by David Trueba
Leandro feels a stab of cowardice again. Why am I doing all this? Why do I dirty everything around me? He asks himself questions he can’t answer. He knows the weakness of others almost as well as his own. And yet that’s no consolation, and doesn’t stop him.
15
He had gotten up so early that he was exhausted by nine. His stomach was growling and he suggested stopping somewhere. They were in the middle of a move and they had filled the van with boxes and furniture. Wilson brought his two usual friends to lend a hand. Chincho, a young man whose neck was wide enough for four heads, and Junior, a strong, thin man with slanty eyes. Lorenzo elbows up to the bar. He orders the coffees and a slab of freshly made potato frittata. The others have a look at a sports newspaper. They seem familiar with Spanish soccer teams and had chosen to root for rival teams, so they joked around and argued. Junior was from Guayaquil and had switched the Barcelona there for the Barcelona here. I like the team colors, the blue represents the ideal and the red the struggle. You have to show your affection for Madrid, that’s the city you live in, says Wilson. He had become a fan of Lorenzo’s team. Even though they’re having a bad year, he says. When they get to talking about players, about Ariel, Wilson says, a lot of guaragua but that’s it. A lot of swerving and bobbing, he explains, even though he’s the best at it. In Ecuador he was a fan of the Deportivo Cuenca, this year we won the national title, with an Argentinian coach, Asad “the Turk,” and this is the first time we’ve won it. Over there we call the team the Southern Express. You have to see Cuenca, it’s beautiful, the cathedral is incredible, and the university. The two friends start messing with him, Wilson knows the cathedral and the university really well, but only from the outside. They also bring up some acquaintance who last week won the competition for best Jabugo slicer in Spain, it’s incredible, fifteen months ago he had never even seen a leg of cured ham.
Lorenzo had opened up a local paper and he flips through the pages without paying much attention. He sees a photo of Paco in a small box beside the image of a chalet. There is only vague information about a band of robbers arrested by police. They were described as extremely violent and the police believe they were the ones responsible for the murder of the Madrid businessman Francisco Garrido, several months earlier.
Lorenzo skims through the lines searching for information. Albanians, hired thugs, armed, cold cruelty. The bitter smell of espresso and milk from the bar hits Lorenzo’s nose. He doesn’t know what to think. Now he reads the entire news story, dwelling on each sentence. Everything sounds circumstantial, vague. It could be an effort by the police to pin unsolved cases on someone or just the journalist’s invention.
Relief and panic. Can those feelings be mixed together? Paco’s face in an unflattering photo. Maybe from his ID. He always said no one should ever allow a bad photo and tore up any he didn’t like. He definitely would not have accepted that one. How ironic. It didn’t in the least reflect his magnetic personality, it actually made him look common, like an insignificant victim. Lorenzo thought the arrests would open up criminal proceedings and then someone would be forced to look for conclusive evidence. Nothing is closed.
They go back to work. Lorenzo and Chincho make the first trip in the van to the new location with the furniture. The others finish packing up. The street is jammed solid. In Ecuador you must not have traffic like this. Chincho shrugs his shoulders, hiding a centimeter of his immense neck. I drove a taxi in Quito and the downtown is rough, it’s super-hard to drive around there, worse than this. The move is exhausting and doesn’t end until almost two. It is Wilson who receives the money and distributes it among the four after settling accounts in his little notebook. Lorenzo has the strange feeling of being just an employee. They say good-bye. As Lorenzo approaches his building, he is filled with a certain euphoria. If the crime was committed by someone else, then he had nothing to do with it.
He goes up in the elevator to his apartment, but he changes his mind and goes up one more floor. He knocks on the door of his fifth-floor neighbors. Daniela opens it. Lorenzo doesn’t give her time to say anything; he slips into the apartment. She closes the door and makes a gesture for him to keep quiet. The boy is sleeping. Lorenzo kisses her, hugs her. I needed to see you. You can’t be here. They’re not coming home until later. But it’s not right. I can help you, what were you doing? Don’t be silly.
