by David Trueba
9
At six in the evening that Saturday, the sun had yet to shine. It would be one of those rare days where it never appears. Sylvia had arrived at her grandmother’s house a little while earlier. Aurora’s smile beneath her damp eyes made up for the lazy waste of an afternoon. Mai had gone back to León to spend the weekend, determined to save a relationship she said was heading downhill on the fast track. Their three days in Vienna had been as intense as they were grueling. She had gotten hit by one of the riot policemen’s swinging nightsticks and it had fractured her collarbone. Besides a huge bruise, big like a burn, which she proudly displayed, she had spent forty-eight hours in observation in a hospital on the outskirts of the city. She cursed Mateo because he had barely shown any concern for her. This wasn’t meant to be our honeymoon, he had said.
The hospital was some kind of jail for people with minor injuries. An Italian with a broken arm, a Greek guy poisoned by a smoke grenade, an American girl with her ankle destroyed by a rubber bullet. It was some sort of veiled incarceration. There, more than twenty-five miles from Vienna, there was no way they were getting back to the protest. And I didn’t have my cell phone charger, she whined. That’s why I didn’t write you, to save battery juice in case Mateo called me. Mai recognized that as selfish, and useless because he didn’t even call, and it made her angry at herself. She told Sylvia every last detail of her adventure.
I felt stupid, abandoned. Luckily there was an anarchist from Logroño, really funny and really fat, who had me cracking up the whole time. They had given him fifteen stitches in his head and he wasn’t complaining. We really hit it off. He kept telling me, don’t complain, just imagine, being an anarchist in Logroño is like selling combs on Mars. Once I jumped into the ring at a bullfight during the San Roque festival to protest animal torture and demand they put a stop to bullfighting, I was with three or four more environmentalists and that was an honest to god beatdown, yes sir. Plus we were buck naked and one of my testicles ascended from a swift kick, do you have any idea how much that hurts?
In the hospital, after confessing her doubts to the fat anarchist from Logroño, she had resolved to break up with Mateo, but they reconciled on the trip back. Twenty hours on a bus would bring anybody closer, said Mai. In spite of her exhaustion, Mateo’s hands beneath the blanket had skillfully saved their relationship. Or at least that was what she insinuated with a crooked smile. Girl, I have the feeling our relationship is purely physical.
Sylvia had wanted to tell her about her night with Ariel, but she never found the right moment. She was afraid of Mai. She talked too much. And if someone at school found out about something like this, they could make her life impossible. In that setting, not doing anything worth talking about was a virtue. Anybody who stood out ran the risk of having rumors made up about them. Like that poor sophmore girl who they swore was charging for blowjobs in the boys’ bathroom, and half the school said she had disappeared because she couldn’t take the lie and the other half because her parents had found out it was true. No, it was better to keep your mouth shut. Every time she got over her reluctance and decided to talk to Mai about it, she luckily found her friend still caught up in her own problems. What do you think, is going to see him this weekend a sign I’m totally whipped, or do you think it’s okay for me to fight to keep the relationship from going to shit?
Sylvia’s reply was laconic. Go.
She missed her first class the day after her night with Ariel. She put up with her father’s anger, his scolding for how late she got home. On her way to class, she checked her cell phone messages, but there was no news from Ariel. Then she remembered his frostiness. She had forced the outcome. He had resisted and she had taken him to the bedroom. He hadn’t done anything to keep her there when she wanted to leave in a hurry. He didn’t even kiss her when they said goodnight on the street. They barely spoke when he drove her home. It was all strange. Icy.
She had felt dirty, stupid, getting dressed quickly in front of him, with his still-warm semen staining the sheets. She was embarrassed at the absurd swaying of her enormous breasts as she readjusted her bra. And her woman’s scent. Ariel hadn’t even wanted to make love to her, take her virginity, which she was sure was obvious. It may as well have been broadcast by a PA system installed in her face, judging from the way she acted. That clumsy handjob she had tried to satisfy him with must have seemed like a hysterical attempt to hide her adolescent spinelessness. Every once in a while, she thought of a few minor positive signs. She remembered his hands and skin, his defenseless gesture as he brimmed over, the electrical charge that went through his thigh, his tensed muscles. The pleasure of stroking the bones of his back, of feeling his prominent ribs. She, in comparison, seemed all flabby. Any temptation to send him a message, to remind him of the night before, went up in smoke when she assessed how she had acted, half brazen and half prude.
