Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  In the last row of first class, stretched out to full length, with a mask over his eyes, amid thunderous snores, sleeps Humberto Hernán Panzeroni, the goalie of an Andalusian team. He had come over earlier to greet Ariel effusively when he saw they were on the same flight.

  Humberto is big, a veteran of the Spanish league, where he’s spent almost six years. He was chosen as the third goalie of the Argentinian national team in the last few World Cups. He sat on the arm of Ariel’s seat to talk to him and every time a flight attendant passed by he turned; it wasn’t clear if it was to let her pass or to flirt. I hate traveling in first class, they send the experienced flight attendants up here, the tender young things are in coach, the world’s upside down. He had one incisor a different shade of white than the rest of his teeth and Ariel remembered that he’d lost a tooth in a collision with one of his fullbacks. Ariel had seen it on television.

  I have my wife back there with the three kids, in first class they charge an arm and a leg. For the baby who doesn’t even have his own seat they charge a thousand euros. They talked for a while about the latest in their profession, the state of the country, and then Humberto announced that he was starting to feel the effects of the pills and he stretched out to sleep.

  The days in Buenos Aires had been intense and they reminded Ariel of everything he missed. He thought about Sylvia; they even spoke on the phone. It was four in the morning in Buenos Aires and Sylvia answered the call with a mix of euphoria and nervousness.

  In Ezeiza, when he arrived, his brother Charlie was waiting for him at the entrance to the breezeway, chatting with the ground flight attendant. He leaped onto Ariel and squeezed him tightly in his arms, blocking the exit for the rest of the passengers. He took Ariel’s carry-on and put it over his shoulder. You’ve changed, he said, now you look like the older brother. When they passed a girl dressed as Santa Claus with tight short shorts handing out flyers, Charlie elbowed him. He took him in a new car to his parents’ house. I’m testing it out, if I like it I’ll keep it. You know now I go around as the brother of Arielito Burano, the Feather who scores goals in Spain, Charlie felt obligated to explain. Here Madrid goals get noticed, not everybody scores those.

  On the way home, Charlie brought him up to date on family affairs. Their mother was in a delicate state again, with some depression, taking iron pills or copper or I don’t know what, and the old man is fine, spending his free time locked up in the little workshop as if it were his life’s business. He mentioned the new names in local politics, he told him about the hardships of close friends, so-and-so’s mother died, they kidnapped so-and-so’s son, so-and-so’s store closed, the so-and-sos went to Spain … If there’s nothing bad to talk about here, people get mad.

  Ariel was listening to his brother, but he didn’t take his eyes off the city emerging beside the highway. He had missed it, the way the houses are arranged, the serrated profile of the buildings, the different colors, the familiar advertisements, the streetlights high up above the streets, the elevated railroad, the stores along the avenue. In the neighborhood, a few days’ worth of trash was accumulated beside the trees, because of the strike, Charlie explained, and they had changed the door to a metal one with a video alarm system. Things aren’t as bad as people are going to tell you they are, predicted Charlie. And take off your sweater, it’s eighty-six degrees, boiling.

  At home they received him with tears. His nephews had grown and Ariel told them, I don’t know if the T-shirts I brought you will fit. He gave his father a bag filled with nougat candy, sloe gin, and vacuum-sealed Jabugo ham and his sister-in-law the magazine Hola. Did you win the Apertura? his father asked, and everyone laughed. Ariel told them the league championship in Spain didn’t end until June. And who cares anyway, said his father. You know the painter Dalí said soccer wouldn’t improve until the ball was hexagonal. Maybe that would suit me even better, said Ariel. His mother had gained too much weight. Ariel found her old and tired.

  Do they stop you on the street, do people recognize you? asked his sister-in-law. Oh man, explained Charlie, in Spain they ask you for autographs everywhere, on a napkin, a bus ticket, on their T-shirts. You remember the little kid who asked you to sign his report card?

