Are you in school? When I can get there. Well, I'm a soccer player when I can make it, too. My name is Sylvia, she introduces herself, and extends a hand, which he shakes. Ariel. Like the detergent brand. Yeah, I get that all the time. He was slow to let go of her soft hand.

Nearby a businessman looks at them over his newspaper. The flight attendant smiles and offers them something to drink.

And you live in Madrid? Don't you miss your country? Sometimes. I've never been to Buenos Aires. Well, you should go. Maybe one day I'll find an Argentinian boyfriend and he'll invite me to go...An Argentinian boyfriend? What's wrong with that? You don't recommend them? Sylvia feigns alarm. There's all kinds, I suppose.

They continue to talk, pretending they're strangers. Without realizing it, they experience a certain pleasure in the charade. It's as if they were starting over. The flight attendant asks him for three autographs for some pa.s.sengers. I'd rather they didn't come over to bother you. Sylvia is surprised by her cordiality. She is rea.s.sured by the fact that she is neither young nor pretty. You were the best yesterday, says the businessman as they exit the plane. Thanks, it wasn't much help. Ariel and Sylvia say good-bye in the line for taxis. Are you sure you have money? he asks her in a whisper. They each get into a different taxi. Sylvia and Ariel smile at each other through the windows. Then the cars separate and move apart. At the highway exit, they take opposite directions. It's almost eleven. On the radio someone talks in a bitter tone about the political situation. The buildings surrounding the city are ugly and chaotic. There is a big traffic jam before Avenida de America. It seems a truck charged into a car stopped on the hard shoulder. What was on his mind? asks the taxi driver out loud.

Huh? And Sylvia lifts her head. She doesn't know what he's talking about. In that moment she was remembering Ariel's hand holding hers when they greeted as strangers on the plane. Elektrisierend Elektrisierend, yes, that was definitely a good description.

* The Argentine lefty's galloping was electric, he was without a doubt the best offensive player of the visiting team. The Argentine lefty's galloping was electric, he was without a doubt the best offensive player of the visiting team.

10.

Leandro returns from an upscale neighborhood where he would never hear a distant radio playing from a window, where a woman would never shake a rug full of lint b.a.l.l.s and dirt from a balcony, where no staircase smells of stew and no pressure cookers whistle. The sky today was a gray ma.s.s against which the heads of buildings and the tops of trees were silhouetted. The light of day was a filtered shadow, sunless. Leandro walks back home after meeting up with Joaquin.

In Joaquin's apartment, the day's newspapers were on the table. One was open to a page where he was interviewed. The photo showed him pensive, resting his chin on one hand. His hair messy, his eyes lively. The photo makes him look better than he actually does, thought Leandro. He was the living image of dignified, attractive old age. He had arrived punctually to their date. Come up and that way you can see the apartment, Joaquin had told him when they spoke the day before. It was ten in the morning and Joaquin was talking on his cell phone while Jacqueline tidied up the remains of their breakfast and got ready to go out shopping. Beside the newspapers he had placed a mug of steaming tea. Leandro refused the offer. He skimmed the interview. Joaquin spoke of the public's lack of interest in education and culture, of the pleasure of teaching young people. Then he presented a pessimistic view of humanity. Nothing new. The fatalistic vision of those who enjoy an above-average living. The world is getting worse, say those who know that for them it couldn't get better, thinks Leandro.

He smiled when he noticed Joaquin's last answer. In it he spoke of pianists who had influenced his career. I could name cla.s.sical pianists without whom my profession would have no meaning, and not Horowitz or Rubinstein, by the way, who seem more myth than anything else, but I would be lying if I denied that the pianist I've most admired, tirelessly throughout my life, is Art Tatum. How appropriate, thought Leandro, someone he can't be compared to or measured against. Joaquin closed the cell phone and sat beside him. Don't read that nonsense. Art Tatum, you remember? What was the name of that amazing song we used to play as a duet? Leandro had no trouble coming up with it, "Have You Met Miss Jones?" Exactly. Joaquin has a flirtatious way of toying with his memories, they just piled together in a life filled with emotions and experiences, too many to retain. Then he hummed the melody.

