by David Trueba
Suicide didn’t vanish from his thoughts until midday, as he fed Aurora with slow spoonfuls. He picked off the odd noodle that stuck to her chin and then cleaned her face with a napkin. He told her that he had hit himself against the kitchen table, after stooping to pick something up off the floor. A little while later, as Aurora slept, he took refuge in the bathroom and cried in front of the mirror, bitterly, unlike how babies cry, knowing they are going to be comforted. No, he cried with the deaf containment of someone who no longer expected to be consoled.
Aurora talked to him about Sylvia. She’s at that horrible age and yet she’s fabulous. She had left for the station early. Leandro avoided her, in spite of hearing her go out. She says that this year her studies aren’t going well, how could we help her? Maybe you could give Lorenzo money to hire a tutor. Leandro nodded. I’ll do that.
Chatting with his wife helped Leandro regain his composure. This is what my life has been like, coming home terrified and finding calmness here, the solution to fear, letting Aurora’s love of life rub off onto me. She’s been the engine driving me, this spineless vehicle. Leandro knew he wouldn’t take his own life, he wouldn’t do that to Aurora; maybe when she died, he’d gladly go with her, but not before. Surely she would blame herself for being sick, judging her entire life, her personal failure, based on that ending. Suicide is an incurable stab in the back to those who love you and survive you. Leandro realizes that his relationship with Osembe has something of a suicide about it, private suicide. At least he saw himself as dead.
All these feelings skyrocketed when his son Lorenzo came to see him. I called a prostitute, he explained, I know it was stupid. He didn’t want to give more details. Lorenzo offered to take care of it all with Jacqueline, those rich people don’t know what money costs, we could talk to the police. Leandro feigned a last fit of pride, no, no, let it go, but he knew his son would never look at him the same way again. Are children capable of forgiving their parents when they discover that they didn’t meet their expectations, either?
He had no problem writing out a check to Jacqueline for the amount she and Lorenzo agreed on. It bothered him that Joaquín had taken himself out of the equation. He also hid himself. Jacqueline settled for eighteen thousand euros, but she hadn’t held her tongue in having the final word, you can’t put a price on ruining a lifelong friendship.
They will polish the piano, paint the walls, put the curtains back up, change the sofa and the carpet, and among the other belongings that are now gone, old Leandro would also disappear from their lives and with him the last traces of a forgettable past.
Lorenzo worried about his father’s finances. Are you sure you have it? That’s a lot of money. Yes, yes, of course, answered Leandro before handing him the signed check.
Leandro hung up the phone. He wouldn’t know what to say to Osembe anyway. Maybe she fears the police showing up and has even moved out of her apartment. Would all that be worth the euros she stole? Euros she would have gotten out of him in a much less violent way, or maybe the act itself was a settling of scores. That also mortified Leandro. She knew I would do nothing, that I wouldn’t go through the shame of reporting her. Leandro just wanted to ask Osembe in whose name she gave him those cowardly kicks. In her own? Did he deserve them? Did she hate him that much? Or was it just an act in front of her boyfriend, to avoid misunderstandings? What did it matter? It would only help him to complete the map of human nature, something that fascinated Leandro and that he would never grasp entirely. People do things without really thinking about them. There isn’t a motivation for every action, it’s a mistake to think of it in those terms. Could someone imagine me? Explain me? Of course not.
He goes into Aurora’s room with the bucket of water and the sponge. He helps her lift her arms and fixes the bedsheets. As he does it, his side hurts where he received one of the kicks, or was it from the fall? As if jumping from one train to another, he forgets Osembe and focuses on Aurora. She smiles, she wants to talk, but she doesn’t have the strength. Leandro leans over and thinks that she wants to kiss him. He draws his cheek close to her lips, but Aurora speaks in a whisper.
It would be good if you called an ambulance, I’m not feeling well.
23
It’s important to Lorenzo that Sylvia meet Daniela. She already exists as a shadow, as an idea, as a real presence even, but they still haven’t seen each other. Am I going to be the last one to meet the woman you’re dating? No, no. Lorenzo choked on his breakfast toast. I’m waiting for the right moment. Are you that afraid of me? Lorenzo just smiled.