  On the street, Ariel enjoyed people watching, the good weather. Soon the heat would really set in. A lot of his friends had gone out of town to the beaches for the summer. They invited him to Villa Gesell, the beach house of some close friends, but he wanted to stay in Buenos Aires. As he was sitting at an outside café table on a corner near Recoleta, they would yell at him every once in a while from the opposite sidewalk, you’re brilliant! Or someone would give him the thumbs-up from a car window or ask him, are the Spaniards treatin’ you right?

  He wanted to use his week’s vacation to get together with friends. What are we doing for New Year’s? Something at home, mellow, suggested Charlie. He talked to his brother about his adjustment to Spain, the team’s playing, about his needs. They told me you have a girlfriend, he said suddenly. Who told you? I have my informants. Ariel didn’t really know how much his brother knew and all he said was, yeah, well, there’s a girl, but nothing … Later he guessed that maybe Charlie was talking to Emilia.

  He went back to his apartment in Belgrano. Walter had it better decorated than when he lived there. He even used the roof, which Ariel had barely taken advantage of. He had put in a hammock up there. They scaled seven metal steps on a shaky ladder and settled in with a thermos of maté. The building, near Monumental Stadium, rubbed elbows with the the highest ones in the area. All with acrylic super-balconies, expensive lounge chairs, and privileged views of the river that looked like the sea. It’s so great up here, said Ariel, in Madrid I live in a really different kind of place.

  Marcelo invited him to a barbecue with friends, all of them cuervos, he warned. Cuervo meaning a San Lorenzo fan. He played Ariel his latest tracks from the studio, told him that he might be traveling to Madrid on his new tour: Express Kidnapping. I got together a fabulous band, I’m pleased. He looked happy, sure of himself. The record just came out, and it’s already pirated in every corner of the Web, and what’s more you have to make nice and thank all those fucking people who rob you, but, well, as they used to say, it’s better to get robbed than killed. Ariel wanted to leave early, but Marcelo insisted, today the unemployed are going to be protesting, stay, there’s nothing to do out on the street. It’s organized by the Bloque Piquetero Nacional, the Corrientes Clasista y Combativa, the Frente Darío Santillán, the PTS, the MAS. Ariel was refamiliarizing himself with local politics.

  They had a family dinner on Christmas Eve. Santa brought gifts after midnight and at four in the morning Ariel was turning in bed, unable to sleep, listening to the birds and some nearby generator, the elevated train passing by the house, the murmur of the highway. His room now seemed like a schoolkid’s room, a place trapped in time, as if it no longer belonged to him. His childhood trophies, the photographs of juvenile teams on the walls, the boxes filled with games, the few books. All his life he dreamed of playing professional soccer and now that he was, he felt like he wasn’t enjoying it the way he used to. He liked practice more than playing; in the morning when he got to the field he found the grass fresh, welcoming, without the pressure of games. Then he enjoyed the ball, his teammates, the exercises. He found the actual games laborious, difficult. Only in bursts did he get the fulfillment he used to have, when playing was a pleasure and just a pleasure. The stadium often transformed into a pressurized bubble, where he found it hard to breathe, to fly. When he remembered feeling happy, it was always with his hand on the nape of Sylvia’s neck, lost among her curls, her peculiarly shaped eyes of intriguing, intelligent green, pulling him in, the expression at the corner of her mouth right after she said something defiant and funny. From thousands of miles away, he was aroused by the memory of Sylvia’s busty body, running over it in his mind to savor it again.

  He took a long walk with his father to Chacabuco Park. They talked ab
out his mother’s health. Otherwise, we’d come visit you, I mean it, but she can’t get on a plane now, with her blood pressure the way it is. She looks fatter, Ariel confided. It’s the medicine and she doesn’t exercise, she never leaves the house.

