I didn’t know what to think, really. In any case, living with Buba day by day wasn’t hard at all. Sometimes he shut himself in his bedroom at night and put on his shouting and groaning music, but you get used to anything. Anyway I liked to watch TV with the sound up loud till the early hours of the morning, and as far as I know Buba never complained about that. At the start we had trouble communicating, because we didn’t share a language, so we talked mainly with gestures. But then Buba learned some Spanish and some mornings at breakfast we even talked about movies, always a favorite topic of mine, though to tell the truth Buba wasn’t very talkative, or very interested in movies, for that matter. In fact, now that I think of it, Buba was pretty quiet. It’s not that he was shy or scared of putting his foot in it; Herrera, who could speak English, once told me it was just that he didn’t have anything to say. Crazy Herrera. He was such a great guy. A good friend, too. We used to go out a lot, Herrera, Pepito Vila, who had come up from the juniors too, Buba and me. But Buba was always quiet, watching it all as if he was only half there, and although Herrera sometimes went out of his way to speak to him in English, and he spoke fluent English, Herrera, Buba would always go off on a tangent, as if he couldn’t be bothered explaining stuff about his childhood and his country, and especially not about his family, to the point where Herrera was convinced that something bad must have happened to him when he was a kid, because he kept refusing to give away anything personal at all; it’s like his village was razed, said Herrera, who was left-wing and still is, it’s like he saw his parents and brothers and sisters killed right in front of him, and he’s been trying to erase it from his mind all these years, which would have made sense if Herrera’s assumptions had been correct, but in fact, and this is something I always knew or sensed, Herrera was wrong; the reason Buba didn’t talk much was just that he wasn’t very talkative, irrespective of whether his childhood and teenage years had been happy or traumatic: Buba’s life was surrounded by mystery because that’s how Buba was, simple as that.
But there was one thing we knew for sure: the team was in a bad way. Herrera and Buba looked like they’d be stuck on the bench till the end of the season, I was injured, and any provincial team could come and beat us on our home ground. Then, when it seemed like we’d hit rock bottom and nothing more could go wrong, Percutti got injured and the boss had no choice but to select Buba. I remember it like it was yesterday. We had to play on a Saturday, and at the Thursday training session, Percutti fucked up his knee in an accidental collision with the center back, Palau. So our trainer got Buba to take his place at Friday training and it was obvious to Herrera and me that he’d be selected for the Saturday match.
When we told him that afternoon, in the hotel where they were keeping us together (although we were playing at home against a theoretically weak opponent, the club had decided that every match was vital), Buba looked at us as if he was sizing us up for the first time, and then he came up with some excuse and went and shut himself in the bathroom. Herrera and I watched TV for a while and worked out when we’d go join the card game that Buzatti was organizing in his room. Naturally we weren’t expecting Buba to come.
After a little while we heard this wild music coming from the bathroom. I’d already told Herrera about Buba’s taste in music and the way he shut himself in his bedroom with that damned cassette player, but he’d never heard it for himself. We sat there listening to the groans and drums for a while, then Herrera, who knew a lot about music and the arts and stuff, said it was by Mango something or other, from Sierra Leone or Liberia, one of the stars of world music anyway, and we left it at that. Then the door opened and Buba came out of the bathroom, sat down beside us, quietly, as if he was interested in the TV show too, and I noticed a slightly odd smell, like the smell of sweat, but it wasn’t sweat, a rancid smell, but not exactly rancid either. He smelled of moisture, of mushrooms or toadstools. He smelled strange. It made me nervous, I have to admit, and I know it made Herrera nervous too, both of us were nervous, we both wanted to get out of there, to run to Buzatti’s room, where we were sure to find six or seven friends playing cards, stud poker or eleven, a civilized game. But the fact is that neither of us moved, as if Buba’s odor and his presence beside us had robbed us of all initiative. It wasn’t fear. It had nothing to do with fear. It was something much faster. As if the air surrounding us had condensed and we had turned to liquid. Well, that’s what I felt, anyway. And then Buba started talking and told us he needed blood. Herrera’s blood and mine.
I think Herrera laughed, not a lot, just a bit. Then one of us switched the TV off, I can’t remember who, maybe Herrera, maybe me. And Buba said he could do it, as long as we gave him the drops of blood and kept our mouths shut. What can you do? asked Herrera. Make sure we win the match, I said. I don’t know how I knew, but the fact is I had known from the very first moment. Yes, make sure we win the match, said Buba. And then Herrera and I laughed and maybe we looked at each other; Herrera was sitting in an armchair, I was sitting at the foot of my bed, and Buba was sitting at the head of his, waiting deferentially. I think Herrera asked some questions. I asked a question too. Buba replied with numbers. He raised his left hand and showed us his middle, ring and little fingers. He said we had nothing to lose. His thumb and index finger were crossed as if they were forming a lasso or a noose in which a tiny animal was choking. He predicted that Herrera would play. He talked about responsibility to the colors of the shirt and about opportunity. His Spanish was still shaky.