Leandro congratulated him again on the concert. Yes, people left happy, it seems. He asked him about the tendinitis that had kept him from performing. Completely psychosomatic, a horrible thing, now I see a specialized psychotherapist in London. And soon you discover there's a repertoire that you have to start giving up, too debilitating on the hands. You no longer play "Petrushka," said Leandro with a smile. No, no, not the "Hammerklavier" or the "Fantasia Wanderer," we're not up to that sort of thing anymore. It's for young people, now they're real athletes. It's like tennis, every year somebody comes up that hits harder. Leandro reminded him of Don Alonso's obsession with eating and developing muscle ma.s.s. He had them lie on the floor to do sit-ups. Joaquin nodded. What did he used to say? Forget inspiration and trust in const.i.tution. He was a funny old guy. Mens sana in corpore sano Mens sana in corpore sano and all those Latin expressions. and all those Latin expressions.

That's why I wanted to talk to you. The little details, you always had a better memory than me. Actually what I want is for you to talk to a young man who insists on writing my biography. He's from Granada, but he lives here in Madrid, a very persistent boy, he knows music, he writes well. Your biographer? Leandro asked him. Don't call him that, it sounds ridiculous. My life has no interest beyond the fact that there are few Spanish concert pianists, it's sort of like being an Ethiopian weight lifter, I don't know...I have a meeting with him this morning, in a little while, in the bar at the Wellington. I hope we won't have to put up with that pianist, he always plays something by Falla for me, which is, I don't know, fine, I just loathe Falla and he does it in my honor and he ruins my morning with that Amor Brujo Amor Brujo stuff. But I wanted to see you first, not dump it all on you without asking. We hardly ever see each other anymore. I hardly ever see anyone, honestly. You know the feeling that you'll never again meet anyone interesting in your life and you don't have time for the ones you already know anyway? It's distressing. Jacqueline says it's all a problem of anxiety. You know me, anxiety is my life, I'm not going to get rid of it now, am I? stuff. But I wanted to see you first, not dump it all on you without asking. We hardly ever see each other anymore. I hardly ever see anyone, honestly. You know the feeling that you'll never again meet anyone interesting in your life and you don't have time for the ones you already know anyway? It's distressing. Jacqueline says it's all a problem of anxiety. You know me, anxiety is my life, I'm not going to get rid of it now, am I?

Joaquin's wife said good-bye at the door. With her coat already on. A patterned scarf around her neck. I don't know if I'll see you when I come back. Leandro stood up and they meet halfway to exchange a kiss on each cheek. When she left, Joaquin seemed to relax. The expensive perfume left with her. I like this apartment. Joaquin gestured to the lovely place, the windows overlooking the branches of two white mulberry trees, upscale, historic buildings across the street. In a hotel it's different, here I have my s.p.a.ce, I can rehea.r.s.e, relax.

It's lovely, the apartment, said Leandro.

This area costs a fortune. You can't even believe it. Sometimes I come here to get away from Paris and prepare my concerts. Joaquin smiled impishly and Leandro thought he understood what his friend was suggesting with his escapes to Madrid. You know me like no one else does, when that nagging self-criticism springs up, the awareness that I haven't gotten anywhere with what I've tried to accomplish, that I pound on the piano without any art, any cla.s.s, then you are a fragile man, capable of falling into the arms of any woman who makes you believe that you are what you wanted to be. s.e.x is nothing more than reconstructing a battered ego. There is nothing worse than an old seducer, but it's better than just being old, what can we do.

