by David Trueba
But it was the pastor’s words that made him leave without speaking to Daniela. Why? Now, with Wilson dead, he knows. Now he understands better why he took advantage of one of the songs, before the service was over, to sneak out onto the street, to escape that place. Why was death so essential? Why give it so much power? Lorenzo rebelled against what he had just heard. Now he understands, knowing that Wilson is dead, his head bashed in with a brick.
I killed a man, he says to himself. And the worst of it all is not how I’m suffering or how I’ve had to pay for it, or if I’ll be forgiven or reconciled, or if I’ll be able to save myself. None of it has any importance, in the face of the incontestable fact that I took a life, as if I were a god. That’s why he couldn’t believe in God, because he had supplanted him so easily.
As Lorenzo goes down into the metro car, he thinks Wilson also died at the hands of a murderer, in a stupid fight over a ridiculous amount of money or for a drunk’s violent craziness. So should Wilson celebrate his absurd end? No, thinks Lorenzo, as he goes up the stairs that lead to the street, life is that sun, that light I walk toward, all that I am. You have to walk, keep moving forward.
Thoughts and feelings crowd Lorenzo’s head. He knows that he is a murderer and he walks down the street. Maybe Wilson’s death was liberating for him as well, because it added to the daily senselessness. I killed a man. I was God for him. The God that some pray to, asking for a ending, a way out, a hope, that they devote themselves to in joy and in pain, that dominating force, the holder of power. That was me.
He reaches the place, cordoned off with plastic police lines. On that floor, Wilson died not many hours before. No one can bring Paco or Wilson back to life, no matter how hard they try. Nothing better will grow from their ashes. They will no longer be anything, ever, just what they were.
No one would believe, passing Lorenzo on the street, that in his head raced confusing, atheist conclusions, which worked for him. He’s an angry man, who trusts life, its accidental nature, its energy, who cries over a loss, a man’s broken continuity. He also cries over the power of murderers. He doesn’t confess or turn himself in. He looks for a white van parked nearby, a van with tinted back windows. He finally sees it at the top of a hilled street. He walks quickly toward it. And he finds it with a green ticket that he takes from beneath the windshield wiper. He tears it up and throws it to the ground. That’s the order of men; an absurd ticket for failing to comply with the parking schedule is the only mark of his passage through life.
He has a set of keys in his pocket. He gets into the van and starts it. But he doesn’t know where to go, he doesn’t have anywhere. He bursts out crying over the steering wheel. He cries bitterly, bowing his head. When he rests his forehead against the wheel, it makes the horn sound and he gives himself a start and someone turns in the street and everything is ridiculous for that moment.
A little while later, he drives along the highway toward the airport. He has a pickup at two-thirty. He found the flotation ring Sylvia used as a girl, he found it at the back of the junk room, and he was using it to sit on because his ass was killing him. Along the highway, he passes the old folks’ home. He understands his visits to Don Jaime as his particular way of comprehending sacrifice, or penitence, or maybe something else. He has time to spare and he swerves off to go in and see him. In that neighborhood, it’s easy to find a parking spot.
He finds the man sitting in front of the window, absorbed in the rumble of some plane taking off. I’m not disturbing you, am I? Don Jaime shakes his head and Lorenzo sits on the mattress, near him. They don’t look at each other.
The day after tomorrow is my birthday, says Lorenzo suddenly. I don’t think I’m going to celebrate. My mother is in the hospital, dying. And I think my father has lost his mind. He spent almost sixty thousand euros on prostitutes. Lorenzo sees that the note with the phone number is still in the same place it was last time. A triangular-shaped calendar from a drug company is now beside it. I’m going to be forty-six. And I’m not going out with the girl I was going out with before. You remember her? But the man doesn’t seem to be in any shape to respond. They remain in silence for a moment and then Lorenzo adds, do you believe in God?
The man moves his head from side to side, as if he is about to speak, but he says nothing. Some time later, he only asks, is lunchtime soon?
