Learning to Lose

by David Trueba

  Don’t say anything to your mother, please, don’t tell her anything. Or to Sylvia, either.

  How could I tell them anything, Papá? What do you want me to tell them, huh? You tell me, what do I tell them? Leandro sighed deeply. Nothing, admitted Leandro. Fuck …

  The silence extended for so long that it was more painful than any recrimination. Leandro wanted to say, I don’t know what got into me, I lost my head, but he didn’t say anything. Lorenzo bit his tongue, paced around the room to release his rage. Finally, the financial matter came to his rescue. Lorenzo spoke to him. And you let the bank talk you into signing a mortgage that’s a rip-off? Don’t you understand? They pay you until you die, but they scam you. If you put your apartment on the market, you’d get twice what they’re paying you, and on top of it all they act like they’re helping you out.

  They didn’t tell me that.

  And what do you want them to tell you? That they’re bastards? Have you ever seen a bank advertisement that says, come see us and we’ll suck you dry?

  Lorenzo seemed satisfied. He calmed down. We’ll work it out, but you’ll have to move in with me. We’ve got to stop it, I’ll figure out how. Leandro nodded. He didn’t want to say some typical nonsense like, I don’t want to be a bother. It would be more honest to say: I accept being a bother. He stood up. When he started to walk along the hallway, Lorenzo said something to him that hurt him deeply, shouldn’t you see a doctor?

  So that was it, thought Leandro, I’m sick. Nothing a few pills and a horrible-sounding diagnosis can’t cure. Maybe it would be better if he went to a psychiatrist, a rehabilitation cure. Get over his addiction to life. There was something else, learning to be old, passive, a shadow. Leandro wanted to reassure him, he wanted to tell him it had all been a fit of insanity, a transitory stupidity, and he would learn to respect himself again. But he only said, it won’t happen again.

  In the hospital hallway, he had met another old man who was there with his wife. I was sure I would die before her, the man said, as almost always happens. Leandro hadn’t ever thought about their departing order. In the last few months, he had time to prepare himself, to get used to the idea of being alone, of losing her. A number of times he heard Aurora say to her granddaughter, when they chatted, will you take care of your grandfather? Will you take care of him? And the girl promised that she would, of course.

  Will I reread Unamuno or Ortega to repeat the same old conversations with Manolo Almendros? Perhaps the poems of Machado or Rubén could be some comfort? And the flesh that tempts us with its fresh bunches of grapes, and the tomb that awaits us with its funereal branches. All of Bach, what about Mozart? Or give them both up? And Schubert? What would be his measuring stick? Undoing the tangled web of a life, taking what had gotten twisted up over the years and now undoing it, walking backward. Taking only what I brought to this house when I came to live in it? This last idea amused him. But he soon realized it canceled out what had given Aurora pleasure, what they had shared, bought together, listened to together, both read. Retracing the steps of an entire life. His threw out his retirement plaque that read “for your years of devotion and training, to our teacher,” because the only thing he did during all those years and with all those students was to try to bring Don Alonso back to life, to maintain his rectitude, his polite manner, his rigorous challenge to the most promising students, even intoning some Latin phrase that he now wouldn’t dare say out of a fear of sounding pedantic like Joaquín.

  He lingered over some scores, reciting the place and the period in which each was composed, you can’t play something without knowing its history. He repeated the anecdotes he had learned from his old teacher, it is a job, gentlemen, don’t forget that the author wrote every note with calculating coldness, it should be played with an iron discipline, but without forgetting its end goal was to provoke a bishop’s pleasure, or a count’s, or an emperor’s. Haydn composed for the Esterhazys and Beethoven composed the Sonata in B Major while recovering from a bout of jaundice, that is important when playing it. And Schubert composed the great Sonata in C Minor with traces of the “Pathetique” because Beethoven had just died and he felt himself a worthy heir. He could repeat some of his old teacher’s sentences word for word. It’s lighthearted, the composer was twenty years old, don’t play it as if it were composed by a mummy, a statue, take off that two-hundred-year-old tombstone and remember, too, that it was written in the month of May and from the window the composer could see a garden of birch trees surely filled with butterflies unimaginable today, so play it like a celebration, not like a punishment.