Leandro was surprised by his expression of sorrow. Many times Joaquin had tried to explain what attracted him to women, to the wild love affairs, that it had more to do with his insecurity than with his carnal appet.i.te. Soon he changed his tone and asked about Aurora, almost in contrast. Leandro was concise, he spoke of her illness without beating around the bush. She's really bad, there's no hope. We're so old, for f.u.c.k's sake. Now every year I go to more funerals than concerts. The comment didn't bother Leandro. He knew the superficiality with which Joaquin usually faced any serious situation; he had been like that even as a young man. He avoided the blow. We are strangers to each other, thought Leandro, we're no longer what we were.

The apartment was somewhat overdone, with molding on the ceiling. Perfect furniture that hadn't been lived in, a majestic black Steinway grand piano beside a large picture window. The enormous living room was the receiving room. A nearby kitchen and a small hallway led to the only bedroom. They had knocked down walls to create that sweeping s.p.a.ce in the living room.

They talked about the concert, about the previous days, about the state of the country, about general things and impersonal matters, about his life in Paris. So much mediocrity, we're so far from those exciting years where everything was ahead of us, right? Joaquin lit a Cohiba that inundated the room with bluish smoke. He leaned back and his pant legs revealed the tops of his socks. He stroked the cigar, giving it small turns with his fingertips, made s.p.a.ce between his lips to house the smoke for an instant before exhaling it gently.

I guess you're retired from such compet.i.tions.

Seeing Leandro's puzzled face, he felt obliged to finish the sentence, women...Leandro lifted his shoulders and smiled. I've got Jacqueline on top of me all the time, it's not healthy. Listen, if some day you need to use the apartment all you have to do is ask, the doorman has keys and is completely trustworthy, if you want to come by and play the piano, although I suppose you have more interesting things to do, and he let out a guffaw like a complicit whiplash. I mean if you want to impress some woman don't hesitate, eh. We'll talk to Casiano, the doorman, his father used to be the doorman of this building, imagine, it's an inherited post, isn't that sad? He's a very discreet guy.

Joaquin had no children. His way of relating to his wives had always turned him into the object of their caretaking. He was the son and husband to women who accepted the role of mother, lover, and secretary in equal parts. During the long hour they were alone together, Jacqueline called twice to remind Joaquin about his next appointment and some other triviality.

They went down to the street in a painstakingly maintained elevator. It was a portal into the old Madrid, built in that short period when the city aspired to be Paris. The doorman sat in a booth, the radio spitting out advertising jingles. Casiano, I want to introduce you to my friend Leandro, my childhood friend. He is also a pianist. The man greeted him with humble eyes. Once they were out on the street, Joaquin gossiped about the doorman with amus.e.m.e.nt. He explained to Leandro that he had a son in jail for belonging to a n.a.z.i party and having been involved in the murder of a Basque soccer fan. And all of a sudden, with a cloud of cigar smoke, he changed the subject. Do you still teach piano? I've got the odd student.

In the bar of the Wellington, the pianist spotted Joaquin and a second later dedicated, with a smile, the chords of a Falla piece with clumsy execution and bad taste. You remember when Don Alonso used to say to us, keep it up like that and you'll end up a pianist in a hotel? Well, there you have it. A nervous young man waited, sitting at a table, with a bag that looked almost like a schoolboy's resting on the carpeted floor. This is the boy I told you about, my biographer, as you say. They sat around the table and Joaquin announced he was going to commit the eccentricity of ordering a whisky before noon. Since you guys are the ones that have to talk...

There was a tentative attempt at conversation, during which the young man took out of his bag a notebook that he opened, searching for a blank page. Leandro realized he expected something concrete. The boy asked a question to lay the groundwork. I'd like you to tell me about your childhood together, you were both children of wartime. Oy, who can understand that today, right, Leandro? Joaquin smiled. Leandro started to talk about his origins and the building where they lived as boys. The young man put on his gla.s.ses and resolutely jotted a heading: childhood friend. Then he underlined it. Leandro felt bad.

He tried to not be too precise. He talked about the enormous social difference after the war and he remembered the generosity of Joaquin's family toward his. It was a moral obligation, interjected Joaquin. Spain was divided into victors and vanquished and the victors were divided into those who had a heart and those who were just scoundrels interested in lining their pockets.

