Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  They got to Sylvia’s street, but she let the car pass her door before telling him to stop. I really live back there, but I didn’t want anyone to see me get out of a car like this. You don’t like it? It’s really flashy. Flashy? Kinda tacky, typical of a soccer player. I guess it impresses girls, but it makes me embarrassed, she said. My brother picked it out, I know it’s tacky, Ariel apologized. I’ll help you out, wait. Ariel got out of the car and opened Sylvia’s door, then held her crutch as she got out.

  They exchanged a kiss on each cheek. I had a really good time, she said. You don’t like my car, you don’t like movies, you’re a tough one. Ariel smiled. Sylvia gathered herself to ask, you really think so? It’s a joke, he explained. Well, thanks for inviting me, she said, initiating their good-bye. My pleasure. I guess it must be a drag for you to have to escort a paralytic around. The cast suits you, said Ariel, and then he smiled. Well, they’re taking it off next week, so if you like it that much you’ll have to run me over again.

  Neither of them managed to quite say good-bye for the evening. Call me whenever you want, said Ariel. You call me, I don’t want to be a pain in the ass. Sylvia headed off, trying to look agile in spite of the crutch. Ariel went back into the car and, looking into the rearview mirror, erased his smile, which he thought looked stupid, innocent, and captivated. He didn’t start the engine until he saw her disappear, a moment after she waved to him.

  They hadn’t spoken again since that Monday night. Ariel had thought about her throughout the week, but he felt uncomfortable setting up another date. It was obvious they had been flirting as if she weren’t sixteen years old, as if they were getting together for some reason beyond his trying to make up for having hit her. She was a smart, attractive girl, but Ariel could see her childish side, that dangerous inertia that could lead her to fall in love with him, to fantasize about a relationship that was never going to happen. On the bus, when he turned on his cell phone, he figured a message from her would appear. But it didn’t. She gave no signs of life. And he shouldn’t give any, either.

  He wasn’t going to give any.

  He looks at his watch. It’s almost twelve. He can’t yet see the lights of the city from the bus window. He writes a message: “You want to come see a movie tomorrow at my house? That way you can tell me what happens in the end.” He searches through his phonebook for Sylvia’s name and sends it. It’s Saturday night. Surely she’s out with some friends from school. Ariel feels like that would be more appropriate for his age, too, more than sharing the bus with his teammates, surrounded by the sound of the blows of an action hero who, at the end of the movie, as always, will solve all his problems with a fantastic display of physical power.

  5

  She raises the neck of her sweater so that it covers her mouth. Her breath burns when it comes into contact with the wool. It’s a pleasant sensation. The stone step’s cold reaches her thighs through her pants. She shouldn’t have sat down. But he makes her wait. He always makes her wait. To be punctual in Madrid, you have to take the metro. It must be hard to be on time with all that traffic. Why didn’t she want him to pick her up at home? No, she thought, it’s better if he doesn’t. She worries that her father or some neighbor would see her getting into that car. That’s why she’s sitting on the steps of the post office again. It is a horrible place to meet, I know, but it’s our place, isn’t it?

  The last time they went out together, she got into the car and Ariel drove to his house. It seemed far, but at this time of night it only takes a second, he said. Sylvia was nervous and her foot tapped the floor mat. It had taken them almost a week to get in touch again after their first dinner together. She was about to give up hope. Or, better put, she had given up hope several times. On Tuesday a message beep sounded; it was Mai. She had just arrived in Vienna with her boyfriend. On Wednesday someone called quite late. It was Dani, sounding drunk. I never know how to talk to you, he said. Sylvia didn’t know either. Just like normal, I guess. Friday, on the way home, she saw a silver car identical to Ariel’s. She approached it, coming as close as the edge of the sidewalk. It was driven by a somewhat pudgy fortysomething man, gelled hair, sunglasses, beside him a woman who seemed like a standard accessory with the car. On Saturday night, she thought that the incoming message on her phone would be from Alba or Nadia asking her if she was up for going out with some people from school, but it was him. He was inviting her to watch a movie at his house. She said yes. Of course.

