Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  Leandro goes down the stairs to a lit hallway. He can hear voices and laughter. Leandro isn’t in any hurry to reach the dressing room. When he sees him, Joaquín leaves the group circled around him and walks over to Leandro. Well, what a surprise, I didn’t have time to call you, I just got in yesterday and I can never find your number. He gives Leandro a big hug, engulfing him in his arms. He has splashed water on his thick, snow-white hair and taken off his jacket. He turns toward his wife, twenty years younger, thin, with very pale skin, blue eyes, you remember Leandro, Jacqueline? She greets him with her fragile hand extended, of course, of course.

  Joaquín is cordial. He asks about Aurora and Leandro explains that she’s not in very good health. He doesn’t want to tell him that she is waiting upstairs, stuck in a wheelchair. He finds Jacqueline’s aged, with a certain strain she didn’t have before, as if she is holding on tight to her beauty as it slips away. She wasn’t prepared to stop being a radiant statue, and the surgical machinations on her face were disastrous. Leandro doesn’t want to prolong his visit. Joaquín holds him by the elbow and takes part in another conversation while he turns toward Leandro and unleashes a barrage of rhetorical questions, your son doing well? And your granddaughter? How are you handling getting old, I can’t stand it, Madrid is unrecognizable, when they finish all the construction it’s going to look like some other city, they’ll have to rebuild it again, Jacqueline wants us to buy a house in Majorca now, she fell in love with the island, how long has it been since we’ve seen each other? You’re so lucky to be retired, I can’t …

  When Leandro insists on saying good-bye, Joaquín brings his face to his friend’s ear. I’m going to be in Madrid for three days giving a master class for the foundation of I don’t know which bank, why don’t you call me and we can have a coffee. Jacqueline, give our cell phone number to Leandro, I want to talk to you about something, call me. Jacqueline hands him a business card with a number written on the back. I have the mornings free, is the last thing Joaquín tells him. Before Leandro leaves the dressing room, he has already turned around to merge effusively with the elbow of some other acquaintance. He liked to touch elbows, avoid having hands touch his. He protected those hands from any contact, using them only to gesture, raising them to the height of his eyes, as if he were conceding them the same relevance as his lively and intelligent clear gaze.

  In the taxi on the way home, Leandro is curious about why exactly Joaquín wanted to see him. Maybe it was just another formality. Aurora seems tired but happy. He’s the same as ever, was all she had said about Joaquín. And it was true. Joaquín even still wore those shirts with his initials sewn above the pocket. Leandro had always considered that a detail somewhat inappropriate to an elegant person, no matter how necessary it might be when traveling so much and not trusting dry cleaners. He knew Joaquín, ever since he was young, liked to brag that the initials of his full name, Joaquín Satrústegui Bausán, JSB, were the same as Johann Sebastian Bach’s. He’s the only person I wouldn’t mind switching shirts with, he had said to Leandro years earlier, the first time he had made a comment about the monogrammed shirts. That was when he still traveled to Spain with his first wife, a German journalist he divorced when he met Jacqueline. Without really understanding why, Leandro suddenly thought of the different initials with which Bach ended all his compositions. SDG. It wasn’t a personal stamp, but rather a fit of Christian modesty. Joaquín, on the other hand, didn’t share that virtue. It was a Latin phrase, Soli Deo Gloria, something like Glory Only to God. Unlike so many who dream of having all the glory for themselves. Leandro erases the cruel thought before getting out of the taxi and ringing the intercom for Lorenzo. We’re here.

  7

  Lorenzo looks at his friends, who feel scrutinized. He does so brazenly, searching out their eyes. Challenging them. None of the four meet his gaze. Lorenzo thought of it right when he arrived. If I stare at them, they won’t dare stare at Daniela. They are six in the dining room of Óscar’s house. The extendible table is covered by a white tablecloth striped with colors. On the wall are three engravings with wooden frames. They used to live in a tiny apartment near the Retiro. Taking advantage of the market increases, they managed to sell it at a good price and move into a recently built building in Ventas. They have a communal garden area and pool. Fifteen years ago, we bought the apartment for twelve million and we sold it for sixty. How is that possible? asks Daniela. Ana stops to clarify that they are talking about pesetas and then tells her about the factors that cause sales to increase. Nobody rents here, the banks love people with debts, explains Lalo, more cynically. That’s how they control us.

