by David Trueba
Lorenzo saved the piece of paper, and on his break the second day he dialed the number. Gloria? he asked the voice that answered. Yes, that’s me, said a woman. She must have been about forty years old. Look, sorry, apologized Lorenzo. I’m calling from Altos de Pereda, number forty-three, apartment 1A. From the home of Mr. Jaime Castilla Prieto. Lorenzo had memorized the former owner’s name. What do you want? asked the woman.
Lorenzo beat around the bush, trying to get information. He said he was emptying out the house and had found her number jotted on a piece of paper. Why call me? I’ve never been in that house. I don’t know anyone by that name. But your number was on a piece of paper, on the refrigerator door … I don’t know why …
Lorenzo insisted on how strange it was that she didn’t know the place or the man who kept her phone number as his only visible contact. It was, it seemed, the sole bit of information that tied him to the real world. But the woman, this Gloria, denied any relationship with him. Her refusal turned out to be sincere, surprised, somewhat concerned. Lorenzo realized he was beginning to upset the woman and he apologized and said goodbye. It was weird.
In his own way, the guy who lived here was organized, pointed out Wilson when they had paused for a moment. The everyday objects were striking, fossils of a conventional life that appeared as they removed the layers of accumulated junk. A stationary bicycle pushed beneath the bed, hangers, shoes in good shape. Why live like that? Why end up that way? Lorenzo felt dizzy and afraid, as he asked himself these questions on his way to the dump. Finally he consoled himself with Wilson’s answer. The guy let himself go. And why not?
And why not?
The last vanload was filled with things Wilson or Lorenzo deemed to have some value. Small, cute pieces of furniture, a sideboard, three wristwatches, some glass bottles. In that final load, Lorenzo filled a cardboard suitcase with some small-format records, two or three books, and the enormous collection of cutout photos.
At the last minute, he called his friend Lalo. That’s it, the apartment is empty. Tomorrow I’ll give you the invoice, okay?
Lorenzo brought Wilson’s buddies back to near Tetuán. Then they both went to an antique dealer in the Rastro district who had said he would have a look at the furniture. This isn’t worth the effort, thought Lorenzo when he heard the amount the guy offered him for the pieces. Wilson was more skillful, bargaining boldly until he got the final price up by a few euros. Wilson insisted on accompanying Lorenzo to a gas station to wash the van, to try to get rid of the unpleasant smell. The Ecuadorian scrubbed the back as if it were his. Lorenzo felt strangely pleased. He liked the guy. Once in a while, Wilson would say something funny and laugh through his teeth. When Lorenzo took Wilson home, he asked for a favor. Can you ask Daniela to please come down for a minute? I have to ask her something, he justified when Wilson smiled at him knowingly.
Lorenzo waited in the darkness, parked at the entrance to a nearby garage. Daniela came out of the doorway and approached the van, avoiding the headlights’ beam. How’d it go? she asked. Exhausting, said Lorenzo. Wilson will tell you.
Outside work Daniela seemed more relaxed. Her loose, damp hair fell around her eyes. Yeah, well, okay, she said suddenly.
It took Lorenzo a little while to realize that was her reply to his invitation for Saturday. So I’ll pick you up after lunch? Okay.
Lorenzo started the engine and she left, a half smile still on her face. Lorenzo watched her walk back inside. She didn’t swing her hips as she walked; instead she seemed propelled by small defiant impulses. She knows I’m watching her, thought Lorenzo.
Then he passed by his parents’ house. Leandro and Aurora were having dinner in her room. A simple potato frittata. Lorenzo noticed their subdued intimacy. He was happy, exhausted by the job. I’m only here for a minute, I gotta go home and shower, he explained. You sure you don’t want dinner? No, no. He asked how they were. He got angry because they hadn’t asked him to go to the hospital with them and then was giddily evasive about the job. When I get it more established, I tell you about it, was all he’d say, convinced that sounded good. What did the doctor say? he asked his father on his way to the door.
Nothing, just a regular checkup.
At home a note from Sylvia was waiting for him. “I’m studying at Mai’s house, see you later.” Studying. Lorenzo smiled to himself.