  What to think. What was he looking for? What was she looking for? The obsessive teenage perspective couldn’t be right. It might be deceiving. The typical mirage. Thinking it’s something it’s not. Desire forces you to see what desire reveals. And reality? He calls me. He talks to me. The normal thing would be that I didn’t exist, Sylvia thought, that I ceased to exist after the accident, and yet … He’s friendly. He’s just being friendly.

  He’s being friendly, I’ve fallen in love.

  Her thoughts wandered. She couldn’t concentrate. In class the symptoms were clear. On television footage of the presidents’ summit meeting in Vienna was aired, the city overtaken by riot police. Shields and protective helmets straight out of a futuristic movie. Policemen charging. Mai didn’t answer her last message. But Sylvia wasn’t too worried. She’d be back on Sunday.

  The first time he took her to his house, they entered through the garage. On the basement level was a room converted into a gym. He heated up some meatballs for dinner. They were good, but it was ridiculous to eat meatballs in that living room, with Ariel standing while he suggested movies to watch until she picked one, this one. He turned off the lights, took out a liter bottle of beer and two cups, the title credits appeared, but Sylvia’s attention wasn’t on the screen: it was on Ariel. His arm rested on the back of the sofa, like an attempted embrace, a caress that never arrived, never would arrive. And Sylvia wondered if her socks had any holes before taking off her boots, making herself comfortable, curling up on the sofa to see if he would decide to hug her. They had taken her cast off that same morning. Well, this way I feel a little less guilty, said Ariel when he saw her. She still needed the crutch to rest her foot safely, but she had gotten her mobility back.

  They watched the movie. It was fun. A real mix-up about two con men. Halfway through he asked her, do you know how it’s going to end yet? Well, one of these two is not what he appears to be, that’s obvious. Ariel smiles. Have you seen it before? she asks. Yeah, but that doesn’t matter to me. I like it. I don’t mind knowing how movies end. It’s the same in soccer, if it was only the end result that mattered each team could shoot five penalty kicks at the beginning and then go home. No, what’s important is the game. Sylvia shrugs her shoulders, nervous. Why was he talking about soccer? She brought a lock of hair to her mouth, biting it again and again. What was he thinking about her? He must have invited her out as a curiosity. A sharp, funny Spanish girl. Like some sort of witty, flirtatious niece. He was talking about soccer, but with a professorial air, he talks to me like I’m a little girl. Sometimes Sylvia lost the thread of the film, focusing on how miserable she felt.

  When the movie ended, Sylvia looked through the mountains of CDs. A ton of Argentinian groups. Names she didn’t know, Intoxicados, Los Redondos, La Renga, the Libertines, Bersuit, Callejeros, Spineta, Vicentico. Put on something you like, she asked. He put on the latest record by his friend Marcelo. He sent me this but it’s not on sale yet. Listen, it’s super-good. Sylvia sat down, took another sip of beer. The lyrics … said Ariel, the guy’s world is crazy, totally his own. His sentences ended on a high note, as if the last syllables were ringing in the air. I barely listen to any music in Spanish, she said. I like it better when I don’t understand the words. I don’t know, it’s like everything sounds more corny, more simplistic when it’s in your own language. Are you crazy? he said. And he repeated the verses: “Tangled in the vines of your jungle, I search for the path that brings me back, sanity before I lose it, lose my sight in the fog, the rope where I han
g myself every Monday when my team loses, Madrid is so far away, Ariel.” He’s talking about me there. Ariel looked at her, without sitting down. Pretty, right? Sylvia was defensive, yeah, I don’t know. A little corny. Everything sounds corny if I can understand it. Disagreeing was a way to take a stance. A bit feeble, she said after another band. I hate those groups that look tough with their long hair and tattoos and all those trappings, but then what they sing is pure marmalade, drippy little ballads. Ariel interpreted it as a declaration of her taste, and he searched for a more aggressive band. They come from a shantytown, the poorest in Buenos Aires, he told her. They sounded strong, guitar-heavy. Sylvia liked them better. I see, you’re into rock from the slums, he remarked. At least the noise covers up the simple lyrics a little. Ariel laughed. I wouldn’t call Marcelo simple, he’s been in analysis for twenty years. He’s a nutcase. He told me there are people who’ve done their doctoral theses on just one of his songs. Now he keeps insisting I visit an analyst friend of his who lives in Madrid.