  In the middle of the week, Óscar had called Lorenzo to invite him over for dinner. So you can see the new apartment now that it’s finished. Lorenzo didn’t think too long before saying, can I bring someone? They joked for a while about women, but Lorenzo didn’t give him any details about Daniela. He only said, I’m like a teenager in love. Daniela, on the other hand, was reluctant to go. They’re your friends, they’re going to think it’s strange that you’re with someone like me. Hey, come on, don’t invent stupid stories, they’re great people, you’ll see. On the way to Óscar’s house, Lorenzo told her they had met years ago, at college, and that Óscar and his wife, Ana, didn’t have any children even though they’d been together for years. Lalo is my oldest friend, we went to elementary school together, he knows my parents. You’ll see, we are nothing alike. Marta, his wife, is a child psychologist and they have a nine-year-old son.

  When Ana opened the door and saw Lorenzo with Daniela, she smiled radiantly. He introduced them. Welcome, said Ana, and then she seemed embarrassed when Lorenzo explained that Daniela had already been living in Spain for almost three years. Lorenzo wanted to make clear he wasn’t going to tolerate any special treatment of Daniela. When Marta vaguely asked Daniela during dinner, how are things going, he felt forced to interrupt, don’t expect one of those tragic stories you hear on the news, Daniela shares an apartment with some friends and has a great job. I can’t complain, she added. What do you do? asked Lalo. I take care of an eight-month-old boy, and before Marta or Lalo could add anything, Lorenzo was already explaining that Daniela worked in the apartment above his.

  Lorenzo’s friends went to great lengths to be tactful. They didn’t hound Daniela with questions and even less so when they saw that Lorenzo was on the defensive. They joked about the food and about a couple of news items that were perfect for an inane conversation. In sporadic questions, someone asked Daniela about her family, her hometown, and if she missed her country. To Lorenzo’s satisfaction, his friends seemed tenser than Daniela. When Lalo asked her if she was planning on visiting her country soon, Lorenzo felt the need to explain, she can’t, she still doesn’t have papers.

  It’s a strange feeling, described Daniela, like being in a cage with the doors open, and I don’t dare leave. I’d love to see my mamá, but I don’t know if I’d be able to come back in.

  Well, it seems like there’s going to be a legalization, said Óscar. You think so? corrected Ana, I think people want them to keep working without papers, they’re cheaper that way.

  Lorenzo keeps his gaze fixed on his friends. Daniela isn’t inhibited. After a somewhat shy start, she dares to ask Marta about her job as a child psychologist. She had worn some stretch jeans that were tight around her powerful thighs. Lorenzo places his hand delicately on the right one. She lowers her hand and caresses his, but doesn’t linger. She puts hers back on the table and he pulls away. She is wearing an orange T-shirt glued to her body that stands out vibrantly amid the more discreet decoration. Daniela doesn’t taste the wine even though Lalo keeps insisting, it’s a wonderful Priorato. No, no, I don’t drink alcohol. Lorenzo, on the other hand, refills his glass.

  Óscar and Ana seem thrilled with their new house. They have more space. Lorenzo tells them that Sylvia has a boyfriend, the other day she brought him by for lunch. He seems like a really nice kid. But, of course, imagine the sc
ene. It’s incredible, explains Marta in a professional tone, now all sexual behaviors have accelerated, kids have to put up with tremendous pressure, we have cases of twelve-year-old girls and boys with an addiction to pornography, and then there’s the media, which forces them to feel sexually active. Their lives have been sped up. It’s a social thing. What a shame, comments Daniela in a very soft voice. No one contradicts her.

  I called Pilar to tell her the news. It bugged her to find out from me something so personal to Sylvia. Well, then she shouldn’t have abandoned you guys, interrupts Daniela. She spit out the sentence with a contained aggressiveness that surprises everyone. It is followed by a thick silence. Lorenzo tells them about Pilar. She’s fine, well, you know, she loves Saragossa. Do you have more family here? asks Óscar in an attempt to redirect the conversation toward Daniela. Yes, a sister, she came over before me, but we hardly see each other, she lives near Castellón. I don’t think highly of the life she leads.

