Learning to Lose (23 page)

They talk about plans for Christmas. Python has four children and he says, no way am I putting them all on a plane. I bring my parents here and my in-laws, let them do the traveling. In Buenos Aires you need protection, a bodyguard, it’s disgusting. You can’t even trust the cops. Tancredi lifts his hands in an Italian gesture, bringing together the tips of all five fingers, did you know there are 143 crimes reported every hour? The country’s gone to shit. The last time I was there, I stopped in a service station with my old man and up come two ghetto muggers with a blade this big, no, no, I’m staying here. Ariel says that he’s going home, his mother’s health is too delicate to withstand such a long flight. Have you met “Tiger” Lavalle? Python asks him. Ariel shakes his head. It’s traditional for goalkeepers
in Argentina to be called Crazy, Monkey, Cat, or Tiger. Tiger Lavalle is a veteran goalie from Carcarañá who arrived in Spain after years in the Mexican league. Anarchic and genius, he shoots the penalty kicks and is equally loved and hated. The press adores him because amid all the usual clichéd answers his are always uninhibited pearls, happy discoveries. Ariel doesn’t know him personally. We haven’t played against his team yet, he says to Python. He’s the one who does the most to unite all the Argentinians here, he explains to Ariel, he always gets us together with some excuse, it’s nice.

From the end of the hall, the delegate makes a sign to Ariel with his head when the team is heading toward the bus. Ariel says good-bye to Python. He crosses with the others toward the street. From the fences the kids ask for autographs, throw photos, but it’s too cold and they barely stop. On the bus, they choose a martial arts movie, with katana fights and impossible jumps in slow motion. Ariel turns on his cell phone. He brought a book,
No Logo
, that Marcelo Polti sent him with such an excessive inscription that it filled the first three pages and that said, among other things: “So you can be aware that those brand-name sneakers you advertise and get the kids all worked up about are contributing to the world’s inequality.” But Ariel gets nauseous reading on the highway. He isn’t much of a reader. Sometimes his father used to say, I must have done something really wrong for my kids to believe that books bite.

They head back toward Madrid on the bus, with a couple of sandwiches and a piece of fruit, a bottle of water and the beer someone managed to sneak in. They emptied out Jorge Blai’s hair gel into his shoe since he usually spends twenty minutes in front of the mirror before going out to meet the press, and they
didn’t want him to make them wait that night. He reminds Ariel of Turco Majluf, who used an entire tin of Lordchesseny for every San Lorenzo game. It’s Poggio, the substitute goalie, who comes up with these cruel jokes. Sometimes Amílcar justifies it, he has to do something, they pay him a million euros to eat sunflower seeds on the bench, he’s the luckiest guy in the world. And there is some truth to that, because the first day Ariel was with him on the bench he admired the skill with which Poggio removed the shells and wolfed them down, even with his goalie gloves on.

The seat next to Ariel is empty, across the aisle from Dani Vilar, who sometimes makes common courtesy look like pulling teeth. They look at each other but don’t say anything. His father has Alzheimer’s and he’s going through a difficult time, is how the other teammates justify it. He often misses training as a show of hierarchy that no one dares challenge. It is dark outside. One of the center fullbacks, Carreras, gets up and opens his sports bag, then starts showing pieces of clothing to his teammates. They are from his parents’ store and he promises them good prices. There are T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, many of them brand names. Someone shouts, with what you earn you’re selling clothes? But he says it’s to help out his parents. Everyone on the team knows he’s cheap and they tease him about it. To dribble past Carreras, they say, you just have to toss a euro to the right and head for the left. They laugh at his expense for a while, he shouts above the laughter, we’re talking about 30 percent off here, eh, 30 percent.

Last Sunday when Ariel turned on his cell after the game he got a message from Sylvia. “Congratulations on the goal. I had a great time. Thanks for the tickets.” He replied, “You brought
me luck.” Then he remembered that he hadn’t given her their sign. She wrote: “I don’t know if you dedicated the goal to me because everybody stood up and I couldn’t see anything.” “I forgot, I owe you one,” he wrote. The response was slow in coming: “Next time I’d rather you take me out for a drink. I like soccer but not that much.” “Done deal, whenever you want,” wrote Ariel. “My social life is as busy as a cloistered nun’s. You choose a day that works for you.” “Tomorrow?” he wrote. They settled on having dinner the next day. “I’ll take you to the best Argentinian restaurant in Madrid,” he suggested.

