Learning to Lose (26 page)

Lorenzo explained he was planning on setting up a small moving and transport business and if it paid well, cleaning out this apartment could be the perfect job to start with. When he noticed his friends’ looks, he felt offended. Isn’t that a decent job? Sure, man, of course, it’s just a little surprising. Surprising? I have to make a living somehow. I don’t know if you guys noticed, but I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

Yeah, of course. And they avoided one another’s eyes, as if it were a contest to see who could hold out the longest without saying anything. Lorenzo didn’t want the conversation to die out like that. He insisted. I’ll take care of cleaning it up and emptying it out, and depending on the hours it takes we’ll negotiate a price. But you’re going to do it yourself? asked Lalo. The place must be infected.

That was when Lorenzo remembered Wilson and he turned it into, I know some Ecuadorians who can lend me a hand. He felt his friends breathe easier, as if the delegation of work elevated him in the business hierarchy, steering them clear of the degrading image of their friend hunched over, picking up the accumulated crap from a mentally unbalanced old man. Lorenzo was improvising out loud. I’m thinking about setting up a fleet of vans, something small, but the market is definitely there.

It doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to me, said Óscar. Oh, man, I was imagining you with lumbago, messed up after a week, admitted Ana. Well, let’s talk about it on Monday, said Lalo, feigning enthusiasm.

Wilson waited in the van while Lorenzo went up to Lalo’s office at the real estate agency. His friend handed him the
keys to the apartment. He wrote down the address on a slip of paper. He was still uncomfortable. I’ll need an invoice and all that. Of course, of course. You’re sure the owner’s not still in there … No, man, no, everything’s been past the notaries. The apartment is ours. As far as the money, you’ll let me know … Do you need something for the initial expenses?

Lorenzo and Wilson went up the stairs to the apartment. The peephole had been pulled out and sealed with black masking tape. Before they managed to open the door, trying each of the keys Lalo had given them, a female neighbor emerged from the opposite apartment. We’re from the agency, Lorenzo said to reassure her. I can’t believe you’re going to cart away all that shit. The smell is unbearable.

It was nothing compared to the stench that came out once the door was opened. We need masks, said Wilson. The amount of objects piled up in the apartment made it almost impossible to walk through. On top of the sofa and the television, the regular furnishings of any home, there was a layer of junk, accrued garbage, stuff piled high until the whole apartment was submerged. There was furniture of different sizes, chairs, old newspapers, plastic bags filled with who knows what.

You think there are rats? wondered Wilson. Or worse. And the place isn’t bad. Wait and see how much dough they ask for once it’s cleaned up, answered Lorenzo. By then he had already transformed into a professional. I’ve got to buy masks, garbage bags, gloves, shovels, coveralls, add a couple more employees. And after lifting up some boards and seeing a stampeding army of cockroaches, he added an insecticide bomb.

It took them two entire days to empty the apartment. The sewer smell was intense and unpleasant. They parked the van
on the sidewalk and filled it with overflowing bags of garbage, drove to a nearby dump and emptied it there, and then went back to start again. The junk seemed to never end. Newspapers and magazines that went back to 1985, as if dating the start of the old man’s dementia. During one of their breaks, the neighbor chatted with Lorenzo and Wilson and the two other Ecuadorians who had joined their team, told them the little she knew about the man. First his appearance had started to get sloppy and then little by little his house went downhill. Women? No, she couldn’t remember any. She was sure he used to work for the post office, but in the last few years he didn’t seem to have any schedule. He was just as likely to head out early in the morning as to not leave the house for days. No noises or fuss. But when neighbors started to criticize his behavior, complaining about the smell and the dangerous accumulation of junk, he tore out his peephole and covered it up. Another day he threatened the president of the building with a knife. And the police got tired of coming over with social workers, until finally they issued the eviction order. Then the real estate agency showed up and, no one really knows how, managed to buy the apartment.