  No one digs any deeper; they all retract when they sense how harsh Daniela’s judgments are. The conversation turns away from her and Lorenzo announces that they’ll be leaving early. He goes to the bathroom. He is a bit tipsy and his hemorrhoids have been bothering him for days. He can’t take sitting so long. He sensed the awkwardness of the situation, as if Daniela had to pass an exam. Angry, he pees outside of the bowl, staining everything around it. Then he’s embarrassed and tries to clean it up with wads of toilet paper that he scrubs along the floor before leaving it sticky and dirty.

  They stand up and start their good-byes, the pleased-to-meet-yous, the when-will-we-see-you-agains, the I’ll-call-yous. In the elevator, which still smells new, Lorenzo and Daniela are silent until she says, they didn’t like me.

  You don’t like being liked, replies Lorenzo with a smile. She thinks it over.

  Lorenzo resists taking her home when they get in the van. It’s still early, you must know someplace where we can have a drink. Daniela gives in, she tells him there’s salsa every Saturday night at a place her friends go to. Lorenzo starts the car and heads toward the neighborhood. It’s a place on Calle Fundadores. The traffic is dense at that hour, the Saturday night traffic jam. He has to drive around the area several times before finding a parking spot on the sidewalk.

  The place is called Seseribó. In Quito there is a salsa place with the same name, Daniela explains. Seseribó is a beautiful god that no one can touch—whoever touches him dies. It seems an Indian fell in love with him and dared to touch him. He died that very instant. They made a drum with the Indian’s skin and from it they say music was born. Lorenzo nods while he walks, what a lovely legend.

  At the door are two muscular mulattos watching over the street as if it were enemy territory. There are some men nearby hanging around the entrance; it’s not clear whether they just came out of the place or if they weren’t let in. Lorenzo and Daniela get to the door and the men step aside. He has to pay; she gets in free. In the doorway, one of the guys pats Lorenzo down quickly, from the armpits to the ankles. I don’t know if you’re going to like it, but this is where we come sometimes, says Daniela while they go down toward the magma of music, smoke, and bodies in motion.

  There is barely any space, but Lorenzo and Daniela manage to make their way toward the bar on one side. The music is deafening. Vocals rise over a drum machine, a cry of love betrayed. The chorus is repetitive. The couples dance, sometimes without their hands touching, but with their thighs, knees, the folds of their bodies in contact. The men put one hand at the base of the women’s spines to pull their bodies closer together. Is it like this in Ecuador? And she nods above the noise.

  Daniela drinks a bottled juice in a tall glass with ice. Lorenzo orders a beer. Domestic? The waiter asks him. Lorenzo shrugs. Club Verde, Club Café, or Brahma. Club Verde, he says finally. He isn’t the only Spaniard there, as he had thought when he first came in. He is comforted to see a few dancing and a couple near the main bar. Lorenzo tries to talk to Daniela, and to make himself understood he has to bring his mouth so close to her ear that it brushes her hoop earrings. He doesn’t say anything important, just something like, this place is a sauna. Then he begins to follow the rhythm of the nonstop music. For him it’s all just salsa, although he listens to Daniela explain with each song, this is a bachata, a cumbia, a vallenato, or just a merengue. It doesn’t make sense to be there and not dance, and Lorenzo leads Daniela to the dance floor.

  He is surprised that she doesn’t object. In fact, she quickly lets the movement of her shoulders get in time with the movement of her hips and knees and allows the music to take hold of her. She lifts her arms in the air and spins around. Lorenzo feels stiff compared to her and tries to wave his arms and wag his hips. He can’t get past feeling ridiculous until he grabs hold of Daniela’s waist. She runs her hand through her hair and keeps the rhythm.

  There is a presenter with a microphone on the other side of the dance floor. He cheers on the dancers, let yourselves go, multiplying the s’s in the word until it is coiled like a snake around a tree branch. Most of the women wear tight clothes and most of the men unbuttoned shirts.

