Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  He was always envious of Pilar because she shared Sylvia’s most intimate moments. He remembers the night Pilar told him that she had found her crying in bed. Why was she crying? Pilar smiled, but her eyes were damp. She says she doesn’t want to grow up, that it scares her. She doesn’t want to stop being the way she is. And what did you tell her? asked Lorenzo. Pilar had shrugged her shoulders. What do you want me to tell her, she’s right. And the next morning Lorenzo had gone to wake her up to take her to school and he tried to talk to her about it. She didn’t seem too interested in listening, as if the alleged trauma had vanished overnight. In spite of everything, Lorenzo told her, you’ll see, life always has good things, at any age. If I had stayed a child forever, I never would have met your mother and you never would have been born. Sylvia reflected for a moment at the school entrance. Yeah, but when you were little you didn’t know everything that was going to happen later, that’s the bad part. Sylvia couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old.

  After freeing himself from the embrace of his teammates, who had buried him beneath their bodies beside the corner flag, Ariel Burano runs toward the middle of the field and celebrates the public’s applause. The goal is the work of number ten Ariel Burano Costa, announces a euphoric voice over the loudspeaker. An ugly goal, but it counts just as much as a pretty one, says Lorenzo. Let’s see if those assholes open up a bit now and there are more chances at goals. But it’s not going to happen. The game cools off. The last few minutes go by with hardly any opportunities; both teams seem to accept the results. With five minutes in the game, Ariel is substituted. He walks toward the sideline in no rush. He is applauded, although some whistles are heard. Why are they whistling? asks Sylvia. After he made a goal. Lorenzo shrugs. There’s something about him people don’t like. Too artistic.

  4

  Ariel lets the hot water run over his body. But he still can’t get the chill out of his bones. When things go well, the condensed steam in the locker room, in the shower area, looks like heaven, the promised paradise. One guy whistles, another jokes, someone imitates a woman’s voice, another asks for the shampoo. There’s no trace of that thick silence, of the low gazes, the twisted expressions of when they lose. They call the Czech goalie Cannelloni for the size of his cock and that night he can’t escape Lastra’s joking, who screams, I’ll bring you the hand broom so you can scrub the foreskin. Last Sunday Ariel had scored the winning goal in their stadium and this Saturday the second one was earned as part of his play. In Valladolid, with a wind that shifted the ball in midair, they had to mark the lines of the goal area in red because the field froze. Ariel had the feeling he was playing on razor blades. Right on the end line, he eluded tackle by two fullbacks and he faced the goalie with barely any angle. He took a step back and passed it to a forward who barely had to blow on the ball to get it into the net. They call it the “death pass,” because scoring is something like killing. When the team embrace broke up, Matuoko came over to Ariel in an aside and patted his cheek, that was your goal, man.

  From that moment on, every time the Ghanaian touched the ball, the younger fans made monkey shrieks, ooh, ooh, ooh, to insult the player. They moved their hands like macaques and the voice over the loudspeaker begged them to stop with the racist insults because it could result in a fine for the local team. Last week, in his own stadium, Ariel also had to hear whistles from the fans, in the area reserved for an extreme right-wing group that goes by the name of Young Honor. The board of directors treats them with kid gloves because they are loyal and passionate, they travel with the team at ridiculous discounts, and their organization has their own office in the stadium. Last season they had taken the team’s bus by storm on the way back from a game that had ended in defeat. They threatened the players and insulted them with shouts of mercenary and slacker. He had made a date to meet them in their office on the first floor of the stadium. Ariel passed Husky on the way out of the locker room that morning. Are you going to give them an interview and take pictures with them? he asked, shocked. I know everybody does it, but come, look, and he showed him their Web site on his laptop. Nazi symbols, the usual threatening, bullying tone hidden behind the team colors. Most of the players on staff were posing in photographs with the scarves and insignias of the group in an exercise of submission. Ariel found an excuse and got out of his commitment through one of the press employees. So when he heard the whistles and shouts of Indian, spic, he didn’t feel too hurt. The atmosphere around soccer is the same everywhere. Matuoko, for example, was fighting against an accepted fact: a black player had never succeeded on their team.

