The Unmade World

by Steve Yarbrough

  One assumption that he’s made is right: Bogdan is running some options through his mind, along with the outcomes they might lead to. He could offer up Fabian, and even the developer himself, in hopes that whatever penalty he’s about to incur would be reduced. But Fabian would finger Marek, and odds are the developer can buy his way out of trouble, because that’s how things work in this country. More importantly—though this kind of thinking runs counter to everything the officer learned in his psych class at the University of Zielona Gora—Bogdan has drunk enough beer to achieve a degree of clarity he might be denied if he were sober: he deserves to do penance. So what if he serves time to pay for a lesser crime? “I don’t have any partner,” he says again.

  “You just run around,” the older detective says, “trying to drive helpless people out of their homes?”

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “Somebody gave you a key to the building. Who was it?”

  “I stole it.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “I’m a shell of a person, and I’m drawn to old buildings that remind me of myself.”

  The older officer swings his feet off the desk. “Slap the cuffs back on him,” he tells the other guy. “I guess his bosses have paid him to take the fall. Too bad the money’ll be worth a lot less when he gets to use it.”

  Walking down the hall between the two officers, he sees another man coming toward them. It stands to reason that he must be a detective too, since he’s wearing not a uniform but a pair of dark pants and a herringbone jacket. He has long ears, a high forehead, and a thin mustache, and he trudges along studying the floor, a sheaf of papers dangling from one hand. He reminds Bogdan of someone else, a figure from history, maybe, or some disgraced politician. Right before they pass him, he raises his head, and his heavy-lidded gaze lights on Bogdan. He pauses for a moment, then nods at his colleagues and continues on his way.

  The zoom lens on his new Swarovski digital imaging binoculars affords him a perfect view all the way across the playing field to section 31. He watches from the press box while Maria, Franek, and Sandy step over one set of feet after another, Maria mouthing Excuse us please excuse us until they finally reach their seats. They’re way up high, under the skyboxes, but right on the fifty-yard line. Franek keeps his head down as if it’s embarrassing to be where he is, or maybe just embarrassing to be himself.

  Richard bought the binoculars online earlier in the week for the princely sum of seventeen hundred dollars. He was looking for a cheap pair, but these popped up under “related products,” and he liked what he read about them and thought, Why the hell not? He hadn’t bought anything expensive in years. Since they’re capable of shooting video and taking still photos, he snaps one of Franek and Sandy sitting side by side, thinking maybe he’ll e-mail it to Monika. As an afterthought, he snaps another one of Maria just as she takes a bite out of her hotdog. She’s gathered her tresses into a ponytail and is wearing a New England Patriots cap.

  The Wisconsin team runs onto the field, drawing a few thousand boos. Then a cowboy on horseback emerges from the opposite end of the stadium. As the crowd roars, he waves a lasso in the air and spurs his mount, and the home team bursts out of the tunnel, following the horseman toward their sideline. The coaches jog along behind them, Nick Major’s blond hair shimmering beneath the lights.

  For most of two quarters, it looks like Major and his fans are in for a long evening. The visitors are bigger and stronger, and they keep handing the ball to a pair of bruising tailbacks who find huge holes to run through and, when they reach the secondary, punish the Central California safeties. It’s 17-0 with three minutes to go in the half. Then the UCC quarterback hits his fastest receiver for a sixty-yard touchdown, and on the second play after the kickoff the Wisconsin running back loses the ball and the Cowboys recover. They add another touchdown and go back to the locker room trailing by three.

  The second half is all UCC. What the team lacks in brawn, they make up for with speed. They score on another deep pass and add another touchdown on a screen. When Wisconsin falls behind and has to start throwing, their quarterback is picked off twice, and the second interception gets returned for a score. They manage nothing but a field goal, losing 35-20. The fans storm the field, tearing down one of the goalposts while Major, soaked in Gatorade, rides off on his players’ shoulders.