  He pored over the local press. Suddenly he felt strange, a newcomer to a city he felt he didn’t really know. It was similar to how he felt in Madrid. He had managed to not belong anywhere, to be a stranger everywhere. He drove along Avenida Nazca toward Bajo Flores, he was held up by a passing train, and he edged along the Nuevo Gasómetro to catch the entrance to Avenida Varela. The neighborhood of Soldati, bleaker than ever, the same message painted on the wall: ENOUGH OF LOW WAGES ALREADY. The family that owned El Golazo carwash was getting their barbecue ready on the sidewalk. The security guard opened the gate for him, you back on the job? Just here for Christmas. He parked Charlie’s pickup beside the pregame dormitories, he remembered the Saturday barbecues beneath the deck, with the team enthusiasm; he really missed that. He crossed beneath the portrait of “Balls Out” Zubeldía, who exactly thirty years earlier won the national championship for San Lorenzo. The walls bore reminders of the winning team: Anhielo, Piris, Villar, Glaria, Telch “the Sheep,” Olguín, Scotta, Chazarreta, Beltrán, Cocco, Ortiz. Ariel was surprised to find a framed photo of himself beside the glorious matadors, as that dream team was called. Did you see your photo yet? asked Cholo, the grounds manager. They hugged. Cholo went into the locker room with him, everyone’s on vacation. It was humble, with the religious imagery, the thermoses of maté, the little lacquered wood lockers, the piled-up sneakers. It must be more luxurious over there, huh? It’s another world, Cholo, it’s another world.

  He called Agustina. It was an obligation. He had called her a few times from Spain, in moments of desperation, after his brother left. On one occasion, he was about to offer her a ticket and invite her to visit, but he stopped himself when he realized how selfish he was being, having people at his disposal on a whim. The worst call was the last, one night when he came home drunk, after going out with Husky. He suddenly felt the need to talk to her, to go back down that path, and he was crude and unpleasant and ended up jerking off while he begged her to say dirty things into the phone. Since then he hadn’t had the guts to call her again, except for a cold, brief apology, but he felt that it was rude not to see her while he was in the city.

  They went out in the early evening. Ariel had plans to dine with some friends and he didn’t want the night to turn into a temptation. It would only hurt her to prolong something that was over. They met near Lavalle Plaza and she said, you look like a tourist. I am a tourist now, he said in defense. I even wanted to take a walk before we met up. They talked about superficial things. Agustina had chosen her ivory earrings, her ponytail, and her lipstick with extreme care, but she quickly understood that the date wasn’t going to end with them getting back together. Ariel established a clinical distance during the two hours. Agustina managed to get him to talk about Sylvia. I don’t know, I don’t think it’s a relationship that’s going anywhere, but it helps me be more relaxed, comfortable, to be able to speak intimately with someone. She nodded while she listened to him. His words hurt her, but she pretended they didn’t. Ariel said, you know when you love someone so much that you try to protect them from the pain you could cause them, out of fear because you know yourself, but the other person only sees the wonderful side. And Agustina felt like saying, I know what you mean, I know that feeling, but she only said that the best thing was to just enjoy yourself, to not get worked up thinking too far ahead.

  I should vaccinate her against me, he said, with a smile.

  Maybe she doesn’t want the vaccine.

  And Ariel realized he was talking about Sylvia, but Agustina was talking about herself. They said good-bye a bit later, she put her hand on his cheek and said, take care of her, and she managed to make Ariel feel guilty for not having done the same with her.

  Ariel’s friends took him out to eat and he was in rare form. He told them anecdotes about the Mexican halfback who burned out his car driving it in first gear for twenty-five miles, convinced it was an automatic; the one about the inside right forward from Mendoza who played in the Second Division on the Canary Islands and had gotten so fat that fans sang “go on a diet” to the music of “Guantanamera;” the one about the substitute goalie on his team who ate sunflower seeds at a dizzying rate, and with his gloves on; the teammate whose feet stank so bad that they hid his sneakers in the garbage; about the Pole Wlasavsky, nicknamed Bert, and his collection of gold Rolexes; the one about the wife of the goalie coach who would get drunk in the stadium VIP bar; the gay referee who called certain players before a game to tell them he was a big fan and invite them out for dinner; the one about the right halfback from Paraguay, on a team in Extremadura, who was suspended for three games after telling the press he thought Bin Laden was an admirable public figure; about a Brazilian coach who insisted the team captain play with a radio transmitter in his ear and halfway through it had picked up the announcer’s broadcast and the poor guy went crazy.

