Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  Hello, Teresa, it’s Lorenzo. Hello. Her voice sounds distant, as if rising from the depths. I heard about what happened to Paco and I’ve been debating whether or not to call, I don’t know, I wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry, if you need … Lorenzo pauses. He doesn’t want to be cruel to himself, to the last grain of sincerity rising up inside him. Thank you for calling, she says. No, I … I know it isn’t easy, but I wanted … It’s okay, thank you, she says, cutting him off. A second later she hangs up the phone.

  Lorenzo gets up from the chair and drinks water straight from the kitchen faucet, like a kid at a fountain. It bugged Pilar when he did that. Why dirty a glass? he used to say. He leans on the counter and the world seems to stop. She suspects me, thinks Lorenzo. She has a right. It’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to be easy.

  12

  Ariel drives into the house’s attached garage. The living room is cold. When the sun goes down, the weather changes. There are newspapers piled up beneath the table, towers of CDs on the floor, a flat-screen television stuck to the wall. Emilia’s hand organizes it all, imposing an impersonal air that rules over the house. Charlie is no longer with him and the only sound is the refrigerator engine and the sprinkler that spits in the yard.

  When he overcame his paralysis after running over the girl, he was able to get out of the car and pick her up off the ground. He helped her to stand, but then she collapsed. He got her settled into the backseat. She was almost a little girl, her curly hair messy, covering her face. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t complain about the pain. Through the rearview mirror, Ariel saw the girl’s torn pants, her chest heaving as she breathed. He couldn’t get his bearings, he didn’t know where the closest hospital was, he feared he had made a mistake in lifting her, moving her. He dialed Pujalte’s number on his cell phone, thinking that it was the most sensible thing to do. I just ran over a girl on the street, he said, I don’t know what to do. Pujalte calmed him down, didn’t ask him for any more explanations. Where are you? Ariel referenced the places he knew. You’re very close to the stadium, can you get there? Of course, he said. Wait for me at door fourteen.

  It didn’t take him long to drive there. He stopped in front of the designated door after going around the building. He got out of the car. Through the window he saw the girl lying down. She was breathing, she seemed calm, as if she had fainted. The waiting seemed eternal. The stadium grounds were still littered with trash from the game. Papers, cans sprinkled around the sidewalk. Finally a car arrived quickly, running a red light. It stopped beside him. It wasn’t driven by Pujalte, as he was expecting, but by Ormazábal, the head of security. Did she recognize you? Did you talk to her? No, hardly at all, said Ariel, I just whispered don’t worry, we’re on our way to the hospital.

  From the front passenger seat emerged a man about forty years old, with short black hair. He took the keys out of Ariel’s hand and sat at the wheel of the Porsche. He’ll take care of it. Come on, get in, I’ll take you home, relax. Ariel saw his car head off, driven by the man. It took him a little while to get into Ormazábal’s car. They barely spoke. He seemed to know the way to Ariel’s house without any directions. His cell phone rang. Ormazábal nodded, two, three times. Uh-huh, he said. Then he turned toward Ariel. Everything’s under control, the girl is fine. Ariel wasn’t able to ask him anything. A bit later, the phone rang again. Ormazábal passed it to Ariel. It was Pujalte. Well, she’s at the hospital, with reliable people. Ormazábal’s guy took care of everything, he said that he was driving. You don’t need to worry about anything. Is it serious? asked Ariel. It was an accident, nothing special, she has a fracture, but she’s in the best hands. Ariel was silent. You were drinking, it looks like. A little bit. Well, tomorrow I’ll see you at practice, okay? Go home and get a good night’s sleep. Everything’s fine. Thank you so much, said Ariel. It’s my job.

  Pujalte’s reply stuck in him like a dagger. That was his farewell. Then he hung up. Ariel felt like the smallest man in the world, paralyzed there beside the stadium. The place where he had supposedly come to make it big. The loudspeaker that would make his name known throughout the world now was merely witness to his cowardice. Up until that point, he had been an exemplary player, never argumentative or aggressive, and now at this new post everything was a problem, unanticipated difficulties. Ormazábal left him at the fence that surrounded his house. These things happen, he said as he drove off. He was a cold, creepy person and he went to great pains to seem friendly, but he didn’t pull it off.

  Ariel had trouble sleeping. He didn’t call his family, even though he promised he would after the game. He didn’t want to share bad news. Charlie had left him a message. He was already in Buenos Aires.

