by David Trueba
Burano is an Italian last name, right? Solórzano asked them one day. Charlie nodded unconvincingly, they say my father’s grandfather comes from over there. Two weeks later, Solórzano showed them the birth certificate of a Burano great-grandfather expedited by an Italian parish. For a modest sum, I’ll make you a family tree where your mother’s the Mona Lisa. Carlo Burano was the name of the forebear, their made-up great-grandfather. With his Italian roots, Ariel would take a European spot, he wouldn’t have to fight for his place with Brazilians, Africans, Mexicans. With that cocky face and that gangster hair, you could only be Italian, Solórzano said to Ariel. We aren’t doing anything wrong, just finding some lost family papers. There’s no stopping the machine.
Solórzano didn’t inspire trust in either Ariel or Charlie. He drank red wine and smoked cheap cigars. His teeth were like an unmopped floor that ended in two gold molars. Even though he assured them that the only flag he bowed before was a waving banknote, several times, egged on by alcohol, he would confess that what Spain needed was another Franco and Argentina another Perón. He was sarcastically nostalgic, and a veteran barhound. He traveled with a young lawyer, a representative of the club, to close deals, and they all met in the offices of Ariel’s financial advisers. Charlie acted as a security guard, but Solórzano, his laughter breaking into a cackle, relaxed the atmosphere with his endless anecdotes. He told them where the team’s president—the one they called “the mother from Psycho”—found his love for soccer. He bought a team in the north, which shared ownership of the stadium with the city hall; he managed to get the team knocked down to Second Division and then lower than Second, and then bankrupt it. It was absurd. Instead of trying to get the team to win, he did everything possible to make them lose. It looked like the world turned upside down. But the whole business brought about the demolition of the stadium, which was near the beach, and on the site they built fourteen hundred luxury apartments, splitting it with the municipal government, of course, so there were no legal qualms. The season ticket holders wanted to kill him and, in a gesture he carried off with the utmost dignity, he sold the team. At that point, the team’s legacy was all in its name and its coat of arms, that’s it. A few years later, he was so solvent they practically sought him out to preside over the Madrid team. Now it gives him social prestige; a box seat in Madrid is tantamount to the king’s court. You can do business with those kinds of people, concluded Solórzano, because they’re like me: there’s only one thing they respect more than money … and that’s a lot of money. This chatty, obnoxious guy, with his bad breath, his rust-colored hair, golden tie clip, and woven leather shoes, took him to Spain, and judging by his shifty charm Ariel should have suspected that nothing was going to be easy.
In early July, Ariel went to visit Dragon. He followed the kids’ practice from the sidelines with his sad, bespectacled eyes and his old whistle with the tiny wooden ball in it. I’m going to Spain, Ariel told him. I heard. Dragon’s eyeglasses were old, from twenty years ago. I came to say good-bye. The coach nodded his head without taking his eyes off the kids. Ariel stood by his side for a long time, waiting for him to say something. Once, after watching a Korean World Cup game at his house, during which his wife laughed at him for getting up to urinate every five minutes, Dragon had told him that soccer is for the humble, because it is the only line of work where you can do everything wrong in a game and win and you can do everything right and lose. Ariel hadn’t forgotten that and he feared his old coach would now think that with his million-dollar signing and his move to Spain he had lost humility. He wanted to tell him, I’m the same kid you used to pick up in the afternoons to take to practice, with Macero and Alameda. They remained in silence for a while longer, until Dragon pointed out a boy that was playing. He has the same name as you. Send him an autographed T-shirt, he’ll flip. Sure, said Ariel. It’s rare for good players to come out of here; the only promising kids come from the countryside. Dragon turned toward him and grabbed him hard by the shoulder. He gave him a talking-to. In this game, the worst thing that can happen to you is thinking you’re a little better than you really are. That was his way of saying goodbye. He crossed the field to correct some player’s move. Ariel watched him from a distance and left.
