by David Trueba
Don’t be an ass, how can you say that?
It’s the truth. When you’ve worked the Regional Third and every fucking soccer field all over Spain, after meeting the real people out there, I can assure you that if they put Lorca or Bécquer or Machado in front of me, I know what I’d tell them. Imagine they went out to recite their masterpieces in the middle of a soccer field, how long would it be before people jumped in to stomp on their entrails? No, dude, no, poetry is a lie that we invented to make ourselves believe we can sometimes be tender and civilized. Well, when I saw her blush, I realized I knew her secret, more than that, she had been as in love with me as I was with her, something I always doubted, even though she wrote me a poem once.
You? She wrote a poem about you?
Is it that strange? There are people who have written poems about Stalin or about a blind cow. Yes, about me. And I still have it memorized. Do you want to hear it? Ariel nodded enthusiastically. Husky began to recite with heartfelt pauses: “You aren’t handsome, you aren’t perfect, and that red hair, what’s to be done about it, you’re afraid of thinking, you’re afraid of caressing, you’d rather be called an idiot than to be told I love you, which is why I now write you: you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, my love, you’re an idiot.” Isn’t that the most beautiful declaration of love you’ve ever heard in your life?
Ariel burst out laughing, mostly because of the importance with which Husky recited the verses. The girl knew you well, you are an idiot. You didn’t get it, “you’d rather be called an idiot than to be told I love you,” and she says I love you by calling me an idiot, what ignorance.
Ariel can’t stop laughing. A little while ago, he wouldn’t have thought that someone would be able to make him forget what he was going through. Now he wipes away the tears with a paper napkin while Husky insists, you brute, idiot means my love in the poem, it’s not literal, it’s a metaphor or whatever … Do you even know what a metaphor is? Right, how would a fucking soccer player know what a metaphor is?
They pick up Sylvia at the hospital’s side door. She greets Husky, who forces her to get into the backseat. Sorry, but I’m not getting into that hole, my feet don’t fit, he apologizes. Besides I’ve always found sports cars disgusting. Me, too, she says. I’m going to switch it, I swear, I’m going to switch it, says Ariel.
Husky chose the restaurant. To get there, they had to leave Madrid, cross a high plateau filled with offices, malls, and knots of highway. It’s far, but it’s awesome, and we won’t run into anyone there.
It’s a Galician restaurant. The owner’s wife comes out of the kitchen to kiss Husky and say, my boy, my boy, you’re so thin. The fact that this restaurant is open, he explains when they sit down, is proof that this country hasn’t totally gone to shit. Now you’ll see how things really taste, it’ll blow your mind.
Husky goes to the bathroom. On the way, he shows them a slice of a large round loaf of bread in its wicker basket, look, look at this bread, please, there is still something authentic left in this world. Ariel brushes Sylvia’s hand. How is your grandmother? Terrible. Sylvia is silent. If you want, we can forget about the trip. Have you thought of somewhere? she asks. Ariel nods with a smile, we men in love are like that. Sylvia looks into his eyes. You guys are both drunk.
Husky comes out of the bathroom and returns to the table. Sylvia, when this crappy loser is playing in the Siberian Third Division, please, don’t stop calling me to go out, okay, keep calling me.
Maybe I will.
part four
IS THIS THE END?
1
Venice is tinged with the burnt sienna of its houses. There isn’t much to do except look at this place, says Sylvia. Be amazed that someone could actually live here. They had sat in a cobblestoned square. They went into a store that sells handmade bracelets and necklaces. There were two cats lying beneath a magnolia tree. During the gondola ride, he hugs her. Sylvia curls her head into his shoulder. Music plays in a nearby house. From the canals they see the roofs of apartments, they pass postcard-perfect tourists, they hear the whistles of the gondoliers before taking the curves. Sylvia feels Ariel’s hand on her shoulder throughout the whole ride. It won’t be easy for her to forget. As they pass beneath a bridge, a group of Spaniards recognize Ariel and start taking photos of him and shouting. We’re the best, oé, oé. The gondolier frees them from the onslaught by veering into the canal.
