Learning to Lose (45 page)

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

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

There is a presenter with a microphone on the other side of the dance floor. He cheers on the dancers, let yourselves go, multiplying the
s
’s in the word until it is coiled like a snake around a tree branch. Most of the women wear tight clothes and most of the men unbuttoned shirts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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