Dealing with his father’s situation, the grueling signing of the check and its delivery to the unfriendly doorman in a solemn gesture, for Mrs. Jacqueline, had kept him away from Daniela and her house. He had wanted to stay close to his father, who was obviously capable of doing something stupid. He found Leandro in low spirits, his gaze sunken. The next day he was thinking of going over to the bank and finding out the balance of their accounts. In all these years, he hadn’t given his parents a hand with administrative matters and maybe it was a good time to give everything a once-over.
He hadn’t enjoyed any intimacy with Daniela in several days, but Lorenzo wanted to find a moment to introduce her to Sylvia. It wasn’t easy. She spent less and less time at home. She vanished on weekends, justifying it with vague excuses. She had a boyfriend, but soon vacations would be here, allowing for a less strict schedule. That afternoon she was going to be home studying for exams, she said, and Lorenzo went upstairs to tell Daniela.
She opened the door. Come on in, but no funny stuff. The boy was watching the television hypnotically. We’re going out now, she told Lorenzo, she was going to the Corte Inglés department store with the boy, she was meeting some other women there, the floor was clean and the kids played while they chatted or did a little shopping. It was too cold for the park. This afternoon I want you to come by the house, Sylvia’s going to be there and I’d love for you to meet her. Daniela didn’t like him coming up to see her there and she forced him to leave quickly, she didn’t want the episode from the other day to be repeated, so even though he embraced her obstinately and she noticed the erection glued to his thigh she resisted and got him out of the apartment with stifled giggles.
Lorenzo had a lunch date with Wilson. They went over the matters in Wilson’s little notebook; he finished jotting down some details in his schoolboy’s hand. Lorenzo asked him, does it bother you I’m dating Daniela? Why would it bother me? Would it bother you if your daughter went out with an Ecuadorian? Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. I never thought about it. I guess not. Well, then, why would I butt in?
Lorenzo was silent. Wilson smiled as always, with a lopsided expression. So you pulled it off, I could tell you were stuck on her. I think she likes me. Then what’s the problem? And in Wilson’s smiling gaze, with his crazy eye as he called it, Lorenzo finally found someone he could confess aspects of his relationship to that he hadn’t shared with anyone else.
Lorenzo knocks on Sylvia’s door. He finds her lying on the mattress, headphones on. This is how you study? She waves her notes in the air. What concentration, he says. Is she here yet? Lorenzo had warned her they would meet that afternoon. Sylvia jokes, do I have to think of her as my stepmother or just one of Papá’s flings? Lorenzo takes a step back and shrugs his shoulders, a fling, of course, a fling. Because, you know, it’s not the same thing. How is anyone going to be your stepmother, look at you, you’re frightening, you are going to run a comb through your hair, right?
Lorenzo hadn’t told Sylvia he was dating the woman who takes care of the neighbors’ son. Daniela always mentioned the times she passed Sylvia on the street or in the stairwell, she stuck out her tongue at the boy, she looks pretty, today she was writing a message on her cell phone, have you seen how fast she writes with her thumb? It’s funny to watch. Maybe his daughter would have the same prejudices as everyone else. Do you want me to make dinner? No, no, we’ll go out somewhere. Lorenzo seemed nervous, Da
niela was late. Something’s going on, you’re nervous, maybe you didn’t tell me the truth, maybe she’s my age or something like that. She’s older than you. Lorenzo checks his watch again. Daniela is usually punctual, often they’re running to the phone booths because she wants to call her home in Loja on the dot. He waits outside for her and her phone calls almost always last the same number of minutes.
