Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  Days earlier Husky had devoted an article to him. He interwove his praise with the idea that nothing on the team had worked out the way they expected. “Ariel Burano Costa was a jewel stolen from San Lorenzo. A team that’s not working undervalues all its parts, just as a team that’s winning does the opposite. This is a good player devalued by a broken system.”

  Ariel appreciated his comments. At the same time it bothered him that it had to be a friend who praised him. He preferred the silence. He was hoping the executives would value his performance and put a stop to the war that had been unleashed. He was uncomfortable about the personal information Husky revealed. “For a young man from Buenos Aires, it was hard to integrate into a team filled with veterans, a young man who listens to music with intelligent lyrics, watches movies with subtitles, who visits the Prado regularly, and even reads! It wasn’t so long ago that this same team punished kids for reading during prematch preparations with a double gym session. He came alone, without any family, without knowing the country, without enough time to understand a very different kind of soccer, which is as similar to the Argentinian game as a walnut is to an orange. He has run hard along the touchline, but he hasn’t won over the stands. Perhaps he will return at a better time—after all, there is rumor of a lovely young Madrid native who gives him good reason to never completely leave this city.”

  You could have kept that last paragraph to yourself, reproached Ariel. Sorry, I had a poetic hemorrhage. And I only went to the Prado for half an hour the whole year I’ve been here, don’t make me out to be some fucking intellectual. Well, compared to your teammates, they could give you the Nobel Prize for literature and nobody in the First Division could argue. Tell me the truth, it got you a little emotional, didn’t it? I don’t cry easily. Do you know what my boss told me? That it was the most spectacular display of ass kissing since Mother Teresa died. Your boss is right. You forgot to say that I played like shit the entire championship.

  Ariel clipped out the article and mailed it to his parents. He showed it to Sylvia first. Your friend is a softie. Does that last sentence refer to me? I think you made an impression on him. Yeah. And as far as I know, you only went to the Prado once. I told him, but that’s just how he is.

  He watched the game in which they were eliminated from the European competition at home with Sylvia. He didn’t travel with the team because the coach considered him to be in poor form following his injury. But we’ve got the season at stake, please. The coach shook his head. Ariel left the locker room with a huge slam of the door. Ariel was infuriated to see the season go down the drain without being on the field. Beside him, Sylvia was amused to see him punching the sofa cushions, cheering them on, come on, keep it up, you gotta attack, let’s go, there’s time, there’s still time. When Sylvia said, fuck them, those assholes kicked you off the team, he turned and said, that’s my team, can’t you understand that?

  The loss depressed him. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Wlasavsky had brought one back for everyone on the team from his trip to Poland. It was white liquid scented by a little herb branch inside and had a mammoth drawn on the label. They both drank. They heated up some empanadas.

  They went out with Husky a couple of evenings. Suddenly, when their relationship seemed doomed to a dead end, it became more stable than ever. They could share a friend, walk along the streets of the city without caring about onlookers’ curious gazes. Husky served as the third man and that guaranteed them peace. If Ariel was surrounded by a group of teenagers who wanted to photograph him with their cell phones, Husky would dissolve them authoritatively or entertain Sylvia with comments on the people’s looks, their way of speaking, of addressing a famous person. He teased Ariel all the time, he told him he’d soon be playing on some Russian millionaire’s team, dribbling stalactites. He also said to Sylvia, you don’t fit the Lolita mold, and then he recommended the novel to her, although I warn you it ends badly, Lolita grows up.

  When the conversation inevitably turned toward soccer, Husky confessed to Sylvia, soccer is a very strange sport played by brainless perennially teenaged millionaires but they propel a mechanism that makes hundreds of thousands of brainless, not-as-wealthy people happy. He told her about the guy who, after his father died, kept bringing his ashes to the field inside a Tetra Pak, and many others who asked to have their ashes spread over the grass of their favorite team’s stadium, fathers who bought membership cards for their sons the very day they were born, or tried to sneak their dogs into the stands, collectors of cards, jerseys, balls, people who took away pieces of the goal and the field on the day of the final game.

