Learning to Lose (12 page)

From Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires, never been there. Is it pretty? The girl seemed comfortable. Ariel had suspected it would be tense. But she showed him a crooked, self-assured smile. She opened the chocolates. Ariel looked around the room. You want one? Ariel refused with a gesture of his hand. He watched her eat a chocolate. She had a pretty mouth. The television spat out music in English.

I really came to apologize, for not bringing you to the hospital myself. It would have gotten me into a bad fix and, well, I was with a friend. He started to lie again. He decided to stop suddenly, not do it again.

You’re a soccer player, right? Ariel nodded. What’s your name? Ariel approached the bed, at thigh height, where her cast began. Ariel. Ariel Burano. Ariel, that’s nice. It’s the name of a detergent brand here, she said. I know. Ariel reached for one of the sports newspapers and showed her his photo on one page, with the headline
MISSING IN ACTION
above it. As you can see, I’m wildly successful, he added.

Sylvia looked into his eyes. And why did you come now? I felt morally obligated. I don’t know, I felt awful about not telling the truth. I wanted to make sure you were being well taken care of, all that. My father is a fan of your team, he loves soccer, Sylvia told him. But you don’t? People here are batshit over soccer. It’s the same in Argentina, isn’t it? The same or worse.

Sylvia thought for a second and smiled again. So you mean I could go to the press with this story and get some serious dough. Yeah. Relax, I’m not going to. My father says your friend was very good to me. He works for the club. As a scapegoat? I don’t know the city, I didn’t know where to take you or how to get to a hospital, Ariel justified.

Sylvia shook her head. It was an accident. I’m glad you came and we met. Will you invite me to a game when I get out? Ariel appreciated the opportunity to be gracious. If you want. Sylvia’s smile didn’t fade. The doctor says I’ll be better pretty soon and then I could steal your job. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Ariel pulls his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Do you have a cell phone? Sylvia gives him her number. Ariel gives
her his and as they exchange numbers it seems that their hands intertwine, without actually touching. If there’s anything you need, call me.

Stop feeling guilty. How do you know I didn’t throw myself under your car because I wanted to kill myself? Ariel smiled. Why would a girl like you want to kill herself?

Should I make you a list?

When they said good-bye, Ariel said, it was a pleasure to meet you. Well, the next time you want to meet a girl, you don’t have to run her over.

Ariel still hadn’t figured out how to turn on the heat. He puts on a sweatshirt. He has leftovers from lunch for dinner. He calls Charlie. He doesn’t tell him anything about the accident. I played like shit. Don’t say that, reprimands his brother. You have to see our folks, they got fat, they think they’re Maradona’s parents. Ariel tells him that the first critical comments are starting to appear in the papers. Do they think you’re gonna be the first bad Argentinian player they ever sign, you’re not even original in that, goaded Charlie. Why don’t you invite someone to spend a week there with you? Ariel thinks about his brother’s suggestion. It’s not a bad idea. Maybe he’s thinking about Agustina. They say good-bye and Ariel is soon asleep. He rests for the first time in days, with the help of Sylvia’s gaze from her hospital bed, infected by the peacefulness of her smiling eyes.

The room is covered in pine shelves that sag from the weight of the books. There are books on their spines, on their fronts, stacked on top of other books, books two and three rows deep, books on the floor, beneath the bottom shelf. Some of them have wrinkled, gnawed papers sticking out between the pages; they look like notes, photocopies. Sylvia looks at them as if they formed a whole, nearly a sculpture. The room has nothing else, except for the lamp, her bed, and a small round table. She had come to her mother’s new house a few days after leaving the hospital. She should say Santiago’s house. Light filters in through the blinds. She isn’t sleepy.

At first her mother’s job was an awkward obligation. What’s the point of suffering? Lorenzo used to say. She worked producing cultural events, but her job was more bureaucratic and less creative: permits, organizing trips, hotel stays, filing invoices. Now it turns out she’s discovered that being a secretary was her lifelong dream, Sylvia heard her father say one day. Lorenzo never liked his wife’s job, which often required overtime that slipped like lava into the weekends, into her time at home. Pilar was about to quit. That was when Santiago came to take over the Madrid office.

Sylvia witnessed the change. Suddenly her mother’s job was interesting, it was what supported them, an activity that generated conversation over family dinners. She seemed happy, busy, with an overflowing engagement calendar always in her hand. At that same time, her father’s job began to be a source of problems, of tensions, of uncertainty, of bad feelings. Paco,
Papá’s partner, the fun guy who always brought her presents, stopped coming by, became someone whose name couldn’t be mentioned, who no longer called. A ghost.