The doorbell rings. Sylvia smiles, bites her nails in mock nervousness, pulls her hair back. Lorenzo leaves her in the middle of the living room and goes to the door. He opens it. It’s Daniela. But it is Daniela with a sports bag over her shoulder, her pale blue double-breasted coat on and her eyes filled with tears. She doesn’t say anything. Lorenzo invites her in. Come in, what’s going on? Daniela shakes her head. She gestures hello to Sylvia, who recognized her instantly and hasn’t moved from her spot. Let’s go down to the street, I have to talk to you, excuse me. She directs that last part to Sylvia, apologizing for not coming in. Lorenzo looks at his daughter, grabs his jacket, and goes out onto the landing. Right in the doorway, Daniela collapses, crying. Her first intelligible words are, they fired me, they fired me, Lorenzo.
They gave me the boot.
24
Husky says, don’t ask me to do this kind of stuff again, I was about to puke in there. He gets into Ariel’s car and they leave uptown Madrid through jammed streets, only to be blocked by a delivery van. The driver jumps out, holds his hands out, asking for a minute to bring a couple of demijohns of sunflower oil and sacks of flour to the door of a cheap restaurant. When the row of waiting cars grows and the honking gets more intense, the van starts up again. Husky has just come out of the agency that owns the photographs of Ariel with Reyes. It’s rough facing the reality that I’m in a profession filled with vipers, says Husky. I’m spoiled, my boss is one of the very few journalists who do their job well, he’s honorable, decent, and, what’s more, writes like a god.
Ariel found out about the photos from Arturo Caspe. Don’t think that I had anything to do with it, the agent said arrogantly. These girls are models and there are always photographers following them around. It’s part of being famous. And it’s not going to hurt you, soccer fans like their players to be virile ladies’ men. Ariel wasn’t in the mood to argue or stay on the phone very long. I just want you to tell me what agency the photographer works for, that’s it, was all he said. Half an hour later, Caspe called to give him a name. In the car, before Husky went up to the agency, Ariel signed a blank check. You’re crazy, I could run off to Brazil with this.
Why did he do it? The photos weren’t compromising. They weren’t going to do him or Reyes any damage. But right now, with the negotiation of his future hanging in the balance, he didn’t want the club to use his nightlife against him. They always did that when things were going badly. That beach party in La Coruña, after the local team had two losses, was used by the club’s president to suggest that the players weren’t taking the end of the competitive season seriously, and the executive who had brought in the girls leaked it to a radio commentator. And then there was a deeper reason, one he didn’t admit to Husky: Sylvia. Ariel didn’t want this issue to poison them. First the stupid woman who went on TV to brag about screwing soccer players. They were even kidding about it on the team. Husky told him, you good-looking guys can’t afford to get involved with scum like that, you have to raise the bar, it’s a moral and aesthetic obligation to the world. Sylvia had also found out about Marcelo’s concert in Madrid and asked him, did you go? Yes, but with Argentinian friends, Ariel told her, and she was annoyed because he hadn’t invited her. I didn’t think you liked him. You’ve got me hooked, you play it all the time. Once again he was dirtying what in her was clean, free of deceit.
Husky had taken a while in the agency. He explained how they worked. Apart from professional photos, they dealt with couples who were at odds, looking to exploit each other. It was a rare week when someone didn’t show up to negotiate over some photos of a model, an actress, a TV hostess naked on the beach or on the terrace of her house, or, as Husky told him, sticking her toothbrush up her cunt, pictures taken in the intimacy of a relationship that weeks, months, or years later were only good for scamming some money or sullying the reputation of the person who dumped you. Husky told him, when the prince got married, the agencies were anxious to buy photos of his wife from old schoolmates, ex-boyfriends, they were selling her medical records, her gynecological files, her school papers, a painter even showed up selling paintings she had posed nude for. Then they use them to negotiate, exchange favors. This country gobbles up tons of celebrity gossip every day. Like every other country, corrected Ariel, you think mine is any better?
When he appeared after the long negotiation and got into Ariel’s car, Husky was in a teasing mood. I was expecting something erotic, spicy, a full-scale scandal. You want to buy some crappy photos of two good-looking kids in a taxi? What’s going on? She snagged a millionaire and doesn’t want the photos to fuck things up? Or he’s marrying the president’s daughter for her money and this could ruin his career? That’s what the guy in the agency asked me and, honestly, I didn’t know what to tell him. Ariel didn’t say anything, he just listened with a smile, waiting in the wings. Are you going to tell me, are you going to say what the hell is going on and why we had to give two thousand euros to those sons of bitches?