Any special, memorable moment from your adolescence?

Leandro and Joaquin exchanged a look. Leandro's expression was eloquent. It seemed incredible that someone could ask you to sum up a life in two or three anecdotes. The best thing would be if you two could get together one day, without me around, today the idea was that you got a chance to meet. Leandro can tell you things about me even I don't remember. Let's see, there are things that shouldn't be left out, those first piano lessons we shared, then our first jobs and my leaving for France, you came to Paris and lived with me for a year. It was barely three months, clarified Leandro. We had a piano teacher who was a harsh old guy, fun, serious, very serious. You can tell him about all that. Things about the neighborhood, I don't even want to try to remember them. My father, for example, was someone from another era, a model military man, conservative, authoritarian, but more nineteenth-century than of the new fascist Spain.

I think you came to hate your father, almost as an essential stance for your ambitions. Leandro's words shut Joaquin up for a second. You always were very clear on what you wanted to be. It's strange. But I think it's a very important detail. You were a young man who knew what you wanted. That's rare. You molded everything around you. And perhaps your father was a victim of that. And others, maybe myself included, benefited from it, because you were building something that only you were clear on how it had to be constructed. For example, I was your friend, but with a type of friendship that you had created in your mind.

There was a silence. Joaquin ruminated over Leandro's words. He wasn't offended by them, but he didn't understand where they were leading. Then he added, unaquaeque res, quantum in se est, in suo esse perseverare conatur unaquaeque res, quantum in se est, in suo esse perseverare conatur. The young man looked at him with eyes big as plates. Spinoza, each thing, insofar as it is in itself, strives to persevere in its being. It's from Ethics Ethics, my favorite book, one I always keep beside my bed. Don't overthink it, I was something and I could only persevere in being that something. The young man took notes at a furious pace.

Deep down, in the world of children and women that we lived in during the war, without adult men, just the old and unfit, the return of your father was something unexpected and annoying for you, added Leandro.

Joaquin smiled. He agreed. When a boy overcomes the loss of his father and gets used to his absence, you are right that what he least expects is a resurrection, a return to the beginning, I rebelled against returning to the early authority. You will agree with me that the war was for us a very strange moment of total freedom, strange and cruel but freeing, something that was lost with the victory. Leandro nodded and Joaquin continued. It's true, in the image that I wanted of myself, being an orphan was essential. Perhaps that's why, and maybe it was unfair, I never accepted him back again.

The young man took the occasional note. Leandro suddenly remembered a cruel game they would sometimes play during wartime. They ran from the street to a doorway, they called up to an apartment, and a mother would answer and they would announce dramatically, your son, your son was found dead, a bomb went off. And then they'd run off, unaware of the pain they were causing and that their joke would unleash a tragedy until the truth was discovered. Why would we do something like that? Joaquin wondered aloud. I don't know, it was the cruelty of the war, transformed into a fun game by kids. The young man put on his gla.s.ses in a shy tic.

Kids are always like that, said Leandro. Then he talked about something else. A hazy memory of the return of Joaquin's father and the evening he took them to see a newsreel at the movies because he could be seen among the people at the back of a shot featuring Franco's elite in Burgos. The movie playing afterward wasn't approved for minors, but they forced his father to let them stay and watch it. Leandro didn't remember the t.i.tle. But he did remember Carole Lombard was in it, wearing tight elegant gowns that showed off her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and that years later you confessed to me that her presence had awakened desire in you, as it had in me.

So what you're saying is that my father took us to show himself off and politically indoctrinate us and we tended more toward carnal desire, kids are wise. Yes, yes, I remember now. Joaquin took obvious pleasure in hearing about his past. He was attracted to the re-creation of his life by a third party, as if he could situate himself as a spectator.

