Learning To Lose Part 16

But Ariel didn't show his surprise. The sports director looked around the room or at his chest. His eyes never searched out Ariel's; sometimes they went to the door or to the wall, but never to Ariel's face. Neither the staff nor the fans feel that this team is the good bet for the future we were hoping it would be. Words. Words are always smoke screens. Ariel didn't listen to them. He chose instead to search out Pujalte's eyes, which he didn't manage to find. All this is to say that we are going to be hearing offers, you can do some looking around yourself, but discreetly, the worst thing we can do is let the press start to muddy the whole thing.

But I have a contract. Ariel would rather not have heard himself say that sentence.

Our only contract is with the fans' enthusiasm. The sports director's comment must have been pulled from some manual, from some anthology of brilliant, empty phrases. It couldn't be his own. Enthusiasm was too big a word for him. When their hopes aren't met, why stick to contracts.

The coach...Ariel tried to say. The coach is aware that we're having this conversation. He approves it and the president approves it, even though he never intervenes in these things anyway.

They're firing me, thought Ariel. Like giving away old clothes. It bothered him that they were doing it on a week when he couldn't defend himself on the field. When he couldn't even use his rage as a motivating force in the game. Injured, he seemed to have fewer arguments in his defense. And he didn't want to defend himself. He heard Pujalte talk about the future, about a more ambitious team. Ariel thought, it's my fault, I didn't try hard enough, things didn't go well.

Don't get worked up about it, I know what a player feels when he hears these words. I was like you not long ago. It would be a mistake to cling to your contract and lose the best years of your career, things might go better somewhere else and you can come back more mature, more formed as a player.

Are we talking about a transfer to another team?

We're not talking about anything, you're twenty years old, we have to see how things go, this is a meaningless stumble.

I don't know, there's something I don't understand, said Ariel. I look at the team and I don't think my contribution is where the biggest problem is, in fact, I see things going well for us out there; the fans like me. You haven't got the crowd eating out of your hand, Pujalte said. That counts for something, too. Things in Spain aren't like they are in Argentina. Here the crowd doesn't believe in the team colors or in the mushy stuff, you have to convince them at the start of the season that we're gonna take on the world, otherwise it takes us on. We can't tell them that this year is a good investment for next year or the year after that, they want it now. I'm going to be honest with you. We have another player lined up for your position, a name that will get people excited, someone new. I'm not saying you don't do a decent job covering your position, but I don't think you're a player to keep as a subst.i.tute. That's why I'm being frank with you, man to man, I don't want you to hear about our negotiations somewhere else.

Ariel nodded. It seemed he had to show appreciation for the deference. And maybe that was the case.

There'll be plenty of teams interested, give me a few weeks, let me check out the market and we'll meet again, okay? Ariel felt stupid getting up with the help of the crutch. Disabled. They definitely chose an ill-timed moment. I'm afraid this isn't my conversation to have, it would be better if you spoke with my agent. I'm paid to show my worth on the field, not to deal with meetings in offices, said Ariel before leaving.

Perhaps it's just that, you need more rest, more focus, less distractions, to feel like a soccer player...

The sports director spoke to his back. Ariel was about to burst out crying and he didn't want to turn around, or question him to find out if he was referring to something in particular. He called his brother from home, told him everything. Charlie calmed him down. They just say those things. Let other people take care of it, me included. But are things that bad? Why didn't you tell me? That's what most gets to me, Charlie, I didn't think things were going so badly.

That evening he relaxed, stretching out on the sofa and letting time pa.s.s, not getting into a conversation with Sylvia, just stroking her curls while she looked at her school notes. He envied her busyness. He didn't want to tell her anything. She asked, do you have Easter week off? I don't know yet, he said.

He was left with a bittersweet sensation, when he found himself being consoled by her after he had spent the last few days planning to distance himself. After seeing her bedroom, on tiptoe so as not to wake her snoring father, Ariel had realized how crazy it all was. She's sixteen years old. Posters on the wall, a stuffed animal on the bed. There he was, in the hotel before a game, going over notes from cla.s.s and joking around, while she confessed that she had her period. Days later Marcelo arrived in Madrid to do a concert for his new record. He called him and said, you can't miss it.

Ariel went to the concert hall, the Galileo. Marcelo had reserved a table for him. Ariel didn't want to invite Sylvia. He had decided to take some s.p.a.ce, put a stop to the madness. Ariel waited at the bar until Reyes arrived. He had gotten her phone number from Arturo Caspe. Excuse me, I don't want to be a bother, but the other night I made a fool of myself and I wanted to apologize. He now knew she was a quite well-known model. Oh please, it's not necessary. Ariel explained that a friend of his from Buenos Aires was performing in Madrid. I would love it if you came with me. She smiled on the other end of the line. She's an interesting girl, thought Ariel, with that almost suicidal way she smokes. You still have that beauty mark on your face? she asked. Yeah, I think so. Then I can't say no, answered Reyes. Was she flirting with him? Ariel felt encouraged, that was what he needed. You can bring your boyfriend, of course.