Euphoric, he pulls her further into the apartment. It’s identical to his, but set up very differently. He doesn’t have time to realize that the main difference is the familial warmth. Lorenzo pushes her into the main bedroom. No, no, whispered Daniela, somewhat amused and somewhat embarrassed. Lorenzo gets her onto the mattress, and lies on top of her to kiss her and caress her.
Three days earlier, Lorenzo had undressed that body for the first time in his bedroom. The moment had little in common with this one. It was a slow labor, between passionate and prudent. Daniela was passive. They had gone out for the night, but it was intensely cold. She was the one who suggested, can we go to your place? Of course, he said, he didn’t think about Sylvia, she definitely wouldn’t come home until later.
They sat on the sofa. He put on some soft music, brought out something to drink. He kissed her and they talked very close together. He pushed her hair out of her face with the tips of his fingers. He told her about episodes of his life and he let on that they had met when he had hit bottom. Daniela seemed to like Lorenzo’s confidential tone. She bit her lip when he told her about Pilar, I think we were the happiest couple in the world for a while. Every once in a while, he interrupts his words to kiss her lightly or touch her face. Daniela looked around the house. The bookshelf in the living room, the television.
Take me to your room, she said when Lorenzo kissed her intensely, as if putting an end to the conversation.
On the bed, he removed Daniela’s clothes. Her skin had a gray tone and was soft. Her flesh seemed oppressed by her clothes. The bra strap, the tight pants. She had enormous, electric-pink nipples and generous breasts that when freed produced an expansive wave of eroticism. On her back, Lorenzo discovered some pink scars at shoulder height that she covered when she lay down on the mattress. She crossed her arms above her breasts as if she were protecting herself, or as if she were handing herself over. He took off her shoes and then lowered her pants along with her panties, which were curled up inside themselves. He had trouble getting off her clothes, as if he were removing the top layer of skin. Her belly and thighs rippled seductively. Lorenzo moved to kiss her sunken belly button. She was tense, but immobile. The mark from the elastic of her underwear was imprinted on her trembling skin.
Lorenzo wanted to go down on her, but she pressed her thighs together and said no, not that, that’s dirty. Lorenzo crept up to find her face and neck again. She didn’t undress him, so he took it all off without neglecting her body, which he kissed and stroked relentlessly. The light was turned off, but through the window filtered in a glow that allowed him to appreciate Daniela’s flesh. Lorenzo lay down on top of her and bit by bit Daniela’s thighs allowed him in. Her hands found a place to rest on Lorenzo’s back. He took that as the moment to penetrate her and she moaned intensely.
It had happened on the most unexpected evening. Maybe the cold of the street, maybe the time had simply arrived. Daniela had a dark birthmark on her skin, above her hip. Lorenzo came very close to her, after pulling out of her body in an accelerated twist.
There was a moment of silence and then she said, that was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Why do you say that? Didn’t you want it? I don’t know …
Daniela’s words sounded sad and forced Lorenzo to be more affectionate. He spoke into her ear about the first time he had seen her, in the elevator. Of the impression her almond eyes had made on him, the mystery they emanated. No other woman except Pilar had been between these sheets, he told her. He didn’t talk about how dissimilar their bodies were, the different sensations. He was now a different man, too.
Don’t you ever think about h
er? About your wife? Sometimes. Daniela’s hands were very careful not to go near his sex. She had them intertwined on her belly and Lorenzo stroked them calmly.
This is all so weird, me here, with you, she said. Why? I don’t know, I guess you got what you wanted, to have me, and now you can feel satisfied, victorious. Why do you say it like that? Don’t you trust me? Everything can be so ugly or so beautiful. But that’s it, you’ve slept with me now, fine.
Lorenzo was silent. He didn’t entirely understand Daniela’s attitude. Her flesh, on the other hand, aroused him.
For men having sex is the end of the conquest. No, for us it’s the beginning. I saw your face when you rushed to come outside of me, but you, you didn’t look at my face.
Daniela …
You didn’t even ask me. Maybe I would have wanted you to finish inside me. To at least have something left when you disappear from my life.