I think that during our childhood, said Leandro, we create the unmentionable challenges of our lives and the answer to happiness consists in the achievement, or inability to approximate, those childhood goals, maybe not fully articulated or clear, but evident to yourself. Although now you are listening to me as if what I'm saying was nothing more than an obscure memory, I know that you remember very clearly how you were and how you thought as a boy. Leandro continued dispa.s.sionately in the face of Joaquin's smile that seemed to say, this all seems too complicated of a psychoa.n.a.lytical game for the time and the place. Would you believe, I'm the same way, sometimes I surprise myself by feeling that I'm being observed by my younger self.

And? Do you find yourself loyal to what you wanted? Do you think there's anyone who achieves that? asked Joaquin as he stared into Leandro's sunken eyes.

Well, this gentleman didn't come here to hear me talk about myself, just about you. I'm not important at all.

Joaquin laughed, satisfied with Leandro's evasive reply, it was enough for him. They could now focus again on what he was interested in: himself.

Leandro returned home leisurely. He had taken the metro and gotten out at Cuatro Caminos. In his pocket, he has a piece of paper with the young man's phone number. They had made a date to see each other some other day and work in a more methodical manner, and without Joaquin present. But recalling those years had awoken in Leandro the feeling that he was at the end of a journey, that there was nothing left ahead of him. Meeting Aurora had been his salvation from an uncontrollable bitterness, a renewed strength to go forward with a life that wasn't the one he had dreamed of. He feels a sudden flush of tenderness and appreciation for her. And in that same moment he imagines her dead in bed, not breathing, he sees himself enter the house to find her paler than ever, with her eyes veiled and her chest lifeless. He doesn't know if he should quicken his step or just stop. He's afraid, but he continues. Leisurely.

11.

He finds his mother sleeping, drugged by tranquilizers. She is never left alone now. If his father has to go out, he calls the cleaning lady or waits for Sylvia to arrive to spend some time with her grandmother. That afternoon Lorenzo called him, I'll come by. His father had gone out a little while ago after a very brief conversation between them in the hallway. How are you? Here, stuck. Lorenzo had been surprised by the answer. Even when his mother was in perfect health, he never felt that his father had much need for the world outside. It more seemed that he found pleasure in the solitude of his room. As he remembered it, his father had always been a homebody annoyed by a weekend excursion to the mountains, relatives visiting, or a commitment that required leaving the house. But it was clear that Aurora's illness was enslaving him and Lorenzo understood that as the reason behind his wanting to get out, to get some air.

He was upset for a few days now, since he had come back from his walk and found Aurora on the floor. You don't know what it was like, he told his son, I thought she was dead. Aurora hadn't been able to control her sphincter, she had dirtied the bed and had been crazy enough to try to stand up. She didn't break any bones in the fall, but the feeling Leandro described of picking her up off the floor, her embarra.s.sment, had been a horrific moment, you have no idea, how terrible. G.o.d, it's intense what's happening to your mother, he ended with his eyes flooding with tears.

When the doorbell rings, he knows it is Daniela. She comes up to the apartment and Lorenzo opens the door for her. My mother is alone, but sleeping. Daniela takes off her coat, her workday ended. Lorenzo hangs it on a hook in the entryway. I spent my whole childhood in this house. Daniela looks around with curious eyes, but she's unable to imagine Lorenzo as a child playing on his knees in the hallway near the kitchen door.

The previous Sunday, they had gone to church together and chatted with other couples on the way out. That day there were a lot of children and the pastor talked to them about the possibility of renting a s.p.a.ce in another neighborhood with a little yard, so the little ones could enjoy it. We'd have to gather the money between all of us, of course. Later they went to the Retiro to eat. They sat on the gra.s.s. Lorenzo's hemorrhoids were really acting up and it took him a while to find a comfortable position. When he finally did, he was almost leaning on her thigh. I'd like to introduce you to my parents, he then said.