  Notes plus mood. Rigor plus intuition. Expressive freedom. We are what we convey. Let’s not betray it. That was what he would say. He dragged the old teacher along with him until he himself became an old teacher, similar yet different, an updated version. But he doesn’t know if someone is traveling around out there with the memories of his classes. Leandro thinks that life lasts longer than its players, like music, everything answers to a chaotic clock mechanism, to a fine-tuned device devoid of even the slightest precision.

  The closet was filled with old metronomes, music magazines saved for some forgotten article, press clippings, programs from every concert he had ever attended. He never kept a diary, but he has the feeling he is reading one over. The shirt I still wear some Sundays, the vest I use so much in the spring, the umbrella in good shape, one of the visor hats, the leather wallet, the best pencils, two belts, the less worn-out jacket, the scarf that was a birthday present, the handkerchiefs from the last Three Kings Day.

  This morning Sylvia is also at the hospital. She can barely speak anymore, he warns his granddaughter. He looks out the window. The sun alights on the trees and makes the greens pop. It is early. He has an idea. Should we take Aurora out for a walk? We could bundle her up and put her in the wheelchair. It might be dangerous, says Sylvia. In the sun it’s so nice. We have to do it now because your father would refuse flat out. Should I ask the nurses? No, go ask the doctor. Sylvia leaves the room while Leandro prepares Aurora’s things, her coat, which is in the built-in closet. Then he opens the wheelchair. Sylvia comes back, the doctor’s gone out, he’s not on this floor. They ask a nurse, who is against it, please, don’t even consider it. Are you crazy?

  When the nurse leaves, Leandro releases his bitterness, hospitals swallow you up, they finish you off. You enter through those doors like into the mouth of an animal that devours you whole. People used to die at home. Sylvia lets her head drop. She knows, thinks Leandro, that Aurora is closer to death than life. Death is something new for someone as young as his granddaughter. He likes the childish lightness with which Sylvia moves, her vague way of speaking without finishing her sentences and the way she shakes her hair and her whole body every time she walks. Compared to the prudent gait of the elderly, the shaky walk of those who peek out onto the hallway, Sylvia is an almost insulting breath of fresh air when she heads toward the elevator or accompanies him to the cafeteria with her long strides.

  Do you want to have breakfast with me? I’ve already missed my first class. Then go, hurry. And they say good-bye at the elevators. Some other day we’ll take her out, okay, Grandpa? Without saying anything to anyone. But Leandro suspects it will never happen. Among the customers crowded at the hospital bar is an African family. Leandro watches them carefully. There are two women with three small children. They have trouble explaining what they want. The waiter lists the beverages while they order. A coffee, yeah, with milk, okay, and what else? Leandro notices the gesture with which the man takes the exact change from the woman’s open palm. When he finishes charging her, he looks around to see if anyone is watching and Leandro looks away. The hospital bar is a mosaic, a small city, the aristocracy of doctors in white coats, the employees, the patients’ family members. Leandro considers himself a relic of another time, ready to disappear. Like when he looked into Osembe’s eyes and discovered a world that could no longer comprehend his own.

  The world of the liv
ing.

  3

  Like the first few times, like in the beginning of their relationship, Lorenzo goes to the church to meet up with Daniela. Now he doesn’t arrive early, but rather when he knows the service has already begun. He sneaks in through the back door. He finds a spot in the last few rows, under the curious gaze of people who turn around when they hear the noise of the street.

  He has the feeling that everything he’s built has fallen like a house of cards. The process of decomposition has been quick. In the last few weeks, every meeting with Daniela had been a step backward. First the firing. From the very beginning, Daniela had adopted the position of guilty victim. Don’t say nothing happened, Lorenzo, of course something happened. We did something wrong. You came into the house without any right to do so, I let you in without permission. Don’t lie.

  The recriminations grew. It was your lust that made me lose my job. I provoked you and wasn’t able to keep you out of the house. Lust? What century is that word from? Why don’t you say love? Because love is respect. And I don’t respect you? Of course you do, but we didn’t respect their house.

