Manu looked at his old friend as if he’d taken too many blood pressure tablets.
“Sun Tzu, The Art of War,” replied Jorge with a half smile. “My son is fighting for his life right now. If he wants to make it, I’m afraid he hasn’t got a choice.”
Daniel got undressed and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’d never been so skinny, and despite his long sunbathing sessions, his skin still hadn’t got any colour to it. He got in the shower where the warm water revitalised him after his hard session. Since arriving in Buitrago he’d had good days and bad and that day belonged to the latter. In spite of the encouraging words from his physiotherapist, Daniel still felt useless.
I just want to go back, he thought. What I would give to have a beer with Oscar and Kiko. To train with the team like before. To see Sofia again.
He longed to lie down on his sofa, his muscles numb from a hard training session, and simply chat with Kiko while watching some crap on TV. He longed to wake up early, jittery with nerves for having to play a game that day, instead of starting the day tired in the morning and fearing Manu’s daily torture. Thinking of the future scared him, it was difficult to predict what would happen after his holiday in the village. But what truly terrified him was seeing himself not being able to run again, to play basketball and without doing anything profitable to earn a living.
So to hell with Oscar and Kiko. They could carry on without going to see him. And to hell with Ricardo too and... Sofia. It was great for them to act like nothing had happened, to pretend that he didn’t exist because his nutcase father and his chum, the ruthless physio, were all the support he had to rely on. His recovery of his knee was the only thing that gave his life any meaning, and he was prepared to do anything to achieve it.
His tears were camouflaged by the shower, tears that he’d been wanting to unleash for weeks. Daniel changed the temperature of the water until it was so cold it burnt his skin. He gritted his teeth, and then realised something else.
What was he waiting for? That was exactly what he’d been doing all his life: waiting, waiting, waiting. That was over. He had to stop being so fickle and selfish. To start with, he said to himself, I need to stop talking to myself and talk to actual three dimensional people, because I’m going to end up driving myself mad... and that’s enough of this freezing water, damn it!
He turned off the shower, quickly towelled himself dry and made a coffee before going out for a walk. The thing he needed most right now was a breath of fresh air.
On a narrow backstreet near Jorge’s house, where the only sound you could hear in the background was the occasional motor vehicle, was the Danilo. It was a small Italian restaurant with a cosy dining area and old-fashioned decoration: from the Croatian sea shells to the bamboo lamps that decorated the room. The owner was an eccentric old man from Birmingham whose exaggerated limp cast doubt as to whether he was capable of running a restaurant. That’s where Daniel ended up that morning, drawn by the delicious smell coming from the kitchen.
“Buenos días, sir. Welcome to the Danilo! Would you like to know today’s menu?”
Daniel felt uneasy. He hadn’t expected such a warm welcome, and he didn’t know what he felt like eating, he’d only come out to go for a walk.
“I’m not that hungry. Could I just get something to drink? Something refreshing.”
“Why, of course! Look, sit yourself down at this table here next to the window. What can I get you then?” he asked once Daniel had made himself comfortable.
“A lemonade with ice.”
“Coming right up!” exclaimed the owner and he busied himself behind the bar.
The man was very noticeably not from Spain. It wasn’t just the combination his native English sprinkled into his fluent Spanish that gave him away but also the pinkish hue of his skin and striking blue eyes.
Everything in that place seemed strange to him, from the old man himself to the dining room decoration and its dimensions. Why weren’t there any tables outside to make the most of the marvellous day? And it was completely empty even though the kitchen was producing delicious aromas. That was what he was thinking when the waiter came back with his lemonade on a tray.
“I haven’t seen you around here before, fella. Are you new to the pueblo?”
Fella? What did that mean? It didn’t matter, but one thing was for sure, he hadn’t lost much of his native language.
“My dad is from here, but I haven’t been back for years.”
“Really?” The man observed him with his penetrating blue eyes. Daniel felt he was being scrutinised.
The old man started talking about when he was twenty-two and his parents had decided to leave England. His father worked as a percussionist. He played for small orchestras and livened up the town fairs in cities like Oxford, Stratford or Cambridge. One day, the Radio Television Española symphony orchestra offered him a place as their lead percussionist so the family moved to Madrid. Once there, the owner of the Danilo, who was at the time a young man, met a girl, fell in love and got married. With his savings he acquired from working as a waiter in a hotel in the capital, he was able to follow his dream: buying a small place in Buitrago and opening his own restaurant.
“Is this the restaurant you opened?” Daniel wanted to know.
“Indeed it is,” he replied proudly.
“And why Italian food? If you don’t mind my asking.”
A pleasant smile came over the man’s face. It was as if the question made him feel special.
“It was always my favourite. In England you can’t get good ingredients to make good cannelloni but here... mamma mía!”
“And you speak better Spanish than a lot of people from round here,” said Daniel after taking a sip of his drink.
The old Englishman laughed holding his belly in his hands.
“I don’t doubt it! Look, I’ll show you something.”
He turned away and limped off behind the bar once again. Then he looked back at Daniel exclaiming:
“Come on, fella, I don’t bite.”