  Before heading down for the postgame press conference, Richard again checks to see what’s happening in section 31. They’re still there, though the seats around them are mostly empty. To his surprise, Franek and Sandy are now deep in conversation, and while he watches she casually pulls a large soft-drink container out of his nephew’s hand and treats herself to a big swallow. Franek doesn’t protest, just takes it when she hands it back and keeps talking. Maria is scribbling on a notepad, but as if on cue she puts it away, then looks toward the press box and waves.

  Aside from local media and a few Wisconsin sportswriters, the press conference is not much of a draw, even though the visitors came in ranked fifth in the country and the game was on ESPN. Central California still flies under the radar, which is what Major has on his mind. After praising tonight’s opponent—“the best team in the Big Ten and one of the best, period”—he tears into the pollsters. “At kickoff,” he says, his surprisingly small hands resting confidently on either side of the podium, “we were ranked, what? Twenty-three, twenty-four? I don’t pay much attention to it, but you all do. So tell me.”

  “Twenty-three, Coach,” one of the Sun writers obliges.

  “Twenty-three.” Major looks down and slowly shakes his head. When he raises his gaze, you can tell he intends for those assembled to note that there’s fire in his eyes, or whatever cliché springs instantly into the mind of a sportswriter with a looming deadline. “If you think my guys are the twenty-third-best team in the country,” he says, “you need to buy yourself one of those books . . . what do they call ’em? Football for Dummies, or something like that? I’m not trying to insult anybody, though, because I doubt anybody here thinks that, especially not after what we all saw tonight.”

  He expresses disdain for the East Coast media—“I guess after two or three martinis, they need to go to bed, so they probably aren’t up for a seven o’clock West Coast kickoff”—the PAC 10—“We’d gladly play ’em every week, but they won’t let us in”—and the UCC faculty—“They complain about all the attention paid to our football program, but I don’t see them pulling down any Nobel Prizes.” Then he gets in a dig at the administration, pointing out that unless the stadium is expanded, people won’t be seeing many top teams like Wisconsin at home games, since the school can’t offer a big enough payout.

  Long before he takes the final question, says a curt good-night, and leaves the room, he’s made Richard despise him. He doubts the coach has done anything worse than spending a night or two with a Golden Palomino hostess. He doesn’t condone that, but it’s probably not any more blameworthy than what his brother-in-law’s been doing for most of his life. It’s also probably not newsworthy. But the link to Joe Garcia continues to bother him. A woman and her family are dead, and until now nobody but Maria Cantrell has tried very hard to find out why. His own reporting was perfunctory.

  As the other reporters depart, he introduces himself to the Sports Information Director, a small man in a garish green jacket with a Cowboy pin on his lapel. The guy has a sweaty handshake. “I was glad to get the request from you for credentials,” he says. “Your paper tends to ignore us unless we’re playing UCLA or USC. I notice you didn’t ask any questions, though.”

  “No, I didn’t. What I’m working on’s not about the game, per se.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  So Richard does what people in his profession often do when pursuing a story: he doesn’t exactly lie, but he doesn’t exactly tell the truth either. He mentions the name of the magazine that asked him to writ
e about Major but says that at the time he didn’t feel like he knew enough about the coach or the football program to go through with it. It’s clear to him from the SID’s excited expression that Major did not mention the magazine proposal or their prior encounter at Whole Foods. “I’ve been watching the growth of the program over the last couple years,” he continues, “and I’m starting to feel like maybe I see an angle for a piece about the coach and the way he’s energized the Central Valley.” He waves his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “I’d love to pose a question or two tonight, but I didn’t want to detract from the conversation about the game itself, since it was such a huge win. Any chance I could get a minute with him this evening?”

  “Well, normally, I’d say that needed to be scheduled in advance. Believe it or not, Coach is probably already over there in his office starting to get ready for next week’s Colorado State game. But if you’ll hold on, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Richard trails him into the hallway, where a thick green-and-gold carpet covers the floor. While he waits, he sends Maria a text: Looks like we might get a bite. Why don’t you take the kids to Spagnola’s and I’ll meet you there later.