After showering he got in bed. He tossed and turned. Exhausted, but wired with excitement. It took him a while to fall asleep. He got up to take the Barbie doll from the back of the nearby walk-in closet. He went back to bed with her. Under the sheets, he caressed her plastic curves. But he was too tired to masturbate and he fell asleep with the doll resting on his belly.
He was awoken early in the morning by the sound of the front door opening. Sylvia’s light steps. Lorenzo checked the alarm clock on the bedside table. Almost three. Was she going out with some boy? Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing. I’ll have to talk to Pilar. I’ll ask her. She’ll confess to her mother. He couldn’t get back to sleep. He waited long enough for Sylvia to get into bed, then ventured over to her room. Do you know what time it is, Sylvia? I lost track of time. Well, that’s obvious. I got caught up over at Mai’s. I don’t want you coming home so late, I worry. Okay, let me sleep. Lorenzo noticed her body, a woman’s body, beneath the sheets. He wondered if some boy was enjoying her curves and then he put the thought out of his mind. It disturbed him. He related it to his own sexuality. Worrying about his daughter didn’t keep him from masturbating with the doll once he got back to his bedroom and then putting her away, ashamed, at the back of the closet.
When on Saturday, after lunch, Daniela walks out of her door and hops into Lorenzo’s van, he restrains the impulse to greet her too effusively. He just smiles in response to her smile. Is El Escorial very far? No, an hour, tops. Ah, I thought it was further.
No, no, it’s very close.
8
He went down to the garage as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to be late for practice. He took the sheets out of the washing machine. He didn’t really know what to do with them. They were still damp. He spread them out on a rack. It’s cold outside.
At practice his hands are freezing. His legs feel heavy. He didn’t get enough sleep. Flashes of the previous night come back to him.
What am I doing? She’s underage. She’s sixteen years old. Yet Ariel’s lips didn’t part from Sylvia’s. She broke the tension, bringing Ariel’s hand to the back of her head, burying it beneath the weight of her hair. Ariel reached to caress her full neck. What was going to happen? It was Sylvia who pulled apart for a moment, searched out Ariel’s eyes and smiled.
I’m crazy, right?
Ariel ran his fingers over her cheek. It was soft, spotless. His gesture had something of the way one strokes a child. We’re not going to do anything, he said.
Sylvia lowered her head, embarrassed. Ariel wanted to run his fingers over her lips, but he didn’t dare. Sylvia trapped a lock of her hair in the corner of her mouth and bit on it. Ariel stroked her hands and pushed away the hair. Why do you do that? I don’t know. You don’t have to be nervous. Are you comfortable? Do you want anything else? I don’t know, another beer …
Ariel’s trip to the kitchen gave them both a few seconds. Sylvia leaned back on the sofa. Ariel knows that overly passionate kisses reveal the fear that lies behind them. Once he made out for hours with a girl he had met at a concert, they shared incredibly ardent kisses, but she fled in terror when he tried to take her clothes off. That memory, together with Sylvia’s spontaneous, fervent kisses, alarmed him. No, he wasn’t going to do it. The refrigerator’s cold air brought him back to his senses. When he sat down on the sofa he was a few inches further away from Sylvia. Hardly anything, but to her it must have seemed like miles.
It’d probably be best if I take you home, he said, and she nodded. It’s twelve-thirty.
My father is going to kill me. Do you have practice early tomorrow?
At ten.
When he explained that it was over by one and then he had the afternoon off, Sylvia let out a whistle and said something like, that’s the life. Of course I’m a big fan of siesta time, I already was in Buenos Aires. I need to sleep, at least an hour. Then they talked about the game on Saturday. In Seville. They were traveling on Friday. It’ll be on TV if you want to watch it. I’m not that big a fan, really. I thought you might like to see me … The conversation passed like a screen of rain between them. Ariel touched his nose with one finger and Sylvia bit the fingernail on her thumb.
Did you invite me over because you’re into me? Sylvia’s question brought back the lost heat, her eyes opened like a green sky. I invited you over because I like you … yeah, because I’m into you. But I didn’t you bring you here to get you into bed.
