Learning to Lose (49 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really it’s all due to this crossed eye, Wilson explained to him, people take me for crazy. And everybody’s more afraid of a crazy guy than of a strong guy. Nobody wants to take on a crazy guy. Like a Swiss army knife, Wilson seemed to have the resource needed for every given occasion. The exact amount of charm and chitchat, the prescribed dose of contained violence and latent threats, the precise skill in every situation. He handled a bundle of rolled-up bills wrapped in a rubber band that became his bracelet when it was time to pay. He turned toward Lorenzo to explain, money is a magnet for money.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s ridiculous. I can’t study, I think about you all the time. Don’t blame me when you fail your classes, please. Can I help you? he asked. How much time do we have? We have to be downstairs to go to the stadium in two hours. Sylvia’s expression twisted. I have bad news, I have my period. It doesn’t matter, this way we can use the time to study. Ariel tried to read a page of her notes. I had my period timed to coincide with your league games, it was a perfect schedule, but today it got screwed up, of course. Don’t worry about it, I didn’t bring you here to fuck. What are you studying?

Two hours later, his teammates traveled down the hall toward the bus parked at the hotel entrance. The place was filled with fans. The police were discreetly keeping an eye on the surroundings. Kids were asking for autographs. Even violence became part of the routine and they always expected insults from some group, some rocks getting thrown at them near the stadium.
Madrid se quema, se quema Madrid
, Madrid is burning, sang others. If some people didn’t want to kill us, there wouldn’t be others willing to die for us, a player in Buenos Aires used to say when things sometimes got ugly on the way out of a stadium. There they would keep the local fans in the stadium for thirty minutes postgame to give the visiting team time to get back to their neighborhoods. But the ride with police escort was pleasant; the bus ignored red lights, like they were VIPs in a world that stopped to make them a priority.

Sylvia’s gaze found Ariel’s when he went out among his teammates. He winked at her; she smiled. He was still on the bus when Sylvia called him on the phone. I’m on the Ramblas, it’s full of tourists, she told him. Is it pretty? asked Ariel. There are human statues with costumes on, they remind me of mimes, I don’t know why they make me sad. Mimes make you sad? I always want to kill them, said Ariel. Every two steps is a stand selling soccer jerseys, but I don’t see yours. Well, I’m on the rival team. Yeah. Sylvia kept describing what she saw. A guy offering cans of drinks that he carried in a backpack, bars open to the street, pets in cages, pigeons that ate parakeets’ birdseed, a herd of Japanese tourists with wheeled suitcases, portrait artists who used up charcoal reproducing the impossible faces of their occasional clients and exhibited pathetic caricatures of celebrities. Once, when I was little, my father insisted on having my portrait done on the street, I had to ask my mother to hide it, it was horrible. Sylvia, I have to go, we’re getting to the stadium. Good luck.