The more time passed without word from Ariel, the more fatalistic and bleak her version of the events became. I’m just some stupid little girl stuck on a famous soccer player. As if she had a right, in compensation for the accident, to something more than the insurance indemnity.
On Friday Sylvia couldn’t take it anymore and in a fit of bravery and heartache she sent him a message. “Good luck with the game.” Artificial but neutral. He didn’t answer right away. “We’ll talk when I get back. Thanks.” The thanks reduced the promise, almost to the level of a business transaction. Thanks. It sounded more like a handshake than a kiss. More like goodbye than welcome back. It would have been the final straw if the night he brought her home he had stuck out his hand and said, my pleasure, see you around. And if you want an autographed T-shirt I can have it sent to your house. If she was tempted, as she sometimes was, to convert Ariel into the love of her life, she could now start acknowledging her failure. She could tell herself, I’ve lost the man I love.
That night she went out with friends from school. This is what I should be doing, she thought. I should be out on packed streets and not in luxury homes in the suburbs, elegant restaurants, adult bedrooms. A bench overloaded with kids, mixing alcohols, thunderously loud music oozed from dive bars as if it were overflowing, tangled hair, elusive eyes, low-slung jeans, exaggerated laughter, some girls so made-up they look like clowns in heat, boys with their hands in their pockets, friends who slap each other on the back, girls who cover their legs and hips, one group beside another, in some sort of chain that extends along the street, parting reluctantly to let a car through.
In the plaza where they wanted to sit down, a couple of policemen were asking for ID and trying to scare off six inebriated Romanians who were sitting on a dirty bench crammed with bottles and plastic cups in the kiddie park. Inside the bars there was hardly enough room to reach the attractive waitresses who moved along the length of the bar, attending to customers whose eyes they barely met. Her classmates joked around, talking about school, laughing at some teacher, or some student. Nico Verón imitated the math teacher’s stiff neck. The same old nostalgia for what had happened just the day before. They listened to the music and waited for someone to say, should we move on? before changing bars.
Her father was nervous all Saturday morning. He spent it rearranging the living room. He was trying to straighten the bookshelf that sagged under the weight of the encyclopedia. He set the table very early, more like English lunchtime, and Sylvia cooked for them both. She had gotten up late. She wasn’t hungry or in good spirits. She asked her father if he was going to the game even though she knew full well his team was playing in Seville.
Before leaving for her grandparents’ house, she studied herself in front of the mirror. Even after a shower, her hair still smelled of last night’s cigarette smoke. They say that losing your virginity changes your facial expression. Was Ariel’s finger enough? Was that it? Was that how it happens? Finally she touches her not-fully-formed jaw. Her cheekbones weren’t in sync either. They were still, if you asked her, stuck in that childish rounded shape that made her l
ook perennially fat. Perhaps in her eyes one could make out a vague, fleeting expression, somewhat more mature and adult. As if she were better acquainted with a certain truth. Mai was right when she insisted that boys want to love you, but they run from you. She said it like this: they might have their hands on your tits, but their feet are already about to start running away. They flee. Sylvia wasn’t going to block Ariel from fleeing. Or hold him back. The sooner they resolved this absurd accidental relationship, the better. But it was nice, right? she asked herself every once in a while. It was as if she wanted to at least retain the pleasant memory. When he brought her home, she noticed his hand tense on the automatic gearshift. She wanted to caress his fingers, inviting him to relax, but she didn’t do it.
Grandma Aurora’s smile helps her forget about him. Grandpa Leandro leaves them alone after a little while, to go take his afternoon stroll. They played a game of checkers on the bedspread and halfway through all the pieces slipped off the board and they didn’t care enough to start over. You remember when we used to play dolls in your bed and we totally destroyed it?
