Learning To Lose Part 3

Ariel was quiet. So much so that the sports director gave him an encouraging slap. Come on, what you should be worrying about now is the game. Ariel thanked him for his words with a nod. Last year the vice president died on us in a hotel in Bilbao, f.u.c.king a conference hostess. We had to be quick on that one, f.u.c.k. That thing with your brother, too, he added, these things happen. It's better if they don't, okay, but we're here to solve problems, keep the ball out of the goal box. That's what I've spent all my life doing. Pujalte smiled with his whitened teeth. I was never an elegant player, but I was effective.

Ariel went back to practice. He joined in the one-touch pa.s.sing exercise. When it landed in the center, he was slow to recover the ball. Sixteen years old? He thought, poor girl. Had Pujalte lied to him? Was it worse than he had said? He tried to remember the impact, if something more than her leg had been hurting her. She was pa.s.sed out for a while. The coach handed out the bicolored training bibs for the final practice game. Ariel couldn't focus; he just killed time.

In the parking lot, he looked for his car. The keys were in it. There was no trace of blood or the girl or the bottle. Someone had gone to the trouble of cleaning up after him. Knuckles knocked on the window and Ariel jumped. It was a journalist, young, with blond bangs. Ariel lowered the window and she approached with a tape recorder. She introduced herself and asked him some questions, the last one: when do you think the Spanish fans will see you in full form? Ariel hesitated. The young woman made an effort to have her body language mimic the gestures of a man. Looking him straight in the eye.

Soon, I hope.

When he got home, Emilia was almost finished making cocido cocido, a traditional stew in Madrid. Have you ever tried it? Yes, well, something similar, it's like puchero puchero, said Ariel, looking at the mess of chickpeas, vegetables, meat, chorizo, bacon, and black sausage. I'm leaving you a pot of soup. He tried to nap, but he ended up in the yard knocking the ball around. When he was thirteen, he once spent an entire afternoon kicking the ball without it touching the ground. He got up to five thousand kicks without it dropping. It was a useless exercise, exhausting, but at that moment it helped him to clear his head, to bring him back to a state of comfortable oblivion. Suddenly, he decided the exercise was over. He stepped hard on the ball.

He had made a decision.

Being recognized was the most absurd part of his job. He liked when some kid asked for his autograph, when they looked at him on the street, when he was recognized in restaurants, but it was a pain in the neck when you were trying to lead a normal life. The accident would have been completely different if he wasn't a celebrity. He had been drinking, he was driving fast, it would be easy for the press to vent their anger on him, for it to get him into real trouble. He understood the club's cover-up, the favor they'd done for him, erasing his trail. But he wasn't like that. He arrived at the hospital when it was already night. When he could be sure visiting hours were over.

He knew the place. He had had his physical examination there the day after he arrived in Madrid. And when he left, he posed for the reporters. Do you know how much they pay us to photograph you here? Pujalte whispered to him. Twenty thousand euros. It was his way of explaining how the advertising business around soccer worked.

The receptionist recognized him. I'm here to see a friend, she was run over yesterday, a young girl. Three twelve, she said. Sylvia Roque. Then she pointed to the elevator with a huge smile.

Ariel was slow to approach the door. He knocked cautiously. He was surprised at how the girl received him. You're the one who ran me over, right? She had beautiful curly black hair that fell onto the pillow. The bedspread covered her, pulled up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She smiled with one leg in a cast that hung in the air. And that accent? Where are you from?

From Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires, never been there. Is it pretty? The girl seemed comfortable. Ariel had suspected it would be tense. But she showed him a crooked, self-a.s.sured smile. She opened the chocolates. Ariel looked around the room. You want one? Ariel refused with a gesture of his hand. He watched her eat a chocolate. She had a pretty mouth. The television spat out music in English.

I really came to apologize, for not bringing you to the hospital myself. It would have gotten me into a bad fix and, well, I was with a friend. He started to lie again. He decided to stop suddenly, not do it again.

You're a soccer player, right? Ariel nodded. What's your name? Ariel approached the bed, at thigh height, where her cast began. Ariel. Ariel Burano. Ariel, that's nice. It's the name of a detergent brand here, she said. I know. Ariel reached for one of the sports newspapers and showed her his photo on one page, with the headline MISSING IN ACTION MISSING IN ACTION above it. As you can see, I'm wildly successful, he added. above it. As you can see, I'm wildly successful, he added.

Sylvia looked into his eyes. And why did you come now? I felt morally obligated. I don't know, I felt awful about not telling the truth. I wanted to make sure you were being well taken care of, all that. My father is a fan of your team, he loves soccer, Sylvia told him. But you don't? People here are bats.h.i.t over soccer. It's the same in Argentina, isn't it? The same or worse.

Sylvia thought for a second and smiled again. So you mean I could go to the press with this story and get some serious dough. Yeah. Relax, I'm not going to. My father says your friend was very good to me. He works for the club. As a scapegoat? I don't know the city, I didn't know where to take you or how to get to a hospital, Ariel justified.

Sylvia shook her head. It was an accident. I'm glad you came and we met. Will you invite me to a game when I get out? Ariel appreciated the opportunity to be gracious. If you want. Sylvia's smile didn't fade. The doctor says I'll be better pretty soon and then I could steal your job. I wouldn't be surprised.

Ariel pulls his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Do you have a cell phone? Sylvia gives him her number. Ariel gives her his and as they exchange numbers it seems that their hands intertwine, without actually touching. If there's anything you need, call me.

Stop feeling guilty. How do you know I didn't throw myself under your car because I wanted to kill myself? Ariel smiled. Why would a girl like you want to kill herself?

Should I make you a list?

When they said good-bye, Ariel said, it was a pleasure to meet you. Well, the next time you want to meet a girl, you don't have to run her over.

Ariel still hadn't figured out how to turn on the heat. He puts on a sweatshirt. He has leftovers from lunch for dinner. He calls Charlie. He doesn't tell him anything about the accident. I played like s.h.i.t. Don't say that, reprimands his brother. You have to see our folks, they got fat, they think they're Maradona's parents. Ariel tells him that the first critical comments are starting to appear in the papers. Do they think you're gonna be the first bad Argentinian player they ever sign, you're not even original in that, goaded Charlie. Why don't you invite someone to spend a week there with you? Ariel thinks about his brother's suggestion. It's not a bad idea. Maybe he's thinking about Agustina. They say good-bye and Ariel is soon asleep. He rests for the first time in days, with the help of Sylvia's gaze from her hospital bed, infected by the peacefulness of her smiling eyes.