Daniel grabbed his drink and obeyed. On the bar, the man pointed to a porcelain bowl which he’d placed next to the window. A beam of light entered through the dusty glass, illuminating the flower that floated in the water-filled bowl. It rested on top of green leaves and pointed petals, fading from pink to white. Daniel felt hypnotised by such beauty.
“It’s a lotus flower. You know what a lotus flower is, right?”
“Erm... of course,” Daniel lied.
“This peculiar flower is Asian,” the man explained. “I grew it myself, and each day I make sure I take care of it and give it just the right amount of light so that it grows strong and healthy. It’s the jewel of the restaurant.”
“And what’s so special about it? I mean, apart from the wonderful smell.”
“The lotus flower is capable of growing in mud. That’s what makes it special.”
Now the old man was talking more to himself than to Daniel.
“It’s one of the main symbols of Buddhism, it represents purity as while it is rooted in mud, its flowers blossom on long stalks, elevated and impeccable, above the filth from which it stems from. It’s reminiscent of man’s condition: made of corruptible material, yet can reach toward sublime heights.”
He turned back to Daniel:
“Think for a moment, fella. If there is a living being capable of being born and growing in mud, what in this life can’t be confronted? How beautiful and strong must it be?”
Daniel didn’t understand why he was talking about a flower to a Buddhist, but he felt that he was being lectured on something he didn’t comprehend.
“No one chooses to grow up in the mud, of course. No one in their right mind would want to even be near something that develops in marsh land. However, paradoxically, the lotus flower shows us that to reach plenitude, it’s often necessary to suffer. Make yourself strong through strength, in short.”
The man smiled, his eyes were even bright
er than before, if that were possible.
Despite feeling like he was talking to a madman about madness, Daniel felt good inside. They carried on talking about different things, the majority of which were equally as strange, until Daniel realised that it had been almost two hours since he had come through the door, and even stranger was that no one else had come in since.
“I think I’d better go, I’ve kept you talking enough,” he said. “By the way, I don’t think we introduced ourselves. I’m Daniel.”
“Oh! Didn’t I tell you my name? What a scatterbrain I’m getting in my old age. I’m Steve.” He gave him a firm handshake. “Daniel. You’ve got the same name as my restaurant.”
“Oh yeah? I hadn’t realised. Well, Steve, it’s been a pleasure chatting to you. I imagine I’ll see you around.”
From the door, his eyes caught sight of the huge clock behind the counter. It was 1:45pm. He looked at it closely and noticed something wasn’t quite right.
“Hasta luego!” Steve raised his hand.
“Yeah, hasta luego...” murmured Daniel without taking his eyes off of the timepiece.
That clock was on time and worked perfectly with one single peculiarity: what moved inside were the shadows of hands, hands that didn’t exist. They’d disappeared.
A heavy storm battered the village unexpectedly. In a few minutes, the sky turned so dark that it seemed like night, gale-force winds joined the first flashes of lightning. Daniel sped up but he couldn’t avoid the downpour. When he got home, his clothes were dripping wet. The long chat with Steve and the hasty retreat had left him hungry, so he made himself a quick ham and cheese sandwich and took it to his room. There, he changed his clothes and sat on his bed to scoff down his sandwich while listening to the pitter-patter of rain against the windows. He finished his snack in five minutes and laid down on the bed. Enraptured by the hypnotic sound of the storm, Daniel’s last thoughts weren’t about Steve nor his strange clock. They weren’t about his father, Manu or his injured knee either. That afternoon, Daniel had a quiet siesta with a vision that would accompany him for the rest of his life. Sofia, caressed by the night-time wind, looked out into the distance leaning on the railing.
The days went by and took autumn with them, giving way to the cold of the sierra. Daniel made satisfactory progress with his leg, surpassing the predicted deadlines, and the painful sessions with Manu got better; now they went for walks. The purpose of these walks was for his ligaments to get used to the most basic movements and strengthen his leg muscles, which had become severely weakened by his inactivity.
Every day, Daniel followed the path that went to the Riosequillo reservoir. The first few days he needed the support of a walking stick, but he soon left it behind and could go at a slow jog. Before winter came, he was able to go jogging to the reservoir and back.
One December morning, a pleasant smell of fresh toast woke him up. In a better mood than normal, Daniel got up, put on his tracksuit and left his room. For the first time since arriving in Buitrago, he didn’t examine himself in the mirror in search of answers: he didn’t need them. He found Jorge in the kitchen eating breakfast. The morning news was on the radio.
Daniel greeted his father.
“Mornin’,” replied Jorge with no outward sign of shock at that being the first morning his son had greeted him.
Daniel served himself some orange juice and gulped it down in one without sitting at the table. Then he grabbed a ceramic bowl from the cupboard and filled it to the brim with cereal. He drenched it in milk and wolfed it down.
“Where are you off to dressed like that?” asked Jorge after a few minutes of listening to him crunching his cereal.
“Where do you think I’m going? I’ve been doing this for days.”
“Are you going for a jog? Great, I’ll join you.”
Daniel turned, convinced that he was pulling his leg. At that moment he noticed that it wasn’t just his dad’s attitude that had changed. His expression was different. The look in his eyes simply didn’t go with the rest of his face, it was as if those little blue dots lived in a different world to the rest of his body.
