by David Trueba
Things had been like that from the beginning. Charlie made it all crazier, but more fun, too. On his first trip, before he was signed, they stayed in rooms next door to each other in a luxury hotel near the stadium. The club had been in a stir; they had just canceled the signing of a Brazilian striker because there were traces of tetrahydrogestrinone, a banned anabolic steroid, in his blood. It was leaked to the press that the guy had a bad knee, but since Solórzano was handling both signings, the negotiating got tense at the last minute. Someone had the nerve to suggest that either they sign them both, or didn’t sign either. Charlie turned serious. My brother is clean; it was the other guy who took THG. But for two days the signing was on hold. In the end, the Brazilian was admitted into a dialysis center, had his blood cleaned, and got signed by a French team. Ariel could pose for the contract signing, he passed the medical exam, and they waited a few days to find a house in the city.
The club and Charlie took care of finding it. You have to live like a rich guy, his brother warned him. The third day in the hotel, they put a journalist’s phone call through to his room. Charlie refused to give exclusive interviews, no matter how much they insisted. Ariel listened to him arguing authoritatively. Suddenly Charlie cracked up laughing and handed the phone to Ariel. Listen to this. Hello? Said Ariel. And a woman’s voice, nervous but chipper, spoke. Are you Ariel? Well, I’m not really a journalist, I’m here in the lobby, and, well, I’m here to give you a welcome fuck. Ariel didn’t even have time to be shocked; his brother grabbed the receiver from him and invited her up.
Two minutes later a woman in her thirties came in, with enormous breasts and dyed blond hair with laborious curls. Smiling, fun, uninhibited. They drank three beers and Charlie was the first to cuddle her. They got naked and entangled on the bed. Seeing Ariel’s passivity, she insisted, hey, I came here to fuck your brother. Ariel, half amused and half astonished, took off his clothes. While Charlie penetrated her doggy-style on the bed, she took Ariel’s penis into her mouth. She had a bright red piercing on the tip of her tongue. She was from Alcázar de San Juan but she lived in Madrid, well, in Alcorcón, and before she left she told them that she had fucked seven First Division players. I haven’t done this really cute one on the Betis, but everyone says he’s gay.
A reception like that still surprised Charlie and Ariel, even though they were used to the Argentinian botineras, the girls who milled around the players like groupies around rock stars. Ariel had trouble holding back a chuckle when the next morning a public television journalist asked him if he had been well received by the Spaniards. Well, I feel loved; I just hope I can please them on the field, replied Ariel. At the back of the pressroom, by the door, Charlie laughed uncontrollably, attracting the gaze of reporters, who by then were aware that Ariel was traveling with his older brother.
But now the situation wasn’t so relaxed. The team wasn’t working. They were sixth in the division and the only thing that mattered was winning. The European tournament had gotten off to a bad start. Ariel was coming back from training one morning and heard two commentators talking about him on the car radio: he’s no ace, that’s obvious, he’s just another of those dime-a-dozen players from Argentina. Even when you’re used to the categorical tone of the sports press, the criticism always hurts. The day after his debut game, a prestigious reporter at one of the soccer dailies wrote: “Ariel Burano has said that he doesn’t think he’s the next Maradona. Well, there was no need for that declaration, it’s painfully clear. You just have to see him play. He dribbles his way to the corner flag, but will his flourishes satisfy the demanding Madrid fans?”
Charlie downplayed those comments. He’s just an asshole, I asked in the club and turns out he’s a jerk who was trying to get them to bring that Mexican Cáceres in for your position, his brother-in-law is an agent. How is that your fault? Many times he had heard Dragon say that the press had to be taken with a grain of salt, or better yet not taken at all.
In the account of his first official game, another reporter described him with just one adjective: autistic. “Ariel Burano was autistic. Three teams played. The home team, the visiting team, and him. It remains to be seen if it’s just an adaptation problem or if it’s a symptom of an incurable disease.” Patience, pleaded Charlie. If you take the time to read everything they write about you every day, you won’t even have time left to piss.