13.

The room is covered in pine shelves that sag from the weight of the books. There are books on their spines, on their fronts, stacked on top of other books, books two and three rows deep, books on the floor, beneath the bottom shelf. Some of them have wrinkled, gnawed papers sticking out between the pages; they look like notes, photocopies. Sylvia looks at them as if they formed a whole, nearly a sculpture. The room has nothing else, except for the lamp, her bed, and a small round table. She had come to her mother's new house a few days after leaving the hospital. She should say Santiago's house. Light filters in through the blinds. She isn't sleepy.

At first her mother's job was an awkward obligation. What's the point of suffering? Lorenzo used to say. She worked producing cultural events, but her job was more bureaucratic and less creative: permits, organizing trips, hotel stays, filing invoices. Now it turns out she's discovered that being a secretary was her lifelong dream, Sylvia heard her father say one day. Lorenzo never liked his wife's job, which often required overtime that slipped like lava into the weekends, into her time at home. Pilar was about to quit. That was when Santiago came to take over the Madrid office.

Sylvia witnessed the change. Suddenly her mother's job was interesting, it was what supported them, an activity that generated conversation over family dinners. She seemed happy, busy, with an overflowing engagement calendar always in her hand. At that same time, her father's job began to be a source of problems, of tensions, of uncertainty, of bad feelings. Paco, Papa's partner, the fun guy who always brought her presents, stopped coming by, became someone whose name couldn't be mentioned, who no longer called. A ghost.

You hooked up with your boss? thought Sylvia when her mother told her who her new boyfriend was. Santiago was planning to go back to Saragossa, his hometown. She was moving there with him. What are you going to do there? Sylvia asked. The same thing I do now, the work is the same.

Her mother often told her about the new city. It is smaller, more accessible, friendlier than Madrid. You don't waste your life in traffic jams or getting from one place to another. Getting away from Madrid has done me good. For me that city will always be linked to Lorenzo.

Santiago's house in Saragossa is big. It's filled with papers, books. There are two abstract paintings, one in the living room and another in his study. There is also a poster from a 1948 Pica.s.so exhibition and in the kitchen there's a huge drawing of a table filled with fruit, vases, flowers. Through the living room windows you can see the iron bridge, painted green, over the river. It's a beautiful, relaxing view that Sylvia has spent hours looking at when she's alone in the house. The water flows forcefully and is the color of mud.

Her father had driven her home from the hospital. He left her at the door while he looked for a parking spot. Sylvia held the manila envelope with her X-rays between her fingers. She still hadn't mastered the crutches. She waited. Finding a spot at that hour could take a while. Her father had been complaining ever since they left the hospital. And now, parking, you'll see...he said. The Ecuadorian woman who takes care of the boy on the fifth floor came in from the street. The boy had fallen asleep in his stroller with his legs dangling like a marionette at rest. The young woman had a pretty face. She was stocky and as she turned Sylvia got a glimpse of her round thighs. They greeted each other without a word. She called the elevator and noticed Sylvia's cast. What happened? I got hit by a car, Sylvia told her. d.a.m.n cars. Sylvia nodded and watched her skillfully fit the stroller into the elevator. The boy's little legs swung with her maneuvering.

Lorenzo came back after some time. It's incredible. What, are we supposed to just swallow the car? Sylvia found her father's constant complaining amusing. That night they sat together in the living room to watch a soccer game. Ariel was playing and Sylvia followed him with her gaze, as her father criticized him harshly. That kid is no good, he's got no blood in his veins. Why do they call him Feather? Is he gay? asked Sylvia. Her father looked at her insolently. There are no gay soccer players, are you crazy? They call him that because he's little. Well, he's not that small.

Lorenzo's harsh criticism of Ariel eventually started to irritate Sylvia. I don't think he plays so bad. The other ones aren't exactly doing much either. What do you know about soccer? The cameras showed Ariel's annoyed expression when he was taken out of the game. They were beating a Polish team, one nothing, one of those teams that the sportscasters claim have no compet.i.tive pedigree. Sylvia saw how Ariel's sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, how the television darkened his face and made him seem more hefty. When they subst.i.tuted him, he went to sit on the bench and loosened the laces on his sneakers, lowered his knee socks, and tossed his blue ankle supports to the ground. He put on a zippered sweatshirt and lifted his legs, pulling his knees to his chest. For the last fifteen minutes, Sylvia hadn't really been following the game. Her father had put a cushion beneath her cast so she could rest it on the table. He offered her something to drink and fried some eggs for dinner.

Mom says I should go stay with her until Monday, said Sylvia. Lorenzo shrugged his shoulders. Whatever you want.

Pilar comes into Sylvia's bedroom after knocking lightly on the door. She helps her sit up. You want to shower? Later, says Sylvia. Her hair is tangled and her eyes swollen after sleeping almost twelve hours. Pilar thinks she looks gorgeous and tells her so. Santiago went to Paris and won't be back until tonight. Sylvia puts a sweater on over her T-shirt and her mother puts a winter sock on her other foot. They go to the kitchen, Sylvia hopping. Pilar makes breakfast for her. Drink your juice first, otherwise it loses its vitamins. Are you cold? Do you want me to bring you some pants?

Her mother usually dressed down at home. Sometimes she would share a worn bathrobe with Lorenzo. So Sylvia was surprised by the skirt and shoes. They were new. They looked good on her. The thick weave of the sweater hid her extreme skinniness. Her hair was better taken care of, tastefully cut and dyed a mahogany shade that brought out her eyes.

The night before, Sylvia called Mai. She had gone to Leon again this weekend. Mateo is treating me horribly, I'll tell you about it later, she told Sylvia. It's that I'm super-clingy. It was hard to talk to Mai about anything but her new relationship. She had talked to Alba and Nadia, too. No news at school. She'd missed a week, but, according to them, nothing happened. She hasn't spoken to Dani since the chilly text message exchange. She checks her cell phone every once in a while, carrying it in her hand when she moves around on her crutches. It's strange, but she often has the feeling that Ariel is going to call her. When it rings or a message comes in she's surprised to notice that she gets a little worked up imagining it might be him.

But it never is.

