Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  That morning, when Aurora complained of a dull pain in her side, Leandro hastened to tell the nurse just for the simple pleasure of seeing her again. The unexpected erotic awakening had led Leandro to the jam-packed section of the newspaper devoted to sexual business. He had found a series of boxed advertisements, some accompanied by a drawing of women with bared breasts, in suggestive postures. One of them caught his eye: “Luxury chalet uptown with a selection of young, elegant ladies. 24 hours, including Sundays. Absolute discretion.” Leandro memorized the phone number. It was easy for him to do; it was the sort of mental exercise he had practiced since he was young. Even Aurora used to joke about it, calling him “my walking phone book” before asking him for some friend’s number.

  He made the call from the hallway.

  We’re here any time of the day, said a woman’s voice, why don’t you come and see us? I will, I will. Leandro said goodbye after memorizing the exact address. The very address where now the solid white door with molding was opening in front of him.

  The woman who receives him has dyed blond hair, and to find her features he would have to scrape off her makeup with a trowel. She leads him to a small reception room with a sofa placed in front of a low table. Leandro accepts a can of beer she brings him with a short glass and a plate of almonds. He hates the almond pieces that lodge between his teeth and he smiles to see himself sitting there like on any old friendly Sunday visit to a relative’s house.

  The woman explains the rules. Drinks are courtesy of the house, and in a moment the girls will come through one by one so he can pick the one he likes. Payment is in advance, in cash or with a card, and the rates are the same for every girl: 250 euros for a full hour. Finally, she informs him that if he needs a receipt, he will be given the name of a business that, of course, does not specify the nature of its activity.

  When Leandro is left alone, he remembers the last time he paid for sex. It was in a dirty, sordid bar in the sticks, with a friend who was traveling with him for some school concerts. It had been almost twenty years ago, and the woman he had gone to bed with after a few drinks didn’t manage to excite him. She was a young Galician who, worn out, had told him, there’s nothing more I can do, I’m gonna get a cramp from so much pumping, so it’s up to you but I think we should just leave it ’cause as they say where I’m from: don’t milk a dry cow. That day confirmed that he couldn’t find satisfaction in prostitutes. Manolo Almendros, his friend, said to him, pointing at the section of the newspaper devoted to the business, look how the sex trade grows, it’s incredibly strong, a business that works. He reminded him, with that habit he has of pulling up his pants almost to the height of his tie, stating, with reliable statistics, that in Spain there were more than 400,000 active whores. One percent of the population. Supply and demand. What people spend their money on. But not Leandro, who had left the bar that smelled of disinfectant on the outskirts of Pamplona swearing to never go back to a place like that.

  He didn’t really know what had drawn him, now, to this place that was as conventional and well taken care of as a relative’s house. With Aurora he still found dependable satisfaction when he needed it. The girls begin to appear, affable and approachable; they stop for a second in front of him, and then they give him a kiss on each cheek and depart, leaving the door ajar for the next one to come in. Up to a dozen clean, scantily clad girls, who seem more like coeds in their dorm on a day off from school than brothel employees. They ask him his name and whether it’s the first time he’s visiting the chalet. A French girl passes by, two Russians, three Latin Americans, and two Spaniards with big fake breasts and more authority, perhaps because they were playing for the home team. A tall Ukrainian comes through and then a young black girl with a spectacularly laid out body. How old are you? Twenty-two. She’s from Nigeria. What’s your name? Valentina. The girl wears a plunging neckline and short little elastic pants and she touches Leandro’s hand with damp fingers. He feels like a character in a novel who has no other choice but to proceed to the next chapter. Should we go upstairs? asks Leandro. Wait here for a second, she says.

  She leaves and the woman in charge comes back instantly. I think you’ve made up your mind, isn’t that right? Leandro stands up and pulls out the bills from his wallet. It’s not easy to find an African girl in these places, but don’t worry, she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t completely clean. Still speaking, she leaves the door slightly open. Leandro is left alone, and nervously eats one more almond, then another. Valentina reappears to lead Leandro upstairs. She goes ahead of him, holding tightly to the braided banister. Leandro starts to cough. A little piece of almond is stuck in his throat.