They visited a museum and looked at store windows with luxury designer names. They ate ice cream in the Piazza San Marco, watched the children opening their arms and letting the pigeons cover them as they landed. The night before they’d had the last drink at Harry’s Bar and Ariel didn’t let her look at the bill. It’ll depress you. Across the table, Ariel handed her a gift. Inside a small case were two necklaces. Is it gold? He nodded. You’re crazy. There are two small chains that each hold one broken half of a soccer ball. When you put them together, they make one complete ball. He’s just a boy, thought Sylvia. It’s lovely, she said. A jeweler from Rosario made it for me, ha tardado un huevo, it took him forever. Sylvia smiled. It amused her when he used Spanish expressions, they sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Sylvia put one of the chains on him and he helped with the clasp on hers. They were staying in a hotel on Lido Island, and they walked until they found an old taxi driver who offered them a drink from his bottle of vodka while he drove the boat. When they woke up the next morning, they pulled back the curtains to see the ocean, with the rental shacks on the beach.
Ariel had picked Sylvia up on her corner, and they drove to the airport. Above the check-in counter she read VENICE and that marked the end of the secret. I can’t believe it. They talked me into it at the travel agency, I thought it was a little corny. Corny? You have no idea. They boarded together. Am I your sister on this flight or have we just met?
At the airport, a driver was waiting for them with a sign that had Sylvia’s name on it. He took them to the wharf, and from there to the island in a boat. How can all this survive? It’s magic. What a smell, right? As they go through the city in a vaporetto, they see the façades covered with scaffolding, restoration jobs. They go down to the market and stop in the middle of a bridge to look at the canal. Noisy conversations in Spanish pass closely by. Ariel wears sunglasses and a golf hat. You’re disguised as an undercover famous person, everyone will look at you, Sylvia tells him. He doesn’t stop signing autographs until he takes off the glasses and hat. An Argentinian family with a boy wearing a San Lorenzo jersey keeps them under the Bridge of Sighs for almost twenty minutes; the father is an economist and tirelessly explains his theory about globalization and the state deficit. At a stand selling soccer jerseys, Sylvia asks for Ariel’s, the vendor checks with two or three younger employees, yes, Ariel Burano, but the vendor shakes his head. Sylvia turns toward Ariel to gloat over the humiliation.
Ariel hired a boat to take them to the island of Burano. Supposedly this is where I come from. At least that’s what the club made up. The houses are painted in pastel colors around the canals; it looks like the set of a musical. The skipper explains to them that the colors help you recognize your house on foggy days and then he makes a gesture meaning drunkard, it helps them, too. They were only planning on spending a little while on the island, but they are there almost the entire day. They end up eating in a restaurant with outdoor tables that serves a fish-of-the-day special. They stroll beneath a portal of a virgin surrounded by flowers. It reminds me of La Boca, he says. There’s a school where kids play basketball and two old guys greet each other in the street. They must be your relatives.
Maybe I could come to an Italian team next year, says Ariel during lunch. Would you like to live here? Sylvia shrugs her shoulders. Too pretty, right? The waiter shows Sylvia how to use the oil, he pours it on a plate for her and then sprinkles a handful of fleur de sel over the olive-green puddle.
In two months, the season will be over. They both fear the end. Sylvia wants to ask him, what will I be to you? but she doesn�
��t. She knows it will be difficult to leave this whole life behind. Husky is really nice, why didn’t you introduce me to him earlier? I thought he would scare you, he’s insane. And that voice, at first I thought he was faking it. It’s because of nodules, Ariel explains, he told me that as a kid they took out a ton of them from his throat and he couldn’t talk for weeks, he just wrote in a notebook. Sylvia looks toward the canal: fishing boats are moored all along it. She’s not hungry anymore. Maybe we should separate slowly, bit by bit, so it’s not so sudden.
What do you mean? asks Ariel.
I don’t want to say good-bye on the last day at the airport, turn around, and see you’ve disappeared forever. Ariel looks at her and wants to hug her. It would be better if we started doing it in installments. Like a countdown.
