Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  The last game had gone better. They scored a penalty kick that gave them the win, but above all he had been active, incisive. His best soccer up to that point. He spoke with Buenos Aires every day and Christmas approaching seemed to encourage him. We’ll see each other soon, Charlie told him. He had become close with a couple of players on the team, Osorio and the fullback named Jorge Blai who was married to a model. Jorge put him in touch with an agent who represented celebrities, an amusing, foul-mouthed guy called Arturo Caspe, who invited him to parties and got him a couple of fun offers. They paid him six thousand euros to play a new PlayStation video game against a defender from a rival team in front of the media and another three thousand for going to a party sponsored by an Italian watch company. Husky went with him to some of these events and pointed out what he defined as the cut-rate aristocracy of Madrid’s nightlife. People who appear on television, sharing their love lives, their breakups, their mood swings, their changes of hairstyle, even their altered breasts and lips, with the viewing audience, and receiving a fluctuating salary in exchange, depending on their degree of scandalousness. It was Husky who most seemed to enjoy these glamorous outings, though. He stuffed himself with beers and hors d’oeuvres and once in a while saved Ariel from the clutches of some vampiric woman who preyed on celebrities. Yeah, they suck your dick instead of your blood, he explained, but the price is usually higher than just going to a whore.

  The day they went to the opening of a nightclub, which had debuted four times that year under different names, Ariel was approached by a striking woman, who seemed to have been reconstructed by someone not only insane, but also afflicted with erotomania. Impossible breasts, swollen lips, accentuated cheekbones, tiny waist. Husky pulled him out of her friendly embrace. This woman comes with her photographer, first she says you’re just friends, then that you’re involved, later that you dumped her, later that you screwed her six times in one night, later that she cheated on you, and then she tells an afternoon TV program what your cock looks like. Each chapter of her story for a reasonable price. If you want to get laid, ask me for permission first. So Husky, from a distance, nodded or shook his head every time Ariel started a conversation with a woman.

  Ariel spent three fun nights with the daughter of a veteran model, a lovely, multiorgasmic blonde who looked like a twenty-something clone of her mother and shouted so much when she came that instead of having a stiff lower back the next day, his eardrums ached. Then he bedded the waitress at a stylish spot, right in the manager’s office, and spent another two or three nights with random women that Husky classified as sluts or desperate. The night can be treacherous, he said, I have a friend who used to say I never went to bed with a horrible woman, but I’ve woken up next to hundreds.

  Ariel didn’t much like the smoke, the night, the alcohol, and the girls who were only interested in fame. There was some sort of intersection of interests in those places, a tense lack of genuineness and the threat of wagging tongues. His name would fill thousands of hours of radio and television programs devoted simply to talking about who’s dating whom, who’s sleeping with whom. It wasn’t that different from Argentina, where he’d also been prey for the covers of Paparazzi, Premium, and Latin-lov, with a naked spread of some girl who mentioned his name among her many conquests. Around him, he felt the presence of hangers-on, people who went to great lengths to introduce him to someone, who wanted to invite him to an opening night, to a private party, to a fashion show. He got offers to use a gym downtown, a cologne, sunglasses. We’ve got to take advantage of our moment, said Jorge Blai, soon we’ll be yesterday’s news.

  The big empty house didn’t help his mood. At night he watched movies on the DVD player, listened to music, or went online, where he read the Argentinian press or e-mailed with friends from home. In a fit of nostalgia, he wrote to Agustina. In a moment of weakness, he was tempted to invite her to come spend a week in Madrid. He was starting to know places where he could get Argentinian food, Argentinian CDs, Argentinian magazines, where he could have a maté and chat for a while with a university professor or publicist from there who recognized him.

  He had become close with Amílcar, the Brazilian midfielder whose career was waning, but who seemed to understand the whole soccer circus. He lived in a big house in an upscale neighborhood. He had met his wife, a beauty from Río de Janeiro who had been Miss Pan de Azúcar in 1993, the year he played for Fluminense. They had three kids. Fernanda would raise her voice and get angry in a comic way, more like an Italian than a Brazilian.