Pilar sits in front of her and brushes a lock of hair out of her face. Do you want me to pull it back for you? Sylvia shakes her head, making her curls quiver. How does Lorenzo seem to you? Pilar asks her. All her life, he's been Papa and now hearing her mother call him Lorenzo surprises her; she finds it strange, as if Pilar were talking about someone else. Maybe she is. Does he see his friends much? Sylvia shrugs her shoulders. I don't know, the usual, they go to games. They talk about Grandma Aurora, the string of hospital stays. Pilar gets serious. I'm going to give you some money, I don't want you to have to ask Papa for money during all this. Sylvia smiles and holds the gla.s.s of warm milk with both hands. I should warn you that I'm going to spend it all on drugs and men. I have no doubt about that, replies Pilar. Better to spend it on men, and on quality ones, at least. Sylvia looks up. My problem isn't quality, it's quant.i.ty. Pilar gathers up the gla.s.ses and brings them to the sink. Do you have a boyfriend now? Sylvia is taken by surprise. Now? Now? As if I ever had a boyfriend As if I ever had a boyfriend before before. Sylvia shakes her head, takes a bite of her toast. There's no rush, says her mother. Well, I hope it's before I'm an old crone. Pilar turns, amused, I notice a certain hint of desperation. A certain hint? I'm totally desperate.

A second later Sylvia asks, Mama, how old were you when you first had s.e.x? With a man? No, with your teddy bear, responds Sylvia. Pilar pauses. Twenty years old. Sylvia lets out a whistle. I hope it's not hereditary. She observes her mother's shy smile and makes a mental calculation. But, then, that was with Papa, right? Pilar nods. Papa was your first? Sylvia's gaze wanders before settling on the table. She makes the plate dance on the tabletop with her fingertip. She doesn't look at her mother as she asks, and Santiago was the second? Pilar nods.

For a moment, she only hears the sound of a bus opening its door at the stop. Sylvia thinks about her mother, reviews her life in fast-forward. Without really knowing why, she says, what a life, huh? Kind of...Pilar looks at her, and her eyes dampen. There was a time when I was very happy with your father. I may never be that happy again with anybody. I haven't missed...but she stops, she doesn't finish the sentence. Sylvia plays with a lock of hair and brings it to her mouth. Pilar sits back down in front of her and pulls the lock out. They don't say anything. Sylvia reaches for the radio on the corner of the table. She searches for a station with music that's not too cheesy. Heavy guitars. Do you really like that noise? asks Pilar. Who would have guessed it.

14.

He goes back on Thursday.

Leandro is in the Jacuzzi. His back rests against Osembe's chest and his hands are on her thighs. She caresses him with a sponge and for a moment it looks like he is going to fall asleep in her arms. The bathroom is not very large and has a shower with a murky gla.s.s door splattered with drops. The Jacuzzi is blue, oval. Every once in a while, it shoots out jets and Osembe laughs at the underwater ma.s.sage. A thin layer of foam has formed. Leandro's gray hair is damp and hangs limp. I've been reading about your country, says Leandro. It's very big. It has more than a hundred million inhabitants and they say that soon it will be the third most populated country on the planet. I'm from the Delta, she says, Itsekiri. And she p.r.o.nounces the word in a very different tone from the one she uses in Spanish, less tentative. You're in good spirits today. Happier, Leandro says to her. Osembe squeezes up against him. You come, I happy.

Leandro had sat among the students at the outsize tables of the Cuatro Caminos public library, with the encyclopedia open, to learn something more about Osembe's country, as if he, too, were preparing for an upcoming exam. He read about its history, its legendary founding, the religious divisions, the poverty, independence, corruption. You know more than I do, says Osembe now when she listens to him. My country is very rich, the people very poor. Someone knocked on the door. It's Pina, an Italian girl with very short hair, dyed blond. She comes in wrapped in a towel, as if she just finished a session. This is the life, she says with a chipper accent. Leandro remembers her from the parade of girls the first day. Do you mind? Leandro feels them both watching him, waiting for his response. Okay, he says.

Pina takes off the green towel. Her body is thin, with scant b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her ribs showing. She gets into the tub and sits in front of them. She extends her arms, approaches, and the three bodies touch. Very lucky grandpa, two girls for him, she says, and Leandro regrets having let her get in, though he is still smiling. She seems too cheerful; maybe she's on drugs. She kisses Leandro on the mouth, but a second later caresses Osembe's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and kisses her on the shoulder. You like to watch? Pina strokes Osembe and they mock him with a very coa.r.s.e, obvious lesbian game.

That afternoon Leandro was reading the newspaper beside Aurora's bed. She seemed to envy his concentration. Read me the news. Leandro looked up. At that precise moment he had been immersed in the international pages. In Nigeria, which had attracted his attention because it is Osembe's homeland, there was a strike of workers at the oil refineries. More than fifty dead during the protests. It was a devastated, polluted territory, where the large oil company controlled all the resources. Yet the violence had been sparked by religious conflicts between Muslims and Christians. What do you want me to read to you? asked Leandro. Whatever. He skipped over the international pages. It was also best not to read about domestic politics. Endless electoral campaigns. He read her the crime section. A man had killed his wife by throwing her off the balcony of their house. The young woman was four months pregnant. Two men had stabbed each other in an argument over soccer. It seems they were brothers and had gone to the game together. What is the world coming to, my G.o.d, said Aurora, and Leandro took that to mean he should skip that section, too.

He read her an interview with a British writer who had fictionalized the life of Queen Isabella "the Catholic." Today, in his opinion, she would have been locked up in a psychiatric inst.i.tution as a hopeless paranoid with hysterical delusions. Leandro looked up. Aurora seemed interested. He continued. The decision to expel the Jews was actually made by her mediocre advisers, who were afraid of the economic and social power the Jews were beginning to enjoy. The advisers feared losing their positions of influence, choosing instead to go against the best interests of the country. He had heard his friend Manolo Almendros talking authoritatively on the subject at some point. With the expulsion of the Jews, Spain makes its first formal declaration of mediocrity, officially becoming a despicable nation filled with complexes. And on the second of May, he added, territorialism won out, each region making up for the national powerlessness. Leandro continued reading, but an ad on the bottom of the opposite page drew his eye. As part of a cla.s.sical music series, sponsored by a bank, it advertised a piano concert by Joaquin Satrustegui Bausan. On February 22. He mentioned it to Aurora. Look, Joaquin is going to play the Auditorio. Are you going to get tickets? How long has it been since we've seen him? she asks. Almost eight years. It would be nice to see him play again. Leandro hesitates. I don't know, if you want to.