  Ariel dresses quickly and tucks his long wet hair into a wool cap. The visiting locker room, sad, tiled in white like a public restroom, contrasts with their home locker room, which was renovated with no expense spared. Some credentialed journalists and recently showered players mill around. He wants to say hi to one they call “Python” Tancredi, a guy from Santa Fé who inherited the nickname from the legendary Ardiles, even though he had been such a slow center halfback that in La Nación someone wrote that “it would take more than ninety minutes and two overtimes for Tancredi to reach a free ball.” Journalists sometimes showed off their wit cruelly. They say that Python sent a gift to the newspaper’s staff, his stool in a glass jar. Tancredi has been in Spain for six years and he greets Ariel with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. You getting used to it? Dude, you see how chilly the reception is here.

  They talk about plans for Christmas. Python has four children and he says, no way am I putting them all on a plane. I bring my parents here and my in-laws, let them do the traveling. In Buenos Aires you need protection, a bodyguard, it’s disgusting. You can’t even trust the cops. Tancredi lifts his hands in an Italian gesture, bringing together the tips of all five fingers, did you know there are 143 crimes reported every hour? The country’s gone to shit. The last time I was there, I stopped in a service station with my old man and up come two ghetto muggers with a blade this big, no, no, I’m staying here. Ariel says that he’s going home, his mother’s health is too delicate to withstand such a long flight. Have you met “Tiger” Lavalle? Python asks him. Ariel shakes his head. It’s traditional for goalkeepers in Argentina to be called Crazy, Monkey, Cat, or Tiger. Tiger Lavalle is a veteran goalie from Carcarañá who arrived in Spain after years in the Mexican league. Anarchic and genius, he shoots the penalty kicks and is equally loved and hated. The press adores him because amid all the usual clichéd answers his are always uninhibited pearls, happy discoveries. Ariel doesn’t know him personally. We haven’t played against his team yet, he says to Python. He’s the one who does the most to unite all the Argentinians here, he explains to Ariel, he always gets us together with some excuse, it’s nice.

  From the end of the hall, the delegate makes a sign to Ariel with his head when the team is heading toward the bus. Ariel says good-bye to Python. He crosses with the others toward the street. From the fences the kids ask for autographs, throw photos, but it’s too cold and they barely stop. On the bus, they choose a martial arts movie, with katana fights and impossible jumps in slow motion. Ariel turns on his cell phone. He brought a book, No Logo, that Marcelo Polti sent him with such an excessive inscription that it filled the first three pages and that said, among other things: “So you can be aware that those brand-name sneakers you advertise and get the kids all worked up about are contributing to the world’s inequality.” But Ariel gets nauseous reading on the highway. He isn’t much of a reader. Sometimes his father used to say, I must have done something really wrong for my kids to believe that books bite.

  They head back toward Madrid on the bus, with a couple of sandwiches and a piece of fruit, a bottle of water and the beer someone managed to sneak in. They emptied out Jorge Blai’s hair gel into his shoe since he usually spends twenty minutes in front of the mirror before going out to meet the press, and they didn’t want him to make them wait that night. He reminds Ariel of Turco Majluf, who used an entire tin of Lordchesseny for
every San Lorenzo game. It’s Poggio, the substitute goalie, who comes up with these cruel jokes. Sometimes Amílcar justifies it, he has to do something, they pay him a million euros to eat sunflower seeds on the bench, he’s the luckiest guy in the world. And there is some truth to that, because the first day Ariel was with him on the bench he admired the skill with which Poggio removed the shells and wolfed them down, even with his goalie gloves on.

  The seat next to Ariel is empty, across the aisle from Dani Vilar, who sometimes makes common courtesy look like pulling teeth. They look at each other but don’t say anything. His father has Alzheimer’s and he’s going through a difficult time, is how the other teammates justify it. He often misses training as a show of hierarchy that no one dares challenge. It is dark outside. One of the center fullbacks, Carreras, gets up and opens his sports bag, then starts showing pieces of clothing to his teammates. They are from his parents’ store and he promises them good prices. There are T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, many of them brand names. Someone shouts, with what you earn you’re selling clothes? But he says it’s to help out his parents. Everyone on the team knows he’s cheap and they tease him about it. To dribble past Carreras, they say, you just have to toss a euro to the right and head for the left. They laugh at his expense for a while, he shouts above the laughter, we’re talking about 30 percent off here, eh, 30 percent.