  It was perhaps a terrible coincidence that these discussions took place during Holy Week. Daniela seemed to be steeped in a martyr spirit. It was impossible to find a new job during the holidays, and that gave her more than enough time to fret. Lorenzo’s mother was in the hospital and it kept his nights filled. Wasn’t that a sacrifice? During the day, he looked for Daniela, he tried to piece back together what was broken. They went to his apartment; Sylvia had gone camping with some classmates. They had three days to themselves. But Daniela was worried about being in the building, being so close to the couple she had worked for, what if I bump into them? You have nothing to be ashamed of. You really believe that? Why would I lower my head if I saw them?

  During lunch at his place, they worked on a strategy for finding another job. There is a nun that has a placement agency, she helped me the first time. I’m sure Wilson could find you something, he has hundreds of contacts, suggested Lorenzo. I don’t like Wilson’s contacts, she said, abruptly closing the chapter. He takes advantage of people, it’s ugly. Well, he also helps them, interjected Lorenzo. No, helping is something else.

  Daniela continued to have a devastated outlook. They had started helping me with my papers. I’ll take care of that, don’t worry. I have to send money home. I can lend you some. Don’t even say that. Lorenzo felt a real desire to hold her and make love to her, but he held himself back, he didn’t want to be rebuffed. Your daughter must think I’m crazy, seeing me cry like that, she said to Lorenzo. No, not at all, she told me you were very pretty.

  When they finished eating, she insisted on washing the dishes. Lorenzo embraced her from behind. He played with her hands under the water and foam and then he wet her bare forearms. He remained glued to her. You’re aroused, warned Daniela. Very much so, he responded. Come on, wait for me in the bed, I’ll be there soon.

  Lorenzo obeyed. He went to his room and undressed. He got between the sheets of his unmade bed, which he straightened with two flutters. Then he thought better of it and put his underwear back on. She took her time coming. For a second, Lorenzo no longer heard the sound of dishes in the sink and he thought she had gone. But then there was a sound of the toilet flushing. When she opened the door to his room, Lorenzo smiled at her from the bed. Daniela went to the window. She lowered the blinds. The room was in almost complete darkness. Lorenzo felt the mattress sink when she sat down. She took off her sneakers, then her pants. Then her T-shirt, which she folded and arranged beside the pants on the floor, on the little rug. Lorenzo hugged her. He kissed her on the shoulders and ran first his fingers and then his lips over the marks on her back. Are they injuries? My father was very strict, until he left us, was all she said.

  Lorenzo caressed her body, you’re so lovely, but Daniela said nothing. She didn’t stop him from taking the straps of her bra off her shoulders or removing it, after a struggle unhooking it that made them both laugh. Lorenzo caressed Daniela’s sex over her panties and then beneath them. She seemed aroused, willing. When Lorenzo lay on top of her, he heard her whisper, yes, come on, give it all to me, let’s go. Following Lorenzo’s rhythmic movements, her hands invited him to speed up. Like that, like that, you like it? I’m your whore, I don’t mind being your whore, give it to me.

  Lorenzo had never heard her talk like that. Twice he tried to lie down and put her on top of him, but Daniela’s hands clung tightly to him. She turned her face and panted with closed eyes. It was so different from her usual attitude that Lorenzo even wondered if she was faking it. He stuck his thumb in her mouth, Daniela bit it without hurting him. She kept repeating obscenities into his ear. Lorenzo pulled out to come onto her belly, they remained there, damp, stuck to one another.

  You’re afraid, right? You finished outside of me, she added a moment later. I don’t know if you are taking anything. What does it matter? Are you afraid of getting me pregnant? It was the first time Lorenzo thought, with the detachment of a recent orgasm, that she was crazy. But her tone was sweet and affectionate. It wasn’t psychotic or threatening. I thought that was normal, he said. It’s easy to have sex without going all the way, as if it were just a game, but it’s nicer to have sex and go all the way. I would have really liked you to finish inside me.

  I don’t know, it’s better to talk about these things first, discuss them calmly. You never asked me. Okay, Daniela, please, let’s be straight with each other, does this have something to do with religion?

  What makes you say that?

  For the first time, Daniela acted offended. You don’t understand anything. Did I force you to do anything? Did I ask you to go to church, to believe in anything? I went to bed with you without getting any promises out of you … Excuse me, I don’t understand.