  Lorenzo can now feel Daniela’s breasts against his body. Her thighs mark the sway of both of their bodies. Lorenzo wants to kiss Daniela, but their faces aren’t close. Then he has to put his energy into hiding his uncomfortable erection, shrinking his groin back when she brushes it with her hips. Stopping in the middle of the swaying would be like shouting in a place of silent worship. He is pleased Daniela isn’t rejecting his proximity or advances, although Lorenzo’s hands have been fixed on her hips for quite a while.

  He remembers the last time he danced was at the wedding of some friends, with Pilar. And it was more a mockery of dancing itself. She didn’t like to dance and neither did he, though they listened to music often. His friend Paco used to say that dancing was the orgy of the poor, but he said it with the same classist disdain as when he stated that making love was for the working class and he preferred getting sucked off. Fucking is work; getting blown, a luxury. Living with a woman is a sentence; seducing her, a hobby. Having a cell phone is great if you’re the boss and a kick in the balls if you’re an employee. Our point of gravity isn’t in our brains, it’s in our cocks. Those were typical Paco phrases, his way of speaking. Categorical and sarcastic. He used to say, kick a stray dog and he’ll come back for more. And Lorenzo always secretly felt that particular phrase referred to him, to their friendship.

  But why is he thinking about him now? Or about Pilar? Yes, he feels they would both scorn this ridiculous image of him, they would mock his sweat and his dance partner. Stray dogs think a kick is a caress, that’s what Paco would say about his relationship with Daniela. Like the voice of a cynical, provocative subconscious whispering, why don’t you dare tell her the truth, that you just want to fuck her. Maybe neither of them, Paco with his warm disdain and Pilar with her cold demands, would be able to understand that I feel happy right now.

  Let’s leave, says Daniela. Lorenzo pulls away from her and lets her lead him to the exit. The stairs are filled with people, too. They’re in the mood to party, she says. They leave the trancelike atmosphere behind as the cold of the street hits their sweaty bodies. They don’t say anything and head toward the van.

  I had a really good time, it’s been a while since I went dancing, Daniela says when they get to her door. Lorenzo stops her before she gets out, holding her gently by the wrist. Let me come up and sleep with you. Daniela lifts her face toward him, without smiling. The expression in her eyes isn’t serious, but rather indulgent. Not tonight. She hops out of the van and before closing the door asks, will I see you tomorrow? If you want to, he replies. Daniela nods, I do, and runs to the door. From inside she waves good-bye to Lorenzo. Not tonight, he thinks, the words resounding like just a postponement of inevitable victory.

  He drives home slowly. It’s not hard to find a parking spot. The streets of his neighborhood are asleep. There are barely any open after-hours bars or s
hady spots with cheap neon. The next morning, he would go to Mass and settle down next to Daniela, listening to them sing, but he would be thinking about her movements as they danced, the lust unleashed from her hips.

  At home he peeks into Sylvia’s room and sees her sleeping facedown, hugging the pillow, her clothes a mess. Lately he finds her so adult, too grown-up for her age. That makes him sad. He wishes he could protect her forever, but she is headed far away, where he won’t be able to follow. In bed he makes a valiant attempt to masturbate, but he can’t, and after fifteen minutes he gives up on his half-erect cock, red from the furious friction, and sleeps with his mouth dry and a dense smell of cigarette smoke in his hair and on his face and hands.

  8

  Ariel hears Sylvia paying the pizza delivery guy. The kid glances around behind her back and, seeing the apartment empty, asks innocently, are you a squatter or just allergic to furniture? Sylvia laughs. He is Colombian. A little bit of both, she answers. Sylvia reappears in the living room and Ariel asks her, what did he say? She tells him. She brings over the cans of beer in a plastic bag. Your dinner, Mr. Apartment Owner. And she gives him the change. They even gave us napkins, how thoughtful. They sat on the floor, the wood creaking at their every movement. The house speaks, she said when she first came in.

  Ariel had had the keys for a week, but he hadn’t come to see the apartment with Sylvia until today. From the terrace, they watched a violet sunset behind the buildings. Spectacular sky, he said. This morning it rained, she explained, and when it rains the twilights in Madrid are clean. Ariel held her by the waist and kissed her on the lips. I thought you were never going to bring me here, Sylvia said, gesturing around the apartment. This week we barely saw each other. Sylvia dropped down into one corner of the terrace. She looked out onto the street. That was when he suggested ordering a pizza and having dinner right there.