  Last Sunday when Ariel turned on his cell after the game he got a message from Sylvia. “Congratulations on the goal. I had a great time. Thanks for the tickets.” He replied, “You brought me luck.” Then he remembered that he hadn’t given her their sign. She wrote: “I don’t know if you dedicated the goal to me because everybody stood up and I couldn’t see anything.” “I forgot, I owe you one,” he wrote. The response was slow in coming: “Next time I’d rather you take me out for a drink. I like soccer but not that much.” “Done deal, whenever you want,” wrote Ariel. “My social life is as busy as a cloistered nun’s. You choose a day that works for you.” “Tomorrow?” he wrote. They settled on having dinner the next day. “I’ll take you to the best Argentinian restaurant in Madrid,” he suggested.

  When Ariel wrote the last message, he remembered Sylvia’s curly hair, her white face with lively eyes, but little more. He felt a slight hint of regret, as if he’d made an awkward date. Yet he felt it was fair compensation for the pain he had caused her. That night he dined with Osorio and Blai and two of the Brazilians on the team. Later they wanted to drag him to a nightclub on the outskirts of town, it’s right by your house. But Ariel wanted to call Buenos Aires. We have to celebrate your first goal, they insisted. I don’t want to celebrate the first goal as if it’s going to be the last, all right? said Ariel as he left. Ah, you never know if there’ll be more, Blai said, do you know how many goals I’ve scored in six years of playing: three. Not much to celebrate. And two in your own side, Osorio managed to say before getting slapped in the stomach.

  Ariel agreed to meet Sylvia on the staircase of the main post office. It seemed natural to both of them to meet somewhere close to the place where the accident happened. It could be understood as going back to where they began. He was late, the traffic was exasperating, and while he was trying to zigzag through the cars a taxi driver cursed angrily at him. In order to get close to the building, which from his vantage point looked like a huge umbrella stand, he had to maneuver illegally. He saw Sylvia sitting on the third step, her cast resting on the stone. He honked his horn. There were policeman directing traffic beside the Cibeles fountain and it was impossible to stop for long. As she turned her face, Sylvia’s hair floated on the wind. She stood up deftly. She carried just one crutch and it seemed rude to Ariel that he watched her walk toward the car without getting out to help her. He opened the door from inside. I don’t think this was a good meeting place, she said. People have started their Christmas shopping, they’re insane. Totally, agreed Ariel. Sylvia held the crutch like a cane. Ariel drove toward the Puerta de Alcalá, entering the traffic jam again.

  Sylvia tilted her head to the side. It’s strange to be sitting inside this car. Although it’s better than being plastered onto the windshield. Ariel asked about her leg, about the pain, about the awkwardness of the cast. The worst is when it itches inside and you start to scratch on the plaster as if that would help. Ariel had turned down the music and only muffled sounds could be heard. I made a reservation at an awesome restaurant, but then I thought it would be better to go to my house, he said. Do you like Argentinian empanadas? We can buy some on the way … Really Ariel was uncomfortable imagining himself in a restaurant being watched by everyone, that someone would think they were on a romantic date. But her reaction was a long silence. Your house? she finally asked. I don’t know. Ariel realized his tactlessness. I only thought since restaurants are a madhouse, the people, all that, but you’re right, let’s go … Of course, you get recognized everywhere you go. The conversation sped up and Ariel gave too many explanations. No, no, let’s go to your house, you’re right, she said in the end. Are you sure? If you don’t feel … No, no, let’s go, I don’t want you to spend the night signing autographs.