For a while, he thought that good-byes were harder than arrivals, but he was wrong. Now he saw himself, alone, his only companion the line down the middle of the highway, not caring about where he was going, the bottle of orujo between his thighs and the same song over and over again, “Four roads ahead, all four lead nowhere.” He was afraid of failing in this country, a country that was sometimes welcoming, sometimes hostile. After his first game, in a friendly tournament, he returned to the locker room feeling ripped off. Now they’ll come in and tell me it was all a joke. We know that you’re totally mediocre, you can go back to Buenos Aires now. Perhaps it was all just a terrible misunderstanding. But then Charlie was still nearby, he showed him the details of the plays that worked, the good vibes, he calmed him down. They called home and Charlie told his kids about the game as if he had witnessed a different one in which Ariel pulled off his feints, and Charlie said that he’s the fullback everyone was waiting for.
He takes an exit off the highway and follows the signs back to the city. From there he can get his bearings. He only really knows the route home from the stadium and he has to go back there. It’s his starting point in Madrid. The center of his world. The stadium is hidden and then suddenly appears all at once. He chooses a wide, deserted avenue, but the traffic lights seem to be against him. Once he passes a green light, the next one turns to red again, as if they were holding the car prisoner. Finally it changes and he floors it to catch the next one, but from the nearby darkness a shadow emerges, he twists the steering wheel but can’t dodge it, the bottle falls between his legs, and he brakes hard. He hears a loud knock against the hood and the car stops. Ariel remains motionless in an instant of panic. He has hit someone. The song keeps playing, but now out of sync with the moment. He is afraid to get out, to open the door, to face reality. He feels like his drunkenness has disappeared suddenly; only terror remains. His sock is soaked with orujo. He gathers his forces. It all lasts no more than three seconds.
9
A memory of Grandma Aurora comes back to Sylvia. As a little girl, she spent a lot of time at her grandmother’s house; they played together on the double bed. They made up vacations for Sylvia’s favorite doll. First they had her scale the pillows as if they were snow-capped mountains. Then they lowered the bedspread and pretended she was frolicking in the sea. The folds were the waves the doll swam over. As their game progressed, the waves grew, the sea got choppy, and eventually, in a fit of inspiration, they created a big wave that covered Grandma, the doll, and Sylvia, who cracked up laughing. Sometimes, when they came out from underneath to catch their breath, Grandpa Leandro was watching them from the doorway, taken aback by the commotion. He smiled, but said nothing. Then Grandma Aurora always turned to Sylvia and said, now you’re going to have to help me make the bed again.
Her father had just left the room. He had taken note of all the room’s details, the venetian blinds, the television that hung in the corner, the new wall lights, comparing them to the hospital her grandmother is in, where everything is old, and used. The worn walls don’t give you the feeling you get here, that you’re the first patient to occupy the room. What a difference, you’re like a queen, Lorenzo had said to Sylvia, Grandma has to share her room with a patient who snores like a buzz saw.
That morning she woke up with her mouth dry, her father sitting on the sofa reading the sports pages. After the operation, Sylvia had her leg in a cast, lifted up into the air. Mai had signed it with a marker. Her friend hadn’t stayed long, just long enough for Lorenzo to get a bite to eat. Does it hurt? A little. Mai told her about her weekend. Sylvia didn’t say anything about her time with Dani, about her absurd birthday party. When his name came up in conversation, Sylvia got nervous. He asked about you this morning, Mai
told her. I told him what happened to you, but I thought it was better if he didn’t come, right?
Yeah, that’s better.
She was sitting at the foot of the bed when the door opened and Pilar came in. Sylvia’s mother and Mai greeted each other and then Pilar hugged her daughter. How did it happen? Mai said, good-bye, I’m outta here, I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay?