Ariel counted on being able to slowly convince people he was a quality player, but he wasn’t counting on his brother’s hasty exit. Charlie was his point of reference, his first line of defense against reality. Far from his native soil, any place shared with his brother smelled like home. Charlie’s mishap happened on the night of the second league game, in Santiago de Compostela. The team played late that Saturday. The match was televised throughout the whole country. They spent the night there. Ariel and Charlie went out for dinner with two Argentinian players on the opposing team. There were thirty-two Argentinians playing across the Spanish First Division. Ariel didn’t know Sartor and Bassi. He met them on the field. “Mastiff” Sartor earned the nickname for his resemblance to those Argentinian mastiffs that, once they sink their teeth into something, never let go. He marked Ariel on every corner kick and he brought his flat-nosed face a palm’s distance from Ariel’s. He shouted dirty spic at him, faggot, whore, pack your bags and take them back to your piece of shit country, asshole. He told him he was going to fuck his mother, that his sister was a lesbian, that his girlfriend in Buenos Aires was fucking the River center forward, anything he could think of to provoke him. In a play where Ariel threw himself to the ground pretending he had been knocked down, he grabbed him by the arm to lift him up off the grass and he shouted get up, turd, everyone knows you only play because you suck the coach’s dick. Ariel burst out laughing. The guy was so extreme that it would have been comical, if it weren’t for his criminal expression and the threat of his aluminum cleats.
When the game was over, they shook hands. Sartor was from Córdoba and he greeted him with a warm embrace. Like a tamed mastiff. They arranged to meet after the showers to have dinner in an Argentinian steakhouse owned by a friend. Bassi was in a bad mood because he had only gotten to play the last five minutes. They bring me out just to waste time. Sartor had been living in Spain for five years. Bassi had played in Italy for three before coming over. It’s more relaxed here. Sometimes you even have fun playing. Sartor has the face of a B-movie killer. They call enormous, curly-haired Bassi “Gimp” because of his prominent limp.
They drank quite a lot, spoke passionately about Argentinian soccer. Sartor was a Leprosos fan, his first team, while Bassi rooted for Independiente. They walked them back to the hotel. Some drunken fans, who had stopped to piss on the colonnade behind the cathedral, recognized Ariel. They were wearing his team’s scarves. In the distance, one was vomiting onto his shoes. Another of the young men, with messy hair and glassy eyes, stepped in front of Ariel. This guy is great. You’re the best, the best. Oé, oé, and they started to sing at the top of their lungs, calling to the others. Ariel and his companions quickened their pace toward the hotel.
But the worst was yet to come. Ariel woke up with a start, hearing shouts in the hallway. It was Charlie’s voice. He dressed quickly in sweats and left his room. Curious heads peeked out a nearby door. He saw Charlie, standing naked except for some black briefs, kicking and punching a half-dressed woman crawling along the floor. Ariel ran over and tried to hold his brother back. He was drunk and out of control. It was obvious he had done too much cocaine. During dinner he had gone to the bathroom three times, though no one mentioned it. Two of Ariel’s teammates helped him hold Charlie down. The woman, redheaded, was bleeding from her nose and shouting indignantly. I’m going to report you, call the police. Ariel held his brother back as if he were a wild stallion. They think I’m a faggot, those sons of bitches, repeated Charlie.
It took Ariel a while to catch on. Bassi and Sartor had played a joke on Charlie. They had sent that prostitute to his hotel
room, as a gift. The drama ensued when Charlie discovered she was a transvestite and, instead of letting her go, he took it personally and started beating her up. Ariel locked his brother in the room and helped the half-naked woman compose herself. Someone gave her a damp towel; she dried her nose and cleaned her face. Ariel apologized, he’s drunk, it’s probably best if you leave. She calmed down, thanked Ariel for tending to her, and refused the money he offered. No, no, that son of a bitch has already paid me plenty.
Everything would have been forgotten if she hadn’t shown up hours later at the hotel manager’s office threatening to report the establishment if they didn’t give her the name of the guest in that room. Fearing that it was a player, the team delegate was woken up to take care of the matter. It wasn’t easy. She wanted to call the press, the police. There in the wee hours of the morning, over the reception desk, they agreed on a sum of money for her to forget the incident.