But she came alone.

The place was filled with people, most of them Argentinian, which Marcelo later expressed frustration about. I don't come all the way here to sing for people who already know me, where the f.u.c.k are the Spaniards? To be successful in Spain, I'd have to come live here, he said to Ariel. And I refuse to do that, because then the Spaniards look down on you because they consider you one of their own. But all this was after the concert. At the beginning, Marcelo appeared exultant, accompanied by a group of four good musicians, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a tie with the San Lorenzo colors.

It's funny to perform in a place called Galileo, he said after the first two songs. I hope I don't get burned at the stake. And it's hard not to end up in the burn ward of music history, right? Let me tell you, I'll be forty-five in September. Now I'm going to sing a respectful cover of the song I've woken up to every morning for almost twenty years now. That was how he presented his rendition of "Chimes of Freedom," one of Dylan's old cla.s.sics, which Marcelo sang in Spanish for eight long minutes.

Ariel leaned over Reyes. Do you like it? he asked. She nodded. She was lovely, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s gathered in a fine black bra and peeking out through the open b.u.t.tons of her white shirt, so sculpted that Ariel wondered if they weren't plastic. Toward the end of the concert, Marcelo dedicated a song to Ariel, after a long introduction in which he spoke about their friendship. Be good to him over here, he appealed.

They had a drink with Marcelo, but after that Reyes said, I have to get up early tomorrow. Ariel made a date to have lunch with Marcelo the next day. Reyes called a cab and Ariel offered to take her home. As they went out, a photographer surprised them. The camera flashes were like shots in the dark. Ariel lifted his crutch to get rid of the guy, but he backed up. They got into the taxi and left. The photographer kept shooting through the cab window. The driver said something Ariel didn't understand. I see you're very famous. I'm afraid they're after you, she said. I don't know, he said. She lived near the center of the city. Ariel apologized again for the other night. Come on, you didn't scare me or anything, she joked. It's even kind of flattering in the end, maybe you're the one who's not used to getting rejected. Ariel smiled. Does your boyfriend work in this, too? Yeah, he's a photographer, but not like the kind we just saw. Yeah. Ariel was nervous, and what do they do with those pictures? They usually show up in a magazine with a made-up interview where we say we're just good friends and that you want to recover quickly from your injury so you can give the fans more goals. The usual s.h.i.t. My boyfriend has already been warned, but he gave me permission since he knows soccer players aren't my type. You might have more problems. Are you dating someone?

Ariel hesitated before answering. No, well, I'm breaking up with a girl. I don't know, it's a weird story. Reyes looked at him with interest, Ariel was silent, somewhat uncomfortable. You want to have a last drink? Near my house there's a mellow bar. She directed the taxi driver, who muttered something again, but this time Ariel did understand him, that's the way to recover from your injury, these good-for-nothings, what a life. Ariel lifted his eyebrows in Reyes's direction, and she smiled. You're more interested in girls than in the ball. Obviously, aren't you? answered Ariel. I think all women are b.i.t.c.hes, especially my wife. Reyes coughed as if something were stuck in her throat. That's what I call speaking your mind.

They went to an Irish pub on a corner. Sitting at a wooden table, Ariel told her part of his story with Sylvia. He didn't hide the fact that she was sixteen years old. When I was sixteen, I was still falling in love with my gym teachers, she said, and I was sure George Michael was going to come pick me up after school. I guess you made one of her fantasies real and that could be dangerous. It scares me to death, he said. Even though Sylvia isn't the kind of teenager who lives in some fairy tale. Be careful, we girls are good at hiding things, warned Reyes. A little while later, she left him there with a half-finished beer, gave him a kiss on each cheek, and promised to get together another day. Ariel waited for a taxi on the street. He would have liked to sleep with her, lose himself in someone else's arms and someone else's body, to keep him away from Sylvia.

The next day, he ate lunch with Marcelo at a restaurant on Cava Baja. He invited Husky and there was instant chemistry between them, even though Husky started off strong. Before the first course arrived, he had already said, I can't stand those typical Argentinian singer-songwriters, the pretentious long-winded ones who think they're the heirs to that Catholic bore, Dylan. I like Neil Young. People who aren't poseurs. Dylan is a hamburger-eating egomaniac who thinks up songs that are too long while he's riding his motorcycle. Marcelo laughed thunderously. Is this guy nuts? Dylan is G.o.d. Marcelo was working on a rock opera. I know it sounds terrible. Yes, they a.s.sured him. It's about a twenty-eight-year-old Swiss tourist who was traveling through Argentina alone and disappeared after taking a walk in Pagancillo, in La Rioja, disappeared without a trace. They hadn't heard a thing from her in six months. Marcelo wanted to focus the songs on her father, a retired German professor who had come to the country to find her. His perspective could be perfect in summing up Argentina, that's what we need, the Swiss view. He could talk about the natural beauty, the social c.r.a.p, the corruption, everything.

