Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  Ariel nodded. It seemed he had to show appreciation for the deference. And maybe that was the case.

  There’ll be plenty of teams interested, give me a few weeks, let me check out the market and we’ll meet again, okay? Ariel felt stupid getting up with the help of the crutch. Disabled. They definitely chose an ill-timed moment. I’m afraid this isn’t my conversation to have, it would be better if you spoke with my agent. I’m paid to show my worth on the field, not to deal with meetings in offices, said Ariel before leaving.

  Perhaps it’s just that, you need more rest, more focus, less distractions, to feel like a soccer player …

  The sports director spoke to his back. Ariel was about to burst out crying and he didn’t want to turn around, or question him to find out if he was referring to something in particular. He called his brother from home, told him everything. Charlie calmed him down. They just say those things. Let other people take care of it, me included. But are things that bad? Why didn’t you tell me? That’s what most gets to me, Charlie, I didn’t think things were going so badly.

  That evening he relaxed, stretching out on the sofa and letting time pass, not getting into a conversation with Sylvia, just stroking her curls while she looked at her school notes. He envied her busyness. He didn’t want to tell her anything. She asked, do you have Easter week off? I don’t know yet, he said.

  He was left with a bittersweet sensation, when he found himself being consoled by her after he had spent the last few days planning to distance himself. After seeing her bedroom, on tiptoe so as not to wake her snoring father, Ariel had realized how crazy it all was. She’s sixteen years old. Posters on the wall, a stuffed animal on the bed. There he was, in the hotel before a game, going over notes from class and joking around, while she confessed that she had her period. Days later Marcelo arrived in Madrid to do a concert for his new record. He called him and said, you can’t miss it.

  Ariel went to the concert hall, the Galileo. Marcelo had reserved a table for him. Ariel didn’t want to invite Sylvia. He had decided to take some space, put a stop to the madness. Ariel waited at the bar until Reyes arrived. He had gotten her phone number from Arturo Caspe. Excuse me, I don’t want to be a bother, but the other night I made a fool of myself and I wanted to apologize. He now knew she was a quite well-known model. Oh please, it’s not necessary. Ariel explained that a friend of his from Buenos Aires was performing in Madrid. I would love it if you came with me. She smiled on the other end of the line. She’s an interesting girl, thought Ariel, with that almost suicidal way she smokes. You still have that beauty mark on your face? she asked. Yeah, I think so. Then I can’t say no, answered Reyes. Was she flirting with him? Ariel felt encouraged, that was what he needed. You can bring your boyfriend, of course.

  But she came alone.

  The place was filled with people, most of them Argentinian, which Marcelo later expressed frustration about. I don’t come all the way here to sing for people who already know me, where the fuck are the Spaniards? To be successful in Spain, I’d have to come live here, he said to Ariel. And I refuse to do that, because then the Spaniards look down on you because they consider you one of their own. But all this was after the concert. At the beginning, Marcelo appeared exultant, accompanied by a group of four good musicians, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a tie with the San Lorenzo colors.

  It’s funny to perform in a place called Galileo, he said after the first two songs. I hope I don’t get burned at the stake. And it’s hard not to end up in the burn ward of music history, right? Let me tell you, I’ll be forty-five in September. Now I’m going to sing a respectful cover of the song I’ve woken up to every morning for almost twenty years now. That was how he presented his rendition of “Chimes of Freedom,” one of Dylan’s old classics, which Marcelo sang in Spanish for eight long minutes.

  Ariel leaned over Reyes. Do you like it? he asked. She nodded. She was lovely, her breasts gathered in a fine black bra and peeking out through the open buttons of her white shirt, so sculpted that Ariel wondered if they weren’t plastic. Toward the end of the concert, Marcelo dedicated a song to Ariel, after a long introduction in which he spoke about their friendship. Be good to him over here, he appealed.