You hooked up with your boss? thought Sylvia when her mother told her who her new boyfriend was. Santiago was planning to go back to Saragossa, his hometown. She was moving there with him. What are you going to do there? Sylvia asked. The same thing I do now, the work is the same.

Her mother often told her about the new city. It is smaller, more accessible, friendlier than Madrid. You don’t waste your life in traffic jams or getting from one place to another. Getting away from Madrid has done me good. For me that city will always be linked to Lorenzo.

Santiago’s house in Saragossa is big. It’s filled with papers, books. There are two abstract paintings, one in the living room and another in his study. There is also a poster from a 1948 Picasso exhibition and in the kitchen there’s a huge drawing of a table filled with fruit, vases, flowers. Through the living room windows you can see the iron bridge, painted green, over the river. It’s a beautiful, relaxing view that Sylvia has spent hours looking at when she’s alone in the house. The water flows forcefully and is the color of mud.

Her father had driven her home from the hospital. He left her at the door while he looked for a parking spot. Sylvia held the manila envelope with her X-rays between her fingers. She still hadn’t mastered the crutches. She waited. Finding a spot at that hour could take a while. Her father had been complaining ever since they left the hospital. And now, parking, you’ll see … he said. The Ecuadorian woman who takes care of the boy on the fifth floor came in from the street. The boy had fallen
asleep in his stroller with his legs dangling like a marionette at rest. The young woman had a pretty face. She was stocky and as she turned Sylvia got a glimpse of her round thighs. They greeted each other without a word. She called the elevator and noticed Sylvia’s cast. What happened? I got hit by a car, Sylvia told her. Damn cars. Sylvia nodded and watched her skillfully fit the stroller into the elevator. The boy’s little legs swung with her maneuvering.

Lorenzo came back after some time. It’s incredible. What, are we supposed to just swallow the car? Sylvia found her father’s constant complaining amusing. That night they sat together in the living room to watch a soccer game. Ariel was playing and Sylvia followed him with her gaze, as her father criticized him harshly. That kid is no good, he’s got no blood in his veins. Why do they call him Feather? Is he gay? asked Sylvia. Her father looked at her insolently. There are no gay soccer players, are you crazy? They call him that because he’s little. Well, he’s not that small.

Lorenzo’s harsh criticism of Ariel eventually started to irritate Sylvia. I don’t think he plays so bad. The other ones aren’t exactly doing much either. What do you know about soccer? The cameras showed Ariel’s annoyed expression when he was taken out of the game. They were beating a Polish team, one nothing, one of those teams that the sportscasters claim have no competitive pedigree. Sylvia saw how Ariel’s sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, how the television darkened his face and made him seem more hefty. When they substituted him, he went to sit on the bench and loosened the laces on his sneakers, lowered his knee socks, and tossed his blue ankle supports to the ground. He put on a zippered sweatshirt and lifted his legs, pulling his
knees to his chest. For the last fifteen minutes, Sylvia hadn’t really been following the game. Her father had put a cushion beneath her cast so she could rest it on the table. He offered her something to drink and fried some eggs for dinner.

Mom says I should go stay with her until Monday, said Sylvia. Lorenzo shrugged his shoulders. Whatever you want.

Pilar comes into Sylvia’s bedroom after knocking lightly on the door. She helps her sit up. You want to shower? Later, says Sylvia. Her hair is tangled and her eyes swollen after sleeping almost twelve hours. Pilar thinks she looks gorgeous and tells her so. Santiago went to Paris and won’t be back until tonight. Sylvia puts a sweater on over her T-shirt and her mother puts a winter sock on her other foot. They go to the kitchen, Sylvia hopping. Pilar makes breakfast for her. Drink your juice first, otherwise it loses its vitamins. Are you cold? Do you want me to bring you some pants?

Her mother usually dressed down at home. Sometimes she would share a worn bathrobe with Lorenzo. So Sylvia was surprised by the skirt and shoes. They were new. They looked good on her. The thick weave of the sweater hid her extreme skinniness. Her hair was better taken care of, tastefully cut and dyed a mahogany shade that brought out her eyes.