Shortly after, Marcelo cursed the piece of meat they had served him. This garbage is what Argentine meat is going to turn into if they keep opening up soy fields and closing pastures. Cows need to live free and not fattened up with injections like here in Europe. And when Husky disagreed again, he said, but, kid, you have a lovely voice, you have to do a duet with me on my next alb.u.m, what a voice, it's crazy, it sounds like you got sent through a broken Pro Tools.

During dessert Marcelo mentioned Reyes, congratulations on the girl from last night, the one you brought to the concert, what a hot mama, but Ariel made it clear that they weren't dating. Husky asked about her. Ariel told them about the photograph. No doubt about it, if Arturo Caspe knew where you were going, he's the one who called them, declared Husky. That son of a b.i.t.c.h lives to sell favors. I told you before, they're vampires, they need virgin blood every night.

Marcelo had found Ariel more serious. He blamed the injury. He didn't want to tell them about the bad news with the club or about his relationship with Sylvia, which he had decided to end. But Marcelo could be a persistent man. From the restaurant, he called a friend of his who worked as an a.n.a.lyst in Madrid and sent Ariel to see him that same afternoon. Husky laughed heartily. Spaniards don't go to shrinks, we get drunk in a bar, and all the barmen have psychiatric degrees from Gin and Tonic University.

Ariel sat in front of a doctor named Klimovsky who wanted that first session to just be a relaxed chat, which translated into an avalanche of information about his own life. He was an a.n.a.lyst, but he also wrote film scripts and painted. The paintings decorating his office were the terrible result of that supposedly harmless hobby. He barely let Ariel get out a word with more than one syllable, and even though they agreed to meet the following week, Ariel wasn't sure if he was going to come back. In one of the paintings a fish emerged from the v.a.g.i.n.a of a woman with her face painted like a harlequin. The image gave Ariel nightmares for most of the evening.

The next day, he caught the end of practice and kicked around without a crutch. He felt good after the ma.s.sage and he wanted to find out the coach's opinion. Yesterday they told me they're not counting on me for next year. Who told you that? His surprise sounded fake. The club has its demands, if it were up to me I'd have other priorities, Requero tried to convince him. They say that there's someone signed for my position. This is the first I've heard of it. That was one of the things Ariel liked the least about these situations, the cowardice. He would have preferred more authority or at least an ounce of sincerity, even if it wasn't in his favor. But the coach was evasive.

I just wanted to know if you were counting on me, because I'm going to fight to stay on the team. The coach looked at him with an insignificant smile and nodded his head, as if he appreciated his spirit. He even made a stupid comment, I like people with character. While you're still on the team, don't ever doubt that you're my player.

Ariel automatically put him on his list of despicable people. It wasn't a very long list, but it included those who avoided taking responsibility when they should've owned up, those who had been fake, self-interested traitors in the moments when he was most helpless.

Amilcar invited him over for lunch. In the car they talked. He sensed something was going on. Don't get involved in it, Amilcar told him, listen to what they have to say to you and give up the n.o.ble att.i.tudes and stuff like that. If they offer you a good team, leave, take the money, and enjoy the game, 'cause life is short. You may come back a star, it wouldn't be the first time. Ariel looked up at him. You know as well as I do that there are teams you never come back from, that only offer you a step down on the ladder. Maybe I'd rather go back to Buenos Aires than do that. They haven't even given me time to prove my mettle.

Time? Amilcar let out a mocking laugh. Time? We're talking about soccer. Here the sports newspapers come out every morning. You want time? From here to the next game is more or less an eternity. Ariel kept quiet. He knew Amilcar was right. He drove an enormous car.

Why so serious? asked Fernanda, Amilcar's wife, during lunch. Problems with the club, he didn't make the cut for next year. She had a serene beauty she tried to envelop Ariel in. Well, they're still thinking about it, he said. And don't you have a three-year contract? Five-year. So what? interjected Amilcar. Come on, sweetie, if a player wants to leave he does, if a club wants to get rid of you, they get rid of you, the contract is just a piece of paper. A piece of paper that means a lot of money, she said. The money is the least of it. They'll pay him, they'll sell him, they'll transfer him. Contracts are broken as easily as they're signed. It was easy for Amilcar to talk like that, thought Ariel. How many years have you been here, Amilcar? I didn't come in as a star.