  He stands around for nearly half an hour before the SID returns. “Like I figured,” he says, “he already has a staff meeting in progress, but if you’ll follow me, I can get you a few minutes.”

  The guy leads him around a couple of corners, past pictures of former Cowboy stars, past several offices with the names of assistant coaches on the doors, and into what appears to be a small lounge: a few round tables, a couch, a coffee urn, a refrigerator. Major sits in a metal folding chair, his elbow resting on one of the tables. He’s changed out of his Gatorade-soaked game attire and is wearing a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved pullover. He doesn’t stand or offer to shake hands but gestures at an empty chair. “I think we met once before, didn’t we?” he asks.

  “Just briefly.”

  “So what can I do for you?”

  Richard was afraid the SID would remain in the room, but he hears the door close discreetly and realizes they’re alone. He sits down at the table, whips out his pad, and tells Major he finds it fascinating that he’s been able to stimulate fervor from Bakersfield to Sacramento and all points in between as the most ethnically diverse region in the country unites behind a college football team. How, he wonders, has the coach gone about it?

  It’s a question Major has probably answered a couple of hundred times, if not more. He offers up a few platitudes about making people feel like the team represents the entire Central Valley rather than just a segment. He’s got Hispanic players, Asian American players, black players, white players. And so on. Near the end of his spiel he yawns but makes a perfunctory attempt to hide it behind a raised palm.

  Richard scribbles a note on his pad, nodding as if this is groundbreaking stuff. Then he looks into the coach’s powder-blue eyes and says, “Given how much is riding on you and the team, you must feel a lot of pressure. What do you do to relax?”

  “Sleep. Play with my kids. Spend time with my wife. Go for a swim. Same as everybody else.”

  “What about when you want to kick back, let off a little steam? Where does Nick Major go to do that?”

  The coach looks at his watch. It’s clear that he’s not used to masking irritation. “If I want to kick back? I put my feet up on my recliner.”

  “Ever have a drink at the Golden Palomino?”

  Later tonight, when he describes this moment to Maria Cantrell, he will admit he enjoyed watching the color drain from Major’s smug face. What he won’t tell her is that immediately afterward, he experienced the familiar sinking sensation that always follows even the smallest pleasure: a drink of cold water on a hot Valley day, the taste of robust coffee in the morning. He struggles to remain in the here-and-now. He never leaves the there-and-then for very long.

  “I don’t allow my players to visit bars,” Major says. “So I don’t go to them either.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “I actually heard otherwise.”

  The coach stares at him. “You know what? I think you missed your calling. You should’ve been on NYPD Blue.”

  “Since you mention the police, I believe maybe you know Joe Garcia, from the FPD?”

  Major rises.

  Richard stands up too. He’s taller than the coach by a couple inches, and he can tell the younger man would love to punch him and might be pondering the advisability. “I heard Garcia handled private security,” he says, “for some parties at your place.”

  “I’ve got a meeting to conduct,” Major tells him. “Show yourself out. And do it pretty fast.” He walks toward the door.

  “Ever heard of a woman named Jacinta Aguilera?”

  The coach never breaks stride. He wrenches the door open, and it slams into the wall with a plaster-cracking thunk.

  Monika lifts the electric kettle and fills the stainless-steel mixing bowl with boiling water. She adds a few drops of cold, then carries the bowl over to the kitchen table and sets it down beside her laptop. From the living room she hears the painters moving a stepladder, the metal legs banging against yet another piece of furniture, one of them starting to call either the ladder or whatever it hit a fucking whore but breaking off midsyllable. Yesterday she asked that they curtail the cursing when they’re in the flat. “If I’ve got something really terrible to say,” she told the youngest one, “I usually say it in my head. Most of the time, though not always, that satisfies the urge.”