  They had a drink with Marcelo, but after that Reyes said, I have to get up early tomorrow. Ariel made a date to have lunch with Marcelo the next day. Reyes called a cab and Ariel offered to take her home. As they went out, a photographer surprised them. The camera flashes were like shots in the dark. Ariel lifted his crutch to get rid of the guy, but he backed up. They got into the taxi and left. The photographer kept shooting through the cab window. The driver said something Ariel didn’t understand. I see you’re very famous. I’m afraid they’re after you, she said. I don’t know, he said. She lived near the center of the city. Ariel apologized again for the other night. Come on, you didn’t scare me or anything, she joked. It’s even kind of flattering in the end, maybe you’re the one who’s not used to getting rejected. Ariel smiled. Does your boyfriend work in this, too? Yeah, he’s a photographer, but not like the kind we just saw. Yeah. Ariel was nervous, and what do they do with those pictures? They usually show up in a magazine with a made-up interview where we say we’re just good friends and that you want to recover quickly from your injury so you can give the fans more goals. The usual shit. My boyfriend has already been warned, but he gave me permission since he knows soccer players aren’t my type. You might have more problems. Are you dating someone?

  Ariel hesitated before answering. No, well, I’m breaking up with a girl. I don’t know, it’s a weird story. Reyes looked at him with interest, Ariel was silent, somewhat uncomfortable. You want to have a last drink? Near my house there’s a mellow bar. She directed the taxi driver, who muttered something again, but this time Ariel did understand him, that’s the way to recover from your injury, these good-for-nothings, what a life. Ariel lifted his eyebrows in Reyes’s direction, and she smiled. You’re more interested in girls than in the ball. Obviously, aren’t you? answered Ariel. I think all women are bitches, especially my wife. Reyes coughed as if something were stuck in her throat. That’s what I call speaking your mind.

  They went to an Irish pub on a corner. Sitting at a wooden table, Ariel told her part of his story with Sylvia. He didn’t hide the fact that she was sixteen years old. When I was sixteen, I was still falling in love with my gym teachers, she said, and I was sure George Michael was going to come pick me up after school. I guess you made one of her fantasies real and that could be dangerous. It scares me to death, he said. Even though Sylvia isn’t the kind of teenager who lives in some fairy tale. Be careful, we girls are good at hiding things, warned Reyes. A little while later, she left him there with a half-finished beer, gave him a kiss on each cheek, and promised to get together another day. Ariel waited for a taxi on the street. He would have liked to sleep with her, lose himself in someone else’s arms and someone else’s body, to keep him away from Sylvia.

  The next day, he ate lunch with Marcelo at a restaurant on Cava Baja. He invited Husky and there was instant chemistry between them, even though Husky started off strong. Before the first course arrived, he had already said, I can’t stand those typical Argentinian singer-songwriters, the pretentious long-winded ones who think they’re the heirs to that Catholic bore, Dylan. I like Neil Young. People who aren’t poseurs. Dylan is a hamburger-eating egomaniac who thinks up songs that are too long while he’s riding his motorcycle. Marcelo laughed thunderously. Is this guy nuts? Dylan is God. Marcelo was working on a rock opera. I know it sounds terrible. Yes, they assured him. It’s about a twenty-eight-year-old Swiss tourist who was traveling through Argentina alone and disappeared after taking a walk in Pagancillo, in La Rioja, disappeared without a trace. They hadn’t heard a thing from her in six months. Marcelo wanted to focus the songs on her father, a retired German professor who had come to the country to find her. His perspective could be perfect in summing up Argentina, that’s what we need, the Swiss vi
ew. He could talk about the natural beauty, the social crap, the corruption, everything.

  Shortly after, Marcelo cursed the piece of meat they had served him. This garbage is what Argentine meat is going to turn into if they keep opening up soy fields and closing pastures. Cows need to live free and not fattened up with injections like here in Europe. And when Husky disagreed again, he said, but, kid, you have a lovely voice, you have to do a duet with me on my next album, what a voice, it’s crazy, it sounds like you got sent through a broken Pro Tools.

  During dessert Marcelo mentioned Reyes, congratulations on the girl from last night, the one you brought to the concert, what a hot mama, but Ariel made it clear that they weren’t dating. Husky asked about her. Ariel told them about the photograph. No doubt about it, if Arturo Caspe knew where you were going, he’s the one who called them, declared Husky. That son of a bitch lives to sell favors. I told you before, they’re vampires, they need virgin blood every night.