Sat.u.r.day night they had had dinner in an Ecuadorian restaurant, El Manso, that's what they call Guayaquil, she explained. The owners took away the tables to transform the place into a bar with a little place to dance. They were a friendly couple and they accepted Lorenzo without any prejudice. They knew Daniela well. I come by here and pick up their packages of leftovers that we leave at the church for the needy, without the shame of those soup kitchens, where they have to stand in line right on the street, Daniela explained. It was there, in that restaurant, while some danced and Lorenzo and Daniela made themselves comfortable in a corner, that the police burst in, forty agents for no more than a hundred customers. Those that were standing were forced to line up along the bar. Without the music and with all the lights on, it seemed to have suddenly become dawn. It must have been two in the morning. The few that were seated were forced to stay in their chairs. The policemen demanded doc.u.mentation, residency permits. As he handed over his ID, Lorenzo said to the agent, this is an outrage. The man lifted his eyes toward him. Are you going to tell me how to do my job? he said in a challenging tone. With a nervous gesture, Daniela begged him not to answer, but Lorenzo did. I don't understand this hara.s.sment, these people are having fun, they're not doing anything wrong.

Daniela searched in her bag, as if she were trying to find her wallet. Lorenzo and the agent locked eyes again. Forget it, the policeman said to Daniela. And he continued his inspection at the next table. The result of the raid, of almost forty-five minutes of paralysis, would be a few deportation notices that, in practice, would probably not be enforced. As the police left, the place was plunged into a loaded, sad atmosphere. The scene reminded those present that their stay in the country was provisional and fragile; it spread a stench of uncertainty. We only have a permit as a restaurant, explained the owners, so it's probably best if we shut down for tonight.

They don't want us here, but we're not going to leave, Daniela told him on the street. But now a period of legalization is open, you have to get your papers, insisted Lorenzo. Yes, but it's difficult, the couple I work for still has to be convinced.

Lorenzo came into her entryway with her, to the foot of the stairs. There he embraced her. He searched out her mouth and Daniela gave him a kiss. Lorenzo placed his hand on her back and held her very close. Daniela hid her head on his shoulder. Lorenzo felt her bra strap beneath her clothes.

The walls were of filthy stucco and the mailboxes were bent, several of them broken. The staircase was dirty with peeling paint and the light gave off an annoying buzz. In the dimness, Lorenzo kissed Daniela again, but this time they were long kisses. He sank his fingers into her hair. He mussed it up and caressed the nape of her neck.

They're all up there, it's better if you don't come up, she said. Lorenzo nodded, he wanted to kiss her, but she preferred to leave. Lorenzo accompanied her to the landing. They kissed one last time in silence. He stayed on the other side of the door when she went into the apartment. Daniela smiled at him.

Lorenzo wanted to introduce Daniela to his parents. He could feel their tenseness when they asked him about his work, about how he was feeling, he didn't want them to imagine him alone and depressed, like those recurring images of the unemployed, heads lowered, hands in pockets, the out-of-work as gray victims. I'm dating a girl, he told them suddenly, I'll introduce you to her. His father's surprise, and his mother's, immobile in bed, made him think that they harbored a fear of seeing him alone forever.

He didn't tell them that Daniela was Ecuadorian or that she worked in the apartment above his. Nor that he went with her to a church on Sundays where the pastor spoke intimately with them about life as sacrifice, about renunciation, about happiness, about abstract concepts brought closer with everyday metaphors. At first Lorenzo thought the service was something that she and others like her needed out of some sort of lack. Later, he watched them sing, respond, and laugh when the pastor broke the seriousness of the sermon with something funny, and he realized it was more than that. Daniela talked about G.o.d, what G.o.d thought, what G.o.d would do. G.o.d was a companion, but also a watchman.

Lorenzo's parents had never been religious, even when that was the norm in a submissive society. After doing his Communion, Lorenzo doesn't remember having gone back to church with them, and the few times he had asked his father about G.o.d or faith, he had always given the same answer, that is something only you can discover, when the time is right.