On the trip back to Madrid, Pujalte exchanged words with Charlie, at the back of the plane, far away from everyone else. Ariel saw them, but wasn’t invited to join the conversation. A little while later, Charlie collapsed. The girl was suing the club. She didn’t know the name of the player, but the police had issued an injury report. The hotel admitted that the room had been paid for by the team, but claimed not to know which player was using it. Pujalte gave Charlie a week to leave the country. We can buy a few days’ time, but then we’ll have to give them a name, we have to protect the club. You wouldn’t want what happened to that English team in Málaga to happen to us. Around that time, four players from a British team staying in a hotel had been arrested for rape. It was a national scandal until a few days later a shameful agreement was reached with the women in exchange for money. These stupid things can snowball in the press and end up taking us all down, explained Pujalte.
Ariel immediately knew it meant separating himself from Charlie. His serious expression, his irritated silence, his anger at his brother’s stupid behavior turned into panic, into sudden, unexpected loneliness. Later it was the car accident and once again the team’s protective hand, his dependence on Pujalte. Now his bad performance on the field.
From the front seats, Ariel sees Pujalte walking. He is headed in his direction, although he stops to greet the executives and the players. When he gets to his row, he kneels in the aisle, waits for Ariel to take off his headphones. They told me you went to the hospital to see the girl from the accident. That was stupid. If what you want is to get yourself into more trouble, keep on doing whatever you feel like.
I don’t know, just in case, it seemed like the right thing to do, check up on her, replied Ariel. A shiver ran up his spine. The right thing? You’d be better off focusing on playing and leave the rest to us. I don’t know how things work in your country, but here it’s different. This isn’t a banana republic, there are judges here. And with a change in his tone of voice he stands up and jokes around with Osorio, you don’t play at all on the field, but you really sock it to that little machine. Then he returns to his seat in the back of the plane.
Ariel feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar again. He finds Pujalte’s authority repugnant but he is more offended by his own submission. His rage contained, he puts his headphones back on. Dragon often repeated a Chinese proverb: “When things go bad, your walking stick will turn into a snake and bite you.” Ariel had trusted that that wasn’t going to be the case. That at least his walking stick would still be a walking stick. Returning from a defeat, alone with his music, he was afraid he was experiencing a slow, but uninterrupted, fall from grace.
17
The two invalids, says Sylvia, and hops over to her grandmother Aurora’s bedside. They hug; Sylvia leans over in spite of her cast. Her grandmother gets excited. What happened, girl? Well, you see, Grandma, I ran over a car. Lorenzo picked her up at the station, but they hadn’t let him go onto the platform to help her. The porters would take care of it. After the terrorist attacks in March, the security measures had increased. Atocha Station still kept a corner free for messages, lit candles, and photos of those killed on the tracks. Sylvia appeared, walking along the platform, leaning on her crutches, with a porter carrying her bag. Should we go visit Grandma? She’s home now, right? she asked. Lorenzo nodded, give me a kiss, come on. Was Pilar very irritating?
You’re missing a lot of school, says Grandma Aurora. Sylvia explains that she doesn’t have any exams until December. It’s cold. Grandma spreads a blanket over the bed. I’ll come pick you up in a little while, okay? says Lorenzo. Then he asks Aurora, where’s Papá? He went out for a walk. They hear Lorenzo’s footsteps fading away. Your grandfather is so mad … It turns out the boiler broke down and no one came to repair it. We have no heat, no hot water. Grandma lifts the blanket. Get in here beside me. Sylvia carefully lies down very close to her and they cover themselves.