Sylvia felt her mother’s tears on her face. I’m okay, it’s nothing serious. Pilar sat up and put her hand on the cast. The national soccer team’s doctor operated on me, Sylvia explained to her. He says that in two months I can compete again, of course the coach will have to give his say-so first. Pilar smiled. You’re coming to my house until you can move around on your own. We’ll see, answered Sylvia. And your father? He went out for lunch. He can’t take care of you now, said Pilar, he has his things. Mamá, I can take care of myself, I’ll have some crutches, I’m not an invalid. Sylvia pulled her arm out from under the sheet and Pilar saw the bruises. The son of a bitch really hit me hard. Sylvia, don’t talk like that. Well, then that very lovely man struck me harshly.
Sylvia wasn’t trying to hurt her mother, but she didn’t have the patience for talking to her. Often she used sarcasm to shorten the distance between what her mother wanted to hear and what she felt like telling. When they lived together, Sylvia was unaware of how lonely that made her mother feel, how frustrated she was by being denied access to her daughter’s worries. What do you feel like eating? I don’t care. Are you going out? Yes. Where? Just around. With who? With Mai. Just you two? No, with a couple of Civil Guard officers. Sylvia’s caginess was hard for Pilar to accept. She’s starting to have a private life, she told herself.
If you are going to see Grandma, don’t tell her anything, she’s got enough on her plate … , Sylvia told her. The door opened and Lorenzo came in. He and Pilar looked at each other and after a moment’s hesitation he approached her and they kissed on both cheeks. It was more a mechanical gesture than a kiss, their cheeks brushing strangely after twenty years of kisses on the lips.
I told her I think she should come stay with me for now, until she can walk well. I don’t know, whatever she wants. A little bit later, they argued again, without really arguing, both of them offering to spend the night. Sylvia insisted they leave. She didn’t like to witness those parental competitions, the hundredmeter sprint to prove their filial love. She had gained independence thanks to their separation, maybe out of negligence, but she was happy, less protected, less scrutinized. Living with her father was the closest thing to living alone. With her mother gone, Sylvia had matured at a spectacular rate. She had realized what it means to not have someone around to take care of all her daily needs.
Doctor Carretero visited her late that evening. He greeted Pilar and explained Sylvia’s recuperation process to her, with the same patience he’d had with Lorenzo that morning. She’ll be in a cast for five weeks and then she’ll have very minor rehabilitation. He was a man in his fifties, his gray hair combed with a part and his hands delicate. In two months, she’ll be skipping rope again. Sylvia’s expression twisted. I think it’s best if she spends the night here and I’ll release her tomorrow, okay? She has several contusions and I’d rather not take any chances. He left the room and Lorenzo explained to Pilar that all the expenses were being taken care of by the driver of the car. He had brought her here and asked to be kept informed. We’re lucky, because she was hit by good guy, these days most of them hit and run.
Yeah, incredibly fucking lucky.
Don’t talk like that, Pilar corrected her daughter. Then Sylvia said, I was totally out of it. This morning the guy came in to talk to Papá and I didn’t even remember his face. I think there were two people in the car and I saw the other one. Did you black out? asked Pilar. I don’t know, maybe … It was all really strange. After I got hit, I tried to get up and it felt like my leg was made of rubber, so I got scared. That’s when he put me in the backseat.
She was pretty lucky. Crossing illegally without looking, in the middle of the night, interjected Lorenzo.
Peace. That was what she felt when they left her alone. First her mother. I’ll call you later, she said. Do you want me to bring you some clothes? But the question died on the vine. It only took Lorenzo’s proud expression to remind her that the clothes were at his house and not within Pilar’s reach. Lorenzo stayed a bit longer, as if he didn’t want to leave with her.
Sylvia flips through the television channels with the remote control. There’s news at that hour. She finds a music video station. She leaves it on in the background, not paying much attention. A lead singer deliberates between a dozen women who stroke and caress him, begging longingly for the chance to be with him. Lorenzo had left newspapers piled up on the sofa, but she’s not tempted to look at them. A nurse brings her dinner. Sylvia eats with a good appetite. She gets a message from Dani on her cell. “Take care of that leg.” Sylvia replies with concise coldness. “I’ll try.”