Leandro and Joaquin Satrustegui had known each other since childhood. They grew up on the same street in Madrid. They played together among the ruins of the bombings during the war. They collected bullets, remains of the bombs launched by Franco's planes. With Joaquin he had found a corpse amid the rubble on an embankment that is now part of the Avenida de la Castellana. A swarm of flies had cl.u.s.tered on the man's swollen belly and Leandro threw a big rock onto him to scare them off. The rock, when it sunk into the chest, made a dull sound, like a parade ba.s.s drum breaking. The two boys ran off, but the scene gave Leandro recurring nightmares throughout his childhood. He still can't eat raw meat. That morning Leandro told his mother what they had seen. Beasts, was all she said. Nothing more. But he never forgot the desolate tone of her response.

He had vague memories of the war, that boundless time when kids lived in the streets. The victory meant the return of men, the return of the absent authority figure, the end of freedom. Leandro's father purged his Republican affiliation with two years of military service, but his destiny was helped along by Joaquin's father. During the war, that man, a career soldier, had been given up for lost near Santander and, in the neighborhood, everyone treated Joaquin like an orphan and helped his mother survive and raise him and his older sister. But his father came back with an important military post and a tidy situation once the war was over. They said he was a hero, that he had been in Burgos, close to command. He was a large man, with a heavy gait, his face run through with tiny red veins and an enormous double chin that spilled over his chest like a fleshy bib. Joaquin's piano lessons took place at the house and Leandro, by then known to everyone as the seamstress's son, particularly after his father's death from gangrene, was allowed to join in. Don Joaquin also paid for both of them to study at the conservatory. He told them, work hard, because art is what distinguishes men from beasts. Any animal knows how to bite, how to procreate, how to survive, but can it play the piano? Joaquin and Leandro secretly made fun of him and forced Inky, Joaquin's mother's ugly, bad-tempered dachshund, to play the piano with his paws. Boy, will my father be surprised when he sees you play Chopin's nocturnes.

As a teenager Joaquin's relationship with his father grew more tentative. At seventeen he moved to Paris to continue his piano studies. He and Leandro kept in touch, at first by writing, then sending greetings to each other through mutual friends, and finally they only saw each other when Joaquin came back to Spain for some concert, after he had become a celebrated pianist. Losing friends is a slow process, in which two people who are close move in separate directions until the distance is irreparably great. Leandro saw Don Joaquin die, old, sad, longing for news of a son he admired, but barely spoke to. Leandro understood the man's bitterness. He, too, had become something remote to Joaquin, a memory of another time. He might not even remember us, he said to Aurora. Come on, she replied, don't be silly.

Aurora urged him to order tickets for the concert; Leandro gave in. It moved him that Aurora was more enthusiastic about it than he was. He's your friend, he'll be glad to see us. Shortly after, he stopped reading because of the aggravating presence of Benita, the cleaning lady, who, at that point in the morning, was more focused on conversation than on physical labor.

When they left the hospital, the doctor recommended that Leandro get a wheelchair for the first few days, for trips outside. That afternoon Leandro went to a specialized store on Calle Cea Bermudez. The wheelchair was heavier than he thought it was going to be. He doubted his ability to maneuver it and decided to rent it. With any luck, Aurora would walk again without any difficulty; at least the doctor was optimistic. His relief at leaving the hospital was overshadowed by his panic at the new situation. Buy the nurses some chocolates, they've been good to me, said Aurora.

Now Pina was laughing hysterically, showing two large incisors, one on top of the other, an ugly mouth with thin lips, and a gaze that made Leandro uncomfortable. It is the first time he has been in one of those enormous bathtubs, filled with orifices. Osembe pushes Pina away from them twice, both times when the Italian woman is being too bold. Leandro lets her m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e him for a while with her bony hands, the nails painted dark purple, but he moves closer to Osembe to make his preference clear. The afternoon ends without ecstasy or even real moments of shared pleasure.

The madam, Mari Luz, accepts Leandro's credit card. He explains that he doesn't have enough cash on him when she informs him that he has to pay for both girls. Leandro doesn't want to argue, but while the card receipt is printing he adds up the amounts. Today he's paying five hundred euros, plus the ten euro tip he slips into Osembe's hand every time he says goodbye. In two visits, he's used up his entire retirement check. I don't want the Italian girl to join us again, okay? Mari Luz nods, you're the boss, and Leandro feels he has regained control over the situation with that show of authority.

Leandro heads out into the street. His damp hair traps the cold afternoon breeze. He had combed his hair in front of the bathroom mirror. The little cabinet was empty and dirty. It had a comb and a worn toothbrush in it, a tube of toothpaste without a cap, crusty and clogged. The dirtiness of the place seemed to be tucked into corners, just hidden; you had to work to find it. On the street, he looks back at the chalet with the lowered blinds. I'm totally irresponsible, insane. He calms himself by thinking that maybe it is the last time he'll see that place. This has to end. It doesn't make sense.

It doesn't make sense.

15.

Lorenzo waits at the door to his parents' house. He paces ten yards up the sidewalk, and then back down. The entryway is exactly as it was in his childhood, only the solid door was changed to a lighter, uglier, and more fragile one when they installed the intercom phone. After school he used to wait in that hallway for his mother if she hadn't yet arrived from shopping or some errand. He had spent many hours of his life sitting on that step. His childhood street was no longer how he remembered it. There used to be low houses with whitewashed walls and red roofs. Now the number of apartment buildings with aluminum windows has multiplied. The old couples that founded the neighborhood in the forties and fifties had almost all died. When they go out for a walk, they look more like shipwrecked sailors than neighbors.

Lorenzo responded to his father's call. His mother wants to go for a stroll and he can't get her downstairs alone. After two days of almost nonstop rain, weak sunlight illuminated the street. Lorenzo helped his father carry the wheelchair the two flights with no elevator. On the first landing, Leandro rubbed his hurting hands on his jacket. At home, his father's hands had always been protected. He never cooked or used knives, he didn't open cans or jam jars or carry dangerous things. He never did odd jobs around the house like other fathers. See if you can do it, you know Papa shouldn't touch it, Lorenzo's mother would say to him when it came time to hang a painting or check an outlet. His father's hands were what supported the family, and once when he hurt his finger by pinching it in a chair, he wore a leather fingerstall for days to protect it. That morning he carried the wheelchair to the street and it made him think, I'm too old and weak to take care of a sick woman. They live in a building without an elevator, with a wide, old staircase. They are banking on Aurora recovering her mobility, but if that doesn't happen, they'll both have to get used to a new way of living.