Lorenzo takes his cell phone out of his pocket and checks the time. No, I don’t think so. As he puts the cell phone away, he misses not wearing a watch on his wrist. The man opens the drawer on the desk and takes out some magazines and some scissors. The pages of the magazine are cut out. Don Jaime cuts around the edges of the photographs with the scissors. He’s doing it again, thinks Lorenzo. In a little while, he has cut out all the photos of women who appear on the pages as if it were an assignment he must finish.
Lorenzo has prepared a sign with the name of the person he has to pick up, on the back of an old wrinkled invoice. He holds it up high when the passengers from Guayaquil and Quito start to come out. The Quito airport, Wilson had explained to him, has such a short runway and is so interwoven into the city that the airplanes can’t carry too much weight, so they’re forced to stopover in Guayaquil, where they take on the fuel needed to cross the Atlantic. A man over thirty with bulging eyes walks toward him. There’s four of us, the fifth didn’t get through customs. Behind him are two men and a woman. They are very warmly dressed for the heat that is awaiting them outside. Lorenzo leads them upstairs. He has found a spot to leave the van in the arrival terminal. One of the men carries his large suitcase tied with rope. The woman lugs two cardboard boxes. Lorenzo offers to help her; she thanks him silently. Aren’t you hot with so many clothes on?
Lorenzo sits at the wheel and sticks the key into the ignition. In that moment, someone knocks on the window. Lorenzo thinks it will be a cop and he turns calmly. But it is a sturdy man with gray hair. Behind him there are others; one of them, looking about sixty years old, is smoking. With a somewhat arrogant gesture, he indicates for Lorenzo to lower the window while he looks at the passengers in the back. Lorenzo rolls down the window barely two inches.
Do you think we’re stupid? If you want work, go look for it somewhere else, all right? We’re sick of seeing you around here. Before Lorenzo could respond, two of them have surrounded the van. The Ecuadorian sitting beside him hugs his bag and locks the door. Some muffled blows are heard and, in seconds, Lorenzo feels the van’s four wheels deflate, cut with a knife.
Lorenzo doesn’t move. He keeps his gaze focused outside the van. The men, who are probably taxi drivers, cross in front of the windshield and head off into the airport. They do so in a domineering, cowardly trot, without really hurrying. One holds down his shirt pocket as he runs so as not to lose his wallet. None of them turn to look at him. It takes Lorenzo a second to talk to his passengers. When he does, he says, well, let’s see how we can fix this. And he shows them a reassuring smile.
Let’s see how we can fix this.
8
The ball has a silvery pattern drawn on it and a green grass stain. Ariel reaches it before it stops rolling. He tricks the defense with a circular feint, stepping on the ball with both feet to go out toward the middle of the field. The ball obeys his control and his speed allows him to easily dribble past the center fullback, who’s much slower. Ariel runs his foot over the ball, in one direction, then the other, managing to disconcert both defenders who have stepped up to keep him from reaching the top of the box. As he advances to the right, one defender is blocked by the other. Ariel then fakes with his hip, turns, and hits the ball with his instep. He shot it hard, a lefty kick aimed right at the goalie’s face. It’s something he remembers right then, something that dates back to a practice with Dragon almost eight years earlier. If you don’t have an angle, hit it right to the goalkeeper’s face. He’ll move away for sure, it’s a reflex. And if he doesn’t, you break his mug and then apologize later. The ball enters the top corner of the goal and ends up in the ne
t in the opposite corner.
Ariel doesn’t run. He makes a half turn. He walks toward the middle of the field with his head down. In the distance, he hears a commentator shouting himself hoarse describing the goal. Some teammate comes over to hug him, but he just smacks him on the back or the arm, another brushes the nape of his neck. Ariel bites a lock of hair. The stands applaud and some sections rise to their feet. His teammates give him the space to celebrate alone, a goal that tastes of good-bye. It’s my night, thinks Ariel. Fifteen minutes earlier, he had scored a goal, kicking a neglected ball into the goal area with his toes. But he didn’t celebrate that goal either, because it was an ugly one. One shouldn’t celebrate ugly goals. One of the symptoms of soccer’s decline, Dragon used to say, is seeing players celebrate hideous goals, or even worse, seeing them celebrate the goals scored on a penalty, that is disgraceful, no one ever used to do it.