Ariel didn’t move, kept his distance. She smiled, nervous. Her lips puckered as she drank from the bottle and Ariel wanted to kiss her again. Why was that so crazy? He was only four years older than her, but to Ariel the difference seemed insurmountable. He remembered a teammate telling him that soccer players are like dogs, at thirty we’re ancient.
Ariel established some physical distance as a safety barrier. She managed to break it and run her finger over the scar on his eyebrow. War injury, he said, it happened in practice a couple of years ago. It’s a pretty brutal exercise, to get you to lose your fear of tackling headfirst. They bounce a ball against the ground between two players who are standing very close together and the winner is the one who manages to head the ball first. You know, those kind of tests designed to see who’s got bigger balls.
Can I see your room?
My room?
Sylvia stood up nimbly. She placed herself in front of him and held out a hand. Ariel hesitated for a second, took it, and got up with her. They left the television on, the movie’s music resonating through the living room, and headed upstairs. This way, he said, and she got in front of him. Ariel could make out the bones of her back beneath the wool sweater. The corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans. Ariel bit his lower lip. He pointed to the second door. It was ajar. Sylvia pushed it open, revealing the made bed and the mess of compact discs beside the CD player on the floor. She sat on the bed and chose a CD. He put it on. From the streetlight, an orange glow filtered in, illuminating the room. The walls were bare except for a photograph of the New York skyline in a thin black wood frame. Ariel was embarrassed about that picture, a holdover from the last tenant.
He saw Sylvia take off her sweater and let her hair fall messily over her face. She didn’t fix her curls after tossing the sweater on the floor, just scratched them in an ironic gesture.
To be honest, it would be nice if you held me.
Ariel smiled. She acted in such a cerebral way that it was impossible for him to feel uncomfortable. They drew closer together and he put his arms around her shoulders. She sought out his lips and found them.
Sylvia had three worn bracelets on her wrist.
I don’t know what we’re going to do, but after tonight you don’t have to ever see me again if you don’t want to. Sylvia tried to remain composed as she spoke. She seemed less nervous than he was. They dropped onto the mattress and their kissing extended into a muddled embrace. She took off his shirt first and kissed his shoulders. Ariel lifted up her shirt and after pulling it over her curls he undid her bra. Sylvia’s breasts gushed out, dominating with their bright whiteness and the vivid pink of their nipples. She seemed to retreat. The process was slow, with pauses. Clothing is always a pain in the neck, it’s not designed to look good coming off, thought Ariel.
He unbuttoned the fly of her jeans and she let him do it. He pulled down the fabric that tangled around her thighs. Sylvia drew him up. She didn’t want Ariel’s face right there in front of her crotch like a neighbor on a narrow street. She hugged him tight, as if she wanted to immobilize him, while she managed to kick her jeans off her ankles. Then he watched as she pulled back the sheets and hurried into the bed. Ariel sat on the edge to take off his clothes.
Do you have any condoms?
Ariel nodded and left the room for a second. Sylvia saw, without wanting to stare, Ariel’s supermuscular legs. When they met again beneath the sheets, Sylvia ran her hands over his athletic body. His toasted skin contrasted with Sylvia’s whiteness. Her hand, after evasive caresses, reached Ariel’s penis. She didn’t go so far as to touch it with her fingers, she backed off and lay down, as if she wanted to be taken without being too aware of what was going to happen.
But Ariel didn’t lie on top of Sylvia. He didn’t want to ask, are you a virgin? He did bring his hand down to her sex. She was wet and receptive. He touched her delicately, using his middle finger to penetrate her. In a instant, Sylvia closed her eyes and started to melt with pleasure. She grabbed his arm and moaned, until she let out a scream followed quickly by another and then another, more contained, one that made her collapse and open her eyes with a smile. Ariel dropped his head down beside her.
Sylvia recovered the feeling of her own body weight. The moments before she seemed to have somehow been levitating. Ariel tried to make himself comfortable next to her. He placed his arm on the pillow and Sylvia let her neck fall onto it. She covered her breasts with her arm.