Amilcar's harsh tone hurt Ariel for a second. He focuses on the plate in front of him. Amilcar's wife shakes her head, incredulous at her husband, and she scolds him with a look. It's the f.u.c.king truth. No one paid me millions or put me on magazine covers or sent me out on the field to win a game in the final minutes. You wanna switch places with me? Amilcar, please, you're talking to a twenty-year-old boy, don't take on that cynical att.i.tude, insisted Fernanda. No, no, I understand him perfectly, murmured Ariel. I think he came to you looking for help, not so you could tell him all the s.h.i.t that this business sweeps under the rug...Amilcar's expression soured. All right, sweetie, that's enough. This is serious, not a chat over coffee, okay? When someone makes what he's making, he can put up with being treated like merchandise. Well, I don't agree. Just because they pay you a fortune doesn't give them the right to treat you like s.h.i.t, she said.

Okay, okay, don't start arguing now because of me.

No, don't worry. We love arguing, said Fernanda. She likes it more than I do. Amilcar's wife smiled and then brushed her husband's hand. Meu anjo das pernas tortas Meu anjo das pernas tortas, she whispered to him, and he wagged his head, won over by her sweetness.

They ate leisurely. They only touched on the subject again briefly and they didn't delve into it. When it was time to go pick the kids up from school, Amilcar stood. You relax, I'll be back in half an hour, he said to Ariel. He disappeared shaking the car keys, his legs bowed like parentheses.

Ariel stayed with his teammate's wife. She served coffee. Do you nap after lunch? Since I've been in Spain I've gotten used to taking a siesta, she explained. I sleep barely three minutes, but it makes me relaxed all afternoon. A blond lock fell over one eye and Fernanda blew it out of the way, a childlike gesture that made Ariel smile. She was very lovely. When you finish your coffee, come up if you feel like it. She smiled warmly. My room is the first door on the right, at the top of the stairs.

She turned and went up the steps. When she got to the last one, she looked at him with her clear blue eyes. Ariel coughed. He almost knocked over the coffee mugs. The maid, a short, smug Moroccan woman, appeared to take away the tray. Ariel sat there alone. He wanted to flee. But also to take Amilcar's wife in his arms, to enjoy her beauty, which seemed to promise an icy surface, with fire inside.

Going up the stairs was torturous for Ariel. It all seemed perverse. He barely knew her, but ever since that first day he felt a mutual attraction floating in the air. Would he be able to go through with it just for a postlunch craving? Without taking anything else into consideration? Maybe it was all just a perverse game Amilcar was in on. He was about to run back downstairs. The veteran player who brings new team acquisitions to his wife. Too messy.

He knocked on the door. I won't do anything. Everything that happens will be her fault. I won't lift a finger, Ariel said to himself as he opened the door after she invited him in. He noticed his erection beneath his pants.

The electricity of the moment seemed to come from her perfect, straight hair, layered around her face. Fernanda was lying in the bed, still dressed; she had only taken off her shoes. She placed a hand on the mattress, inviting him to come closer. From the first moment I saw you, I felt a positive vibe, I know you have things in you that you haven't yet found ways to express. Ariel thought it was the moment to kiss her and he couldn't take his eyes off of her lips. But she leaned to reach the drawer on the bedside table and grab the handle. She's going to take out some condoms, thought Ariel. She extracted a thick book from the drawer. She flipped through its pages, deeply focused. When she found what she was looking for, she handed the book to Ariel. Read, read out loud, she asked.

Ariel read: "In sorrow, G.o.d is the only consolation. Nothing quenches your thirst, tiredness, doubt, and pain forever. Only the voice of G.o.d. He is the answer to all questions, the medicine for all ailments..." Ariel stopped reading.

She took the book from him delicately. She read slowly, with her sugary Brazilian accent. The energy she put into uttering the phrases revealed the importance she gave each word. Ariel felt his cheeks burn, but he didn't move. He heard individual words that held no meaning. Coexistence, truth, devotion. He understood what a fool he had been. He was glad in the end that he hadn't thrown himself onto her or whipped out his c.o.c.k right as he crossed the doorway. He laughed at his own idea. He imagined Fernanda defending herself from the attack of his erect p.e.n.i.s, her hitting him with that hardcover Bible-type book. She stopped reading for a second. The bizarre situation unfolding in Ariel's head didn't seem to affect her emotional intensity.

Take the book. You can give it back to me later. Take it with you. But I want you to know we would love to be able to help you.

Was it a sect? A delusion? Was Amilcar involved in this? He obviously was. He had left him alone with her for the recruitment ceremony. He stood up with the book under his arm. He could have cried or laughed right then. She spoke again; her face was lovely, not tense in the least. Don't be ashamed, we've all come from places that would shock you, you are no worse than I am. The man who came up the stairs a moment ago was just a normal man, perhaps the one who goes down them now is a better one.