Why do you say that?
Sylvia has a knot in her throat. Her eyes suddenly fill with tears and she lowers her head in embarrassment. She runs her hand over her cheek. Ariel touches her knee. He is ashamed of his inability to hold her in a public place. Why are you thinking about this now? We came here to enjoy ourselves, right? Look at this. Don’t think about anything else.
Sylvia nods her head. She’s sixteen, Ariel seems to be thinking, she’s just sixteen. He tells her, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. Aw, man, she replies, as she bites her lip to keep from crying, with that Argentinian accent you have to be careful what you say. And she wipes away a tear. I’m sorry, I’m spoiling the trip, I’m an asshole.
Maybe Venice wasn’t a good idea. Venice is a place where lovers the world over come to swear eternal love. There are other places, many others, in which to later betray the pledge. But not Venice. Sylvia looks up, refuses the grappa Ariel sips. In two days, she will be gone from this place, back to the poorly ventilated classroom where her schoolmates slap each other on the back and talk loudly. Don’t forget that all this is just a car accident, it’s about surviving it, that’s all.
Every night she called home from the hotel. Her father gave her the report from the hospital. Grandma is still there, without much hope of leaving. Lorenzo spends the nights there, so her grandfather can rest a little. Sylvia asks about him, he’s seemed depressed the last few days. She asks about Daniela, everything okay?
Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.
When Lorenzo returned home the day of their frustrated introduction, Sylvia was watching a movie where a woman trained in martial arts gave her ex-husband a beating. He explained the situation to Sylvia, before she had a chance to ask. They had fired her from her job when they found out she was dating Lorenzo. Some neighbor had seen him go up to the apartment. Did you go into their apartment? A couple of times to talk to her. Lorenzo didn’t tell her about what took place in the guest bathroom. I’m going to go up there, it’s a misunderstanding. Sylvia held him back. Papá, wait, don’t get involved. Even though Daniela had spent the whole evening saying she deserved to be fired, that she had betrayed the couple’s trust, that she should have told them about it before they found out from some nosy neighbor, he insisted it was worth the effort to clear it up. Papá, Sylvia told him again, don’t get involved. She takes care of their son, you’re a neighbor, it makes them uncomfortable, and that’s that. Don’t keep thinking about it. Lorenzo grew pensive, sat on the arm of the sofa. A viscous monster was now attacking the girl in the movie. It’s not fair.
Papá, it’s after eleven, don’t go up there now. But Daniela does her job well, that’s how she makes a living. The person who takes care of their damn kid can’t be in a relationship? They need a virgin maid to wipe their kid’s ass? Sylvia leaned back on the sofa. When her father talked like that, he seemed like a pressure cooker about to explode. He didn’t usually curse in front of her, and when he did it was because he had lost control. She’s very pretty, Sylvia said to deactivate his rage. You think so? She’s Ecuadorian, right? Yes. I’ll tell you something, Papá, it’s better for you, too, that she doesn’t work upstairs, she’ll find something else, for sure. Lorenzo seemed to calm down. Sylvia smiled at him. I should have gone up to meet them before, obviously. Knock on the door and say, I have come to ask for the hand of your maid. What kind of a country do we live in? This country is springing leaks everywhere. Do you really think she’s pretty?
Desperation.
Why did Sylvia look at her father in that moment and see a desperate man? It could be the nervousness, the agitation, the guilt. Also his inability to soothe Daniela. She had wanted to go home, we’ll talk tomorrow, I want to calm down alone. Frustration, maybe. But Sylvia didn’t have the feeling it was a momentary desperation. No. Sylvia saw her father as a desperate man. He had found a woman in the stairwell. That’s how reduced his field of action had become. He seemed like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a plank, worn out, overwhelmed, fragile.