The next thing I remember is that Buba went back into the bathroom and when he came out he was carrying a glass and his straight-edge razor. We’re not cutting ourselves with that, said Herrera. The razor is good, said Buba. Not with your razor, said Herrera. Why not? said Buba. Because we don’t fucking feel like it, said Herrera. Am I right? He was looking at me. Yes, I said: I’ll cut myself with my own razor. I remember that when I got up to go to the bathroom, my legs were shaking. I couldn’t find my little razor, I’d probably left it at the apartment, so I grabbed the one provided by the hotel. When I came back in, Herrera was still gone and Buba seemed to be asleep, sitting at the head of his bed, though when I closed the door behind me, he raised his head and looked at me, without saying a word. We said nothing until someone knocked at the door. I went to open it. It was Herrera. The two of us sat down on my bed, Buba sat opposite on his and held the glass between the two beds. Then, with a rapid movement, he lifted one of the fingers on the hand that was holding the glass and made a clean cut in it. Now you, he said to Herrera, who performed the task with a little tiepin, the only sharp thing he’d been able to find. Then it was my turn. When we tried to go to the bathroom to wash our hands, Buba beat us to it. Let me in, Buba, I shouted through the door. All we got by way of reply was the music that Herrera had described a few minutes earlier, somewhat hastily (or that’s what I was thinking at least), as world music.
I stayed up late that night. I spent a while in Buzatti’s room, then I went to the hotel bar, but there weren’t any players left there. I ordered a whiskey and drank it at a table with a good, clear view of the city lights. After a while I sensed that someone was sitting down beside me. I started. It was the trainer, who couldn’t sleep either. He asked me what I was doing awake at that hour of the night. I told him I was nervous. But you’re not even playing tomorrow, Acevedo, he said. That makes it worse, I said. The trainer looked out at the city, nodding, and rubbed his hands. What are you drinking? he asked. The same as you, I said. Well, he said, it’s
good for the nerves. Then he started talking about his son and his family, who lived in England, but mostly about his son, and finally we both got up and put our empty glasses on the bar. When I got back to the room, Buba was sleeping quietly in his bed. Normally I wouldn’t have switched on the light, but this time I did. Buba didn’t even move. I went to the bathroom: all clean and tidy. I put on my pajamas and got into bed and switched off the light. I listened to Buba’s regular breathing for a few minutes. I can’t remember how long it took me to fall asleep.
The next day we won three-nil. Herrera scored the first goal. That was his first for the season. Buba scored the other two. The journalists made some cautious remarks about a substantial change in our game and highlighted Buba’s excellent performance. I watched the match. I know what really happened. Actually, Buba didn’t play well. Herrera did, and Delève and Buzatti. The backbone of the team. Actually, for quite a lot of the match, it was like Buba was somewhere else. But he scored two goals and that was enough.
Maybe I should say something about his goals. The first (which was the second goal of the match) came after a corner kick from Palau. In the confusion, Buba swung his leg, connected, and scored. The second one was strange: the other team had already accepted defeat, we were in the 85th minute, all the players were tired, ours especially I think, they were clearly playing it safe, and then someone passed the ball to Buba, expecting him to pass it back, I guess, or just slow the game down, but Buba went running down the sideline, fast, moving much faster than he had all match, and when he got to about four meters from the penalty area, and everyone was expecting him to send it back to the center, he took a shot that surprised the two defenders in front of him and the goalkeeper, a shot with a spin on it like I’d never seen before, the sort of diabolical shot the Brazilians seem to have a monopoly on, which snuck into the top right-hand corner of the goal mouth and sent the crowd wild.
That night, after celebrating the victory, I talked with him. I asked him about the magic, the spell, the blood in the glass. Buba looked at me and went all serious. Bring your ear closer, he said. We were in a disco and we could barely hear one another. He whispered some words that I couldn’t understand at first. By that stage I was probably drunk. Then he took his mouth away from my ear and smiled at me. What he had said was: You soon will score better goals. OK, great, I said.
From then on everything went great. We won the next match four-two, even though we were playing away. Herrera scored a goal with a header, Delève put away a penalty kick, and Buba scored the other two, which were completely weird, or that’s how they seemed to me, with my inside knowledge; before the trip (I didn’t go), I’d taken part in the ceremony of the cut fingers and the glass and the blood.
Three weeks later they summoned me and I made my reappearance in the second half, in the 75th minute. We were playing the top-ranked team on their home ground and we won one-nil. I scored the goal in the 88th minute. I took the pass from Buba or that’s what everyone thought, but I have my doubts. All I know is that Buba took off down the right-hand side of the field, and I started running down the left-hand side. There were four defenders, one chasing Buba, two in the middle, and one about three yards away from me. I still can’t explain what happened next. The defenders in the middle seemed to freeze on the spot. I kept running with the right wingback on my heels. Buba came up to the penalty area with the left wingback close behind him too. Then he dummied and centered. I went into the penalty area with no hope of receiving the pass, but what with the center backs in a daze or dizzy all of a sudden and the weird swing of the ball, the fact is I found myself miraculously in possession inside the area, with their goalkeeper coming forward and the right wingback coming up behind my left shoulder, not knowing whether to foul me or not, so I just took a shot and scored and we won.