Ariel nodded his head and backed out of the room. Before he closed the door, she folded her legs and Ariel could catch a glimpse of her tanned, attractive inner thigh through the slit in her dress.

When Amilcar arrived, he was sitting on the sofa leafing through the book. He had asked the maid for two more coffees and was about to start climbing the walls from caffeine. They didn't talk about the book. Was Amilcar some weird athlete of G.o.d or like that Chilean center halfback in San Lorenzo who recommended a psycho-wizard to his teammates, one who read your future in your a.s.shole? The same one who told a player who was losing his hair from the stress of the compet.i.tion to rub his own feces on his head, which didn't bring any results? He and Amilcar smiled, each for a different reason. They joked a minute with the kids and then Ariel called a taxi. He had a date with Sylvia at the cafe. He uses the waiting time to look at the DVDs they rent on the lower floor. He knows he won't break up with her in spite of his efforts to distance himself. Outside everything is strange. He is so lonely without her. Why is it always like that?

17.

Sylvia sensed his need to talk and she let him get things off his chest. So Ariel abandoned his usual hermeticism. Beneath his hair and behind his light eyes, he kept his thoughts locked in a safe. Would you come to Buenos Aires with me? Would you come with me?

What would I do there? Ariel lent her some thick wool socks. She has her feet up on the sofa.

On Friday she brought a backpack with some clothes. Three pairs of panties. Sportswear from Ariel. Every week he gets huge bags from the brand he endorses. They spent the weekend holed up at his house. Another fake trip with Mai, but her father didn't give her a hard time about it. She seemed happy. For Sylvia it was a pleasure to wile away the evening together, wake up beside each other. When Ariel went out to buy the newspapers, Sylvia feared the worst. He had gotten a call from his friend Husky a little while earlier.

One of the sports papers had written a harsh, relentless article about him. It listed his failures, his inability to adapt, his lack of commitment, and the inopportune injury that had left him, to top it all off, out of commission for the three decisive games of the season. The harshness was unusual. Too young to lead a team that needs wins. The end was enlightening: "The president would do good in finding him a team where he could get toughened up, and find a subst.i.tute who's not a potential but a reality. It's always better if the promising player is still promising in a couple of years, instead of just adding to the long list of failures." It seemed to already be fated. Ariel threw the newspaper down.

Barely a minute later, Sylvia heard the murmur of Husky's voice on the telephone trying to calm him down. Come on, that guy is on the club payroll, he's just another employee. They call it journalism but it's just a branch office. Ariel told Husky about his conversation with the sports director. Sylvia heard the story for the first time, even though it was being explained to a third party. Seeing her interest in the conversation, Ariel put it on speakerphone, and she listened to Husky say, they showed you their sophisticated working style, but they could also show their other face and throw you into the river with cement shoes.

Look, last year the president forced a sports newspaper to change both journalists who covered the team. In exchange he made sure to filter them the signings, the important news, before any other media outlet, what do you think, that the journalists aren't part of the game? Husky let out a sardonic laugh. Here everybody has to sell what they have. They need each other, f.u.c.k, I can't believe I have to explain this business to you.

Ariel tossed and turned in the armchair. Sylvia tried to calm him down after he hung up. He confessed all his frustrations about the team to her. That evening Sylvia heard him talking to his brother in Buenos Aires and noticed Charlie was able to pacify him. In their conversation, his original accent came back, the old expressions that little by little he had set aside because they were strange to Spaniards. He read paragraphs of the article and Ariel seemed to take pleasure in the things written against him, as if it were some sort of m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic exercise.

The day before, he had run into the sports director again during practice and they had talked about some French team's interest in him. Monaco is a perfect place, don't you think? Pujalte said. Ariel had then showed his defiant side. I want to stay and I'm going to fight to stay. It seemed obvious that the article was an emphatic response to Ariel. The fight is going to be unevenly matched, get ready. A message aimed straight at his jugular.

Sylvia didn't really understand the sports reasons or the contractual difficulties. She was only thinking about one thing. If Ariel left the city, it would surely mean the end of their relationship. However, he denied that possibility. When she heard him talk, reflect on the problem out loud, Sylvia wanted to ask him, and what about me? What's going to happen with me?

Sylvia heard him say things to his brother in Buenos Aires like, the money is the least of it, it's a question of dignity. When he tamed his rage after talking with friends and his agent, Ariel lay down on the sofa, beside her. He seemed like a different person. Talking calmed him down, he lost the tone in his voice he'd had during the calls, like a caged beast. He now used a more broken, fragile tone, which was tender and made Sylvia feel useful, closer.