  On a clear, bright day, they ate in the sunroom of their house. Fernanda was golden brown, with blond hair. I love Madrid’s weather, she said to Ariel. When we got here six years ago, this was a dirty, aggressive, ugly city, but it had its charm. Here everybody talks to you, they’re friendly, fun. But now it’s getting worse, it’s the same chaos, but people don’t have the time to be charming. Everything has sped up. Amílcar shook his head. Ignore her, you know how women are, if they’re nice to her at the hair salon then Madrid is wonderful; if they don’t yield to her at an intersection then Madrid is horrible. He pronounced it horríbel.

  Fernanda treated Ariel in an easy manner, as if he were a little brother. She had just turned thirty and she confessed to him that she was depressed over something that had happened a couple of weeks before. The Peruvian woman who took care of the kids was at the house and some guys pulled up in a supermarket truck. In five minutes, they had robbed the entire place. The appliances, my family jewels, even the kids’ TV, it was awful. And the worst thing is that they beat up the poor nanny. Can you imagine? She’s fifty years old and they kicked her down to the floor. They wanted to know where the money was, the safe, I don’t know … The poor woman had a terrible time of it. It looks like they were Colombians, that’s what the police told me, because in Gladys’s room there was a picture of Jesus and they turned it around, it seems they do that so God won’t see them, I don’t know. What animals.

  She and Amílcar argued beguilingly, almost as if they were doing it for Ariel. When we first came to Madrid, she got compliments all the time, and now she feels old because no one says anything anymore. She denied it, that’s not it, Latin Americans are very crude. They whistle at you from the scaffoldings, they say very coarse things, Spaniards used to be more subtle. I remember one short, big-headed bald guy with a moustache who passed me on the street and whispered: miss, I would make tea with your menstrual flow, but he said it very respectfully, like someone wishing you a Merry Christmas. Amílcar was counting on retiring in two years and trying to stay on with the team as a coach, but Fernanda wanted to move back to Brazil. I’m sick of soccer, isn’t there anything else in the world? I miss Río, I miss being surrounded by the sea and the beach.

  Ariel drove with Amílcar in his SUV to pick up his kids at the British school where they studied. The entrance was jammed, cars double-parked. The children came through the door in green uniforms with a crest, in gold relief, on their jackets. For a while Ariel felt comfortable, like he was part of a family.

  Ariel played soccer in the yard with the older boy and he left before night fell. In one of the streets of the housing development there was a plaza filled with stores. He stopped in front of a flower shop and sent a message to Sylvia to ask for her address. He ordered a bouquet of flowers from the Dominican employee. Weeks had passed since the accident and he had only gotten in touch with her once, on her cell, to ask how she was doing. He sent her a cheery text message, but she hadn’t continued the exchange, she had just replied briefly and rather sharply. Ariel took it to mean that she didn’t have a very good impression of him, someone who ran her over and let other people take the blame. She had every right to think little of him. Sylvia responded instantly to his text with her address and at the end a witty remark: “You coming over to sign my cast?”

  He dictated the address to the florist’s employee and asked him for an envelope to send a note. What kind of envelope? asked the man. Love or friendship? Arie
l raised his eyebrows in surprise. The Dominican showed him the different types, decorated with little bows, illustrated with flowers and stenciled borders. It’s for a friend, Ariel explained. He held out a sheet of paper and a pen. Ariel couldn’t come up with anything to write while being watched. What? You can’t think of anything? We have cards that come with messages already in them. Would you like to see some? Ariel shrugged his shoulders and that was when an idea came to him.

