Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

  My hands were sweaty, but I didn’t dare let go of the steering wheel to wipe them on my jeans. But after a few seconds, my heartbeat went back to normal, and my thoughts cleared. I took a few deep breaths. I wanted to show Diego I was strong and could do anything he challenged me to do.

  “Now, ease up on the gas and brake with your right foot. Like that.”

  The car lurched forward when I slammed on the pedal. “Ay! Sorry.”

  So much for impressing him.

  “Your seat’s too far out, shorty,” he said calmly, and reached across me to adjust the seat with the controls on the driver’s side door.

  Every one of my nerve endings became hyperaware of his whole body pressing against mine.

  “Stop it! I’ll do it,” I said, gently pushing him off me.

  He laughed as I moved my seat forward and up until I could reach the pedals comfortably.

  My armpits prickled, and I hoped I smelled okay.

  “What do I do with my left foot?” I asked, trying to get control of the situation.

  “Just relax it on the footrest. Give it a break. The car’s automatic.”

  That explained a lot. Last year, Roxana had tried to drive her dad’s truck to practice, but our adventure had almost ended in disaster when she hadn’t known how to reverse out of the carport.

  If Roxana saw me now, she’d chew me out.

  “Let’s go around the block. Careful with the kids,” Diego said, pointing at a group of tweens riding rented electric scooters.

  My every sense focusing on not running over anyone, ruining this car, the price of which I couldn’t even fathom, or hurting Diego, who had just renewed his contract with Juventus, I drove around the block.

  “Again,” he said.

  Now that I knew how to steer and control the speed, I became aware of how sensitive the controls were. The car felt like an extension of my body, like it knew what I was about to do a millisecond before I did it. A part of me wanted to see how fast I could go, but I kept my foot steady, turning carefully at the corners. I finally smiled.

  “Now I’m ruined for life,” I said, heading toward the parking lot where we’d started.

  “What do you mean?”

  “After driving this car, anything else will be a letdown.”

  He laughed.

  I stopped behind the supermarket. “Ta-da!” I said, beaming at him.

  The sun shone behind him so I couldn’t see his features. “You’re a natural,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Before we know it, you’ll be zooming down the streets of Turín in my Jeep.”

  “You have a Jeep?”

  “Yes. Jeep’s one of the team’s sponsors, so the players drive the newest model to show it off. Mine’s white with the darkest windows I was allowed to get.”

  My mind buzzed, trying to make sense of him owning not one but two luxury cars, and this one would just sit in a garage in Buenos Aires most of the year. This was easier to think about than what he’d said about me driving in Turín.

  “We’re not finished yet.” Diego took my hand from the steering wheel and placed it on the gear shift again. “Now switch it to park. This button turns off the engine.”

  The car stopped rumbling, but at his touch, my heart started galloping again.

  “This was fun,” I said, avoiding his eyes. My hand was still on the ignition. “Thank you.”

  “Anything for you,” he said, sweeping his hair back from his face. “Now let’s go get some sunshine.”

  We headed toward the river, walking so close our hands brushed every few seconds.

  “I hope the car’s still here when we come back,” I said, looking at it over my shoulder. It was the only luxury car in the parking lot. It might as well have had a neon sign on it that said take me.

  “Nothing will go wrong today,” he promised, like he’d peeked into the future and seen nothing but good fortune.

  It was so easy to believe him.

  Maybe it was relief that I hadn’t hurt anyone or embarrassed myself with my driving. Maybe it was the adrenaline. But in that moment, everything around us looked beautiful. The sun shone bright and warm for August, the sky a vivid blue that seemed straight out of a postcard. Ahead of us, the river glinted a golden brown, lapping against the concrete causeway. My heart soared as I looked at the expanse of sky and water, Diego by my side.

  Before we crossed Avenida Belgrano, he grabbed my hand.

  I looked at him.

  He shrugged. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Instead of digging for a lame comeback, I rolled my eyes, and he smiled. He didn’t let go when we reached the other side, and I didn’t pull my hand away, either.

  Like in Parque Urquiza, the green spaces along Avenida Belgrano were teeming with people trying to squeeze every bit of pleasure out of the three-day weekend. La Costanera—the pedestrian way that went from the Flag Memorial through Parque España all the way to Rosario Central Stadium and beyond—was lined with food vendors, artisans, and entertainers.

  No one looked twice at Diego.

  We could’ve been an ordinary couple. Us. A couple.

  “I’ve missed the smell of the river,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Blending in. Enjoying the day.”

  A guy in his twenties pushing a food cart whistled, and Diego said, “Let’s get something to eat. I’m famished.”

  The man sold torta asada, and in his cart he had a fire grill. My mouth watered at the scent.

  “Here,” Diego said, and he broke off half a flatbread and handed it to me. He bit the torta, closed his eyes, and groaned. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

  “We should’ve brought los mates,” I said.

  Diego tilted his head back, looked at the sky, and sighed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Shoddy planning, Titán.”

  He clicked his tongue. “We can buy a mate listo and hot water in the kiosco later.”

  “They charge a fortune,” I said.