In religion, as in so many other things, his parents had given him absolute freedom, waiting for Lorenzo to work it out on his own. That was why he felt that what Daniela devoted to G.o.d was a measuring stick, the doctrine of behavior. And he wondered, puzzled, if it hadn't come to him, finally, the moment in his life that his father always referred to, the moment of truth, not like something imposed by society, but more like an inner voice.

In church, that last Sunday, Lorenzo had also wondered if the lack of s.e.x in his relationship had something to do with it. Was Daniela one of those women who compartmentalize s.e.x as dark, dirty? Maybe we have to be married, thought Lorenzo with a smile. It didn't seem that the rest of the couples showed any renunciation or imposed chast.i.ty. Quite the opposite: the girls wore tight clothes and showed open smiles. Lorenzo thought that his s.e.xual possibilities might be resolved amid those messy banquets, the euphoric chanting, the mischievous kids, and the parents in their Sunday best with serious, profound expressions.

Aurora opens her eyes and watches Lorenzo's movement around her. h.e.l.lo, Mama, look, this is Daniela. His mother looks up and Daniela leans down to kiss her on the cheek. The first thing Aurora notices about Daniela are her almond-shaped eyes. Daniela holds back her straight hair with her hand so it doesn't fall onto Aurora as she bends over.

Have you been here long? No, just a little while. I sleep almost the entire day, she explains to Daniela, I have very strange dreams, very vivid, very real. Aurora tires from speaking. Lorenzo sits on the mattress and takes his mother's hand between his. Don't wear yourself out. Where are you from, Daniela? She answers. Aurora's eyes travel from Daniela to her son. She seems to shiver briefly, like a stab of pain. With a shaking of her head, Aurora tries to convey to them that it was nothing.

The ma.s.seuse had come by that morning to exercise her muscles and Aurora was more tired than usual. It's a luxury we can't afford, she says, but Leandro tells me of course we can afford it, that's what I spent my life working for. The doctor had ruled out any aggressive treatment, so it was just a matter of waiting.

Lorenzo tried to keep in touch daily with his father. He suspected that he lacked the strength to face the illness's onslaught without support. If there is anyone unable to live alone, it's my father, thought Lorenzo. He belonged to the group of men who seemed independent, but had no ability to solve the most trivial of tasks. Lorenzo was pleased to see Sylvia find some time to visit her grandmother, read to her, chat with her.

The week before, Lorenzo had gone back to the old folks' home and sat next to the man whose house he had emptied out. What, Don Jaime, don't remember me? I brought you your things in the suitcase, remember? They didn't exchange many sentences. Nothing tied him to the man, beyond the destiny that had brought them together. But that same random chance wouldn't let Lorenzo ignore him. Wilson laughed when Lorenzo told him that he had visited him twice. The crazy guy? What for? I wish I had time to waste like you, he had said.

Lorenzo knew it was important to maintain a link with the outside world. Like that note hung on the fridge with a stranger's phone number.

It's cold. Quite. It's good in here. It's not bad. Those few words could be a normal exchange between them. Pretty much all they said in forty-five minutes. Don't you have any friends, family? But the man didn't usually answer concrete questions. They remained seated. Sometimes one of them lowered the blinds if the sun was glaring in. A nun then entered and took the man by the hand to walk him down to the cafeteria.

Wilson organized the workdays. He took his small notebook out of his pocket, which contained the precise schedule of the day's tasks. Trips to the airport, a move. Wilson settled the money with him after showing Lorenzo the state of their accounts, loans, rents accounted for in the notebook.

When it got cold, Wilson took over an empty warehouse. It was a former commercial s.p.a.ce and he piled up some mattresses to turn it into a rental shelter. He waited for his customers until ten-thirty at night and at eight on the dot he was at the door to send them out. He hired some acquaintances to work on the renovation of that temporary hotel of sorts and then he shared the profits with them. If one of the tenants drank too much or made too much noise, he had to show up and calm things down. A boy who helped him with moving jobs also worked as a threatening bodyguard. It was in those moments that he earned his money, when everything didn't look as simple as suggesting to Lorenzo the thousand different ways to make a euro.