Lorenzo kissed her as if kisses were the best way to refute her doubts. Her lips were dry, but they tasted good. Come here, get under, you’re gonna catch cold. Lorenzo lifted the sheets for her.
They heard Sylvia come in, go to her room, and shut the door. In a whisper, they talked about his daughter, let’s not make much noise. Lorenzo told Daniela that she had brought over her boyfriend the other night, I pretended to be asleep. She already has a boyfriend, so young, and they sleep together? No, well, I don’t know about that, said Lorenzo. How can you not know? She’s your daughter.
Later they made love again, or more accurately Lorenzo made love to Daniela. He let her hair get tangled in her face. He tried to place her on top of him. He had a hard time overcoming her resistance. He felt possessed by the cadence of her breasts swaying above him. Daniela rested her hands on Lorenzo’s face. I’m no sex goddess, you know? Lorenzo laughed and stroked her breasts. He told her that they were very nice. She said thank you. Daniela barely moved on top of him, she moaned, but she wasn’t enjoying the moment. Lorenzo forced himself to not take his eyes off of hers.
Daniela insisted on going home. She didn’t want to spend the night there. She slipped from between the sheets and started to dress. He watched her; the undulation of her flesh aroused him. She begged Lorenzo to stay in bed, but he leaped into his clothes and drove her home in the van, even though he knew full well that it would be hellish finding a parking spot when he got back. They parted with a short kiss on the lips. Her smile seemed frank and happy for the first time. Lorenzo felt that there was still an abyss between them, but he said to himself, I love her, she is beautiful and fragile, perhaps I’m not yet worthy of her, but I could be someday.
He wanted to take her right there on his neighbor’s neatly made bed, with the stuffed animals placed between the two long pillows, on the bedspread with white and orange flowers, between the night tables where each of them piled their reading, but she drew a hard line. No, no, not that. The day before they had gone out together, but Daniela hadn’t wanted to go to his house nor did she invite him up to hers. Come, says Daniela, and she forces him to stand. Lorenzo remains lying down for a second on the bed and points with his hands to the lump between his legs. Look at this, it’s not my fault, what do you want me to do with this? What nerve. She smiles.
She takes Lorenzo’s hand and brings him to the bathroom in the hallway. Beside the sink, she lowers his pants halfway down his thighs and jerks him off with emphatic arm movements. She looks at his face and smiles defiantly while she does it. Lorenzo caresses her breasts through her clothes and hugs her when he comes, splattering the faucets. He composes himself quickly. She just says, now go, you can’t be here.
He leaves the apartment, glancing first through the peephole to make sure he doesn’t run into any neighbors. He goes down the stairs to his landing. I love you very much, he had said to Daniela a second before leaving. Very much. But all he got out of her was, get out of here already. Nothing was going to be easy.
He understood that Daniela didn’t want to announce the relationship to her friends, be seen strolling around the neighborhood with a Spaniard. Someone might start spreading rumors if they saw them together. Daniela liked to feel respected. As she had said to him, I’m not one of those girls who think a man is going to solve all her problems, I’m one of those who think that he’s just going to make things more complicated.
They would see each other again that evening, when she finished work. They could have dinner together, but she was never hungry. Maybe he would bring her over to his place. The time had come to introduce her to Sylvia. He didn’t want more time to pass without them meeting. He didn’t want to be sneaking around his own house, his own life. He wouldn’t say stupid stuff to Sylvia like, I have a right to remake my life, too. He’d just say, this is Daniela.
16
They like that café because they can watch the street through the large rectangular window. Sylvia pointed it out one afternoon. Look, it’s like a movie theater. Through the glass, real life passed by like a performance projected just for them. Often Ariel is the one who shows up later, and she greets him from inside with a smile. But today he is the one waiting, prepared to see her walking down the sidewalk in his direction. Ariel rests into the chair’s back, ready for the pleasure of seeing her.