We'll take a stroll through the neighborhood, but we'll be back soon. Lorenzo had lied to them when he said he had a job interview. It wasn't hard to find a bar; that was one thing that hadn't changed. There's practically one for every two doorways. They survive over time, just bare bones. They're small, dirty, completely unsophisticated, but people use them as offices, meeting places, lunchrooms, confessionals, living rooms. There was a woman at the back sticking coins into a slot machine with her empty shopping cart parked beside her. The bar's aluminum countertop was so scratched it looked white. In the newspaper, he found a feature article on Madrid's lack of safety that mentioned Paco's murder. It was written in an alarmist tone, describing "the violated tranquillity of a man returning home at night." They called it a "brutal murder." Lorenzo continued on to the cla.s.sifieds. He circled two. Maybe he'd call later.

He missed Sylvia. The rainy days without her at home had become heavy and sad. Lorenzo was comforted by the constant stream of music that came from her room. He liked to hear her going in and out in a rush, listen to the murmur of her talking on the phone with her friends. Without her the house was quiet. It didn't matter if he put on the TV or the radio, sat down to balance his checkbook in the kitchen, whistled in the living room. If she wasn't there, the echo turned the house into the den of a wounded wolf.

The day she left, Pilar came for her and Lorenzo offered to drive them to Atocha Station. He brought the car up to the doorway and as he was helping Sylvia get comfortable in her seat, another car appeared, honking and demanding to pa.s.s. Lorenzo turned violently and confronted the driver. It was a woman. What's the problem? Are you blind? The woman shot him a disdainful look and Lorenzo was about to walk over. Papa, leave it alone. That b.i.t.c.h saw your cast and still honked, what a joker. Lorenzo contained himself, seeing Pilar's nervous gesture in the backseat. He took his time sitting down behind the wheel. He stretched out the process of turning on the ignition. The city sometimes produced these car duels. The woman behind honked again. Lorenzo lifted his middle finger and showed it to her in the rearview mirror. f.u.c.k you, moron.

Lorenzo sees his parents reappear on the corner, moving slowly, the wheelchair advancing in fits and starts. They pa.s.s a Filipino family and there is a car parked on the sidewalk that forces his father to maneuver the wheelchair pathetically down the curb. Have you been waiting long? No, no. They go upstairs. Aurora seems tired. What a nice day, don't you think? And she says it with a melancholy that tries to encompa.s.s more than the good weather. His parents' apartment now seems smaller to him, the hallway narrower, the living room inadequate; even the upright piano in his father's studio seems tiny. The cleaning lady bustles about. You still have her? asks Lorenzo. His father shrugs his shoulders. Months earlier Lorenzo had heard them argue over Benita. Poor woman, said Aurora. It seemed the problem was that her obesity only allowed her to do a rather superficial job. Also, given her short stature she would need stilts to dust the tops of the furniture. Your mother keeps her on out of pity, Leandro explained. No one has a cleaning lady out of pity, said Lorenzo, you hired her to work. She needs the money, she'd be so upset if I told her not to come anymore, I can't do that, concluded Aurora.

Lorenzo takes the bus back to his neighborhood. It's not far. He rides the 43 and then walks from the stop toward his house. In the market he buys a chicken breast cut into fillets. He heads home with the little bag. His friend oscar had called him to go have a bite somewhere that night. He'll go out with him and his wife, maybe Lalo will join them. They'll chat about politics, soccer, someone will talk about some TV program or an incident at work. It's always better than staying home, watching television. The night before, Lorenzo went to bed early, but when he got under the sheets his sleepiness disappeared. He pulled out a Barbie doll he had been hiding in the back of the closet where his clothes piled up, sad that they no longer hung alongside Pilar's clothes. The Barbie was one of Sylvia's childhood toys, now forgotten, abandoned, too. She was blond, although her hair had lost its shine. She wore a short little dress that closed with Velcro. Lorenzo got into bed with her, took off her dress, and m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed as he caressed her protruding, dynamic, streamlined b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His hands traveled over her shape, her perfect thighs and her almost tiptoed feet. He fantasized about the doll's a.s.s, imagined it was real. Sometimes he made love to her in bed, other times in the bathtub. He had found her at the bottom of a box of toys that was lying around. When Pilar left, closets were gone through and the house got reorganized. It was like a partial move. The doll had taken him by surprise, as if she'd come back from the past. He was about to throw her into the garbage, but something stopped him. The doll spoke to him, her plastic touch aroused him, her studied form, the perverse design of her curves, her body language, her haughty, somewhat disdainful, cold, elitist nose. She became an absurd partner in his erotic games, a lonely comfort. After he came, Lorenzo dressed her again and hid her at the back of the closet, beneath the thick socks and the T-shirts he no longer wore.

Lorenzo arrives at the entrance to his building and calls the elevator, until he notices the little sign that says it's broken again. He sighs with annoyance. It happens too often. It's slow, small, and its motor breaks down every two or three weeks. When Lorenzo starts to climb the stairs, he hears the door to the street open. The Ecuadorian girl who works for the young couple on the fifth floor comes in. She's pushing a stroller and from the handles hang two full shopping bags. He sees her stop in front of the elevator and then head toward the stairs. He is about to ignore her, but thinks better of it. Let me help you. She thanks him, unsure if she should give him the bags or the stroller to carry.

Lorenzo puts his little white bag on the sleeping boy's lap and grabs the stroller by the front wheels. He lifts it up in the air. She does the same from the other end and they carry it up the stairs. The effort is somewhat repet.i.tive: an hour earlier he carried his mother up in a similar way. The boy is sleeping, unaware of the clatter. Were you planning on carrying it up yourself, five flights? Lorenzo asks her. She shrugs. They have never exchanged more than h.e.l.lo; sometimes Lorenzo sticks out his tongue or winks at the boy, but with her there's never been more than a smile and a brief greeting. Now he watches her. She isn't very tall, she has straight brown hair that falls over her shoulders. Her body seems to widen as it goes down, but her face has lovely indigenous features. Her sharp, almond-shaped eyes, her thin but pretty mouth, her nose with personality, rounded but pleasant. Where are you from? Ecuador, she says. And your daughter? Lorenzo doesn't really understand the question. How's her leg? Oh, fine, fine. She went to spend some time with her mother. He's starting to feel tired but he'd rather not stop if she doesn't. Are you separated? Yes, but my daughter lives with me. Lorenzo can't help a burst of pride. Now I'm the father and the mother. Your daughter is great, really nice, she says. Sylvia? Yes...and Lorenzo thinks that maybe that's her way of criticizing him for not being very friendly. What's your name? Daniela, and you, sir? Sir? No, please, just Lorenzo.