I’m thinking about cutting my hair, announces Sylvia. Her grandmother tries to get her to change her mind. But it’s so pretty. Yeah, but it’s a pain in the ass, she says. No matter how I do it, it always looks bad. Aurora strokes her hair and pulls it back. Recently washed, it seems thicker after drying outside in the breeze.
I used to have hair like yours, but I always wore it pulled back. One time I wanted to cut it and your grandfather, who was the only one who had seen it down, practically the only one, asked me why. It’s a lot of work, I explained. Taking care of the paintings at the Prado is a lot of work, too, he told me, and nobody considers throwing them away.
Sylvia smiled and looked up at her grandmother.
Your grandfather always had those blunt ways of saying lovely things. He’s still that way. Now he says fewer things, that’s true, she concedes with an expression of melancholy. The day will come when you decide to cut off your curls, but don’t do it because you’re in a bad mood.
Aurora’s efforts soon wore her out. Do you want me to read to you? No, talk to me, she answered. Sylvia didn’t know what to say. She tells her that these last few days, when she tries to read, she turns the pages without getting anything. After three pages, I have to go back and start again, she says.
What’s in your head?
Sylvia doesn’t tell her, although she’d like to. They talk about her upcoming exams. Her grandmother asks about Lorenzo. If he goes out, if he’s taking care of himself, if he spends much time with his friends. Then she says that she and Grandpa have never been good at keeping up friendships. He doesn’t care, he enjoys being alone, but sometimes I miss having people around. Your grandfather loves Manolo Almendros, but he never calls him. It’s Manolo who has to call, to come over with his wife to spend an afternoon or for lunch once in a while, and he calls me first to make sure it’s not a bother and so I can stock up on the chocolates he likes.
She points out a nearby jewelry case for Sylvia to bring over. They go through the pieces inside. Her grandmother explains the history of a watch and a pendant. This is a bracelet your grandfather gave me in a fit of romanticism, one of those very rare moments when we seemed like a normal couple. If you like something, I’ll give it to you, for you to keep.
Sylvia is disturbed by the idea of inheriting something while her grandmother is still alive. She holds some earrings up to her ears but puts them back in the box. Where would she go with them on?
Some day you’ll have to dress up … Of course, now you kids go around with rings in your nose and belly buttons. Boy, have things changed. And in other places, Grandma, in other places too … Tell me … Really? Okay, there are girls who pierce their tongues, and their clitorises. Their what? A ring? Yeah, or a little silver ball. Doesn’t it hurt when they … ? I don’t think so. No, of course, it must be some tribal thing, thinks Aurora out loud, as if coming out of her shock.
A little while later, her grandmother falls asleep. Sylvia reads over the notes from history class that she has in her backpack. Her grandfather comes in from the street, his hair mussed by the wind and his face chapped from the cold. Sylvia has supper with them and then walks back home.
Saturday nights depress her, it’s like there’s some obligation to have a good time. At the door to a car, three young men are putting on sixteenth-century costumes for their university musical group. One of them is bald and has a potbelly; his body is like a mandolin. Further on is a boy crying on a curb, the girl beside him holding his glasses and trying to console him. Her eyes meet Sylvia’s, and she takes it to mean that the girl has just broken up with him.
She lies down on the sofa to watch the game on TV. Ariel is grabbed by a defender who sticks to him like glue. When he throws Ariel to the ground, the referee complains, gesturing for him to get up without stopping the game. Sylvia finds the referee ridiculous, as if he belonged to a different reality than the players. He looks like an uptight, aristocratic gentleman, with an impossible string of eccentric last names. They must be chosen for their freaky last names, she thinks. This one’s called Poblano Berrueco.
Ariel’s jersey was pulled out of his shorts by the grab. It’s astonishing how small he looks next to the defender marking him, as if he were a child. When he runs, his hair rises up, straight with sweat.