  You have a cold? she asks. She speaks with an accent, and hasn’t quite mastered the language.

  Leandro can’t stop coughing, unable to speak. She takes him to a room at the end of the hallway. A bedroom that looks like a teenager’s, with a bed and a built-in shelf, a television and a brown bedspread. The blinds down and a light-green curtain drawn. Leandro coughs again and can’t seem to get the piece of almond out. He feels ridiculous when the girl gives him a couple of pats on the back. He sits on the bed and pounds on his chest.

  Sorry, he says, but I can’t stop coughing. The girl brings him a glass of water from the adjoining room. She holds it out to him with a smile. The edge is covered with lipstick. Leandro drinks but doesn’t manage to calm the cough.

  Don’t die on me, all right? she says. Leandro, in a weak voice, asks if there is a bathroom. The girl points to the door. Leandro, without taking the time to look around the place, drinks from the faucet, tries to gargle, and finally manages to get over his coughing fit. How absurd. How incredibly stupid, to be here coughing, choking on an almond. He wants to leave. He peeks into the room and finds the girl sitting on the bed, looking at her foot lifted into the air. All better? Yes, forgive me, I had something stuck in my throat, it must be the nerves, I’m not used to this. Leandro stops. Suddenly it seems ridiculous that he should, at his age, pretend to be a novice at something.

  The girl holds out a large, worn towel and tells him he has to shower. He undresses quickly, leaving his clothes on a chair, and she places a blanket on the mattress. She leads him to the adjoining bathroom and helps him into the pink bathtub. She checks the water temperature as if she were a mother showering her son and wets Leandro from the waist down. She puts a little gel in her palm and soaps up his inner thigh. Aren’t you going to shower? he asks. If you want? Leandro nods and she hands him the showerhead. She has her hair pulled back in thin, intricate braids, and when she moves they shake like beaded curtains. When Leandro lifts the showerhead, she says, no, wet hair, no.

  She washes without really washing, more as a show than anything else. You lather me up. Now it is Leandro who pushes down the pump on the bath gel bottle and runs his hands over her body. White foam accumulates at their feet. The action lasts for a while. Then she turns off the faucet and gets out to dry herself. Leandro reaches for his towel.

  In the bedroom, she lays him on the bed. She has put her bra back on. She opens a condom wrapper with her fingers, in spite of the long fake nails. She tries to get him excited before putting it on him. Leandro observes what she does, her professional manner like a supermarket checkout girl putting merchandise in a plastic bag.

  Valentina’s youthfulness falls onto Leandro’s old skin. She places her breasts, her mouth, the opening of her legs, and her hands onto different parts of his body. Leandro continues his exploration of something so foreign it seems unreal, letting his excitement grow. The contact is strange. The brushing together of such dissimilar skins makes the different textures more obvious. Leandro, with the shame of a slave owner, feels like a sinning missionary. A lot has happened in the world while he was busy reading the newspaper at home or giving piano lessons, while he was making himself soft-boiled eggs for dinner or listening to the news on the radio. He contemplates the strange, young body that fakes moans of pleasure by his ear to satisfy him. If he forge
ts himself and the situation, he is able to work with her in constructing his arousal.

  Afterward they talk, lying down. He asks her what her real name is. She hesitates before telling him. My name is Osembe, but Valentina more pretty in Spanish. I like Osembe better, says Leandro. What does it mean? Nothing, in Yoruba, nothing. My mother used to say that in the dialect of her parents it was Something Found. And Leandro? What means? Leandro smiles for a moment. No, they gave me that name because of the day I was born on the calendar of saints. Osembe asks how old he is and Leandro answers, seventy-three. You don’t look that old, she says. What would you have guessed, just seventy? But she doesn’t get the sarcasm and doesn’t laugh. Leandro touches, with his fingertips, the nipple beneath Osembe’s bra, which is like a dark chickpea.

  You are very pretty.

  Breasts not pretty. And she squeezes them at the top of her bra and adjusts them so they’re higher. Surgery to put here.