  Husky made them laugh. He relaxed the tension that sometimes accumulated around them. He went with Ariel when he dropped Sylvia off at her door at night. Often Sylvia complained bitterly, why didn’t I meet you sooner. Yeah, before you met Ariel. Husky drank beers, sweated, and wiped his forehead with paper napkins that he balled up and threw to the floor. You could use my sweat to water the African continent daily.

  When are you playing your last game? Sylvia had asked two evenings earlier. Ariel checked the calendar he carried in his wallet, along with the photo of his parents he had shown Sylvia several times and his juvenile league card with his twelve-year-old photo that was good for a few laughs. Saturday, June 6, at home, he answered. Why? No reason.

  Ariel feared Sylvia’s reaction to the end of the season. He would say, we’ll have the summer to spend together. And she nodded, as if she knew better than anyone what was going to happen.

  The masseur comes into the locker room when the players were finished picking up their things. He approached Ariel. I saw that you’re not traveling with the team. Do you want to come to the bullfight with me on Saturday? Okay, said Ariel. A promise is golden, I’ve got season tickets at Las Ventas. At that moment, a gesture of affection or support was hugely valuable. Ariel watched him head off, walking with a comical limp.

  In the hall, Amílcar was waiting for him and Ariel told him about not being in the lineup. They walked together to the parking garage. Did you read what my wife gave you? I’m working on it. Don’t give up, don’t be stupid, any help will do you good. Don’t give in to it. No, no, of course.

  At the fence where the walkway ended, like every day, there was a group of fans asking for autographs or taking impossible photos. According to Husky, hundreds of thousands of rooms around the world were adorned with out-of-focus photos of the back of some idol’s neck. Many of them followed the players’ expensive cars with their eyes until they vanished onto the highway.

  Driving back home that afternoon, Ariel thought the route he had traveled so many times would soon be a fuzzy memory, substituted by other facilities, another temporary home, and most likely another loneliness. He understood more and more why many players started a family with kids in their early twenties. They needed to put down roots in the quicksand, grab on to a passing cloud. If he could drag Sylvia along with him, it would all be different, but how could he force her to pay such a high price? It was enough for him to be a slave to this profession, albeit a highly paid slave, but asking her to change her life would be too selfish. Without knowing why, he felt that his drive home was the start of a journey that would take him far, far away, that he would soon leave all this behind.

  But then, what was all this?

  5

  Once in a while a small detail changes everything. The language class is over and the classroom empties out at a dizzying speed to shake off the lethargy. Sylvia’s classmates go down to enjoy midmorning recess. It is hot. Sylvia takes off her thin sweater and pushes it into her backpack. She slouches down at a desk and checks her cell phone. She turns it on and waits to see if any message has come in. Barely a week has passed since Ariel’s fate was sealed. He will leave, transferred to play on a British team. His current club will have to pay a third of his salary and he’ll remain their property until the end of his contract. Four more years. Sylvia doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to understan
d the business details of the operation, but it seems clear that Ariel’s future will lower his value. She hasn’t said anything, but the name of the city he’s heading to, Newcastle, sounds like cárcel—prison—Newcárcel.

  They surfed the Web for information. The place is only five hours by bus from London, and it has a university. I still have two more years of high school. You could learn English. They say that in the next few years a lot of money is going into British soccer, Ariel told her.

  In the front desks, near the blackboard, there is still a small group of four students whom Sylvia doesn’t know that well. They are talking about a television program from the day before that she didn’t see. It seems they mistakenly invited a middle-aged man into a debate about new technologies. He was really just on his way to a job interview at the station offices. The guy responded intelligently to the questions during a good part of the broadcast, until the confusion was revealed and they took the guest off the set.