  In the morning at practice, he waited for Pujalte’s arrival on the edge of the field. He lay down on the ground for the first stretches and he liked feeling the dampness, the smell of fresh-cut grass. That was the same in every field. Caressing the green, feeling your cleats sink in like an affectionate bite.

  There wasn’t a lot of press, just the usual. The cameras would arrive later in the morning. The group of kids who had skipped class to collect autographs and the retirees gathered in the stands. Pujalte appeared and stopped to chat with the physical trainer. Then he gestured for him to come over. Ariel ran toward him. That was power. That and his street shoes on the damp grass, something that always bothered the players.

  Pujalte put an arm over his shoulders and walked with him along the sideline. He explained that Doctor Carretero had taken care of the girl, there was total discretion. They had talked to the father, everything was worked out. Your car is in the parking lot. For all intents and purposes, someone else was driving, you got that? Ariel nodded. The girl is sixteen, she’ll heal fast.

  Ariel was quiet. So much so that the sports director gave him an encouraging slap. Come on, what you should be worrying about now is the game. Ariel thanked him for his words with a nod. Last year the vice president died on us in a hotel in Bilbao, fucking a conference hostess. We had to be quick on that one, fuck. That thing with your brother, too, he added, these things happen. It’s better if they don’t, okay, but we’re here to solve problems, keep the ball out of the goal box. That’s what I’ve spent all my life doing. Pujalte smiled with his whitened teeth. I was never an elegant player, but I was effective.

  Ariel went back to practice. He joined in the one-touch passing exercise. When it landed in the center, he was slow to recover the ball. Sixteen years old? He thought, poor girl. Had Pujalte lied to him? Was it worse than he had said? He tried to remember the impact, if something more than her leg had been hurting her. She was passed out for a while. The coach handed out the bicolored training bibs for the final practice game. Ariel couldn’t focus; he just killed time.

  In the parking lot, he looked for his car. The keys were in it. There was no trace of blood or the girl or the bottle. Someone had gone to the trouble of cleaning up after him. Knuckles knocked on the window and Ariel jumped. It was a journalist, young, with blond bangs. Ariel lowered the window and she approached with a tape recorder. She introduced herself and asked him some questions, the last one: when do you think the Spanish fans will see you in full form? Ariel hesitated. The young woman made an effort to have her body language mimic the gestures of a man. Looking him straight in the eye.

  Soon, I hope.

  When he got home, Emilia was almost finished making cocido, a traditional stew in Madrid. Have you ever tried it? Yes, well, something similar, it’s like puchero, said Ariel, looking at the mess of chickpeas, vegetables, meat, chorizo, bacon, and black sausage. I’m leaving you a pot of soup. He tried to nap, but he ended up in the yard knocking the ball around. When he was thirteen, he once spent an entire afternoon kicking the ball without it touching the ground. He got up to five thousand kicks without it dropping. It was a useless exercise, exhausting, but at that moment it helped him to clear his head, to bring him back to a state of comfortable oblivion. Suddenly, he deci
ded the exercise was over. He stepped hard on the ball.

  He had made a decision.

  Being recognized was the most absurd part of his job. He liked when some kid asked for his autograph, when they looked at him on the street, when he was recognized in restaurants, but it was a pain in the neck when you were trying to lead a normal life. The accident would have been completely different if he wasn’t a celebrity. He had been drinking, he was driving fast, it would be easy for the press to vent their anger on him, for it to get him into real trouble. He understood the club’s cover-up, the favor they’d done for him, erasing his trail. But he wasn’t like that. He arrived at the hospital when it was already night. When he could be sure visiting hours were over.

  He knew the place. He had had his physical examination there the day after he arrived in Madrid. And when he left, he posed for the reporters. Do you know how much they pay us to photograph you here? Pujalte whispered to him. Twenty thousand euros. It was his way of explaining how the advertising business around soccer worked.

  The receptionist recognized him. I’m here to see a friend, she was run over yesterday, a young girl. Three twelve, she said. Sylvia Roque. Then she pointed to the elevator with a huge smile.

  Ariel was slow to approach the door. He knocked cautiously. He was surprised at how the girl received him. You’re the one who ran me over, right? She had beautiful curly black hair that fell onto the pillow. The bedspread covered her, pulled up over her breasts. She smiled with one leg in a cast that hung in the air. And that accent? Where are you from?

  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.

  13

  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, p
arking, 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.