  Leaving the florist’s, he ran to the car. A policewoman was placing a ticket on the windshield. Excuse me, I’m sorry, I just went in to buy flowers for a friend who’s been in an accident. The policewoman, without looking up at him, answered, best wishes for a speedy recovery. And she went on to ticket a car a few yards away. You’re not very nice, Ariel said to her defiantly. They don’t pay me to be nice. I think they do, I think that’s part of your job. The woman lifted her head toward him. What are you, Argentinian? Well, I don’t know if in Argentina they pay the police to be nice, but I can assure you that they don’t here, said the woman, ending the conversation. Ariel got into his car after tearing up the ticket, but before he pulled out of the park-ing spot another policeman knocked on his window. Are you a soccer player? Ariel nodded, without enthusiasm. The policeman turned over his ticket book and asked for an autograph for his son. For Joserra. My name is Joserra, too, José Ramon. Ariel signed quickly, a scribble and a “good luck.” Your partner isn’t very nice. The policeman didn’t seem surprised by his comment. Did she give you a ticket? Forgive her, it’s just that they found a tumor in her husband’s colon three days ago and she’s taking it really hard. In just two days, she’s gone through three books of tickets. Ariel saw the policewoman filling out another ticket in the same row of cars. Anyway, with the dough you guys make I don’t think a ticket is too big a deal, right? Ariel replied with a half smile and left.

  When the meeting with Pujalte and Requero was over, Ariel walked through the offices. At that time of day, there was a lot of activity. Offices with stuffy atmospheres, the distant noise of a fax, secretaries typing on computers, cell phones going off. You only notice that the place has a relationship to soccer from the photos of legendary players that adorn the hallway and some trophies scattered in the display cases, details that remind you that it isn’t just any old company. We’ll prepare a press release announcing that you are voluntarily renouncing the tournament for the club’s best interests, Pujalte had suggested to him, that right now your only focus is on the team. The fans will eat it up, you’ll see. You want to add anything special? Ariel shook his head. No, it’s fine like that.

  He dials Charlie’s cell phone in Buenos Aires, but that early in the day it’s still turned off. He calculates that it must be seven in the morning. He only knows one person who’s up at that hour. When he sits in his car, he dials Sinbad Colosio’s home number. Dragon’s voice answers. It’s Ariel, the Feather. How are you, Spaniard? What time is it there? Ariel checks his new, enormous watch, a gift from the Italian brand. It’s one. Something happen in training? Are you okay, kiddo? Ariel is silent, listens to the old man’s breathing on the other end of the line. Everything’s fine, I wanted to talk to someone from home, but the only one I know who gets up this early is you. He explains that the club won’t let him travel with the under-twenty. He tells him slowly, not wanting to seem fragile. I could force them, but things aren’t going so well here and I can’t just do whatever I feel like.

  Well, he hears him say. They haven’t seen your left leg shine yet, right? Once in a while, answers Ariel. You have to win people over, get them on your side. Otherwise … Are you coming for Christmas? I hope so. Let’s see if we can get together then. There’s a long pause, Ariel senses he won’t say anything more, but it calms him to hear the cadence of Dragon’s breathing.

  Do you remember that exercise I used to force the forwards to do over and over? The one with the tire? Ariel remembered. You had to shoot the ball so that it went through the hole in a car tire hung from a rope on the goal’s crossbar, from farther and farther away and faster and faster. You remember that at first you all thought it was impossible? But then you’d always manage to find the hole.

  The old man seems to have finished talking, but suddenly he adds, it’s always the same, at first it seems impossible, but then … Yeah. Ariel wants to say something, but he’s afraid Dragon will notice he’s upset. Did somebody tell you this was easy? He doesn’t wait for a reply. It’s not easy, you already know that.

  It’s not easy.

  part two

  IS THIS LOVE?

  1

  To save herself the awkward climb up the school stairs with her crutches, Sylvia uses the teachers’ elevator. That morning, when she arrived, Don Octavio, the math teacher, got in with her. He was always rod straight; the lack of mobility in his neck forced him to turn his entire body to look either way. When he saw the cast, he asked her, how long do you have to wear it? It’s a drag, I think they’re taking it off in a week. Oh, well, mine is worse, it’s forever. And he pointed to his stiff neck. Was it an accident? asked Sylvia. No, it’s something called Bechterew’s syndrome, I guess when Mr. Bechterew went to the doctor and they told him he had Bechterew’s syndrome, he must have really freaked out, don’t you think? He laughed alone, Sylvia chiming in with a delayed smile. He got out on the floor before her. Have a good day. You, too.