  “I exchanged some euros at the car dealership. We’re rich.” He patted his pocket, and I laughed.

  A boy on a skateboard stopped in the middle of the trail and exclaimed, “Look!”

  Diego and I turned toward the river, where the boy was pointing. I first saw the yellow-and-red kite, hanging low above the waves. I followed its line to the man in a black wet suit jumping over the water with his board, his arms tense as he held on to the surf kite. When he jumped about three meters and then smacked back down on the water, the audience that had gathered along the rail clapped.

  After a few minutes, most of the crowd dispersed, but Diego leaned against the brick wall that separated the sidewalk from the barranca, still gazing at the surfer. He draped his arm around my waist and drew me against him. My first instinct was to shrug out of his embrace, but instead, I leaned in.

  He placed his chin on my head, and in silence we watched the river, the man and his kite, and the blue swallows that seemed like enchanted, chirping origami.

  “My abs hurt just looking at him,” Diego said.

  The man had to have incredible core strength to maneuver the board while trying to control the kite so he wouldn’t crash every time the wind carried him too close to the edge of the river. I watched his strained face in fascination.

  “Next time we can try that,” Diego said.

  “There are so many things you want to do next time . . .”

  “There are so many things I want to do now.”

  I turned toward him. “Like what?”

  Diego didn’t answer. He glanced down at my mouth, and I placed my hand on the wall to steady myself.

  The boy with the skateboard stepped right in front of us, staring at Diego. His eyes widened. “Diego Ferrari?” he whispered.

  Diego nodded. A silent re
quest to keep his identity secret flashed over his face.

  “Can I get a selfie with you, please, genio?” The boy took out a phone from his pocket. “To show my little brother. He adores you. He won’t believe you were here.”

  “Of course,” Diego said.

  The kid smiled from ear to ear as he stood next to Diego and took the picture. He checked the screen, then clapped Diego on the shoulder. “Thank you, maestro.”

  Maestro, genio. This was Diego’s life now.

  The boy zoomed toward the Flag Memorial on his skateboard, and Diego took my hand and led me in the opposite direction. We dodged a dog walker and his pack of huskies, chihuahuas, and mestizos, wending through the artisans’ stands and food vendors until we came across a group of people blocking the path.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, standing on my tiptoes.

  I caught a glimpse of girls doing Zumba in clothes too skimpy for the season.

  Diego never let go of my hand as we skirted around them. His eyes never strayed toward the girls, either. In spite of all the people around us, I was aware of his breath, the way he looked at me, the scent of his cologne and his leather jacket.

  We talked the whole way.

  “Basically, when I’m not training, all I do is play FIFA, read, and sleep.”

  I shook my head. “Stop trying to pretend your life is totally unglamorous.”

  He laughed. “It is. Well, most times. I’m a simple guy. I want a simple life, or as simple as it can be in my position, you know?”

  By then we’d reached the red-brick stairs in Parque España.

  “I’ll race you, simple guy,” I said, climbing the steps two at a time.

  “¡Tramposa!” Diego called from behind me, laughing. He caught up with me in no time. By the time we reached the top, I was gasping for air. I had never understood how I could run for miles without a problem, but climbing stairs always left me breathless.

  “I win!” I said, jumping up and down.

  “I win.”

  I leaned against the wall. “I beat you by like two seconds. How did you win?”

  “I had the best view,” he said, standing next to me.

  It was golden hour, the sun hovering over the horizon like it didn’t want this afternoon to end, either.

  “It looks beautiful,” Diego said. From here, we could see the whole esplanade. “It’s changed so much in just a year. I didn’t know they’d put up a fair and a carousel.”

  “I didn’t know, either,” I said. It was like I, too, was seeing Rosario after a long absence.

  “I love it.”

  “As much as you love Turín? Do you love la Juve as much as you lo—”

  “—as I love Central?” Although he guessed my question, he didn’t answer right away.

  “Well . . . do you?”

  He sighed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  Finally, he answered, “I never knew the heart could expand to love different places and clubs so much.” He looked at me then, and his eyes were sparkly like the diamonds in his ears. “Central will be my first love forever—my home, the catapult I needed to become el Titán, you know? And La Juve? Ay, Camila! That place is magical. The people there are sick with futbolitis. The passion . . . when I do something on the field and the stadium explodes . . . I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like a fever.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  Diego was claimed by la Vecchia Signora, a demanding mistress. I could never compete with her.

  “La Juve is the most winning team in Italy,” he continued. “The weight on my shoulders when I put the jersey on . . .” He shivered. “It’s something indescribable . . . like I’m possessed by one thing and one thing only: the need to be the best.”

  I wanted what he had. I needed to play on a team like that, to feel the love of the fans. I needed the chance to do something impossible and amazing. To be great.

  I wanted Diego’s life. But I wanted to live it, not watch it from the sidelines.

  We looked at the river in silence, and after a few seconds, he asked, “Do you want to head back to the car? We can go eat dinner.”

  “Don’t they feed you in Turín?” I asked. “You never stop eating.”