  The last one to leave the room is her friend Nadia. You coming? she asks. I’ll come down later, answers Sylvia. After the suspense of hoping for a new message to fall like a drop of rain, there’s nothing on her cell. Sylvia puts it back into the pocket of her backpack. The math teacher, Don Octavio, walks through the hall with his outstretched neck and his lopsided gait, passing by the open door. Sylvia sees him greet her with a lift of his eyebrows. But a second later he retraces his steps and peeks through the doorway into the classroom. You’re Sylvia, right? Sylvia nods. Do you have some time later this morning to stop by the department office? Sylvia says yes and he leaves with, well, I’ll see you there later then, and disappears again.

  Sylvia wonders why the teacher wants to see her. She doesn’t jump to any conclusion, it seems random, he obviously wasn’t looking for her. She passes by the open door of Mai’s class but she isn’t inside. When she turns, she bumps into Dani, you looking for Mai? She’s in the cafeteria. They go downstairs together, but when they get there Sylvia changes her mind, it’s nice out, I’d rather go out to the yard. Should I go with you? Sylvia just shrugs her shoulders.

  They look for a place to sit in the sun. Did you see that show last night? Sylvia shakes her head. My mother was watching and called me over. The hostess was halfway into the program and someone must have warned her that they’d messed up. She turns to the camera and says, it seems there’s been a misunderstanding and one of our guests is sitting in on the debate by accident. They all looked at each other, I think they were scared shitless. The guy in question was a pretty chubby Guinean, he seemed charming. He apologized, I’m sorry, I told the hostess that I wasn’t sure if I had to participate in the program. He explained that someone at the front desk took him to the set and invited him to sit on the panel of experts. The best part was that he seemed like the least fake of them all. If it had been one of those contests where you call in to identify the imposter, they would have gotten rid of everyone else before this guy. He seemed to have more common sense than any of the real experts. It was incredible.

  Three of Sylvia’s classmates joined the conversation. One of them was eating a large sandwich that he offered to the others. Dani was obviously uncomfortable for a second, until Sylvia’s gaze calmed him down. It was a look that was outside of the conversation, just for him. Stay.

  Sylvia is surprised every time she has a strange connection with Dani. She likes his scruffy way of dressing and moving, his shyness about speaking in front of people he doesn’t know, which contrasts with his confidence among friends. There’s something that keeps him on the margins of the group, as if he doesn’t need to join in to exist. Sylvia likes that independence. But she’s not physically attracted to him, it’s more a friendly camaraderie, a kindred spirit.

  When classes are over at the end of the day, Sylvia heads toward the math department with a certain reluctance. The door is closed and she waits for a moment while the students file out. The teacher appears with a handful of photocopies. Hello, come in, come in. He walks into the office and leaves the papers on the table. Sit down, he gestures to a chair while he closes the door. Sylvia puts her backpack on her lap. Well, Sylvia, I wanted to talk to you if you don’t mind, what’s going on with you? Sylvia is silent. She doesn’t really understand the question. We’re at the end of the school year and a few of us teachers were discussing your performance, it’s really gone down. Things could start getting complicated for you. I mean, I don’t want to put in my two cents when no one’s asking for it, but there’s always something … He doesn’t finish, he keeps his eyes fixed on Sylvia’s. She looks over at the bookshelves. No, there’s nothing going on with me. Is it that you aren’t motivated, you can’t concentrate? I don’t know, there must be something I can do to help you out. You were doing well, you don’t need to end up with an F. You understand that, right?

  Sylvia chews on a lock of hair. The teacher’s moustache covers his upper lip, giving him a certain serious air, which his eyes, when you looked at them carefully, contradict. They sparkle and Sylvia is intrigued by them. She doesn’t manage to give any coherent response. She hesitates over saying, my parents separated, but decides it sounds pathetic. She remains silent. Let’s do something to make up some of the work, okay? To see if we can help you out. The teacher stands up and searches in his drawer until he finds some photocopies. Here are four or five problems, they’re more logic games than anything else. I want you to prepare two or three pages for me, working out the solutions. Do it at home, reason it out, as if you were explaining it in class. You can use the textbook, of course, but make it clear that you understand the concepts. It’s very easy and I’ll grade it as extra credit. Okay?