“Don’t look at me like that. This old man needs to oil his joints.”
Daniel saw that in his father’s eyes, a sparkle that made it seem like he could tell him the future.
“Whatever,” said Daniel.
When he finished his breakfast, he abruptly frowned at his father.
“You’re not going out in that, are you?”
Jorge looked down at his old dressing gown and shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t see why not.”
Without giving him chance to reply, he got up and took off the dressing gown, folding it over the chair. To his son’s surprise, beneath it was hidden a modern tracksuit.
“Do you like my trainers?” he asked enthusiastically while lifting his right foot. “I bought them yesterday, they cost a fortune. Come on, let’s go!”
He turned off the radio and walked out of the kitchen.
That morning Daniel increased his pace without realising, probably intimidated by his dad’s presence. He was always a few feet ahead, trying to show how fit he was while at the same time keen to head back home and put an end to that awkward outing. Jorge, on the other hand, enjoyed the scenery, and occasionally stopped to look at some plant, making himself speed up afterwards to catch up with his son, who didn’t wait for him. After a while, Daniel decided to strike up conversation:
“A few weeks ago, Manu told me that I could play again. What do you think?”
Jorge lifted his head and answered without thinking.
“The more time and effort invested, the more satisfying the end, remember?”
Daniel smiled.
“Oh, no, help! The theory of balance, not again!” he laughed with his fingers in his ears. Sometimes he asked himself who was the father and who was the son. “Aha! So you do remember!”
“How am I going to forget, it was your favourite lecture. You made me listen to it practically every day.” Then Daniel did an impression of his father: “you see, son, the more you suffer, the more satisfying is the victory and blah, blah, blah...”
“Don’t exaggerate. Admit it, you loved it!”
“How did it go? To win, son, you have to risk losing...”
“Exactly! Although my favourite bit was: always be the best you can be, because on the contrary, defeat doesn’t hurt as much but...”
“...but victory isn’t all that exciting.”
They finished the phrase in unison. Then they looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Son, ask me that question again.”
Daniel frowned.
“What question?”
“Wake up, dopey! The one you asked me a minute ago.”
“The one about if you think I’ll be able to play again?”
Jorge smiled. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out an envelope. He handed it to Daniel who took it with unsteady hands. It was a letter. He opened it and scanned through it. It was typed and in the top left-hand corner was the emblem of...
“It’s from the team!” Daniel let out a childish shout.
Paralysed in the middle of the path, he read:
Dear Daniel Santos,
I am writing to you on behalf of the club to inform you of our wish that you join first team squad for the remainder of the season. We already know of your high standard as a player and feel your effort and perseverance should be rewarded.
We have reports that your unfortunate injury is well on the way to recovery. We are glad to hear it, and we send you our sincere congratulations. We would like you to join the team next Saturday. The coach would like you to start integrating into the team progressively, to eventually become an active and permanent member. After attending Saturday’s game on the bench (we are keen for you to join the team as soon as possible), you will begin to train daily with your new teammates.
We wish you the best of luck in this new chap
ter.
Sincerely, the president.
The letter danced in his hands. He couldn’t think. For him, the only thing that existed in the world right then was that letter with his team’s emblem. His father wasn’t there, the wind wasn’t rustling the leaves, no birds were singing. Everything, apart from that paper, suddenly dropped into oblivion, leaving him alone in the immensity of nothing. But he was still alive, and conscious. Daniel knew that because he could hear his heart beating like a kettle drum in his ears. It got faster, and louder. Boom, boom, boom! And in the background, silence. At that very moment, despite the intense excitement he felt, he wasn’t able to react for fear of his heart jumping out of his chest. Fixing his gaze once again on the paragraphs that had given him back hope, he read them again. The letters danced in front of him. His euphoria was so great that he wasn’t able to concentrate on a single sentence. Something was wrong. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face towards the sky. All that he could see was a pearly white blanket, so bright that he had to look away. Suddenly, something strange happened. His heart began to beat normally, the sun came back out from behind the clouds and the letters stopped dancing. All of this happened before he felt some sort of electric shock shoot through his brain.
26
I’d lost track of time while daydreaming and staring up at the ceiling. To begin with, my life had changed over the last few months; I felt different in myself. A rumble of thunder broke me out of my reverie, and soon a storm was unleashed that made my windows shake.
It was Friday evening, and it had been a few hours since I’d received his note. I couldn’t take my mind off of it, and all of the feelings that the little piece of paper had awoken.
Angie, I’ll be out of the city for the next month. I’ll miss coming here, now that we’ve started to get on well. I’ll be back in exactly five Fridays. I hope you won’t have moved house by then.
What did he mean he was going? At first, I’ll admit that I felt somewhat relieved. This game had become exhausting, and a rest wasn’t going to do me any harm (at least that’s what I thought). But when you live alone, you have far too many hours to talk to yourself, and what I told myself that Friday evening made me admit the truth: that man had made me feel like no other ever had. His way of writing each week made my heart beat at a thousand per hour.
Reflections in the Mirror Page 12