  Marcelo had found Ariel more serious. He blamed the injury. He didn’t want to tell them about the bad news with the club or about his relationship with Sylvia, which he had decided to end. But Marcelo could be a persistent man. From the restaurant, he called a friend of his who worked as an analyst in Madrid and sent Ariel to see him that same afternoon. Husky laughed heartily. Spaniards don’t go to shrinks, we get drunk in a bar, and all the barmen have psychiatric degrees from Gin and Tonic University.

  Ariel sat in front of a doctor named Klimovsky who wanted that first session to just be a relaxed chat, which translated into an avalanche of information about his own life. He was an analyst, but he also wrote film scripts and painted. The paintings decorating his office were the terrible result of that supposedly harmless hobby. He barely let Ariel get out a word with more than one syllable, and even though they agreed to meet the following week, Ariel wasn’t sure if he was going to come back. In one of the paintings a fish emerged from the vagina of a woman with her face painted like a harlequin. The image gave Ariel nightmares for most of the evening.

  The next day, he caught the end of practice and kicked around without a crutch. He felt good after the massage and he wanted to find out the coach’s opinion. Yesterday they told me they’re not counting on me for next year. Who told you that? His surprise sounded fake. The club has its demands, if it were up to me I’d have other priorities, Requero tried to convince him. They say that there’s someone signed for my position. This is the first I’ve heard of it. That was one of the things Ariel liked the least about these situations, the cowardice. He would have preferred more authority or at least an ounce of sincerity, even if it wasn’t in his favor. But the coach was evasive.

  I just wanted to know if you were counting on me, because I’m going to fight to stay on the team. The coach looked at him with an insignificant smile and nodded his head, as if he appreciated his spirit. He even made a stupid comment, I like people with character. While you’re still on the team, don’t ever doubt that you’re my player.

  Ariel automatically put him on his list of despicable people. It wasn’t a very long list, but it included those who avoided taking responsibility when they should’ve owned up, those who had been fake, self-interested traitors in the moments when he was most helpless.

  Amílcar invited him over for lunch. In the car they talked. He sensed something was going on. Don’t get involved in it, Amílcar told him, listen to what they have to say to you and give up the noble attitudes and stuff like that. If they offer you a good team, leave, take the money, and enjoy the game, ’cause life is short. You may come back a star, it wouldn’t be the first time. Ariel looked up at him. You know as well as I do that there are teams you never come back from, that only offer you a step down on the ladder. Maybe I’d rather go back to Buenos Aires than do that. They haven’t even given me time to prove my mettle.

  Time? Amílcar let out a mocking laugh. Time? We’re talking about soccer. Here the sports newspapers come out every morning. You want time? From here to the next game is more or less an eternity. Ariel kept quiet. He knew Amílcar was right. He drove an enormous car.

  Why so serious? asked Fernanda, Amílcar’s wife, during lunch. Problems with the club, he didn’t make the cut for next year. She had a serene beauty she tried to envelop Ariel in. Well, they’re still thinking about it, he said. And don’t you have a three-year contract? Five-year. So what? interjected Amílcar. Come on, sweetie, if a player wants to leave he does, if a club wants to get rid of you, they get rid of you, the contract is just a piece of paper. A piece of paper that means a lot of money, she said. The money is the least of it. They’ll pay him, they’ll sell him, they’ll transfer him. Contracts are broken as easily as they’re signed. It was easy for Amílcar to talk like that, thought Ariel. How many years have you been here, Amílcar? I didn’t come in as a star.