  But in the store where they stopped to order the empanadas, Ariel saw there were two tables in the back, beside a shelf of Italian pastas. He went to get Sylvia from the car. Let’s eat here, there’s nobody else, it’ll be good. The owners of the place were two nice Argentinian women who explained that they didn’t have a restaurant license, just takeaway, but they served people while they waited and got around the law that way. Sylvia ordered a beer and Ariel a glass of wine from Mendoza. They settled in the back, surrounded by displayed products. Every once in a while, someone came in to buy something and Ariel’s gaze searched for the door. It took him a while to relax. Sylvia seemed more comfortable. She asked him questions. About the game. About his soccer career. How he got started. How he came to Spain. Ariel talked for a long time, while she stared into his eyes. He pushed his hair back and sometimes she imitated his gesture, putting a section of curls behind her ear. Then Sylvia leaned her elbows on the table and put her hands on her cheeks. She was lovely in that gesture of relaxed observation. And Ariel realized that in all that time he had only been talking about himself. I talk too much, he said. The big Argentinian sin. No, it’s interesting, she said. Before I met you I thought soccer players were mass-produced, I don’t know, in industrial factories, all cut from the same pattern. And that they always forgot to add the brains, of course, he added.

  One of the owners lowered the metal gate. No, no, relax, go on, we’re locking up but we still have to clean and close out the register, you’re not in the way, she said. That sort of isolation made them feel more comfortable. So choclo is corn, said Sylvia after biting into an empanada. Yeah, all the different food names are confusing. Do you miss your family? she asked. Yeah, of course, he said. Maybe I’ll bring them over, if I get settled here. One of the owners brought an open bottle of wine and sat with them. She had come to Spain three years ago. The devaluation of the peso ruined me, and here I couldn’t find work as an actress, so I was teaching acting. But it didn’t go well for her and she partnered with a friend to import products from over there. Ariel wondered if the women were a couple, but he didn’t dare ask. During the rest of the evening, she monopolized the conversation. She talked about her country, remembering people. She made fun of a singer, cursed a politician, laughed at the last plastic surgery a television hostess had done. They’re gonna have to operate on her kids so they don’t look adopted.

  The place was called Buenos Aires—Madrid and it was still being renovated. The rent was so high they couldn’t afford to continue the work. One of the women, the quieter one, finished tidying up the stock. The other one talked a blue streak. She cursed the American president’s reelection and then she insisted that more than ever the world needed a new Che. I don’t know, she said, Subcomandante Marcos leaves me a little cold, always wearing a mask and all that. There were moments when Ariel’s gaze sought out Sylvia’s e
yes and he shot her a subtle ironic expression about the woman and her incessant talking or the obvious moustache beneath her nose. Ariel brought a finger to his face to discreetly point out the facial hair and make Sylvia laugh. But they both appreciated the interruption. It allowed them to study each other without explanation, look at each other without speaking, to share something.

  As they left, Ariel told her, I’m warning you, Argentinians never shut up. Sylvia was impressed, what a talker. And did you notice? The dictionary is too short for that lady, she needs a new one and quick. They walked to the car. It was quarter to eleven. That’s my curfew, I can’t stay out much past it. I’ll drive you home, he offered. Sylvia guided Ariel along the streets of Madrid. At a stoplight, she raised enough courage to ask him. Do you live alone? Now I do, yeah, he said. There was a silence. Keep going, straight ahead, she indicated. My brother was here, but he had to go back. I live on the outskirts, in Las Rozas. In one of those big houses? Ariel nodded. Do you like movies? I have a gigantic screen and I watch a ton of them up there, if you want to, one day … I don’t like movies much, she said. Everybody likes movies, he said, surprised. I don’t know, after five minutes I already know what’s going to happen, I get bored, they’re so repetitive. Ariel smiled. I’ve never heard that reasoning before. Everything repeats itself, right? he managed to say, then he regretted having said it, it didn’t make much sense. No, in life you never know what’s going to happen the next minute, but in the movies you can see what’s coming. Just from the cast you already know if they’re going to hook up or not, who’s the bad guy. Oh, well, you mean American movies, sighed Ariel. People like them so much because they’re predictable, they already know what they’re gonna see. Like people who go to the beach for their vacations: what they want is sun and waves. And if you give them something else they get mad. If you come to my house someday, I’ll put on a different kind of movie, you’ll see. Okay, she said. I have a friend, Marcelo, a musician, he’s very famous back home, he always says that if you do what the audience wants, you’d have to compose the same song over and over.