Luck and pigheadedness, the masseur had told him that morning. If I had to define what you need to succeed here, that’s how I’d sum it up, luck and pigheadedness. If one isn’t dead set on tackling obstacles when they arise, he’s better off just leaving, because that’s when you have to grit your teeth. He said it as if he weren’t talking to Ariel, as if he were addressing the injured ankle, and it could hear him and take his advice. Half of the injuries are up here, and he pointed to his forehead. Ariel appreciated the powerful hands on his body. Here, years ago, there was an Italian fullback who always had an expression for these things. Non piangere, coglioni, ridi e vai … And that’s it, there’s no point complaining, he said to end the massage.
Pujalte’s tan was intriguingly perfect. It was applied to his entire face in a hyperprecise way. It matched his gelled hair and contrasted sharply with his immaculate teeth. Too perfect to be a former player, thought Ariel when he saw him. He wore expensive shoes on the damp grass. The hems of his suit had gotten wet pacing the field during practice. Ariel came out of the weight room. He walked over to him, still carrying the crutch. Pujalte didn’t take a step, he just waited.
We’ll be more comfortable in the office, Pujalte told him, and he took his elbow as if he were helping him. It’s March. He opened the small fridge and took out two little bottles of ice-cold water. Ariel doesn’t drink his. I wanted to talk to you ahead of time, I wanted to let you know that as it stands today we aren’t counting on you for next season. Of all the things Ariel had imagined hearing that week from his superiors, this was the most unexpected. And he felt bad about his inability to see it. He didn’t like to be surprised, it seemed a sign of stupidity, of lack of foresight. It was important to anticipate others’ decisions so they didn’t catch you off guard. It actually had a lot to do with his attitude on the playing field, predict your opponents’ options.
But Ariel didn’t show his surprise. The sports director looked around the room or at his chest. His eyes never searched out Ariel’s; sometimes they went to the door or to the wall, but never to Ariel’s face. Neither the staff nor the fans feel that this team is the good bet for the future we were hoping it would be. Words. Words are always smoke screens. Ariel didn’t listen to them. He chose instead to search out Pujalte’s eyes, which he didn’t manage to find. All this is to say that we are going to be hearing offers, you can do some looking around yourself, but discreetly, the worst thing we can do is let the press start to muddy the whole thing.
But I have a contract. Ariel would rather not have heard himself say that sentence.
Our only contract is with the fans’ enthusiasm. The sports director’s comment must have been pulled from some manual, from some anthology of brilliant, empty phrases. It couldn’t be his own. Enth
usiasm was too big a word for him. When their hopes aren’t met, why stick to contracts.
The coach … Ariel tried to say. The coach is aware that we’re having this conversation. He approves it and the president approves it, even though he never intervenes in these things anyway.
They’re firing me, thought Ariel. Like giving away old clothes. It bothered him that they were doing it on a week when he couldn’t defend himself on the field. When he couldn’t even use his rage as a motivating force in the game. Injured, he seemed to have fewer arguments in his defense. And he didn’t want to defend himself. He heard Pujalte talk about the future, about a more ambitious team. Ariel thought, it’s my fault, I didn’t try hard enough, things didn’t go well.
Don’t get worked up about it, I know what a player feels when he hears these words. I was like you not long ago. It would be a mistake to cling to your contract and lose the best years of your career, things might go better somewhere else and you can come back more mature, more formed as a player.
Are we talking about a transfer to another team?
We’re not talking about anything, you’re twenty years old, we have to see how things go, this is a meaningless stumble.
I don’t know, there’s something I don’t understand, said Ariel. I look at the team and I don’t think my contribution is where the biggest problem is, in fact, I see things going well for us out there; the fans like me. You haven’t got the crowd eating out of your hand, Pujalte said. That counts for something, too. Things in Spain aren’t like they are in Argentina. Here the crowd doesn’t believe in the team colors or in the mushy stuff, you have to convince them at the start of the season that we’re gonna take on the world, otherwise it takes us on. We can’t tell them that this year is a good investment for next year or the year after that, they want it now. I’m going to be honest with you. We have another player lined up for your position, a name that will get people excited, someone new. I’m not saying you don’t do a decent job covering your position, but I don’t think you’re a player to keep as a substitute. That’s why I’m being frank with you, man to man, I don’t want you to hear about our negotiations somewhere else.