I’ll just introduce you to Sylvia, said Ariel. And he starts the car.
Don’t mention any of this to her, warns Ariel later. They’re on the way to pick Sylvia up at her house. But right at that moment Ariel gets a message from her. “My grandmother is in the hospital, I’ll meet you in two hours.” Change of plans, we have two hours to kill. Well, after dealing with those skunks my body demands alcohol. What are you in the mood for? Husky directs Ariel to a place he swears serves the best gin and tonics in the city. They’re artists. Gin at five in the afternoon? Can you think of a better time?
They drive to a place near the Castellana. It’s a bar that has seen better days; it’s half empty and the walls are covered with deep-red fabric. There are a couple of women at the back tables. It’s a classic joint to bring dates. Husky greets the barman and they sit at a table. This is what’s known as a piano bar. An Asturian midfielder who used to play on your team arranged to meet me here for one of my first interviews, while he made out with a woman who wasn’t his wife. Those were other times, I was just starting in the business, and he was on his way out. I got a fabulous interview, which they never published.
Ariel and Husky talk over a drink. The lemon slice floats among the ice cubes and the tonic’s tiny bubbles. Ariel had gone back to practice that morning. He barely exchanged a word with Coach Requero. I didn’t think this was so complicated, he confesses to his friend. Here winning over the fans is a matter of one nice play, sometimes luck, Husky explains to him. There have been mediocre players they’ve loved to death and geniuses they never understood. Then there’s the populist type, who always goes over well, who runs with all his heart toward an unreachable ball, the one who asks the crowd to cheer him on, the one who gets pissed off at his teammates when they’re losing. There should be a penalty for the players who sweat the most in games. Sweating is overrated. And I’ll tell you something else, in Madrid foreign players with light eyes have never been successful. No, this is a distrustful sport, and people always find light eyes suspect. Here breaking legs is appreciated more than dodging and weaving. And it’s the same in journalism, they want leg breakers. People believe that the journalist who insults is freer, more independent, but they don’t see that they always insult the powerless. They spit downward. I swear it would take you twenty seasons to even begin to understand how insane everything is around here.
It’s the same over there, believe me. It’s the same everywhere.
Yeah, maybe you’re right. You know what your problem is, Ariel? You think. You think too much. And a soccer player can’t think. A soccer player can’t have an inner life, for fuck’s sake. It
destroys him. It beats you down, it paralyzes you. Shit, you’ll have time to think when you’re retired. Don’t keep running things over in your head, play. Just play and see where the swell takes you. Should we order another gin and tonic?
Ariel talks to him about Sylvia. I’ve been trying not to fall in love with this girl ever since I met her. Maybe the alcohol or Ariel’s passion when he talks about her leads Husky to confess. You know I was only in college for a year? Then I got an internship and said, fuck it, to my mother’s dismay. I met a girl there. She was a really special chick, she wrote poetry. You get the idea, right? And she was pretty, you can’t even imagine. We were born to never cross paths. In those days I was into the Who, I had seen Quadrophenia a hundred and three times and had sideburns as long as table legs, but I fell for her like a drooling fool.
Husky pauses, such a long pause Ariel starts to wonder if that was the end of the story and so he asks, and? We went out, for a month or so. Then we broke up. Maybe we were too young, I don’t know, or it was the absurd feeling that if you meet the love of your life at twenty years old the best thing to do is run away. You should meet someone like that at forty, and even then it seems too early. At sixty. Two years ago, I ran into her on the street. She has a kid, she’s married, she’s in charge of media relations in I don’t know which ministry of those jackass things politicians spend their lives doing, Justice or External Affairs. It was weird because I asked her, do you still write poetry? And she turned beet red. I was super-embarrassed, because she didn’t want to talk about it, can you believe it? Well, they were horrible poems, of course, like all poems.