  Is Nigeria pretty? Osembe shrugs her shoulders. A voice is heard in the hallway. A voice that Osembe seems to obey. She sits up on the bed and starts to get dressed. It’s time, shower, and she gathers the condom and the damp towels with her fingertips and tosses them into a wastebasket lined with a plastic bag.

  They kiss on the cheeks at the door to the room. She smiles, showing her teeth. Leandro goes down the stairs. The manager takes him to the exit door. The night is unpleasant, a bit cruel. Leandro takes a taxi. He goes into his house, avoiding the living room. He takes refuge in his study. He sits in the armchair where he usually listens to his students playing the upright piano, an old Pleyel with a somewhat scratched wooden body. He breathes heavily and is cold. He takes a record off his shelf and places it on the record player. Bach would do me good. After the initial frying sound, the music plays and Leandro turns up the volume. He feels a bit older and a bit more alone. The Choral Prelude in F Minor begins. It’s that firmness Leandro appreciates, that robust harmony building an emotional architecture that gives him a shiver of feelings.

  He thinks about his life, in the days when he knew for certain that he would never be a great pianist, that he would always remain on this side of the beauty, among those that observe it, admire it, enjoy it, but who never create it, never possess it, never master it. Although he feels rage, the music imposes its purity, distancing him from himself. Perhaps he is traveling far away from himself, neither happy nor miserable. Strange.

  7

  Lorenzo is sitting with his friends Lalo and Óscar. They follow their team’s fullback with their eyes as he races to the goal line. The center isn’t very good and the stadium responds to the missed opportunity with a general sigh. Lalo whistles, sticking two fingers under his tongue. Don’t whistle at Lastra, at least he gets his jersey sweaty, says Óscar. Lorenzo nods vaguely. The game finally opens up toward the end, escaping the useless combat that dominated the rest of the match, the ball dizzy from being kicked from one side to the other. Lorenzo has sat for years in the northern area of the stands, near the goal that his team attacks in the first half. So he is used to spending the end of the game in the distance, with his players like ants trying to break the lock on the rival’s goal. The crowd is impatient, scoreless games create a shared frustration, they exaggerate the subsequent void. They follow the final plays with greater concentration, as if that would help their team. But not Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo turns back; he has been unable to get into the game. When his eyes meet someone’s gaze, he looks away. He tries to recognize the fans who usually sit in the seats around him. Later he regrets his fits of anxiety, his worries that keep him from relaxing and enjoying. Like when on Friday he finally listened to his father’s phone messages and realized his mother had had an accident, he felt ridiculous for having hidden all morning. When he leaves the stadium, he will also be sorry he didn’t take better advantage of the opportunity for distraction.

  On Saturday the newspaper announced the news. The television news programs did, too, announcing it along with two other crimes. A businessman, they said, had been stabbed to death in the garage of his own home, the only motive apparently robbery. An image of the entrance to the house, the fence, the number, the street sign. Filler tactics for a news item that may end up in the limbo of unsolved cases. Lorenzo could have filled in the details. He could write that the killer and the victim had met seven years earlier, when they worked together as middle management in a large multinational company devoted to cellular phones. They had both profited from the opportunities offered by an expanding market. The division where Lorenzo worked had been absorbed and Paco was a proficient and decisive executive, the kind who needed to get the best yield from a flourishing business.

  It was a fast friendship that grew quickly. They ate together beside their desks. One day they both bought the same car thanks to the special offer they got from someone Paco knew at Opel. Both red, both turbocharged. Paco was married to a quiet, very thin woman. They didn’t have kids. Teresa was the daughter of a building contractor who had created a great company from nothing. The shadiness of his beginnings had long since been smoothed over by the expensive ties that affluence allowed him to wear. When my father-in-law dies, joked Paco, I’ll cry with one eye and with the other I’ll start shopping for a yacht. Paco taught Lorenzo how to live. Meat is eaten rare, Paco told him; ham must be painstakingly cured so that the fat melts into the meat; disregard bread; you have to squeeze your Cuban cigar with your fingertips and feel the texture of the tobacco leaf, and when you flick the ash the tip of the cigar should maintain the shape of a cunt; your tie should match your ambitions, not your suit; it’s better to have just one pair of super-expensive shoes than six cheap ones. With Paco he subscribed to a wine club and each month they sent him a box of bottles and a pamphlet to get him started in gourmet wine tasting. When, by then partners, they were working late, Paco would uncork a nice wine and while they resolved the paperwork they discussed the flavor of a Burgundy or a Rioja and they ordered in Japanese food. And on the way out Paco would insist on showing him an apartment where erotic massages were given by Asian women who were the height of submissiveness, but the only time Lorenzo agreed to accompany him he was attended to by a retarded little Chinese woman who laughed too much, so he paid quickly and went home without even waiting for his friend.