Beneath one of the dressers was a huge wooden box filled with photos of women, cut out as if by a child. It must have taken years because there were so many. The women in the photographs weren’t nude or particularly beautiful; they didn’t really seem to have been specifically chosen. They were all women, though. They were precisely cut out. He took no shortcuts in his useless high-detail task. They looked like old paper dolls. There was also a collection of metro tickets, held together in bundles by crumbling rubber bands that broke at the touch. In drawers were pins, empty bottles, and advertising flyers.
In the kitchen, there was only enough silverware and dishes for one person. One cup, one plate, and one set of fork, knife, and spoon. A radical declaration of solitude. Hundreds of rags and plastic bags balled up. The senseless obsession for saving seemed only to grow in relation to the uselessness of the objects. Whole collections of nothing. There wasn’t much organic garbage and the worst smell came from the broken toilet with its relentlessly dripping cistern. The bathtub was a pool of rust, the toilet was missing a lid, and yet there were mountains of empty bottles of shower gel and soap. In the kitchen, one slip of paper was stuck to the door of the fridge, with a telephone number and the name Gloria.

Lorenzo saved the piece of paper, and on his break the second day he dialed the number. Gloria? he asked the voice that answered. Yes, that’s me, said a woman. She must have been about forty years old. Look, sorry, apologized Lorenzo. I’m calling from Altos de Pereda, number forty-three, apartment 1A. From the home of Mr. Jaime Castilla Prieto. Lorenzo had memorized the former owner’s name. What do you want? asked the woman.

Lorenzo beat around the bush, trying to get information. He said he was emptying out the house and had found her number jotted on a piece of paper. Why call me? I’ve never been in that house. I don’t know anyone by that name. But your number was on a piece of paper, on the refrigerator door … I don’t know why …

Lorenzo insisted on how strange it was that she didn’t know the place or the man who kept her phone number as his only visible contact. It was, it seemed, the sole bit of information that tied him to the real world. But the woman, this Gloria, denied any relationship with him. Her refusal turned out to be sincere,
surprised, somewhat concerned. Lorenzo realized he was beginning to upset the woman and he apologized and said goodbye. It was weird.

In his own way, the guy who lived here was organized, pointed out Wilson when they had paused for a moment. The everyday objects were striking, fossils of a conventional life that appeared as they removed the layers of accumulated junk. A stationary bicycle pushed beneath the bed, hangers, shoes in good shape. Why live like that? Why end up that way? Lorenzo felt dizzy and afraid, as he asked himself these questions on his way to the dump. Finally he consoled himself with Wilson’s answer. The guy let himself go. And why not?

And why not?

The last vanload was filled with things Wilson or Lorenzo deemed to have some value. Small, cute pieces of furniture, a sideboard, three wristwatches, some glass bottles. In that final load, Lorenzo filled a cardboard suitcase with some small-format records, two or three books, and the enormous collection of cutout photos.

At the last minute, he called his friend Lalo. That’s it, the apartment is empty. Tomorrow I’ll give you the invoice, okay?

Lorenzo brought Wilson’s buddies back to near Tetuán. Then they both went to an antique dealer in the Rastro district who had said he would have a look at the furniture. This isn’t worth the effort, thought Lorenzo when he heard the amount the guy offered him for the pieces. Wilson was more skillful, bargaining boldly until he got the final price up by a few euros. Wilson insisted on accompanying Lorenzo to a gas station to wash the van, to try to get rid of the unpleasant smell. The Ecuadorian scrubbed the back as if it were his. Lorenzo felt
strangely pleased. He liked the guy. Once in a while, Wilson would say something funny and laugh through his teeth. When Lorenzo took Wilson home, he asked for a favor. Can you ask Daniela to please come down for a minute? I have to ask her something, he justified when Wilson smiled at him knowingly.

Lorenzo waited in the darkness, parked at the entrance to a nearby garage. Daniela came out of the doorway and approached the van, avoiding the headlights’ beam. How’d it go? she asked. Exhausting, said Lorenzo. Wilson will tell you.

Outside work Daniela seemed more relaxed. Her loose, damp hair fell around her eyes. Yeah, well, okay, she said suddenly.

It took Lorenzo a little while to realize that was her reply to his invitation for Saturday. So I’ll pick you up after lunch? Okay.

Lorenzo started the engine and she left, a half smile still on her face. Lorenzo watched her walk back inside. She didn’t swing her hips as she walked; instead she seemed propelled by small defiant impulses. She knows I’m watching her, thought Lorenzo.