A straight lock of hair has fallen in front of her face and Lorenzo has a desire to brush it aside; she blows it out of the way. In Loja we had a Spanish priest named Lorenzo. He told us about the martyrdom of Saint Lorenzo, it was very frightening. Lorenzo lifted his eyebrows. Yes, well, of course. On the grill and all that. They cross the third-floor landing. I'm named after San Lorenzo de El Escorial. It seems I was conceived there, on one of my father's jobs or something, they must have liked the name, because there are no other Lorenzos in my family. That's what they always told me. Daniela smiles shyly. Is El Escorial pretty? I've never been there. Lorenzo thinks for a second. Pretty? Well, it's...interesting. I can take you there someday if you'd like, I haven't been in ages. No, never mind, Daniela says, excusing herself as if she feared there had been a misunderstanding. Lorenzo becomes uncomfortable. She puts the stroller down. They have gotten to the fourth floor. This is your apartment, isn't it? Lorenzo objects. No, no, I'll take you up to yours, please. Daniela resists, but they go up the last flight quickly, barely speaking. Their breathing sounds heavier. They say good-bye once Daniela opens the door. And any time you want to go to El Escorial, I'll take you, okay? I'd love to, really. Daniela laughs and thanks him two more times.

Lorenzo tosses his jacket onto the sofa. He has broken out in a sweat from the exertion. He goes into the kitchen and drinks straight from the tap. Pilar didn't like it when he did that. Now it didn't matter anymore. She didn't like it when he shaved in the kitchen either, as he sometimes used to do. The light is better. And she laughed when she heard him urinating and flushing before he was finished. Are you in that much of a hurry? Now there was no one to call him on his little vices.

The doorbell rings. Lorenzo turns around. He lets it ring again. When he opens the door, he's surprised to see Daniela standing in the threshold. She lifts up Lorenzo's little bag with his groceries from the market and smiles. This is yours, right? Lorenzo grabs the little bag. Thanks, it's my food for today. That's all you're going to eat? Lorenzo shrugs his shoulders. I'm by myself. Suddenly he realizes that Daniela feels pity, almost sorry for a man over forty coming home alone with a ridiculous little bag of food. They don't say anything, but Daniela points to the apartment upstairs and reminds him that she has left the boy alone. Lorenzo watches her head up the stairs. She is wearing skin-tight pants, black jeans. He thinks of Pilar: she would never have dared to wear such snug clothes, no matter how thin she was. But these girls are that daring. They play up their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, b.u.t.t, thighs, curves, they use bright colors, sometimes plunging necklines, they walk around with their bellies exposed, they show off without hang-ups no matter what their size. Sylvia inherited her mother's modesty about her body. She wears black, baggy clothes, she pulls at the sleeves of her sweaters until they are stretched out and cover her hands. If she is going out with friends, she ties a jacket around her waist to hide her a.s.s.

Lorenzo leaves the living room television on, with the news, as he fries the chicken breast in a pan. He arrives in time to sit down and watch the fifteen minutes of sports devoted to soccer. In the fruit bowl, all that's left is a bruised pear, which shows a mushy, dark side.

16.

Ariel flies at night, tired, on the charter plane that brings the team and reporters back from Oslo. That evening they played against a tough, rugged team, on a frozen field, beneath a blanket of cold. They had lost two nothing and he had played one of the worst games of his professional career. He could argue that the ball wasn't really circulating, that all his team's midfielders had done was return the Norwegians' fast clearances and that in every tackle and rebound the opponents' size weighed in heavily. He could argue that the touchlines were two degrees colder than the rest of the field, that he had chosen the wrong cleats, or that the fullback defending him was a super-fast blond who used his arms like windmill blades. He could also point to their fourteen fouls, but he knows full well that when you lose there are always too many excuses.

His teammates doze on the plane. The coach looks over the notes in his work. Matuoko snores with his mouth open. Jorge Blai, confident that no one is watching, sticks boogers underneath the foldout tray in front of him. Seated in impossible positions, four or five players play a card game called pocha pocha without the shouting that usually accompanies it. They lost and have to keep up appearances. without the shouting that usually accompanies it. They lost and have to keep up appearances.

Osorio, seated beside Ariel, is playing video games. Ariel has his headphones on and is listening to Argentinian music. He finds it somewhat absurd to be hearing, on his way back from Norway, the verses of an old Marcelo Polti song that complain about the heat: "hace calor, tanto calor que tus piernas esconden el centro de la tierra." "hace calor, tanto calor que tus piernas esconden el centro de la tierra." He had met Marcelo, a huge San Lorenzo fan, two years ago. On the day he was made an honorary member of the club, Marcelo got down on his knees in the circle in the middle of the field and ate a fistful of gra.s.s to the euphoric applause of the stands. Then he invited the entire team to one of his concerts at the Obrero. I think I have all your alb.u.ms, Ariel told him when they met backstage. You'll be able to say that tomorrow, Marcelo whispered to him, and the next morning he received two CDs with eighty songs that had never been released. They became good friends. He came to the Nuevo Gasometro for every match and Ariel had twice been to Marcelo's house in Colegiales, with its bas.e.m.e.nt turned into a recording studio, from where, he said, I only leave to steal moments and stick them into songs, like a vampire. He was pedantic, excessive, a wannabe genius, chaotic, an inveterate smoker and yerba mate drinker, allergic to drugs after having tried them all; Ariel fell in love for the first time with one of his songs, with a girl who only existed in lyrics from 1995, named Milena. "Milena, those kisses into the air, my arms around nothing, I'm saving them for you, baby..." Every week he got a protracted e-mail, encouraging him if his morale seemed low, remember that I ate the gra.s.s you walk on. Marcelo tells him the latest news and congratulates him on the distance, an ocean away from this country seems perfect. He was going on about Mr. Blumberg, practically a national leader, whose teenage son Axel was murdered by kidnappers with a bullet to the temple in a dump in La Reja. Ariel was in the ma.s.sive march on April 1 in front of Congress. There the boy's father led the citizens' rebellion against violence and lack of safety. Marcelo ridiculed the political weight he was starting to throw around. This is a country of crazies, they've turned around what being a victim has always meant, now they use pain to beat down those on the margins of society, as an alibi to punish the poor, and he went on like that for paragraphs and paragraphs, venting on current events in Argentina, the only country in the world where two things and their opposites happen every fifteen minutes, according to Marcelo's definition of it. He had met Marcelo, a huge San Lorenzo fan, two years ago. On the day he was made an honorary member of the club, Marcelo got down on his knees in the circle in the middle of the field and ate a fistful of gra.s.s to the euphoric applause of the stands. Then he invited the entire team to one of his concerts at the Obrero. I think I have all your alb.u.ms, Ariel told him when they met backstage. You'll be able to say that tomorrow, Marcelo whispered to him, and the next morning he received two CDs with eighty songs that had never been released. They became good friends. He came to the Nuevo Gasometro for every match and Ariel had twice been to Marcelo's house in Colegiales, with its bas.e.m.e.nt turned into a recording studio, from where, he said, I only leave to steal moments and stick them into songs, like a vampire. He was pedantic, excessive, a wannabe genius, chaotic, an inveterate smoker and yerba mate drinker, allergic to drugs after having tried them all; Ariel fell in love for the first time with one of his songs, with a girl who only existed in lyrics from 1995, named Milena. "Milena, those kisses into the air, my arms around nothing, I'm saving them for you, baby..." Every week he got a protracted e-mail, encouraging him if his morale seemed low, remember that I ate the gra.s.s you walk on. Marcelo tells him the latest news and congratulates him on the distance, an ocean away from this country seems perfect. He was going on about Mr. Blumberg, practically a national leader, whose teenage son Axel was murdered by kidnappers with a bullet to the temple in a dump in La Reja. Ariel was in the ma.s.sive march on April 1 in front of Congress. There the boy's father led the citizens' rebellion against violence and lack of safety. Marcelo ridiculed the political weight he was starting to throw around. This is a country of crazies, they've turned around what being a victim has always meant, now they use pain to beat down those on the margins of society, as an alibi to punish the poor, and he went on like that for paragraphs and paragraphs, venting on current events in Argentina, the only country in the world where two things and their opposites happen every fifteen minutes, according to Marcelo's definition of it.