All the commentators do is point out the jersey number in possession of the ball and highlight obvious idiocies. One of them says that a goal would change the score. The other that the tie only shows neither team is superior. With seven minutes to go, Ariel falls in the goal area and the referee awards a penalty kick. The commentators argue, let’s see the replay. Sylvia thinks it was Ariel who sought out the fullback’s leg and let himself fall. She’s amused by his faking it. Is he like that in everything? she wonders.
The goal is scored by another player. A sturdy Brazilian defender, who’s old enough to be the rest of the team’s father. Ariel is substituted. When he steps over the side line he exchanges an affectionate smack with his teammate heading onto the pitch. The camera shows Ariel walking toward the bench. He lowers his socks and gets a pat on the back from the coach. He is soaked in sweat when he sits down and he covers himself with a sweatshirt. The commentator says, this kid needs to adapt to being here so he can really open up the bag of tricks he’s surely got in him. Sylvia thinks that maybe he’ll be a real star soon. One of his teammates whispers something into his ear and Ariel smiles.
There is an American movie on after the game. Sylvia doesn’t feel like getting up off the sofa. A guy spends ten years of his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. When he gets out, his only obsession is finding the real culprit. Her father comes home during the eighth fight. He sits down next to Sylvia for a while. He looks tired, sad.
Your team won, Sylvia tells him.
Lorenzo nods. In the movie, the man is punching three mean-looking guys who have cornered him in an alley. When Sylvia gets up to go to bed, he says, turn it off, turn it off, I’m going to sleep, too.
Sylvia puts on her headphones and sings above the music. She feels like masturbating but she doesn’t. She falls asleep with the headphones on. She’ll take them off later with a swipe of her hand. On the bedside table lies her cell phone, recharging. Silent.
At dawn she feels alone. And cold. She twists and turns in bed. Finally she breaks out in sobs, hugging the pillow. She stifles herself against it.
On Sunday she calls her mother. She had gone with Santiago to a conference in Córdoba and on the way back she stopped in Madrid so they could have lunch together. They talk about exams and about work with Santiago. Pilar looks happy. She jokes with Sylvia about boys. I scare boys, she says. It must be the hair.
Santiago shows up at the end to pick up Pilar. He brought a couple of books for Sylvia, and he takes them out of his satchel. Do you have these already? Sylvia flips through them and shakes her head. I only wish I had read them when I was sixteen
like you are now, but then all I wanted to do was play basketball, he says.
When they say good-bye, Pilar’s hug is over the top. Sylvia’s grateful for it, but shies away. Her mother rubs her back, as if she wanted to convey something she doesn’t know how to say. Take care of yourself, okay, please. Can she tell I’m sad? thinks Sylvia.
That afternoon she starts reading the thickest of the books. There is nothing in it that makes her think of Ariel. The plot is too distant from her life. On page seventeen, she closes it. She opens the other one. “I’ve always felt drawn to places where I’ve lived, my old houses and neighborhoods.”
From the living room, she hears the murmur of the radio. Her father is listening to Back-to-Back Sports. Goals and incidents on every field, interlaced with advertising geared toward men. It’s not hard for Sylvia to figure out why Sunday afternoons are so sad.
Mai will interrupt her shortly with a call from the bus. I broke up with Mateo, I can’t take it anymore. He decided to move to Barcelona. You think I’m gonna waste my time with a guy who makes plans without including me? What difference does it make to you if he lives in Barcelona or in León? Sylvia will ask her. It’s not that, man, it’s the thought behind it, fuck. Couples are supposed to want to share everything with each other, isn’t that the point?
Mai will talk for a while longer on the other end of the line. Sylvia won’t pay much attention to her. Finally, almost out of obligation, her friend will ask her, and how are you?
I’ve been better, Sylvia will respond. Honestly, I’ve been better.
10
Leandro doesn’t walk, he flees. He turns the corner onto a deserted street and now he’s coming out at the intersection that crosses Arturo Soria. He goes down the wide sidewalk until he gets to the bus stop. Leandro quickly regrets his decision. The madam had greeted him with even more of a lipsticked smile than usual. She led him into the little reception room to tell him, we’ve had a little problem with your check from the other day. It bounced.