Then he passed by his parents’ house. Leandro and Aurora were having dinner in her room. A simple potato frittata. Lorenzo noticed their subdued intimacy. He was happy, exhausted by the job. I’m only here for a minute, I gotta go home and shower, he explained. You sure you don’t want dinner? No, no. He asked how they were. He got angry because they hadn’t asked him to go to the hospital with them and then was giddily evasive about the job. When I get it more established, I tell you about it, was all he’d say, convinced that sounded good. What did the doctor say? he asked his father on his way to the door.

Nothing, just a regular checkup.

At home a note from Sylvia was waiting for him. “I’m studying at Mai’s house, see you later.” Studying. Lorenzo smiled to himself.

After showering he got in bed. He tossed and turned. Exhausted, but wired with excitement. It took him a while to fall asleep. He got up to take the Barbie doll from the back of the nearby walk-in closet. He went back to bed with her. Under the sheets, he caressed her plastic curves. But he was too tired to masturbate and he fell asleep with the doll resting on his belly.

He was awoken early in the morning by the sound of the front door opening. Sylvia’s light steps. Lorenzo checked the alarm clock on the bedside table. Almost three. Was she going out with some boy? Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing. I’ll have to talk to Pilar. I’ll ask her. She’ll confess to her mother. He couldn’t get back to sleep. He waited long enough for Sylvia to get into bed, then ventured over to her room. Do you know what time it is, Sylvia? I lost track of time. Well, that’s obvious. I got caught up over at Mai’s. I don’t want you coming home so late, I worry. Okay, let me sleep. Lorenzo noticed her body, a woman’s body, beneath the sheets. He wondered if some boy was enjoying her curves and then he put the thought out of his mind. It disturbed him. He related it to his own sexuality. Worrying about his daughter didn’t keep him from masturbating with the doll once he got back to his bedroom and then putting her away, ashamed, at the back of the closet.

When on Saturday, after lunch, Daniela walks out of her door and hops into Lorenzo’s van, he restrains the impulse to greet her too effusively. He just smiles in response to her smile. Is El Escorial very far? No, an hour, tops. Ah, I thought it was further.

No, no, it’s very close.

He went down to the garage as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to be late for practice. He took the sheets out of the washing machine. He didn’t really know what to do with them. They were still damp. He spread them out on a rack. It’s cold outside.

At practice his hands are freezing. His legs feel heavy. He didn’t get enough sleep. Flashes of the previous night come back to him.

What am I doing? She’s underage. She’s sixteen years old. Yet Ariel’s lips didn’t part from Sylvia’s. She broke the tension, bringing Ariel’s hand to the back of her head, burying it beneath the weight of her hair. Ariel reached to caress her full neck. What was going to happen? It was Sylvia who pulled apart for a moment, searched out Ariel’s eyes and smiled.

I’m crazy, right?

Ariel ran his fingers over her cheek. It was soft, spotless. His gesture had something of the way one strokes a child. We’re not going to do anything, he said.

Sylvia lowered her head, embarrassed. Ariel wanted to run his fingers over her lips, but he didn’t dare. Sylvia trapped a lock of her hair in the corner of her mouth and bit on it. Ariel stroked her hands and pushed away the hair. Why do you do that? I don’t know. You don’t have to be nervous. Are you comfortable? Do you want anything else? I don’t know, another beer …

Ariel’s trip to the kitchen gave them both a few seconds. Sylvia leaned back on the sofa. Ariel knows that overly passionate kisses reveal the fear that lies behind them. Once he made
out for hours with a girl he had met at a concert, they shared incredibly ardent kisses, but she fled in terror when he tried to take her clothes off. That memory, together with Sylvia’s spontaneous, fervent kisses, alarmed him. No, he wasn’t going to do it. The refrigerator’s cold air brought him back to his senses. When he sat down on the sofa he was a few inches further away from Sylvia. Hardly anything, but to her it must have seemed like miles.

It’d probably be best if I take you home, he said, and she nodded. It’s twelve-thirty.

My father is going to kill me. Do you have practice early tomorrow?

At ten. When he explained that it was over by one and then he had the afternoon off, Sylvia let out a whistle and said something like, that’s the life. Of course I’m a big fan of siesta time, I already was in Buenos Aires. I need to sleep, at least an hour. Then they talked about the game on Saturday. In Seville. They were traveling on Friday. It’ll be on TV if you want to watch it. I’m not that big a fan, really. I thought you might like to see me … The conversation passed like a screen of rain between them. Ariel touched his nose with one finger and Sylvia bit the fingernail on her thumb.