They talk about Pilar. Is she happy? Are things going well? Sylvia thought about her during much of her trip back. Her mother is fine. Her mother is happy. Santiago arrived from Paris and brought her a very thin cashmere wrap. Then they all three ate dinner together. The next morning, Pilar took her daughter to Delicías Station. Don’t go down until the last minute. There’s a terrible draft on the platforms. The fall was colder and more unpleasant than usual. The winter is in a rush, Sylvia heard an older gentleman say as he boarded the train, loaded down with bags of vegetables. Old people often talk about the weather; she’s never been the least bit interested in what temperature it’ll be the next day. Through the train window, Sylvia watched the continuous metal fence that blocked access to the tracks. It was as if someone had put boundaries on the countryside. The fence, mile after mile, conveyed something demoralizing, as if every inch of the planet were condemned to be fenced in.
Your father is really thin, does he still eat? Aurora asks her. Boy, does he ever, you should see his potbelly. Sylvia asks after her grandmother’s pains, if she gets bored all day in bed. I’ve got visitors all the time, I have more of a social life now than when I’m healthy. It exasperates your grandfather; you know he doesn’t like people. That reminds her of something. She asks Sylvia to get her some tickets for the Auditorio. Do you know how to do it over the phone? Of course. Because I get mixed up with those things and your grandfather’s not going to do it, I know him.
Grandma Aurora asks her how she’s managing with the cast. Fine, the worst part is showering. She tells her how she sits in the tub and wets a sponge and runs it over her body so as not to get the cast wet. She doesn’t tell her that she got aroused doing it the other morning, so much so that she was embarrassed. She imagined the sponge was someone else’s rough hand, which gave her goose bumps of restless pleasure. What made Sylvia most nervous was identifying that hand as Ariel’s. My child, I bathed that way for years. In a washbasin. And your grandfather used to go to the bathhouse on Bravo Murillo before we built the bathroom in the house. You want me to read the newspaper to you? asks Sylvia. No, no, your grandfather reads it to me in the mornings. I know it annoys him to read aloud, but I like to see the faces he makes over the crime pages. Have you seen the things that happen? It’s all husbands killing their wives. And today, what a shame, some pilgrims coming back from the sanctuary of Fátima were killed in a bus accident.
Sylvia offers to read her a book. I started it on the train. That morning, before leaving for the station, Santiago had given it to her. Now you’ll have more time to read. I wonder if you’ll like it, he had said. What’s it called? asks Aurora. Sylvia shows her the cover of the book she’s just pulled from her backpack. It’s not new. It’s been read before. Sylvia likes used books. New books have a pleasant smell, but they’re scary. It’s like driving on virgin highway.
Sylvia tells her grandmother what she knows of the plot up to that point. There are five daughters of marrying age. A rich heir arrives in their town, and their mother wants to offer them in marriage. There is one, the smartest one, who feels scorned by the rich nobleman’s best friend, af
ter hearing him make a disparaging remark about her. And you know that they’re going to fall in love, those two. So you are liking it, says her grandmother. For the moment, yeah. Sylvia doesn’t admit that several times on the train she had to go back over the pages she’d read, starting again. She’s not used to reading, it’s a challenge for her.
When she was a little girl, she didn’t like her grandmother to read her stories, but preferred she make them up. Her grandmother knew what she wanted to hear. Princesses, monsters, villains, heroes. There was always a little girl with black curls who had a million and one misfortunes before finding love and happiness. Sylvia reads aloud to her grandmother: “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.”
When her grandmother falls asleep, Sylvia remains lying beside her for a while, relaxed by the rhythm of Aurora’s breathing. Then she gets up and leaves the room. The house was like a refrigerator. Her grandmother’s room was at least somewhat warm because of a small electric radiator. The door to her grandfather’s room was ajar. She approaches the upright piano. She touches a key without sitting down. She remembers the rigorous classes her grandfather used to give her. He was strict about the posture of her hands, her back, her head. Once he covered her eyes so she would play without looking at the keys. It’s a piano, not a typewriter, he used to say. It’s not taking dictation, it’s listening to someone else’s imagination. But her grandfather didn’t have the patience, and it seemed she didn’t have much talent. One day she asked her mother, please, Mamá, I don’t want to study with Grandpa anymore. Let’s see when we can catch up on your lessons, he had suggested one Sunday after lunch, but they both knew the classes were over forever.