Now she listens with a pillow hugged tight against her belly. He says, I'm no good, I wasn't good enough, I can get as mad as I want, but that's not going to cover up the truth. No one will come out to defend me because I haven't done anything outstanding, they always have to find a guilty party, everybody was expecting something from me that I wasn't able to give them. This is a game, if you play it well, you give the orders; if not, then they have control of the situation. It happens all the time, there are players with promise, but things don't go right, and five years later they're a pathetic shadow on third-tier teams and you ask yourself, wasn't that guy going to be the new Maradona? And you feel sorry for him, or you don't even care. Well, now I'm gonna turn into someone like that. Sylvia is afraid to interrupt and say something well-intentioned but stupid, so she just looks at him with enormous eyes and tries to understand him.

Which is why she is so surprised when he changes his tone and asks, would you come to Buenos Aires with me? She doesn't answer right away. She doubts he has stopped to think, for even a second, about how all this affects her. Sylvia sees herself as the companion to a soccer player, the partner with the suitcases always packed. She looks at her backpack with the changes of underwear placed at the foot of the coffee table. The two distant, foreign, incompatible worlds come back to her, but she doesn't say anything, she knows it's not the right moment. It's time to console him, it's selfish for her to think of herself. They are talking about his career, his profession, not his feelings. That's why all she says is, and what would I do there?

d.a.m.n people. I'm not leaving here, I'm not leaving you. Sylvia knows he isn't thinking about what he's saying. In a little while, his team's game will start on television. They sit down to watch. Sylvia hopes they lose by a scandalous margin. That they make fools of themselves, that the fickle, cruel public will miss the injured player. Don't say that, we have to win, he says to her, this game is really important. Sylvia now thinks their relationship may end with the season, that he'll vanish and she'll go back to being the same gray high school student she was before she met him. She feels a fear she can't wipe away.

As soon as I'm playing again, I'm going to bring them to their knees.

18.

Wait, lie down here, feel the music. Leandro takes Osembe's hand. He helps her climb up on the piano. The pink sole of her foot produces a dissonant chord as it steps on the keys. Her body lies on the shiny black wood of the piano. She is naked, except for her bra, which once again she has insisted on keeping on. She gathers her legs in a protective gesture, managing to make herself comfortable as she smiles. Leandro sits in front of the piano and starts by playing a slow improvisation. The resonance is magnificent. Osembe rests her head and looks at the ceiling. The light comes from a distant lamp and from the large window where the streetlights' glow sneaks in. But Leandro doesn't need light to play. Without consciously choosing it, he is playing a Debussy prelude, leaving out many notes along the way. She closes her eyes and he slows down the rhythm of the music.

The moment gradually loses the ostentatiousness of the staging. They forget about the clothes piled up any which way on the nearby sofa, about the sneakers overturned on the rug and the tiny white socks that stick out of them. The music covers it all. Osembe's thigh is just a few inches from Leandro's eyes. He doesn't know if the vibration of the music goes through Osembe's spine and manages to affect her, but he is suddenly surprised to notice his eyes filled with tears. The piece had always moved him.

He suddenly knows that he will carry out with Osembe all that life didn't let him have with Aurora, when they were both splendid young bodies, filled with desire, wanting to take the world by storm. How absurd. Who is to blame? Is there even a guilty party? In his old age, he gives this private fantasy to someone who isn't able or interested in appreciating it. A scene reserved for the woman of his life, but played by a subst.i.tute who charges to carry out a role she doesn't understand.

Play something, I can hear you from here, Aurora still asks him some nights before sleeping. And he carefully chooses those pieces that he knows she'll recognize and enjoy. He remembers the not so distant occasion when she told him, when I hear you play the piano and I'm doing something else, in some other part of the house, I think that's the closest to happiness I've ever known. For years it had been hard for him to come home from the academy and sit at the piano, he a.s.sociated it with work, and only during his private lessons with students was it heard in the house. The ma.s.seuse who comes some mornings says, play for her, you have that touch, I'm sure it'll help her. Aurora's pains seem to have spread and in the last few days Leandro has seen her stifling a wince when she changes position and closing her eyes as if she were suffering horrible whiplash. When he cleans the excrement from her backside with the sponge and bucket of warm water, he does it delicately, because the slightest brusqueness makes her cry in pain.

On the last visit to the hospital, the only thing the doctor dared to prescribe was rest. If the pain is unbearable, we'll admit her, but while she can be at home, she'll be more comfortable. You know how hospitals are. I prefer to die at home, Aurora had said to Leandro as they left, with a terrifying calmness.

It had snowed that week in Madrid, hiding spring's proximity. Many trees that had flowered in the previous sunny days received the snowstorm with surprise. Leandro told his son, I wish we lived in a building with an elevator, at least that way I could take her out for a walk every day. But sitting was very painful for Aurora; she prefered to lie in bed. Sometimes she watched the television in her room and Leandro sat by her side, to keep her company, and she said, less television and more looking at the trees is what I need.