I had a safe place on the team for the following Sunday. And from then on I began to score more goals than I’d ever scored in my life. Herrera was on a roll as well. Everyone loved Buba. And they loved Herrera and me too. From one day to the next we became the kings of the city. It was all working out for us. The club began an unstoppable climb. We were winning matches and hearts.
And our blood ritual was repeated without fail before every match. In fact, after the first time, Herrera and I bought ourselves straight-edge razors like Buba’s; every time we played away, the first thing we put in our bags was the straight-edge, and when we played at home, we got together the night before at our apartment (they’d stopped keeping us together in a hotel) and performed the ceremony: Buba collected his blood and ours in a glass and then shut himself in the bathroom, and while we heard the music coming out of there, Herrera would talk about books he’d read or plays he’d seen and I just listened and agreed with everything he said, until Buba reappeared and we looked at him as if to ask if everything was all right, and Buba would smile at us and go to the kitchen to fetch a sponge and a bucket before returning to the bathroom, where he’d spend at least fifteen minutes cleaning and tidying up, and when we went into the bathroom, everything was exactly the same as before. Sometimes, when I went to a disco with Herrera and Buba stayed home (because he didn’t like discos much) Herrera and I would get talking and he’d ask me what I thought Buba did with our blood in the bathroom, because you couldn’t tell—when Buba was finished there wasn’t a trace of blood anywhere, the glass we used was sparkling, the floor was spotless, it was like the cleaning lady had just left—and I said to Herrera I didn’t know, I had no idea what Buba did when he shut himself in there, and Herrera looked at me and said: If I was living with him I’d be scared, and I looked at Herrera thinking: Are you serious? but Herrera said, I’m just kidding, Buba’s our friend; it’s thanks to him I’m on the team and the club is going to win the championship; it’s thanks to him we’re tasting sweet success, and that was the truth.
Besides, I was never scared of Buba. Sometimes, when we were watching TV in our apartment before going to bed, I’d glance at him out of the corner of my eye and think how strange it all was. But I didn’t think about it for long. Soccer is strange.
In the end, after starting the year so disastrously, we won the League Championship and paraded through the center of Barcelona in the midst of a jubilant crowd and spoke from the town hall balcony to another jubilant crowd, which chanted our names, and we dedicated our victory to the Virgin of Montserrat, in the monastery of Montserrat, a virgin as black as Buba, strange as it may seem, and we gave interviews until we were hoarse. I spent my vacation in Chile. Buba went to Africa. Herrera and his girlfriend took off to the Caribbean.
We met up again at preseason training, in a sports center in the east of Holland, near an ugly, gray city that made me feel extremely apprehensive.
Everyone was there, except for Buba. He’d had some kind of problem back in his country. Herrera seemed exhausted, though he was sporting a celebrity tan. He told me he’d considered getting married. I told him about my vacation in Chile, but as you know, when it’s summer in Europe, it’s winter in Chile, so my vacation hadn’t been especially exciting. The family was well. That was about it. We were worried about Buba and the holdup. We didn’t want to admit it, but we were worried. Herrera and I were soon convinced that without him we were lost. Our trainer, on the other hand, tried to play down Buba’s lack of punctuality.
One morning Buba arrived on a flight that had come via Rome and Frankfurt and took his place on the team again. The preseason matches, however, were disastrous. We were beaten by a team
from the Dutch third division. We tied with a team of amateurs from the city where we were staying. Neither Herrera nor I dared to ask Buba to do the blood ritual, although we had our razors ready. In fact, and it took me a while to realize this, it was like we were afraid to ask Buba for a bit of his magic. Of course we went on being friends, and one night the three of us went out to a Dutch disco, but instead of talking about blood, we talked about the rumors that always circulate before the season starts, the players who were changing teams, the new signings, the Champion’s League, in which we’d be playing that year, the contracts that were expiring or had to be renegotiated. We also talked about movies and the vacation that had just come to an end, and Herrera talked about books, but he was on his own there, mainly because he was the only one of us who read.
Then we went back to Barcelona, and Buba and I went back to our routine, just the two of us in that apartment opposite the training ground, and the Champion’s League began, and the night before the first match, Herrera turned up at our place and bit the bullet. He asked Buba what was happening. Isn’t there going to be any magic this year? And Buba smiled and said it wasn’t magic. And Herrera said, What the fuck is it then? And Buba shrugged his shoulders and said it was something only he understood. And then he made a face like he was saying, It’s no big deal. And Herrera said he wanted to keep on going, he believed in Buba, whatever it was he’d been doing. And Buba said he was tired, and when he said that I looked at his face: he didn’t look nineteen or twenty at all, he looked at least ten years older, like a player who had worn his body out. And, to my surprise, Herrera accepted what Buba had said, calmly, just like that. He said, OK, let’s drop it. What about dinner? My treat. That’s the way he was, Herrera. A great guy.
The Return Page 15