A while later, they take away her dinner tray. The nurse wishes her good night, shows her the call button. On the television, a woman sings in a bathing suit, slithering along the ground near a pool like a snake in heat. When she hears a short tapping of knuckles on the door, Sylvia puts the remote control down on the bedside table. Mamá? The door opens very slowly and a coppery face, surrounded by a messy, longish mane of hair, peeks in. A small but stocky body. He has a box of chocolates in one hand.
You’re not my mother, I don’t think.
No, I don’t think so, answers the young man. You’re Sylvia, right?
It’s his accent, the sweet cadence of his speech, that attracts Sylvia’s attention. She watches him as he turns to close the door behind him. He holds the chocolates out to her. I brought you this, it’s the least I could do. Thank you. Sylvia grabs the box, and lifts the sheet to cover her breasts. She isn’t wearing a bra under her T-shirt. She doesn’t want his gaze, those honey-colored eyes protected by incredibly long lashes, to be distracted. He has pointy eyebrows, the left one interrupted by a small scar. His slightly deviated septum gives him a tough look that contradicts a delicate mole halfway between the corner of his mouth and his left eye. Tough and sweet.
You’re the one who ran me over, right? asked Sylvia.
10
On Tuesday he goes back.
Leandro is received by the same madam. She leads him to a different room, smaller, narrower. Leandro realizes this is all set up so the customers never meet. Call me Mari Luz, please, says the woman. Leandro prefers the cold, professional treatment he got the first day. He finds the warmth disquieting; it makes him feel worse. A moment earlier, still on the street, while schools were letting out, he had considered turning around. The bustle on the street was threatening. A school bus passed, more cars. It was impossible that the neighbors on a residential street like that one didn’t know what went on at number forty, where the blinds were always drawn. Clients, like him, would be scrutinized indignantly. There goes another one.
Leandro doesn’t want anything to drink. I would like the same girl, he says. Valentina, right? asks Mari Luz without waiting for a reply. Let me see, you’re going to have to wait a little bit, not long, ten minutes, if you want I can show you some other girls. No, no, Leandro cuts her off, I’d rather wait.
Leandro sits down. In front of him there is a window through which he sees a gust of wind blow leaves off a plane tree. There is a sound of footsteps. A woman’s voice. But nothing that betrays what is going on in the rooms. He supposes Osembe is with another client. He left Aurora in the hospital, sleeping. Esther had come to spend some time with her in the afternoon. I’m going to go out and stretch my legs, Leandro had said to them.
He had spent Monday wracked with guilt. Less for what had happened the evening before than for his irrepressible desire to do it again. He had arrived early to the hospital to relieve Esther. He soon learned about Sylvia’s accident. At first he was scared. She got run over last night, he heard from his son,
and he connected what happened to Sylvia to his meeting with Osembe. It was the punishment. His granddaughter run over at the same time he was … She’s fine, there’s nothing to worry about, Lorenzo told him. They agreed not to mention it to Aurora.
He slept horribly on the sofa bed. Arousal and shame. He heard Aurora’s breathing, very close by, like he had so many nights. He thought of the few occasions he had looked for sex in someone else. In his room, he kept a book of nude female photographs. They were artistic nudes, most of them in black and white. Masturbating brought him back, with cruel irony, to his teenage years. He never imagined himself sitting alone in the little reception room of a chalet like that one.
Some nights he and Aurora still had something similar to an erotic encounter. It would happen on those strange nights when she could tell he was having trouble sleeping. She would feel between his legs and find him aroused. She relieved him with her hand. Sometimes Leandro would sit on top of her and they would make love without penetration, which hurt her, so they just rubbed their genitals together, caressed each other. They never spoke about it. When they finished they turned over and went to sleep. No one teaches us how to be old, do they? she said to him one night. Desire should have died out long ago and should rest buried unceremoniously beneath the springs of their bed.