Friday I'm going out for dinner, can you sit in for me? Lorenzo was about to answer, but Sylvia beat him to it, offering to sleep over with her grandmother. Leandro explained that he was collaborating with Joaquin's biographer. You don't know how hard it is to remember such an awful period. At that point, he had already arranged a date with Osembe in Joaquin's apartment...

How many hours? The whole night. That's a lot of money, she warned him over the phone. No problem. Two thousand euros. You're crazy, I'll give you what I always do for every hour, that's it. Okay, honey, but no funny stuff, just you and me alone.

They were alone. Leandro stops playing and stands up. He brings his lips to her body and runs them along the rough skin of her thighs. She puts her hand on his head and musses his hair. You're an artist. Leandro realizes he has never given her pleasure, just those overacted o.r.g.a.s.ms she fakes to excite him. She has never let herself go. Leandro places his mouth between her thighs, but Osembe stops him immediately. No, no, I suck, I suck. Take off all your clothes. Leandro insists. He brings his hand to her shaved, sandpapery pubic hair. She fakes a few seconds of uncontrollable pleasure, making a somewhat grotesque spectacle before sitting on the piano top. She steps on the keys again and amuses herself with the dissonant sounds she makes. She unb.u.t.tons Leandro's shirt with a white smile.

She gets down from the piano and leads Leandro through the apartment by the hand. It's beautiful, is this where you live? No, no, I only practice here. A lot of money. She stops to point to an abstract painting. How ugly, eh? she says. She pushes open the door of the bedroom and discovers the large double bed. Osembe walks to the closet and opens it. She brushes her fingers along the elegant women's clothes, the two or three suits hanging in their designer bags. There is a bathroom opposite the bedroom door. There are barely any traces of life; everything is precisely ordered.

Osembe goes naked through the entire house. He leaves his pants there, on the floor. So you're a millionaire pianist...Well, I give concerts around the world. You must know women much more beautiful than me. Leandro smiles and shakes his head. He hugs Osembe and tries to kiss her on the mouth. It had been a while since she stopped avoiding his kisses. But she reciprocates in a very contained way, the way she does almost everything with him. Leandro sometimes has the feeling he's kissing a damp object.

She unmakes the bed that he would have preferred to leave out of their games. But he doesn't say anything. They've opened a bottle of champagne from the fridge. I'm going to get my bag, she says, and leaves the room. As always, the wait drags on. Leandro lies on the bed, relaxed. He knows they won't be there all night, because in a couple of hours he'll want to be alone, he'll feel guilty and dirty again.

Leandro thinks he hears Osembe talking on the phone. Shortly after, she comes into the room again. She carries a condom in one hand and a small plastic bag hanging from her forearm. The image, together with her nakedness and her bra, is pleasing to Leandro's eyes. He likes when everything isn't just a calculated, professional erotic experience. Deep down, he thinks, what he'd like to do is just sit down and read the newspaper and have Osembe watch TV, or just have dinner, one in front of the other.

You've got the money, right? Of course, he replies. Leandro runs his fingers over her hair, styled hard. You like it? I like it better when you wear it without so much stuff, it's like a rock. She laughs. You're so fickle.

Osembe's movements are as unbelievable as ever. Her routine is half gymnastic and half erotic. Leandro lets her do it. Today he gets easily excited. The s.p.a.ce helps. He tries to free her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his hand and finally Osembe allows it. He manages to get her bra off over her head. He never could open the clasp, because of his arthritic hands. She tries to jerk him off but Leandro orders her to stop, there's no hurry. Sure, you're the one paying, honey.

Leandro is asking her for something impossible. For her it must seem sad, pathetic, this romantic and perverse staging I've set up. Why do I do all this? Leandro enjoys the mere play of his skin against hers, touching the hardness of her muscles, feeling how her abundant sweat soaks him, sometimes even managing to get rid of the smell of cheap cologne. He knows this will be his farewell to Osembe. There will be no more nights after the fantasy of owning this apartment, owning these picture windows, this woman's body, this mirage of eternal life. He drinks from his gla.s.s and spills a bit of liquid on Osembe's shoulder, which he immediately licks off. She smiles.

He hadn't even wanted to think about or calculate how much money he had squandered in this inexplicable torrent. The last time he checked a bank statement, the bite out of his loan was considerable, so much so that he tore the paper in pieces as if he could refuse to be aware of it. Every time he pays the ma.s.seuse or the cleaning lady or buys medicines at the pharmacy, he feels relief that the money also slips out through other, n.o.bler, outlets.

His erection has disappeared and Osembe seems to have grown tired of her mechanical movements. She gets a message on her cell phone. She gets up for a minute to make a call. Leandro likes to watch her walk. She's picked up her bra off the floor and is heading toward the living room. He imagines her spending her free time glued to her cell phone, which she keeps in a colorful cover. It's almost like her pet.