The reporters' laughter is heard from the rear seats. The vodka they bought at the airport helps them fight off fatigue. They are listening to Velasco, a radio announcer with an unmistakable voice, telling off-color jokes and impersonating celebrities whom Ariel doesn't know. Husky comes up from the back of the plane and leans over his seat. Seeing Osorio wrapped up in his video game, he warns him, with a smile, take care of your brain cells, you. Ariel takes off his headphones. Tomorrow they're going to give you a thrashing in the press. I played badly. Badly? You sucked. Are you sure the Norwegians didn't put a square ball in the game? Ariel smiles. Husky continues, I'll take you out to dinner tomorrow night. They a.s.signed me to interview you. That way you'll get out a bit, okay? Ariel concedes. Husky goes back to his seat after saying, I'm outta here, this is like a wake. He shakes the team delegate's hand, a man who's spent his entire life in a trench coat, handling minor matters for the team in his old-fashioned way.

Ariel had met Husky during the preseason. He was a journalist who attracted attention in the press room because of his hair, red like an Irishman's, and his voice, which sounded like a guitar being played with hammer swings. The club confined the team to a hotel in Santander for the month of August. Physical training, getting up to snuff with the coach's statistics, the first tactical conversations. Ariel shared a room with Osorio, a young guy his age, who had grown up in the club's reserve teams, and who had little chance of being a first-string player during the season. He spent his free time playing with the PlayStation. Sometimes after dinner Ariel would join in on a pool game with one of the veterans: Amilcar or the subst.i.tute goalie, Poggio, who suffered from insomnia. By the third day, the monotony was unbearable: living with his teammates, the strict schedule, the boredom of repet.i.tive meals, pasta and chicken or chicken and pasta. At noon it was time to go to their rooms; sometimes they got together to chat or watch TV and listen to the comments of what a babe, did you see those t.i.ts? that marked the appearance of a woman on screen. Charlie came to Santander in the Porsche. Tonight I'm taking you out on the town. The way he said it was "te saco de marcha." "te saco de marcha." He'd been talking like that ever since they first arrived, borrowing expressions he heard the Spaniards use. Ariel slipped out secretly to meet up with him in the parking lot. He lay down in the back of the car, covered himself with two towels to get off the premises without being seen. When he left the room, Osorio said bye, get laid for me. He'd been talking like that ever since they first arrived, borrowing expressions he heard the Spaniards use. Ariel slipped out secretly to meet up with him in the parking lot. He lay down in the back of the car, covered himself with two towels to get off the premises without being seen. When he left the room, Osorio said bye, get laid for me.

All the bars are packed, mostly with people summering. They go into a club with deafening music and scope out a corner. At the end of the bar, Ariel recognizes Husky. We f.u.c.ked up, there's a journalist, he told Charlie. Journalists always end up using every player indiscretion, sometimes not even to hurt them, just to show off how well-informed they are. But Husky came over to say hi. I haven't seen a thing. Do you want me to ask the owner to give us a private area? It's better if not too many people see you. They agreed.

They were put in a room where the music was m.u.f.fled. In spite of being private it was crammed with people, but the owner prepared a table for them off to one side. Husky, accompanied by a photographer who played the role of a mute whisky and c.o.ke drinker, told them stories about the coach, the team, some of the players. He was sweating. He took off his gla.s.ses to wipe his face with paper napkins, which he then balled up and threw. He asked Ariel whom he was sharing a room with. Osorio? His last brain cell committed suicide, out of boredom. They talked about Solorzano and Husky told them that in the club they called him Mr. Commission. If you said good morning to him, he kept the good. Husky drank beers at a feverish rate. He was as tall and slim as a basketball player. Solorzano is protected by some club executives, remember this is a snarled nest of social climbers, businessmen wanting to impress and be famous. The president's box is their trampoline to get their illegal rezoning, unearned favors from the city councilmen, social prestige, certain notoriety, and, in the best-case scenario, they can hook up with some beauty queen who will suck their d.i.c.k in exchange for a taste of luxury. Maybe Argentina is an incredibly f.u.c.king corrupt country, but here they've managed to make corruption photogenic and legal, and that's that.

He told them that Coach Requero was called "clean hands": he never made a mistake. Husky inspired trust. He smoked black tobacco and held the cigarette inside his palm, protected. He talked about some of the players, about Dani Vilar, who had been the most critical of signing Ariel. He's a good guy, but he's lost the physical edge needed in your position, it's kind of sad to watch a guy who's a millionaire drag himself around the playing field. But, of course, retiring is traumatic, and even more so if you have five kids and a wife like his, who they say is a Legionary of Christ. I promise I won't say a word about your sneaking out, last night Matuoko took three wh.o.r.es up to his room.