Really it's all due to this crossed eye, Wilson explained to him, people take me for crazy. And everybody's more afraid of a crazy guy than of a strong guy. n.o.body wants to take on a crazy guy. Like a Swiss army knife, Wilson seemed to have the resource needed for every given occasion. The exact amount of charm and chitchat, the prescribed dose of contained violence and latent threats, the precise skill in every situation. He handled a bundle of rolled-up bills wrapped in a rubber band that became his bracelet when it was time to pay. He turned toward Lorenzo to explain, money is a magnet for money.

They called Lorenzo into the police station to return his belongings to him, some clothes, some shoes. Even though he asked after the detective, they didn't see each other that day. And he hardly ever turned around to check if they were following him or stopped the van suddenly at an entrance to watch the cars behind him pa.s.s. Paying his bills was more of an obsession for him. It was also something that his partnership with Wilson guaranteed without many problems.

Lorenzo and Daniela are in Aurora's room when Leandro returns. They greet each other. Leandro likes Daniela. Aurora strokes the girl's hand, you have lovely skin. In the hallway, before leaving, Lorenzo asks his father if he needs anything. Leandro shakes his head.

On the street, Daniela says to Lorenzo, your mother must have been someone very special. Lorenzo nods his head. He remembers what his mother whispered into his ear the second Daniela went out of the room to talk on her cell phone. The important thing is that you're happy.

12.

There is no crunch. No electric current running up his leg. Just the feeling that his foot is separating from his body. The rival player falls onto him, with a brush of his breath and sweat and a brusque push to soften the blow against the gra.s.s. They are barely fourteen minutes into the game, the time it takes to size up your opponent. The crash was during a simple play. He received the ball with his back to the goal and turned, trying to get clear. The fullback stepped on Ariel's foot as he lay on the gra.s.s waiting for someone to kick the ball out. The crowd whistles, as always. They make fun of the injured. My ankle, my ankle, indicates Ariel to the doctor when he kneels beside him.

At the level of the field, Barcelona's stadium is lovely. The stands don't emerge drastically like in other stadiums. Sylvia is at the opposite corner of the field, with a distant perspective on the game. In fact, a minute earlier she had thought that she wouldn't have Ariel close by until the second half. Then she started eating sunflower seeds. Now she sees him leave on a stretcher in a ridiculous little motorized cart driven by a blond girl with a reflective vest. Ariel's coach has sent a player from the bench to warm up. Ariel disappears into the tunnel to the locker rooms.

Sylvia is left alone amid people. She looks around as if she expected Ariel to show up a moment later next to her or to send someone to find her. But nothing happens. The game draws everyone's attention, but not hers.

After the trip to Munich, they were together all the time. The following day, Ariel went to pick her up in an alley by the high school. If a cla.s.smate sees me getting into your Porsche, I can start looking for a new high school. Why don't you get a different car? They went to eat at a barbecue place on the highway to La Coruna. She ordered a Coca-Cola, he a white wine. The team doctor won't let us drink Coca-Cola, he says it's the worst, explained Ariel. Any of the few diners could think they were siblings from their att.i.tude. Ariel had said that to her one day, don't freak out, but most people who see us think I'm taking my little sister around Madrid. They ordered pork chops, but Sylvia first ate shrimp, to his horror, I could never eat those. When she takes the head off one of them, the murky liquid squirts into Ariel's face and they both laugh.

Later they went to Ariel's house. They took a hot, messy nap, their bodies burning like heaters. They maintained an uncomfortable embrace that neither of them wanted to break. When night fell, Ariel took Sylvia home.

The next day, Ariel went to Barcelona with the team. Sylvia took a morning flight. Ariel had reserved a room in the same hotel the team was staying in. After an early lunch, Ariel left his teammates shouting as they played cards, drinking coffee, and he escaped to the eighth floor, where Sylvia was waiting for him in bed, surrounded by school notes. She threw them to the floor when she heard him arrive.