Today everything goes well. He passes the ball and runs. He receives the ball with space, it’s easy to beat the defenders as he races. In the first half they tackled him in the penalty box, but Matuoko hit the penalty kick into an advertising panel. With this score, they would be fourth in the standings. This mediocre, shallow team had come up with a couple of brilliant games. When the referee blows the final whistle, the players greet each other, several teammates embrace him warmly. Ariel walks toward the locker room. One of the equipment men addresses him affectionately and the substitute goalie gives him a friendly slap. The fans applaud him. Ariel appreciates the gestures, but he doesn’t lift his head. Coach Requero is in the mouth of the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms and he extends a hand to the players leaving the field. Ariel refuses to take it.
We had a bad year, the masseur said to him the afternoon he took him to the bullfights. There are good years and bad years and you got a bad one. The bullfight was horrible. Ariel was surprised by the brutal way the crowd insults the matadors in an arena that amplifies every shout; soccer players in comparison seem spoiled by the fans. Three of the six bulls fell down, almost unfit. The matador didn’t know how to deliver the death blow to the fourth, the only good bull according to his companion, and he massacred it with stabs to the neck, until a jab to the nape made it fall to its knees. How horrific. The only thing worse would have been if someone in the front row had given him a frying pan and he had killed the poor animal with that. The masseur turned toward Ariel as the bullfight ended with a rain of cushions tossed onto the sand. This is like soccer, he said, one good day makes up for all the shit that came before it.
The masseur took him to have some wine at a bullfighting bar where the conversations resounded and the old waiters served at a dizzying speed. They talked about the profession and the team. There were some years when every soccer player went through my hands and those of a Sevillian woman named Mari Carmen who performed at a place called Casablanca. They ended up calling her “the Fifa” because of the number of soccer players who went to bed with her. They say she was a handjob whore on the Castellana once she lost her charms. I’ve compared myself to her many times, one can’t think they’ll last forever in this trade. You know that a few years ago some Japanese guys came to see me, I thought it was to take me to some team over there, I have friends who ended up there, playing or coaching. No fucking way! The masseur started laughing, they wanted me to give massages to the veal, you know, the Kobe veal, they take incredibly good care of them, they give them beer to drink and then they only serve the meat in very fancy restaurants. They offered me a sackful of money. Never listen to money, it gives the worst advice, when you do one thing for money you end up doing everything for money.
It was an enjoyable evening. The conversation with the veteran masseur somehow reconciled Ariel with his trade. It’s about enduring it, betraying yourself as little as possible. Old friends approached, they chatted briefly in a way that amused Ariel, filled with phrases he wanted to jot down, with words he had never heard before. One of them said, bah, do you go to the bulls? How dreadful, it’s dead, pushing up daisies, they’ve all ruined it, a catastrophe. The masseur laughed and then commented to Ariel, they’ve been saying the same thing for years, that it’s coming to an end. They’re so annoying, they’re the ones coming to an end. This is like soccer, it’s different now, not better or worse. Before a player lasted until he was forty, you could watch him excel in three World Cups, amazing, but now that’s impossible. They milk you guys like cows, three games a week, pushing to make money, television, all that, but it pays a lot better, doesn’t it? And the game has changed, before a player ran about four miles each game, now it’s more than six, everything is faster, that’s why a good player, now, lasts two or three years, at top level, I mean, then he holds himself back and only makes an effort when it’s in his best interests. That’s why most of them are faces without the slightest commitment or drive to excel. Everything’s like that. Look, I’m from Galicia, I mean I’m really a “Gallego,” not like you guys call every Spaniard a Gallego, no, I’m from a little town in Orense. And you know what? Now the cows produce twice the milk they did when I was a kid. You think my grandfather was stupid? No, it’s that the people today are smarter. And with his hands he mimed the gesture of giving a cow an injection. Twice the milk.