  Sylvia looks up, she can’t quite believe what is happening to her. Would he have done the same thing for other students? Sylvia doesn’t ask. She looks into Don Octavio’s eyes. You have three days. Bring it to me here, at my office, this is something between you and me, outside of class. The teacher obviously considers the conversation over. Sylvia stands up and grabs her backpack. Thank you. Don’t let it drop, don’t let yourself go, all right, Sylvia, we all go through good periods and bad periods, but now it’s a question of stepping up the pace these last two weeks, it’s not worth quitting.

  On the street, a moment later, Sylvia feels like crying. Is her private life so on display that a teacher can sense it from a distance? With some sort of X-ray vision. What moved Sylvia was his almost accidental interest. He was walking down the hall and suddenly, seeing her alone in the classroom, realized that her grades had dropped, he must have remembered her last, lame test, and instead of continuing on his way he stopped for a moment to take an interest in her. Something must have gone through his head in that fraction of a second that made him decide to stick his head into the class and talk to her. Sylvia, like most of her schoolmates, was convinced she was inscrutable to her teachers, just another face in the group that occupied a year of their lives and then vanished forever. Worlds that never crossed beyond the obligatory hour of class time.

  What had left her on the edge of tears was the perception that everything had been abandoned, her studies, her family, her school friends, to get involved in a story that as it was ending left a dry, frustrating, barren hole. She had been on the other side and, suddenly, the teacher, in a professional way, not at all threatening, had brought her back to reality. We are here, where are you? he seemed to have been asking her. The hand he extended meant a lot. She, too, like the Guinean mistaken for an expert on television, had been invited into a world where she didn’t belong. She, too, had politely faked it, had passed the imposter test, but it was urgent that she stop feeding the farce.

  On the way home, she feels her passion for Ariel dying out, or that it must die out in order to save herself. She accepts the breakup as if it had happened in that office minutes earlier. That afternoon, before the students take over the oversize tables in the public library, she will sit down with the math pages and try to do the teacher’s symbolic assignment. She will read the logic p
roblems she has to solve, but she won’t really understand what Don Octavio expects of her until the third problem makes it clear.

  “Two people, A and B, are two meters apart, and A wants to get closer to B, but with every step A has to cover exactly half the total distance that remains between A and B.” Sylvia will swallow hard, but will continue reading. “The first step is one meter long, the second step half a meter, the third step a quarter of a meter. Each step A takes toward B will be smaller, and the distance will lessen in an eternal progression, but what is surprising is that, if we maintain the premise that each step will equal half the total distance separating them, A will never reach B, as much as A tries.”

  Sylvia’s eyes will be red. Perhaps that simple exercise will help to explain the theory of the boundaries that changed the history of science at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Maybe it was true, as the text on the photocopy explained with quotes from Leibniz and Newton. But Sylvia will begin to write her personal explanation of the problem and it will soon transform into a good-bye letter. The same letter that she will not know how to write to Ariel to tell him, in the most logical and simple way, that our story is over. A will never reach B.

  6

  Some nights, when Leandro comes back from the hospital to sleep at home, the doorbell rings and he’s forced to buzz up the real estate agent who escorts some potential buyers. She is a nervous woman, with an overflowing file and a cell phone that seems to be a living animal. She always apologizes to Leandro for coming at such hours. Leandro doesn’t accompany them on their tour through the house, but he can read the clients’ expression when they leave. In the distance, he hears things like, the whole place has to be redone, but once you get it the way you want it, it’ll be fabulous; during the day it has wonderful natural light, the neighborhood is a real gem, close to everything.