  Beneath the sheets, Daniela took Lorenzo’s hand and placed it on her still damp belly. She dragged it from the top of her breasts to her pubic hair. All this is yours, I am giving it to you.

  Daniela turned her back to Lorenzo. He turned over and took her by the shoulders after a moment, which was a relief, because his hemorrhoids were killing him, but he didn’t say anything. He started to brush up against her again. He said, do you want to have a baby with me? Is that what you want? Well, let’s go for it, let’s do it, come on, I want it, too. But Lorenzo stopped, fell back onto the mattress. This is ridiculous, he said, I can’t have a child now, I’m sorry.

  You’re a coward, Lorenzo. You still have so much to change.

  They stayed there for a long time, without moving, without saying anything. Daniela stood up sometime later and dressed. Are you leaving? Don’t you want to shower? No, I like to take you with me. Lorenzo wanted to keep her, pull her back down beside him. When he stood up he asked, what do you want from me? What can I do?

  Pronouncing the words with a firm but sweet musicality, Daniela told him, I only ask that you don’t turn me into your whore. That’s all I ask of you. Respect and love.

  Days passed. They saw each other again as if nothing had happened. They went out for a walk one evening, took the metro out of the neighborhood, and Lorenzo took her by the waist. He liked to do that in front of everyone. He believed it made her feel good. A group of teenagers came into the car, there weren’t more than five girls, but they made a scene and attracted the passengers’ attention. Profusely made-up, coiffed with dubious taste, several of them wore miniskirts above their thighs. Daniela looked at them with a certain displeasure. One of them, the most willowy, drank from a liter bottle of beer that she carried inside a white plastic bag. Nobody said anything to her, but she spoke loudly. She was talking about boys in a crude way. Lorenzo always thought of his daughter when he saw a group like that. Maybe when she was out of the house she acted the same, but he doubted it. He had been lucky with her. Lorenzo looked at the group of girls sadly. Time will crush them, all that defiance they now spit disdainfully in our faces will dry up one day and they’ll turn into what they
most hate.

  Lorenzo and Daniela went to the Retiro, they looked at the kids on the swings, on the ropes, on the slides. Neither of them brought up the conversation that had been interrupted. What can I offer her? Where am I going wrong? Her last comment in his bedroom had remained in his head, unsettled. The moral abyss between them was so vast that the couple he longed for seemed impossible.

  Lorenzo accompanied her to a job interview in a house on the outskirts of the city. He waited for her in the van. It wasn’t far from Paco’s neighborhood, from where he had died. Lorenzo thought of him. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Daniela the truth, to open up to her. What would he say? She emerged from the interview with her head bowed, they want someone who knows English and can teach it to the children. Lorenzo wanted to take her to the old folks’ home where he went to visit Don Jaime. She thought it was a good idea. He’s a curious guy, Wilson and I emptied out his apartment, now he lives in a home. He’s alone, he doesn’t have anyone, sometimes I pass by and sit with him.

  The visit wasn’t different than other times, the same polite phrases, the same absence. Don Jaime smiled when they came in, or at least Lorenzo thought he did. Daniela stroked his hand when they stood up to leave. Why do you go to see him, Lorenzo? she asked on the way home. I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. But it makes you feel good. Right?

  Yeah, I guess so.

  That night, like the previous ones, he invited her up to his place, but she didn’t want to come. Then he suggested taking her home and sleeping there together. She said no.

  No, not tonight.

  4

  Ariel wasn’t surprised the day his name didn’t appear on the blackboard listing the eighteen players chosen for the final game. In the previous match, in Vitoria, he had spent the best minutes on the bench and the coach only conceded him the last ten to overcome a score of one to zero. His substitution was justified. He was coming back from an injury. And it wasn’t the ideal field for a vulnerable ankle. It was as muddy out there as a stable. Every stride forced two movements, the forward one and the one to extract your foot from a puddle of mud. But Ariel remembered something Dragon used to say, in the worst conditions, on the worst fields, the best is still the best. Husky tells him about the statements the coach made in the press conference postgame. At this point in the championship, I also start to think about the upcoming season and the players who are going to continue with us.