  She sits down, plunges her bowing hand and wrist into the hot water, then rereads Richard’s e-mail. In it, he explains how he shot the grainy attached photo of Franek and the neighbors’ daughter, then tells her a little bit about the girl, how she was Anna’s best friend for many years, that she’s now a high school senior, a sweet, bright kid with a “sassy” sense of humor. He says he’s formed the impression that she and Franek might be taking a liking to each other, despite their age difference. He and another reporter went out for pizza with them after the ball game, and they elected to sit at their own table rather than joining him and his friend. Because he writes in Polish, where nouns indicate gender, she can tell that the other journalist is a woman.

  In the photo from the football game, just to the right of Franek’s knee you can see another knee, and since the neighbor’s daughter is completely visible on his left, she assumes it belongs to the female reporter. Without being told anything about her, she makes a second assumption: the woman is younger than her late sister-in-law, probably quite a bit so. She no doubt looks up to Richard, who is probably what she hopes to become. You can take that kind of ambition and run with it, if you’d like to. Or you can give yourself to those who harbor it and let them run with you.

  Her son might soon have a girlfriend, the first of his life, and he’s on the other side of the world. When Monika left Krakow for the music academy in Katowice, she was nineteen years old. The train ride lasted little more than an hour, but she pressed her face to the window in the second-class compartment, hiding her tears from the other passengers. She was glad to leave her family behind—her parents drank too much and quarreled all the time, and her sister was a slob—so she would not have been able to say what made her cry. Now it’s obvious: she was afraid of the unknown, which in her case meant a city eighty kilometers away.

  The longer her hand remains in the water, the looser her wrist feels. If she were to guess, she would say she’s capable of holding her orchestra seat for at least a couple more years, perhaps even three or four. Her physician has told her he can’t administer another cortisone shot until next March and that he will only do it then against his better judgment. The principal cellist had to leave the Philharmonic this past spring after multiple operations failed to correct ligament damage in his elbow. Carpal tunnel forced the concert master into retirement last year at the ripe age of fifty-one. Every occupation carries its own set of hazards: repetitive motion injuries haunt hers.
In certain pieces she bows at the rate of 350 strokes per minute. But as Stefan often reminds her, they don’t need her income. Six months ago they bought a garden flat in Berlin, where he stays when he visits his German publisher, and they’re checking out villas in Zakopane.

  Her bowing hand still in the water, she becomes aware of a presence. She looks over her shoulder to see the youngest of the three workmen. He’s standing just inside the kitchen in his paint-spattered overalls, disheveled hair in his eyes. The instant she looks at him, he begins to blush, just as he did yesterday when she admonished him about cursing.

  “My boss said to ask if you’re sure you want the crown moldings painted the same color as the walls.”

  “We already covered that.”

  “Well, but he just called and said to ask one last time. Because, you know, if they’re the same color, it makes the ceiling look lower.”

  “I was certain yesterday, and I’m still certain today.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says but fails to leave.

  “Is there something else?” she asks.

  “Have you . . . did you hurt your hand?”

  His impertinence is mitigated by the blushing. “I’m a musician,” she tells him. “We have a lot of problems with our wrists, forearms, and elbows.”

  “I’ve had some troubles like that.” He raises his right hand above his shoulder, mimicking the back-and-forth motion of a brush or roller. “Could I show you something that might help?”

  Why she accedes to his request will remain a mystery to her long after he and the others have finished their work and left the flat. For months, whenever she sees a team of painters climbing out of an old van, carrying paint buckets into a building, or teetering above the sidewalk on scaffolding, she will check to see if he’s among them. He never seems to be, though next winter, at Galeria Krakowska, she will think she sees him riding down on an escalator as she’s riding up. It will happen so fast that she’ll never know if she was right. When she turns to look, she will briefly lose her balance and be prevented from falling by the man on the step below, who will grab her elbow. Later, she’ll have a drink with him in the bar at the Europejski.