As soon as he sets foot on the stairs to the tunnel, the referee stops Ariel and shakes his hand. Good luck in England. Do you want the ball as a souvenir? Ariel shrugs his shoulders. The referee hands it to him. It’s a shame to lose such a handsome player. It’s a pleasure to watch you run over the field. He said it with an insinuating smile. Maybe I’ll get a chance to whistle at you over there, or we’ll meet up in some UEFA game. A radio reporter runs toward him with a small microphone, we have the star of the game here, a man who is bidding a sad farewell to the team, but happy because he has played his best game of the year. He speaks with contrived emphasis. How ironic, right? Ariel corrects him, I don’t agree, there have been less showy days, but I’ve played better. The journalist nods mechanically. I see that you have the ball, is that a souvenir of your last game in Spain? No, no, if you want it you can have it. Ariel holds the ball out and the reporter takes it in his hands without knowing what to say.
He showers there for the last time. He dresses and puts his clothes into the large bag with the club emblem. He empties his locker of knee socks, shin guards, a bandage, his cologne, a brush, two hair bands, a stack of photos of him to be autographed and the team’s official tie, which is ugly, blue and prissy. His teammates are leaving quickly. They have set up a private lunch for the next day to say good-bye to the ones who aren’t continuing with them and they’ll all surely end up drunk, shouting, drinking, singing, and, of course, throwing croquettes at the fan. Like the last day of school. Ariel turns down Osorio and Blai’s offer to join them for dinner that night.
He drives his car out of the stadium parking garage. There are still fans at the exit who bang on the hood to get noticed and throw photos through the windows. He calls his brother in Buenos Aires. That’s it, I played my last game here. Charlie has been insisting for days that a more relaxed club in England will suit his interests better. It will be easier to stand out. At the end of the conversation, Charlie talks to him about Dragon. It would be good if you went to see him when you’re here. Did something happen? Ariel asks. He always had the impression that the old coach’s heart could give out at any moment. No, he’s fine, it’s his son. They say he committed suicide, I don’t know, some drug thing, something terrible. When he says good-bye to Charlie, Ariel pulls the car over to one side of the street. He dials the home number of his old coach, but no one answers. At his country house, a precarious answering machine picks up. Hello, it’s Ariel calling from Madrid. I don’t know if this thing works or if the message is being recorded, but I just wanted to say that … Ariel takes a long pause. He searches for the right words.
Sylvia is waiting for him in the private dining room of a restaurant. She is reading a book and drinking a Coca-Cola. She has a plate of cured ham, cut i
nto thin strips, in front of her. Ariel kisses her on the lips, sits down, and eats two, three, four slices of ham at once. I need a beer, he begs the waiter. So you did know how to play soccer, Sylvia says. He smiles and lifts the book to check out the title. How are exams going? She shrugs. I’m hoping to do what you did, shine at the last moment.
In the middle of dinner, just the two of them, Sylvia asks him, do you think that after today’s game they will rethink letting you go? Ariel smiles and shakes his head. Pujalte had sent a message to his cell phone: “Congratulations on the game, you are leaving with a bang.” Ariel ordered an enormous cut of well-done steak for dinner.
Ariel’s cell phone won’t stop ringing. It is the media, but he doesn’t answer. A call comes in from Husky, asking if they should all have a drink together. I can’t, answers Sylvia. Ariel says he’ll call Husky back later, surprised by Sylvia’s response. You can’t? What do you have to do? Sylvia scratches a shoulder beneath her clothes. Tomorrow my grandfather is moving in to live with us, we have to help him get his things organized. Ariel doesn’t say anything. When they finish dinner, he again suggests going somewhere for a drink. Really, I have to go.
Ariel has also used these last few days to organize his things. He wants to take full advantage of his vacation time. He’ll empty out his apartment, and in two days he’s off to Buenos Aires. He wants to forget about the competition there, recover his excitement about the game. By mid-July he’ll have to be with the new team in England. Sylvia refused his invitation to go with him to Buenos Aires. I want to stay close to my grandmother, she said. In recent days, Sylvia’s been quiet, elusive.