  The fun ended when the restaurant television broadcast news of a fire in a nightclub in the capital where a lot of kids had died; the exact number wouldn’t be known for days. It was a packed concert hall without security measures, where the bathrooms were used as a daycare so the post-teenage parents could enjoy the music. It burned down because of some fireworks lit inside while the emergency doors were closed and padlocked to keep people without tickets out.

  That night he called Sylvia. She shouted from inside some dive. He tried to whisper in his room, right next to his parents’. I miss you, Ariel told her, but they could barely hear each other.

  The next day, he went to spend the morning with Dragon. The country was shaken by the fire the night before. His wife fixed them a maté and they sat on the sofa, in front of the television. You don’t know how good it is that you’re getting far away from here. Everything is corrupt. If they start to investigate this nightclub thing, they won’t find one person from the first to the last who did one thing right and clean. It makes me mad.

  After a while, they turned off the television. How long are those bastards going to keep squeezing people’s pain to fill their segments? He asked about Spain, but Ariel confessed that he didn’t much follow the current events there. After the train bombings, do they hate the North Africans? asked the coach. No, I don’t think so, answered Ariel, doesn’t look like it.

  Dragon told him that he was considering the idea of retiring, I haven’t got much steam left. He had a son barely two years older than Ariel who had had a bad year. Later he alluded to a drug problem. He wondered if he should leave the city, get a change of scenery, he liked the time he spent at his country house. In the unkempt yard, an old soccer goal made of squared wooden posts rose among the goosefoot. Dragon had rescued it from an abandoned school in the area. All my life trying to teach boys and it turns out I did the worst job with my own, he said bitterly.

  Dragon told him that he had seen a few games on cable. You look tense, as if you have one eye on the stands. Just play, don’t get weighed down with responsibility. You have to always remember the pleasure of the game, always. Yours is an absurd job, if you don’t enjoy it, there’s no point. You can’t start thinking, you freeze up. The smart thing to do is to know how to manage your own anxiety. Look at what’s going on in the world, if you stop to think, you’ll shoot yourself, it’s enough to make you start dodging and weaving when you remember those kids from the Cromañón nightclub.

  He wanted Ariel to stay for lunch, but he had made plans with Charlie. They said good-bye in high spirits. Score goals, all the Spaniards want is goals. At the car window, Dragon leaned over to speak. The most important businesses are devoted to things you can’t touch, intangible things. Look, the most profitable company in the world is the Catholic Church and then there’s soccer. They both live off people with faith, and that’s all. Isn’t it crazy?

  Charli
e took him out to eat at an elegant restaurant in Puerto Madero and introduced him to a lovely woman who had become his regular lover. She worked at Channel Once, in production, and they wanted to interview Ariel before he went back to Madrid. That same afternoon, they recorded an insipid, stupid conversation strolling through the port. In the car, on the way home, Charlie said to his brother, don’t judge me, I can tell you’re judging me and you have no right. When you get to where I am you might be worse, much worse than me, so save your morality lectures. Ariel lifted his middle finger and they both laughed.

  It was a sad Christmas. When you turned on the television all you saw were the relatives of those who died in the nightclub clustered together for three days at the morgue without any information. The brother of a player Ariel knew was among the missing. And several days before, a giant tsunami in Southeast Asia had left more than 400,000 people dead in its wake. The news aired coverage of the dramatic stories with fragments of video recorded by tourists, images interrupted when the tsunami reached them with a fatal slap.

  His last evening in Buenos Aires, Ariel cut his walk short because the Casa Rosada was surrounded by riot police. They were expecting a protest. Walter invited him to the tenth barbecue in six days. There he ran into an old teammate from San Lorenzo, a midfielder who played for the Corinthians. Around his neck, he wore a gold necklace with a little soccer ball pendant. It’s nice. I had it made by a jeweler in Rosario, a guy who makes one-of-a-kind stuff.

  In the airport, Charlie and his older son saw him off. His mother had bought him two big bags of yerba maté at the last minute and he packed it in his hand luggage. On the plane, he doesn’t sleep. He tosses around the idea of breaking up with Sylvia, of putting out that strange fire. He’s decided to focus on his work, not get distracted by other things.