  Diego laughed, and two girls jogging past us glanced at him. One of them did a double take and said something to her friend.

  “Come,” I told him, and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go before your fans attack you again.”

  We made our way back through the fair. About halfway there, we found a stage where a group was singing a cumbia song to a dancing audience. As if to prove his point about wanting a simple life, Diego stepped in front of me and said, “Dance with me.”

  I almost accused him of playing with me. I took his hand and followed him to the center of the square.

  When I turned fifteen, I hadn’t had a quinceañera, but since my father was out of town, my mom had let me go dancing with Pablo and his friends. Diego dancing cumbia had plagued my dreams ever since.

  Now he expertly led me and sang softly in my ear. I lifted my arms to hook them around his neck. His fingertips brushed my waist where my sweater crept up. He twirled me elegantly, then stepped behind me, pressing me close to his chest.

  The steps were so familiar, I didn’t even have to think to fall into the next one. I leaned my head back, and he dipped his face and kissed my neck. I looked at the stars, which were just starting to come out.

  The song slowed, and when I turned around, we were face-to-face, just a breath apart.

  “What are we doing?”

  “We’re dancing, Mami.”

  “Señor,” a girl’s voice said. “A flower for your girl?”

  We both looked to the side to see a girl of about thirteen with a handful of individually wrapped roses.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Fifty each.”

  Diego took most of the colorful bills from his wallet and handed them to the girl. “I’ll take all of them.”

  Her face lit up in a joyful smile. She brushed her dark brown hair away from her face, nodded at me, and said, “Good for you,” handing me the roses.

  When I took them, a thorn pricked me. “Ay!”

  Diego took the flowers and looked at my hand. A drop of blood was blooming on the tender skin where the thumb meets the index finger. Without hesitation, he lifted my hand to his mouth and licked the blood away, making me burst into fire.

  “Sana, sana, colita de rana,” he whispered.

  The band started playing another song. A girl with a boy in a rugby jersey watched me from next to the stage. I recognized her green eyes and hostile expression from yesterday’s game—the Royals’ captain.

  Diego handed me back the flowers. “Flowers for my girl.”

  My heart thundered in my ears. Me. His girl.

  Stunned, bewitched, I took the flowers and placed them in the crook of my arm like a beauty pageant winner. He held my other hand, and slowly we walked back to his car.

  “¡Gracias a Dios!” we said in unison when we arrived at the parking lot and saw his car, safe and sound under the one streetlamp.

  When we got in, I placed the flowers on my lap. The tips of the petals had already wilted. The clock on the console read 8:00.

  “I know you need to go back home,” he said. “But we have the rest of the week.”

  Today had been perfect, and I didn’t know how I’d ever go back to my normal life when he left.

  “Diego,” I said, placing my hand on his arm.

  “I love how you say my name.”

  He never let my hand go as he drove along the scenic route, doubling back the way we’d come, passing Parque España, the multicolored silos, and the stadium. A giant sign announced its World Cup-class status: Estadio Mundialista Gigante de Arroyito.

  We bo
th softly sang, “Un amor como el guerrero . . .”

  “I promised the guys from the team I’d go out with them tonight. And tomorrow morning I have a meeting at the Central headquarters with the AFA bosses, but in the afternoon, I’ll come get you.”

  “Tomorrow I’m teaching the kids,” I said, “And then I have—”

  His phone rang, and when he looked down at the console, his eyes widened. He pressed the red ignore button.

  The phone rang again. This time, I saw the name flashing on the screen. Giusti. His manager.

  “Answer it,” I said.

  He shook his head. “He’s in Buenos Aires. I’ll call him later.”

  If I had a manager, I would never ignore a call from them. I pushed the button on the console, and Giusti’s voice blared through the speakers. “Diego, come stai?”

  Diego winked at me. He and Giusti spoke more Italian than Spanish, but the sound of Italian on Diego’s lips was like music. Soon we were at the barrio’s boundaries.

  For as long as I could remember, there had been a gaggle of boys smoking and talking on the corner of Colombres and Schweitzer. It’s like they signed a contract when they reached a certain age.

  Diego honked at them. Cries of recognition and teasing and the smell of their cigarettes followed us like streamers.

  When we arrived in the parking lot in front of my building, I waited for him to hang up. I didn’t want this day to end, but the seconds swished away.

  “Guarda con la comida, Diego,” Giusti said.

  Diego flinched when his manager reminded him to eat well, hunching his shoulders like a scolded little boy.

  Doña Rosa from apartment 2D stopped on the sidewalk, shopping bag in hand, and stared at the car. Alberto from across the street joined her and actually pointed at us.

  “Giusti, I’ll call you back in two minutes,” Diego said when he noticed we had attracted an audience. I had to get out of the car before the neighbors started rumors about us.

  “I have to—”

  He stopped my words with a kiss that extinguished the world around us.

  Like when we’d danced, my lips knew how to follow the beat of the music made of our galloping hearts and the sighs escaping our mouths.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him against me, my fingers raking through his tangled hair. His eyelashes fluttered against mine, butterfly kisses that made me gasp with longing for more.