  During recess Sylvia stays in the classroom. Mai sits on her desk and rests her boots on the edge of Sylvia’s chair. The heel of her cast is propped up on a nearby desk. Sylvia has achieved an impressive agility with her crutches. She leans on them when she’s standing still, with her bent knee on the handle; she brings them together when she sits down as if they weren’t the least bit heavy; she fishes her backpack off the floor using the bottom end of one, and on the street she pushes aside littered paper or cans off the sidewalk as if she were playing hockey. The idle hours have given her time to be alone. Her days, before the accident, hinged completely on her school schedule and Mai’s plans. They went home together from school, they hung out in the afternoons, they went over to Mai’s house and locked themselves in the “pigsty” to listen to music, or sat in the hall and chatted.

  But the last few weeks had been something of a retreat. She lay in bed with headphones on, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars she had stuck up years earlier, when her room’s ceiling aspired to limitlessness. She read for the pleasure of following a story, of losing herself in something beyond her, for the first time. She had overcome the anxiety that usually pulled her attention to her own worries when she had tried to read in the past. She finished the novel that Santiago gave her in six days of marathon reading, sometimes until one eye got red and felt gritty when she blinked. Then she searched the shelves of the study at home, read the first lines of other novels, and made the fatal mistake of asking her father, what should I read? Lorenzo stumbled through the books for twenty minutes, from suggestion to suggestion, with confused enthusiasm, until he held out a thick novel written by a woman. I didn’t read it, but your mother loved it. Pilar always carried a book in her purse to read on the way to work.

  When Sylvia talked to her mother on the phone, she told Pilar that she’d finished the novel Santiago had given her. That weekend, when she came to visit, Pilar brought her another book. It’s from Santiago. He inscribed it for you, he was embarrassed but I insisted. Sylvia opened it to the first page. “Sometimes a book is the best company.” His handwriting is strange, but pretty, she told her mother.

  On her first day back at school, her classmates circled around her. Some even kissed her on both cheeks. Some, like Nico Verón, signed her cast with obscenities: “What’s it like fucking with a cast on?;” others, like Sara Sánchez, with schmaltz: “From a friend who has missed you;” and some with surprising surrealism, like Rainbow, who wrote: “long life Spain.” That first morning, the cast ended up like a graffitied wall, filled with teenage signatures. Dani approached her in class, too, and they chatted for a while
in front of Mai, until he had the guts to suggest, if you want I can come by some afternoon and keep you company. Sure, whenever you want, replied Sylvia. Dani left and Mai spat out her diagnosis. That guy is hung up on you.

  Two days later, Dani visited her at home. Sylvia took her time letting him in. Her father had just left. Dani sat on the floor, leaning against a piece of furniture. Sylvia lay on the bed, reclining. They talked about school, an upcoming concert, a recent movie, about the beating two skinheads had given Hedgehog Sousa last Friday. Dani brought two beers from the fridge and Sylvia asked him, do you like soccer? Dani was surprised by the question. Just the finals, he said eventually. When someone loses and they cry on the ground and they don’t seem so cocky and sure of themselves. Sylvia had seen an ad on TV that afternoon for Ariel’s team playing in Turkey. Dani suddenly said, I’ve been racking my brains over what happened on your birthday. Sorry, I was an idiot. No, I felt ridiculous, he said. Why? I don’t know.

  After a pause, Sylvia patted the bedspread. Come on, come up. Dani took a while to get comfortable, and when he sat next to her he brushed against her body. Sylvia directed him to lie down beside her. They kissed for a long time, he buried himself beneath her hair, and when he breathed he dampened her neck. Sylvia put her hands on his back. Their bodies moved rhythmically, he was careful not to hit her cast or put all of his weight on it. Their crotches began to rub against each other. Sylvia could feel his excitement through his clothes. Dani lifted her shirt up to her neck and kissed her breasts, taking them out of her bra. Sylvia was uncomfortable with her shirt tangled up around her neck and the elastic of her bra hanging around her shoulder, but she was turned on by the friction and his damp bites. Sylvia put her hand into Dani’s pants and ran her fingernails over his ass. They made love with their clothes on, without stopping. The clothes protected them. Sylvia, with an intense pressure in her thighs, gripped Dani when he splattered with a wheeze.