  Every Thursday night, since he married Teresa in the Jerónimos Church, in the official celebration of definitive pussywhipping, Paco went to his father-in-law’s house and played poker with him and two old friends. When we’re bluffing, when we up the ante to trick the other team, Paco explained to Lorenzo, when we pretend to have a hand we don’t have, I think that’s the only moment since we met when we tell each other the truth.

  Pilar never liked Paco. She didn’t appreciate his influence on Lorenzo. He smacked of nouveau riche, of tacky, of arrogant. You don’t understand him, Lorenzo corrected, all that attitude is a joke, he has a great sense of humor about it. Pilar didn’t become close with Teresa either. She doesn’t talk, and I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t have anything to say or because if she spoke she’d say too much, concluded Pilar after six or seven uncomfortable dinners between the two couples. Pilar never confessed to Lorenzo that one of the things that distanced her from Paco was the way he looked at her. It was challenging. He not only aspired to seduce her, as was his natural way, but he also considered Pilar a rival. Lorenzo was the prey, the object in dispute.

  When the business stopped growing, the time came for cutbacks, for firings, restructurings. These companies are like an orange: once the juice is squeezed out, what do you want the peel for? Paco convinced Lorenzo to negotiate a reasonable layoff settlement with the company, with severance pay that would allow him to strike out on his own. There is nothing sadder than a labor claim, Paco told him, it’s like crying to the woman who just left you. Paco had his own ideas: the pie had been divvied up, it was better to eat the piece they give us than get stuck with the empty tray. Around that time, the workers were protesting every d
ay in front of the multinational company’s imposing building and had been recognized by the general population. Solidarity is only the first step toward guiltless indifference, warned Paco. He pointed to a vociferous colleague. Admit that it’s pathetic to shout at a building, at an acronym, throw eggs or paint, I prefer to put all my energy into being the one who lines their pockets next time.

  Lorenzo let himself be convinced. He knew that he wasn’t made of the same stuff as Paco. Lorenzo came from a family that never valued money. He noticed how his parents grew bored when he went into details about the company he founded with Paco. After having their daughter, Sylvia, Pilar had been slow to find work, but when she did she always had Grandma Aurora available to take care of the girl. Pilar’s parents had died years before in a car accident and Lorenzo’s mother did everything she could in her role as sole grandmother. Although he never heard a complaint, Lorenzo hated depending on his parents. If he managed to get ahead, if things went well for him, Lorenzo would finally be able to show them his success.

  Lorenzo and Paco bought two buildings and set up a store that sold cell phone accessories. Paco had a magic touch that gave everything the illusion of profitability. He might be late with payment to a supplier, but they never refused him a few beers, a couple of jokes, or a new shipment on account. He never went over the numbers; for him a diagram drawn on a sheet of paper was enough to justify a new investment. He was decisive, brave; he bet big and he landed on his feet. We’ll balance the books tomorrow, today just tell me I can order a Ribera with dinner and a Partagás with coffee—this was one of his lines. Lorenzo let himself get swept up. He didn’t go to all the dinners and parties, he took refuge in Pilar, at home with Sylvia, he kept his old friends, Lalo, Óscar, but then he had to listen to Paco tell him friends are only good for filling the time one doesn’t know how to fill alone. Paco recited the catechism of an individualist and a winner. And if something sounded bad to Lorenzo’s ears, it was always burnished with just enough irony to be taken as a joke. No one could lose by his side. But Lorenzo lost everything.