Leandro follows her to the living room a moment later. He is naked and he sits at the piano. It bothers him to notice his flaccid arms as he lifts his hands to the keys. When she hangs up the phone, she touches him on the shoulder. Do you wanna f.u.c.k or not? Leandro smiles. She sits on the keyboard and interrupts his music. Leandro strokes her thighs. Are you going to stay in Spain forever? She shakes her head no, I'm going back and I'm going to start my own business, I'll have my own house. And I'll find a man who loves me and works. You like your country better than this one? Osembe nods without hesitation. But there democracy is bad, all the politicians are thieves. It would be better to have soldiers, a strong hand, people could be safe.

Leandro smiles at the unexpected a.n.a.lysis of Nigerian politics, at her almost completely naked, with her muscular rear end resting on the keys, speaking in defense of military dictatorships. In what other moment in history could someone like you and someone like me have met? Does it seem like a miracle to you? Leandro felt like talking. He didn't really mind showing his nakedness in front of her. Where would you have met an old man like me? A dirty old man, she says. Someone must have taught her the expression.

Exactly. An old man who's hooked on spending his money on a surly black girl. I'm surly? Yes, very, that's why I like you, I hate friendly people. Osembe asks him to explain the meaning of surly. He gives her a few synonyms. She looks at him with challenging eyes. We could get married, we make a good couple. You're romantic today, cheerful, she says to him. You wanna f.u.c.k?

Leandro is amused by her efforts to arouse him on the sofa. He stretches out his hand every once in a while to drink a sip from his gla.s.s. Don't drink any more, she says. If you drink you can't boom-boom. Suddenly their roles are switched. I'm cold, she says, bring a blanket. Leandro stands up and goes toward the bedroom. He pulls the comforter off the bed to bring it to the living room. It is pleasant, not very heavy, filled with down. Leandro tosses it carelessly onto the sofa. He notices that the champagne is starting to affect him. It will be a pleasure to sleep against another body. Osembe covers herself with the comforter. Stay and sleep here with me. He places himself on top. He starts to move as if he were going to make love to her.

But barely a few seconds later the front door opens with a violent shove. The man who comes in closes it behind him without making any noise. He looks around and walks toward the sofa. Before Leandro can say anything, the guy grabs him by the arm, lifts him in the air, and throws him across the room. Leandro hits the wall, in pain. The guy has a shaved head, he's black, well built, not very tall. He is wearing a leather jacket. Osembe has gotten off the sofa. The man walks toward Leandro and gives him two kicks in the stomach. Leandro folds, afraid. The man picks up Leandro's pants from the nearby chair and empties his wallet of money, then tosses it.

Osembe has started to get dressed. The man says something to her that Leandro doesn't understand. His fragile, whitish, scared body doesn't want to partic.i.p.ate in the scene, not even to hear what's being said. She points to the bedroom and the man goes over there. He hears drawers and closets being opened, rummaged through. He comes back with coats and some more clothes that he tosses to Osembe.

He lifts up Leandro's head. More money. Where? Jewelry? His mouth is pink inside, his tongue like strawberry chewing gum. He doesn't speak very loudly, he has a funny voice with a strange timbre, but Leandro doesn't laugh. There's nothing, it's not my house, really, it's not my house. The man lets Leandro's head drop and now kicks him twice right in the face. They aren't brutal kicks. They're moderate. But they split one of his eyebrows, which bleeds. The warmth of the blood is about to make Leandro faint. His eyes search out Osembe to try to get her protection. But she is putting on her sneakers.

The man is now in the kitchen. He is rummaging through everything. The sound of cups and plates breaking is heard. The man comes back to the living room with an enormous knife. Leandro fears he will kill him. How absurd. Osembe says, let's go. But the guy starts to stab the sofa cushions, tears the intense red curtains. Osembe seems to be smiling. The man pa.s.ses in front of Leandro, but ignores him. He goes to the piano and starts to stab it as if it were an animal. The wood resists his violence. With the tip of the knife, he starts to carve into the varnish along the entire piano, leaving a conspicuous trail on the black shiny surface. Then he throws the knife and rips out a DVD player from beneath the television and a CD player from one of the shelves. He wraps them in one of the coats.

Leandro lifts his head, trusting that he will see him leaving. Then he gets a kick in the thigh. It comes from Osembe. He looks toward her, but she doesn't look at him. She kicks furiously with her sneakers three or four times. He remains immobile, shrunken. The man has opened the door and gestures toward her, she joins him, and they leave. They close the door with unexpected delicacy. Leandro, on the floor, spits out his own blood, which has slid from his eyebrow to his mouth. He feels his body, trying to calm the pain in his side. He sits up on the wooden floor. He hugs himself and discovers that from his glans hangs the useless condom, amorphous, like a dead hide. He looks around and feels panic.