Ariel and Sylvia go up early to their room. The hotel is filled with boisterous Americans with white-white skin. They don’t feel like having dinner. In the huge bed, beneath the art nouveau lamp, they watch television. There are game shows and a biopic about Christ, with a long beard and a languid gaze. Ariel whispers into her ear and she smiles. Then he tickles her and she tries to get away as she laughs, until she clumsily falls off the bed to the floor, unable to grab the bedspread. Ariel sees her fallen pale body on the red carpet and he leaps to pick her up, take her in his arms, and place her on the sheets. Where does it hurt? Everywhere, she says. Ariel starts to kiss her on each part of her body. Sylvia lies still, the nape of her neck and her back against the mattress and their clothing all in a mess. You are a very dangerous girl, did you know that? A very, very dangerous girl.
2
The days in the hospital are exhausting. Aurora is separated from another patient by a green three-piece folding screen. There are two chairs by the bed, their seats sunken from use. In one usually sits Leandro, who crosses and uncrosses his wiry legs. He holds vigil over his wife’s unconsciousness as well as the periods when she wakes up and is a little more lively for company, or pretends she’s listening to the tiny radio placed on the bedside table, or thanks the nurses for their visits from the country of the sane and vital. They come in like a whirlwind, carry out their tasks, change the IV drip, inject her with painkillers, take her temperature and her blood pressure, change the sheets, as if their job were some gymnastic routine.
Leandro knows every inch of the hallway’s mosaic floor, the sound of the elevator doors opening at the end of the hall, the moans of some patient dying in a nearby room. Dying is a ritual interpreted with the cadence of a musical score on that floor of the hospital. The doctor brings him up-to-date on the illness advancing through Aurora’s body. There is a word that sounds horrible and that Leandro identifies with the shape of death. Metastasis. She isn’t suffering, we have the pain threshold controlled so she won’t suffer and can maintain consciousness for the longest possible time. But Leandro is left with the desire to ask him about that nonlocalized pain, which doesn’t appear on graphs or in specific complaints, but can cut through you like a knife.
Sometimes he studies Aurora’s face to see if that profound illness has taken over. She had always been a brave woman who looked toward the future. When she was about to die after giving birth to her son, when she had to be moved urgently because she almost bled to death, she still had time to warn Leandro, remember to lower the blinds before too much sun can get in, that way the house stays cooler, because it was summer in the city. Aurora’s sister came to help her take care of the baby boy in those days of uncertainty. Leandro went to see her at the hospital and she reassured him, you don’t think I’d die now, when we have such a beautiful boy.
Is it now? wonders Leandro. Is now her time to die? Is there no longer anyone to hold her back? At nights her son, Lorenzo, who is a now a middle-aged man, beaten and bald, comes to relieve him and he lies down to sleep on the sofa, which opens into an uncomfortable bed. Leandro has some dinner in the café near his house, which he prefers to the hospital cafeteria, filled with comm
ents about funerals and sorrowful gazes. At home he had begun to put his belongings into boxes. He was preparing to move into Lorenzo’s apartment, he still didn’t know how they would arrange it. Bring only the essential, his son had told him. He organized the records he would listen to again and the books he still needed for his classes. They aren’t many. He stored his notes, study scores, reports, and student files in boxes for incineration. He will give away or destroy the essence of what has made up his life. He still hasn’t gone into Aurora’s room, he doesn’t dare go through the photo albums, the old correspondence, the objects of sentimental value, her clothes. He will travel, when this is all over, with the least number of things possible. The essential? Is anything? He will be a nuisance for his son and his granddaughter, in the way. Life without Aurora looks leaden and empty.
The first night, his son arrived at the hospital and in the hallway he said, I didn’t know you mortgaged the house. I’ve been by the bank. Leandro was silent. He listened to Lorenzo ask for explanations about the amounts of money squandered in a constant drain. There was no rage in his son’s words, no indignation, he wasn’t scandalized. I guess he’s lost respect for me even for that.
I’m not going to ask you what you spent those thousands of euros on, Papá. I’m not going to ask you.
Leandro felt weak. He walked to the little waiting room, where there were some empty seats at that time of day. A nurse at the back made a shushing gesture. Leandro let himself drop into a chair, beaten. His head in his hands, his gaze at his feet. Lorenzo approached him, but he didn’t sit down; he preferred to watch from a distance.