  Sylvia found it uncomfortable to listen to music with Ariel’s smile fixed on her, his eyes questioning. She nodded, saying, good, or, I like this. The situation was sort of like a test. He asked her what her favorite music was and she named groups he had never heard of. All British or American. You’ll have to play them for me, he said, almost to be polite. Sylvia took it as an invitation to continue meeting. He served her beer every once in a while, but always from the other side of the coffee table, its lower shelf filled with magazines and sports newspapers. Sylvia flipped through one, but the cover models were too beautiful, retouched by a computer in search of fabricated perfection, not a trace of pimples, folds, wrinkles, real skin. I made the cover of this one. Ariel holds out a magazine with his photo on it. Don’t even think about reading it, the interview is horrible.

  They talked for a while more, even though the music played loudly and he changed the songs before they ended, as if he wanted to give her an overview in twenty minutes. It got late, too late. Sylvia said, how am I going to get out of here? It was twenty to eleven. But Ariel insisted on taking her. He took the car out of the garage and Sylvia went through the door to the yard, to avoid the steps. How ridiculous that she had to leave so early. She was sure the night was just starting for him. She got into the car like a childish Cinderella. They got back onto the now deserted highway toward the city. The same music, by his friend Marcelo, was playing. I like it so much that I made a copy for the car, he explained. The return trip seemed to obliterate what had happened that evening. When we get to my house, thought Sylvia, it will be as if we never met. It was a strange feeling. A retraced route that went back to the beginning. Nothing had happened, because there was nothing to happen. Sylvia looked at the highway and started biting on a lock of hair again. In the city, Ariel asked her about her parents. I live with my father, just us. My mother left him six months ago. And without Ariel saying anything, Sylvia felt obliged to add, they’re good people. The marriage just fell apart. I don’t know, sometimes I think they stayed married just for me, and they couldn’t find anything else to keep them together. Sylvia put her hair behind her ears, her sad eyes. He looked at her twice, still driving.

  When they got to the doorway, Ariel drove past it. Wouldn’t want anyone to see you getting out of this flashy car, he joked. They both laughed. Thanks for the movie. We can do it again whenever you feel like it. Sure, whenever you want. Ariel went over his schedule. Tomorrow we’re on the road, we’re playing in Italy on Wednesday, but when we get back, I don’t know, I’ll call you, we’ll talk. Okay, was all Sylvia said. They kissed on each cheek, she enveloped him in her hair, he broke away delicately. Ariel helped her out, I had a good time, I don’t have that many people here I can watch a movie and have a beer with. Sylvia walked toward her door with a victorious smile.

  In the elevator, alone, on the way up to her apartment, leaning on the crutch, somewhat dizzy from the beer, she kissed herself full on the lips in the mirror. Then she thought, I’m stupid.

  Thursday, after coming back from the game in Italy, he wrote her a message. “Another movie?” he suggested. “The works,” she answered, and then she regretted having written it. The works? It sounded brassy. She also regretted having painted her lips in muted purple, the lips that were hidden beneath the neck of her wool sweater at that moment, at six p.m., sitting in the cold on the frozen steps, waiting to see the silvery reflection of Ariel’s car appear in what was now their usual meeting place. She felt that she was exposing her intentions in too obvious a way. Her love. In the purple, in her easy availability, in her enthusiasm. She was nervous.

  6

  The hospital makes Leandro sick. In the waiting room, there are only old people. It’s like a microcosm in extinction. He’s surprised no one has yet shot a science fiction film of a future time where there are just old people left, waiting for transplants, or who’ve only survived because of some medical discovery. Maybe someone has; it’s been a long time since he’s paid attention to what’s in theaters. Some woman was speaking loudly, animatedly, about her illness. Another responds, my sister-in-law had the same thing. Another, hope is the last thing to go. The nurse tolerates the rebuke of a man who says he’s been waiting for an hour, then she gathers up the referral slips of the recent arrivals, asks for patience, and calls for the next three on the list.