In the third bar they visited, Charlie and Ariel met two Argentinian women signed up for a summer course on "emotiveness" at the Palacio de la Magdalena. Inside the car, parked near the team's hotel, the women were able to put some of what they had learned into practice. One of them talked even when she had nothing intelligent to say, but Charlie considered that a virtue, as if she had piped-in music. Flying the flag, brother, flying the flag, he shouted as the four of them f.u.c.ked uncomfortably in the car. It looked like nothing could go wrong. The next day there were no repercussions for his escape. It helped that early that same morning Wlasavsky had totaled his car against a fence, to avoid hitting a cow crossing the highway near Torrelavega according to him, and on his way back from a wh.o.r.ehouse called Borgia IV according to everyone else. Two days later six of the team members, including the goalie coach, got food poisoning, probably from some sh.e.l.lfish. Ariel was spared; he never could stand seafood.

Things had been like that from the beginning. Charlie made it all crazier, but more fun, too. On his first trip, before he was signed, they stayed in rooms next door to each other in a luxury hotel near the stadium. The club had been in a stir; they had just canceled the signing of a Brazilian striker because there were traces of tetrahydrogestrinone, a banned anabolic steroid, in his blood. It was leaked to the press that the guy had a bad knee, but since Solorzano was handling both signings, the negotiating got tense at the last minute. Someone had the nerve to suggest that either they sign them both, or didn't sign either. Charlie turned serious. My brother is clean; it was the other guy who took THG. But for two days the signing was on hold. In the end, the Brazilian was admitted into a dialysis center, had his blood cleaned, and got signed by a French team. Ariel could pose for the contract signing, he pa.s.sed the medical exam, and they waited a few days to find a house in the city.

The club and Charlie took care of finding it. You have to live like a rich guy, his brother warned him. The third day in the hotel, they put a journalist's phone call through to his room. Charlie refused to give exclusive interviews, no matter how much they insisted. Ariel listened to him arguing authoritatively. Suddenly Charlie cracked up laughing and handed the phone to Ariel. Listen to this. h.e.l.lo? Said Ariel. And a woman's voice, nervous but chipper, spoke. Are you Ariel? Well, I'm not really a journalist, I'm here in the lobby, and, well, I'm here to give you a welcome f.u.c.k. Ariel didn't even have time to be shocked; his brother grabbed the receiver from him and invited her up.

Two minutes later a woman in her thirties came in, with enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s and dyed blond hair with laborious curls. Smiling, fun, uninhibited. They drank three beers and Charlie was the first to cuddle her. They got naked and entangled on the bed. Seeing Ariel's pa.s.sivity, she insisted, hey, I came here to f.u.c.k your brother. Ariel, half amused and half astonished, took off his clothes. While Charlie penetrated her doggy-style on the bed, she took Ariel's p.e.n.i.s into her mouth. She had a bright red piercing on the tip of her tongue. She was from Alcazar de San Juan but she lived in Madrid, well, in Alcorcon, and before she left she told them that she had f.u.c.ked seven First Division players. I haven't done this really cute one on the Betis, but everyone says he's gay.

A reception like that still surprised Charlie and Ariel, even though they were used to the Argentinian botineras botineras, the girls who milled around the players like groupies around rock stars. Ariel had trouble holding back a chuckle when the next morning a public television journalist asked him if he had been well received by the Spaniards. Well, I feel loved; I just hope I can please them on the field, replied Ariel. At the back of the pressroom, by the door, Charlie laughed uncontrollably, attracting the gaze of reporters, who by then were aware that Ariel was traveling with his older brother.

But now the situation wasn't so relaxed. The team wasn't working. They were sixth in the division and the only thing that mattered was winning. The European tournament had gotten off to a bad start. Ariel was coming back from training one morning and heard two commentators talking about him on the car radio: he's no ace, that's obvious, he's just another of those dime-a-dozen players from Argentina. Even when you're used to the categorical tone of the sports press, the criticism always hurts. The day after his debut game, a prestigious reporter at one of the soccer dailies wrote: "Ariel Burano has said that he doesn't think he's the next Maradona. Well, there was no need for that declaration, it's painfully clear. You just have to see him play. He dribbles his way to the corner flag, but will his flourishes satisfy the demanding Madrid fans?"

Charlie downplayed those comments. He's just an a.s.shole, I asked in the club and turns out he's a jerk who was trying to get them to bring that Mexican Caceres in for your position, his brother-in-law is an agent. How is that your fault? Many times he had heard Dragon say that the press had to be taken with a grain of salt, or better yet not taken at all.

In the account of his first official game, another reporter described him with just one adjective: autistic. "Ariel Burano was autistic. Three teams played. The home team, the visiting team, and him. It remains to be seen if it's just an adaptation problem or if it's a symptom of an incurable disease." Patience, pleaded Charlie. If you take the time to read everything they write about you every day, you won't even have time left to p.i.s.s.

Ariel counted on being able to slowly convince people he was a quality player, but he wasn't counting on his brother's hasty exit. Charlie was his point of reference, his first line of defense against reality. Far from his native soil, any place shared with his brother smelled like home. Charlie's mishap happened on the night of the second league game, in Santiago de Compostela. The team played late that Sat.u.r.day. The match was televised throughout the whole country. They spent the night there. Ariel and Charlie went out for dinner with two Argentinian players on the opposing team. There were thirty-two Argentinians playing across the Spanish First Division. Ariel didn't know Sartor and Ba.s.si. He met them on the field. "Mastiff" Sartor earned the nickname for his resemblance to those Argentinian mastiffs that, once they sink their teeth into something, never let go. He marked Ariel on every corner kick and he brought his flat-nosed face a palm's distance from Ariel's. He shouted dirty spic at him, f.a.ggot, wh.o.r.e, pack your bags and take them back to your piece of s.h.i.t country, a.s.shole. He told him he was going to f.u.c.k his mother, that his sister was a lesbian, that his girlfriend in Buenos Aires was f.u.c.king the River center forward, anything he could think of to provoke him. In a play where Ariel threw himself to the ground pretending he had been knocked down, he grabbed him by the arm to lift him up off the gra.s.s and he shouted get up, t.u.r.d, everyone knows you only play because you suck the coach's d.i.c.k. Ariel burst out laughing. The guy was so extreme that it would have been comical, if it weren't for his criminal expression and the threat of his aluminum cleats.