When Ariel wrote the last message, he remembered Sylvia’s curly hair, her white face with lively eyes, but little more. He felt a slight hint of regret, as if he’d made an awkward date. Yet he felt it was fair compensation for the pain he had caused her. That night he dined with Osorio and Blai and two of the Brazilians on the team. Later they wanted to drag him to a nightclub on the outskirts of town, it’s right by your house. But Ariel wanted to call Buenos Aires. We have to celebrate your first goal, they insisted. I don’t want to celebrate the first goal as if it’s going to be the last, all right? said Ariel as he left. Ah, you never know if there’ll be more, Blai said, do you know how many goals I’ve scored in six years of playing: three. Not much to celebrate. And two in your own side, Osorio managed to say before getting slapped in the stomach.

Ariel agreed to meet Sylvia on the staircase of the main post office. It seemed natural to both of them to meet somewhere close to the place where the accident happened. It could be understood as going back to where they began. He was late, the traffic was exasperating, and while he was trying to zigzag through the cars a taxi driver cursed angrily at him. In order to
get close to the building, which from his vantage point looked like a huge umbrella stand, he had to maneuver illegally. He saw Sylvia sitting on the third step, her cast resting on the stone. He honked his horn. There were policeman directing traffic beside the Cibeles fountain and it was impossible to stop for long. As she turned her face, Sylvia’s hair floated on the wind. She stood up deftly. She carried just one crutch and it seemed rude to Ariel that he watched her walk toward the car without getting out to help her. He opened the door from inside. I don’t think this was a good meeting place, she said. People have started their Christmas shopping, they’re insane. Totally, agreed Ariel. Sylvia held the crutch like a cane. Ariel drove toward the Puerta de Alcalá, entering the traffic jam again.

Sylvia tilted her head to the side. It’s strange to be sitting inside this car. Although it’s better than being plastered onto the windshield. Ariel asked about her leg, about the pain, about the awkwardness of the cast. The worst is when it itches inside and you start to scratch on the plaster as if that would help. Ariel had turned down the music and only muffled sounds could be heard. I made a reservation at an awesome restaurant, but then I thought it would be better to go to my house, he said. Do you like Argentinian empanadas? We can buy some on the way … Really Ariel was uncomfortable imagining himself in a restaurant being watched by everyone, that someone would think they were on a romantic date. But her reaction was a long silence. Your house? she finally asked. I don’t know. Ariel realized his tactlessness. I only thought since restaurants are a madhouse, the people, all that, but you’re right, let’s go … Of course, you get recognized everywhere you go. The conversation sped up and Ariel gave too many explanations. No, no, let’s go to your house, you’re right,
she said in the end. Are you sure? If you don’t feel … No, no, let’s go, I don’t want you to spend the night signing autographs.

But in the store where they stopped to order the empanadas, Ariel saw there were two tables in the back, beside a shelf of Italian pastas. He went to get Sylvia from the car. Let’s eat here, there’s nobody else, it’ll be good. The owners of the place were two nice Argentinian women who explained that they didn’t have a restaurant license, just takeaway, but they served people while they waited and got around the law that way. Sylvia ordered a beer and Ariel a glass of wine from Mendoza. They settled in the back, surrounded by displayed products. Every once in a while, someone came in to buy something and Ariel’s gaze searched for the door. It took him a while to relax. Sylvia seemed more comfortable. She asked him questions. About the game. About his soccer career. How he got started. How he came to Spain. Ariel talked for a long time, while she stared into his eyes. He pushed his hair back and sometimes she imitated his gesture, putting a section of curls behind her ear. Then Sylvia leaned her elbows on the table and put her hands on her cheeks. She was lovely in that gesture of relaxed observation. And Ariel realized that in all that time he had only been talking about himself. I talk too much, he said. The big Argentinian sin. No, it’s interesting, she said. Before I met you I thought soccer players were mass-produced, I don’t know, in industrial factories, all cut from the same pattern. And that they always forgot to add the brains, of course, he added.