  Leandro’s expression is the opposite of Aurora’s. In her wheelchair, she firmly maintains her dignity, her head held high, her shoulders lifted. Only her inert hands, resting white among the rain of age spots, give away that she is the one who’s ill. Leandro buries his head, his gaze lowered, his shoulders fallen. Last Saturday his piano student, Luis, had said he was having trouble finding time for classes during his exams at university and he would stop coming for a while. Sure, sure, replied Leandro, but he felt like that was the end of his work life. In the best years, he had had up to five or six private students spread out in classes throughout the week. Since he retired, he had reduced the number, but he’d never had less than three. Last year he limited it to one, Luis, a polite and attentive young man who showed up every Saturday at eleven. In the academy they recommended Leandro as an instructor, and he was lazy about advertising or looking for students. When he lost his last student, he said to himself, that’s it, this is the end, another chapter closed. He was quiet during that last class, so much so that young Luis felt obliged to try to cheer him up, maybe after exams I’ll start up again.

  The last few days, he had barely left the house. He kept watch over Aurora’s fragility, waiting for her bursts of high spirits, while he fulfilled her absurd requests: calling acquaintances for their birthdays, paying Benita the extra hour from last Thursday. At times she came out of her sleepiness or interrupted her reading to organize the routine, look and see how we’re doing for oil, we might need some, or, you have to help Benita with the upper shelves in the kitchen, she can’t reach. Leandro watched as the maid stood on a stool to laboriously clean off the grease that had accumulated out of sight, while she shouted, for two inches, yes sir, for just two inches they denied me the dwarf pension. Now, that’s bad luck, at least being so short could have done me some good, but no. Leandro was familiar with her personal misfortunes. A husband dead from emphysema, in his prime; a laughable pension; a daughter lost to drugs who, at twenty-two, had thrown herself out the window; and a truck driver son imprisoned in Portugal for some shady smuggling affair. They hid something in his cargo, but he refused to turn in his bosses. That tiny woman showed too much strength, brightening the house with her vibrant shouting; sometimes she sang a copla while she vacuumed, and Leandro, who was frightened by the combination of the two sounds, fled to the street in search of peace. When she finished her work, Benita stopped by Aurora’s bed and said good-bye raucously. She pinched her cheeks hard, that’ll give you a little color, you’re very pale, or she repeatedly told her the worst thing is staying still, from still to dead there’s only a hair’s breadth.

  Leandro went
out to take a walk around the neighborhood, taking advantage of the hours of clean winter sun. He wandered haphazardly in the Mercado Maravillas, among the stalls he’s known forever but where he avoids familiarity. On the street, he caught the performance of Gypsy women selling clothing, lipsticks, scarves. Sometimes he would lose himself in the small streets and his steps would lead him to the Tuning Fork Academy, and during class hours he would listen to some music theory or piano student playing with young, tentative fingers. For thirty-three years, he had taught classes there.

  His worry over the state of his finances had kept him away from the chalet. He had gone to great lengths in taking care of Aurora, as if that task would keep him from temptation. On some afternoons, he locked himself in his room to listen to a record and fantasized that he was done with his disgraceful behavior. His son, Lorenzo, stops by the house every day and asks him if everything’s okay. Can you manage everything, Papá? Ask for help if you need it, please.

  One Sunday he found his granddaughter seated at the piano and he sat beside her. He helped her determine the notes to the melody she sang softly with some English words, as if composing a song in the air.

  Aurora asks him to wait outside, they’ll do tests and weird things, it’s best if you don’t come in, and she forces him to stay on the other side of a door with a sign on it warning about radioactive levels. Leandro amuses himself in the hallway, rubbing each of his fingers with the other hand, walking up and down to avoid going back into the waiting room filled with chance conversations.