The night before, Sylvia called Mai. She had gone to León again this weekend. Mateo is treating me horribly, I’ll tell you about it later, she told Sylvia. It’s that I’m super-clingy. It was hard to talk to Mai about anything but her new relationship. She had talked to Alba and Nadia, too. No news at school. She’d missed a week, but, according to them, nothing happened. She hasn’t spoken to Dani since the chilly text message exchange. She checks her cell phone every once in a while, carrying it in
her hand when she moves around on her crutches. It’s strange, but she often has the feeling that Ariel is going to call her. When it rings or a message comes in she’s surprised to notice that she gets a little worked up imagining it might be him.

But it never is.

Pilar sits in front of her and brushes a lock of hair out of her face. Do you want me to pull it back for you? Sylvia shakes her head, making her curls quiver. How does Lorenzo seem to you? Pilar asks her. All her life, he’s been Papá and now hearing her mother call him Lorenzo surprises her; she finds it strange, as if Pilar were talking about someone else. Maybe she is. Does he see his friends much? Sylvia shrugs her shoulders. I don’t know, the usual, they go to games. They talk about Grandma Aurora, the string of hospital stays. Pilar gets serious. I’m going to give you some money, I don’t want you to have to ask Papá for money during all this. Sylvia smiles and holds the glass of warm milk with both hands. I should warn you that I’m going to spend it all on drugs and men. I have no doubt about that, replies Pilar. Better to spend it on men, and on quality ones, at least. Sylvia looks up. My problem isn’t quality, it’s quantity. Pilar gathers up the glasses and brings them to the sink. Do you have a boyfriend now? Sylvia is taken by surprise.
Now?
As if I ever had a boyfriend
before
. Sylvia shakes her head, takes a bite of her toast. There’s no rush, says her mother. Well, I hope it’s before I’m an old crone. Pilar turns, amused, I notice a certain hint of desperation. A certain hint? I’m totally desperate.

A second later Sylvia asks, Mamá, how old were you when you first had sex? With a man? No, with your teddy bear, responds Sylvia. Pilar pauses. Twenty years old. Sylvia lets out a whistle. I hope it’s not hereditary. She observes her mother’s
shy smile and makes a mental calculation. But, then, that was with Papá, right? Pilar nods. Papá was your first? Sylvia’s gaze wanders before settling on the table. She makes the plate dance on the tabletop with her fingertip. She doesn’t look at her mother as she asks, and Santiago was the second? Pilar nods.

For a moment, she only hears the sound of a bus opening its door at the stop. Sylvia thinks about her mother, reviews her life in fast-forward. Without really knowing why, she says, what a life, huh? Kind of … Pilar looks at her, and her eyes dampen. There was a time when I was very happy with your father. I may never be that happy again with anybody. I haven’t missed … but she stops, she doesn’t finish the sentence. Sylvia plays with a lock of hair and brings it to her mouth. Pilar sits back down in front of her and pulls the lock out. They don’t say anything. Sylvia reaches for the radio on the corner of the table. She searches for a station with music that’s not too cheesy. Heavy guitars. Do you really like that noise? asks Pilar. Who would have guessed it.

He goes back on Thursday.

Leandro is in the Jacuzzi. His back rests against Osembe’s chest and his hands are on her thighs. She caresses him with a sponge and for a moment it looks like he is going to fall asleep in her arms. The bathroom is not very large and has a shower with a murky glass door splattered with drops. The Jacuzzi is blue, oval. Every once in a while, it shoots out jets and Osembe
laughs at the underwater massage. A thin layer of foam has formed. Leandro’s gray hair is damp and hangs limp. I’ve been reading about your country, says Leandro. It’s very big. It has more than a hundred million inhabitants and they say that soon it will be the third most populated country on the planet. I’m from the Delta, she says, Itsekiri. And she pronounces the word in a very different tone from the one she uses in Spanish, less tentative. You’re in good spirits today. Happier, Leandro says to her. Osembe squeezes up against him. You come, I happy.

Leandro had sat among the students at the outsize tables of the Cuatro Caminos public library, with the encyclopedia open, to learn something more about Osembe’s country, as if he, too, were preparing for an upcoming exam. He read about its history, its legendary founding, the religious divisions, the poverty, independence, corruption. You know more than I do, says Osembe now when she listens to him. My country is very rich, the people very poor. Someone knocked on the door. It’s Pina, an Italian girl with very short hair, dyed blond. She comes in wrapped in a towel, as if she just finished a session. This is the life, she says with a chipper accent. Leandro remembers her from the parade of girls the first day. Do you mind? Leandro feels them both watching him, waiting for his response. Okay, he says.