Do you want me to do something to you? asked Sylvia timidly. That’s okay. Sylvia took on a comic tone. No, no, it’s no problem, while I’m here. Blushing, she covers her face with the sheet. You must think I’m stupid.
I hope it was lovely for you.
She was surprised by the adjective. No Spaniard would use it. She told Ariel that her friend Mai sometimes said that Argentinians dripped sugar from their mouths when they spoke. It’s something about your tone of voice, here everything sounds more aggressive.
Ariel changed the music. It was a female Brazilian voice, that spread gauzily through the room. Music for fucking. He regretted the choice.
Sylvia caressed his stomach with her hand, then confirmed that he was aroused and she forced herself to jerk him off, even though she found the movements ridiculous, grotesque. Ariel placed his hand around hers and helped her finish.
Then, without them realizing, a very long time passed.
Now I really do have to go, announced Sylvia. She sat on the bed and Ariel was turned on by the subtle way she hid her breasts with her forearm and the sheet. Like in old movies. He watched her start to dress with fiendish speed.
Do you want to take a shower?
I don’t want to get home really late.
Sylvia’s sweater had ended up on Ariel’s side, and as he sat up he held it out to her. Your pullover. Pullover? She smiled. She finished her beer in two sips while Ariel dressed standing.
The car flew along the almost deserted highway. Sylvia lowered the window and stuck out her head. There was a fine mist falling that dampened her face, making her feel refreshed. She didn’t tell Ariel that she felt like she had been blushing for three hours and her skin was burning. Her hair flew out behind her, as if it were going to detach from her head. It felt good. The music played between them. They barely spoke.
Sylvia directed him to her neighborhood. What’s this area called? asked Ariel. A charming name, Nuevos Ministerios. I bet you’ve never been with a girl from Nuevos Ministerios before. What about you? Is this your first time with a guy from Floresta?
Ariel was surprised she didn’t lean over to kiss him. A brief brush of the cheeks was the whole good-bye. Sylvia said, thanks, I had a really good time. Me, too. Neither of them dares to say, I’ll give you a call. Ariel watches her walk toward the brick doorway. She looks fragile in the middle of the well-lit street. He thought perhaps he’d never see her again. He appreciated the effort Sylvia had made to keep herself from getting carried away by her emotions, holding back her desire to open herself up, to let herself go. It made him respect her even more.
He felt closer to Sylvia when he found the vestiges of her visit while changing the sheets. He thought he had been cold, distant, ha
rd with her. Like someone dealing with bureaucracy. The soccer player who fucks the starstruck teenager, hardly making any effort, ignoring anything beyond a new notch on his bedpost. But I didn’t fuck her, he argued in his defense. Maybe it was worse that he let her jack him off for such a long time; he even had to make an effort to come so that it wouldn’t be humiliating. He tossed the sheets into the washing machine. He waited for it to start running. He didn’t want Emilia snooping around and asking for explanations.
In his dream, he saw Sylvia’s hair, placed over her breasts, almost completely covering them. He remembered Sylvia’s total stillness after her orgasm, not daring to take the next step and reveal having rushed things, and being afraid, regretful. In that moment he wanted to see her again and show her the warmth he hadn’t that night.
At practice the ball moves from one teammate to the next and Ariel seems unable to intercept it. At one point the coach approaches the group and in a curt tone says, get with the program, Ariel.
He understands that the coach isn’t referring to that play in particular but to his performance in general. And he feels hurt. He is embarrassed to not be focusing, not be devoting himself completely to the team.
As he leaves the field, he signs some autographs for a group of schoolkids waiting behind the fence. One of the girls shouts, you’re so handsome, and Ariel looks up at her. Her pubescent face is not quite settled, it’s in that somewhat monstrous transitional phase, not yet fully formed. She’s surrounded by a gang of her girlfriends, hysterical and shrieking. He doesn’t like the group. They’ve lost that childish charm that can do no wrong. He again remembers his teammate comparing soccer players’ lives to dogs’. Our masters outlive us, too.
By that point, he had decided not to see Sylvia again. Distance himself. It is her maturity, unthinkable in a sixteen-year-old, even though it seems like an act, that scares him most about her, that makes her even more dangerous.