One of the owners lowered the metal gate. No, no, relax, go on, we’re locking up but we still have to clean and close out the register, you’re not in the way, she said. That sort of isolation made them feel more comfortable. So
choclo
is corn,
said Sylvia after biting into an empanada. Yeah, all the different food names are confusing. Do you miss your family? she asked. Yeah, of course, he said. Maybe I’ll bring them over, if I get settled here. One of the owners brought an open bottle of wine and sat with them. She had come to Spain three years ago. The devaluation of the peso ruined me, and here I couldn’t find work as an actress, so I was teaching acting. But it didn’t go well for her and she partnered with a friend to import products from over there. Ariel wondered if the women were a couple, but he didn’t dare ask. During the rest of the evening, she monopolized the conversation. She talked about her country, remembering people. She made fun of a singer, cursed a politician, laughed at the last plastic surgery a television hostess had done. They’re gonna have to operate on her kids so they don’t look adopted.

The place was called Buenos Aires—Madrid and it was still being renovated. The rent was so high they couldn’t afford to continue the work. One of the women, the quieter one, finished tidying up the stock. The other one talked a blue streak. She cursed the American president’s reelection and then she insisted that more than ever the world needed a new Che. I don’t know, she said, Subcomandante Marcos leaves me a little cold, always wearing a mask and all that. There were moments when Ariel’s gaze sought out Sylvia’s eyes and he shot her a subtle ironic expression about the woman and her incessant talking or the obvious moustache beneath her nose. Ariel brought a finger to his face to discreetly point out the facial hair and make Sylvia laugh. But they both appreciated the interruption. It allowed them to study each other without explanation, look at each other without speaking, to share something.

As they left, Ariel told her, I’m warning you, Argentinians never shut up. Sylvia was impressed, what a talker. And did you notice? The dictionary is too short for that lady, she needs a new one and quick. They walked to the car. It was quarter to eleven. That’s my curfew, I can’t stay out much past it. I’ll drive you home, he offered. Sylvia guided Ariel along the streets of Madrid. At a stoplight, she raised enough courage to ask him. Do you live alone? Now I do, yeah, he said. There was a silence. Keep going, straight ahead, she indicated. My brother was here, but he had to go back. I live on the outskirts, in Las Rozas. In one of those big houses? Ariel nodded. Do you like movies? I have a gigantic screen and I watch a ton of them up there, if you want to, one day … I don’t like movies much, she said. Everybody likes movies, he said, surprised. I don’t know, after five minutes I already know what’s going to happen, I get bored, they’re so repetitive. Ariel smiled. I’ve never heard that reasoning before. Everything repeats itself, right? he managed to say, then he regretted having said it, it didn’t make much sense. No, in life you never know what’s going to happen the next minute, but in the movies you can see what’s coming. Just from the cast you already know if they’re going to hook up or not, who’s the bad guy. Oh, well, you mean American movies, sighed Ariel. People like them so much because they’re predictable, they already know what they’re gonna see. Like people who go to the beach for their vacations: what they want is sun and waves. And if you give them something else they get mad. If you come to my house someday, I’ll put on a different kind of movie, you’ll see. Okay, she said. I have a friend, Marcelo, a musician, he’s very famous back home, he always says that if you do what the audience wants, you’d have to compose the same song over and over.

They got to Sylvia’s street, but she let the car pass her door before telling him to stop. I really live back there, but I didn’t want anyone to see me get out of a car like this. You don’t like it? It’s really flashy. Flashy? Kinda tacky, typical of a soccer player. I guess it impresses girls, but it makes me embarrassed, she said. My brother picked it out, I know it’s tacky, Ariel apologized. I’ll help you out, wait. Ariel got out of the car and opened Sylvia’s door, then held her crutch as she got out.

They exchanged a kiss on each cheek. I had a really good time, she said. You don’t like my car, you don’t like movies, you’re a tough one. Ariel smiled. Sylvia gathered herself to ask, you really think so? It’s a joke, he explained. Well, thanks for inviting me, she said, initiating their good-bye. My pleasure. I guess it must be a drag for you to have to escort a paralytic around. The cast suits you, said Ariel, and then he smiled. Well, they’re taking it off next week, so if you like it that much you’ll have to run me over again.