  Amílcar’s harsh tone hurt Ariel for a second. He focuses on the plate in front of him. Amílcar’s wife shakes her head, incredulous at her husband, and she scolds him with a look. It’s the fucking truth. No one paid me millions or put me on magazine covers or sent me out on the field to win a game in the final minutes. You wanna switch places with me? Amílcar, please, you’re talking to a twenty-year-old boy, don’t take on that cynical attitude, insisted Fernanda. No, no, I understand him perfectly, murmured Ariel. I think he came to you looking for help, not so you could tell him all the shit that this business sweeps under the rug … Amílcar’s expression soured. All right, sweetie, that’s enough. This is serious, not a chat over coffee, okay? When someone makes what he’s making, he can put up with being treated like merchandise. Well, I don’t agree. Just because they pay you a fortune doesn’t give them the right to treat you like shit, she said.

  Okay, okay, don’t start arguing now because of me.

  No, don’t worry. We love arguing, said Fernanda. She likes it more than I do. Amílcar’s wife smiled and then brushed her husband’s hand. Meu anjo das pernas tortas, she whispered to him, and he wagged his head, won over by her sweetness.

  They ate leisurely. They only touched on the subject again briefly and they didn’t delve into it. When it was time to go pick the kids up from school, Amílcar stood. You relax, I’ll be back in half an hour, he said to Ariel. He disappeared shaking the car keys, his legs bowed like parentheses.

  Ariel stayed with his teammate’s wife. She served coffee. Do you nap after lunch? Since I’ve been in Spain I’ve gotten used to taking a siesta, she explained. I sleep barely three minutes, but it makes me relaxed all afternoon. A blond lock fell over one eye and Fernanda blew it out of the way, a childlike gesture that made Ariel smile. She was very lovely. When you finish your coffee, come up if you feel like it. She smiled warmly. My room is the first door on the right, at the top of the stairs.

  She turned and went up the steps. When she got to the last one, she looked at him with her clear blue eyes. Ariel coughed. He almost knocked over the coffee mugs. The maid, a short, smug Moroccan woman, appeared to take away the tray. Ariel sat there alone. He wanted to flee. But also to take Amílcar’s wife in his arms, to enjoy her beauty, which seemed to promise an icy surface, with fire inside.

  Going up the stairs was torturous for Ariel. It all seemed perverse. He barely knew her, but ever since that first day he felt a mutual attraction floating in the air. Would he be able to go through with it just for a postlunch craving? Without taking anything else into consideration? Maybe it was all just a perverse game Amílcar was in on. He was about to run back downstairs. The veteran player who brings new team acquisitions to his wife. Too messy.

  He knocked on the door. I won’t do anything. Everything that happens will be her fault. I won’t lift a finger, Ariel said to himself as he opened the door after she invited him in. He noticed his erection beneath his pants.

  The electricity of the moment seemed to come from her perfect, straight hair, layered around her face. Fernanda was lying in the bed, still dressed; she had only taken off her shoes. She placed a hand on the m
attress, inviting him to come closer. From the first moment I saw you, I felt a positive vibe, I know you have things in you that you haven’t yet found ways to express. Ariel thought it was the moment to kiss her and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her lips. But she leaned to reach the drawer on the bedside table and grab the handle. She’s going to take out some condoms, thought Ariel. She extracted a thick book from the drawer. She flipped through its pages, deeply focused. When she found what she was looking for, she handed the book to Ariel. Read, read out loud, she asked.

  Ariel read: “In sorrow, God is the only consolation. Nothing quenches your thirst, tiredness, doubt, and pain forever. Only the voice of God. He is the answer to all questions, the medicine for all ailments … ” Ariel stopped reading.

  She took the book from him delicately. She read slowly, with her sugary Brazilian accent. The energy she put into uttering the phrases revealed the importance she gave each word. Ariel felt his cheeks burn, but he didn’t move. He heard individual words that held no meaning. Coexistence, truth, devotion. He understood what a fool he had been. He was glad in the end that he hadn’t thrown himself onto her or whipped out his cock right as he crossed the doorway. He laughed at his own idea. He imagined Fernanda defending herself from the attack of his erect penis, her hitting him with that hardcover Bible-type book. She stopped reading for a second. The bizarre situation unfolding in Ariel’s head didn’t seem to affect her emotional intensity.

  Take the book. You can give it back to me later. Take it with you. But I want you to know we would love to be able to help you.