He spoke in a loud voice, like you would imagine a soccer coach might speak. He spoke as though he were giving orders. He could be a coach, a policeman or the kind of father who demands old-fashioned courtesy.
“How old are you?”
Dientes distrusted adult males. They had killed his father. Any adult could be a murderer. He looked at all of them and thought that they could be to blame for leaving him fatherless.
“We’re already full in that division, but if you want to stay…”
Dientes didn’t say either yes or no. He went to one side of the room and sat there, watching how El Peque submitted to the coach’s orders.
Rivero told El Peque that boys were expected to come with their parents the first time, but that for him he was going to make an exception. He sent him to the office, where an old woman made him fill out a form with his details. When he came back to the pitch, the coach got him to practise with the other boys. They did a few exercises which El Peque found boring and finally played a twenty-minute game. They agreed to see each other the following Thursday.
“I have to come back on Thursday,” El Peque told Dientes.
“Well, then memorize the route, because I’m not coming with you.”
II
If El Peque had envisaged a club where shirts, shorts and boots would all be provided, he was wrong. Spring Breezes was a club befitting the neighbourhood in which it found itself. The boys played in whatever clothes they were wearing. At most, they might all agree to try and wear a red T-shirt or a white one. Later he found out that they were planning a raffle to raise money to buy a set of shirts. That the older boys had done this and that there was already a club kit for the senior divisions: violet with a yellow diagonal stripe from right to left. At least there was a leather soccer ball in better condition than the one they usually used in the plaza, or in the street.
They trained twice a week and played in between. Breezes wasn’t registered in any championship or league, so it didn’t compete in official games with other teams, but every now and then friendlies were organized with other clubs in the area. The boys travelled in a beat-up school bus driven by an old man who either was, or had been, or appeared to be drunk.
Rivero wasn’t a friendly coach, or even a nice one. He gave a few directions and raised his voice when something was done badly, but nothing made him passionate. In fact he often seemed distracted, or tired, or uninterested. It was hard to imagine him saying that “his boys” meant the world to him, for the simple reason that he didn’t seem to feel that this group of headstrong young soccer players belonged to him. He was different with El Peque, though, or at least he swore at him less and every so often he would say, “That’s right, Peque, that’s the way.” And El Peque was far from being the best. He wasn’t very skilful, but he was a plucky defender. He attacked every ball and wasn’t afraid of kicks. Receiving them or giving them.
When they had finished that day’s activity, they would all chip in for a litre-and-a-half bottle of Pepsi in the club bar. It was difficult for El Peque to get hold of the cash, and for that reason he sometimes didn’t even have one coin to put towards the communal purchase. Even then, Rafael, who worked behind the bar, was charging them half what was written on the price list.
Rafael was young, bearded and scrawny, with a permanently vacant expression, but he was kind to the boys. Once he said to El Peque and another of the boys:
“I’m not going to be able to sell these sandwiches now and it seems a shame to throw them out. Why don’t you two take them?”
So he gave them three salami and cheese rolls. And he always had something to give them – to El Peque and the other boys. A sandwich, a plate of breadsticks or peanuts, potato chips – a bit on the soggy side perhaps, but still potato chips.
One day, when nobody else was there, he surprised El Peque by saying:
“I know you. You live in that house on Cañada de Gómez and Salvador.”
“Yes,” said El Peque, somewhat warily.
“I thought I’d seen you. I mean, this was when I was younger. I used to live there.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Children never notice grown-ups.”
“Now there are two women living there with a girl, and in the other room is a man on his own, as well as us and the landlady.”
El Peque got back to his house at around eight o’clock, by which time his mother was already home and cooking dinner. She didn’t mind him going to the club, so long as he did his homework. El Peque lied about this all the time, telling her that he had already done it, but generally he did get it done the next morning, albeit hurriedly.
Rivero also asked him about his mother, his father and if he had contact with him. El Peque didn’t much like talking about that kind of thing. However, he told him that he had seen photos of his father – in reality he had only seen one, which his mother kept in a box in the dresser, beneath some folded sheets. She was in the photo with his father and him as a baby, in a plaza in Corrientes.
In a short time Rivero found out about his mother’s work, where they lived, his younger siblings, his neighbours and that photo of his father. And about Rivero, El Peque knew simply that he was the head coach at Spring Breezes, that they spoke respectfully to him in the club and that sometimes he would join a table with some card players who drank wine and smoked.
One day they had finished a bit later than usual. Rivero told him to stay back because he wanted to speak to him. The other children dispersed quickly, hurried on their way by the late hour and the cold. El Peque put on his coat and sat waiting on the cement step that served as Breezes’ humble rostrum. Rivero came over, smoking, and stood in front of him.
“Peque, you’re a brave boy. You play on the front foot. I like that in a player. Not like those faggots who take a dive at the first kick or think they’re Maradona because they play a one-two.”
El Peque couldn’t help thinking – despite these words of praise – that he was about to be thrown out of the club. Not because he was bad, but because he couldn’t pay the membership fee or because he rarely contributed anything towards the Pepsi.
“I know you’ve got money problems, right?”
“My mother works in a lot of houses so that my little brothers can go to school and eat.”
“But you’d like to have a bit of pocket money, wouldn’t you? Every lad wants to have a bit of cash. And the older they get, the more they want.”
El Peque didn’t answer. Rivero took it for granted that they were in agreement on this point.
“So I have a proposal for you. Look, I don’t make this offer to everyone. Only a select few. Ever since I saw you in the park I’ve been thinking that you could be one of them. So I’m going to propose a deal that will make you some good money. To avoid misunderstandings, I’ll tell you straight off that this isn’t for cissies. I don’t mix with faggots. What I’m about to offer you is only for really tough boys. It’s not for anyone.”
El Peque was putting all his attention into understanding each word as it was spoken, but so far none of it was clear to him.
“What I’m proposing here is that you take part in a competition. A competition between two brave boys. There are some games that aren’t shown on TV and which people like to watch, to place bets on, who knows. Like cockfights. Have you ever seen cockerels fighting each other on TV? Well, this is something similar. I’ve got friends who love placing bets on which guy is braver. It’s easy. Two boys stand on the railway track and wait for the train to get closer. When they think it’s close, they jump to the side and that’s it. Nobody makes them do anything. You can see the train coming from three blocks away, and if you decide you don’t want to stay on the track you jump off, job done. Don’t tell me that isn’t easy. It’s easy as pie, especially for a kid like you.”
“You want me to go and stand on a train track and wait for the train to come?”
“That’s about the size of it. Obviously I’ll take you to the place
where the competition is going to happen. I’ll drive you there and take you home afterwards. It’s you against another boy. I’m sure you know him. It’s Cholito.”
El Peque had seen him once or twice. He played with the under-twelves at Breezes.
“I’ll take you both. We wait for the train to come. Whenever you feel like it, you jump to one side and off you go with your money. That’s the best thing about it. You get twenty pesos just for showing up. Twenty. Even better, I pay you before you get on the track. And if you manage to stay on longer than Cholito you get – listen to this – one hundred pesos. A hundred smackers just for you, to buy whatever you want, to spend on all the things you like. Have you ever seen a one-hundred-peso bill? You can walk away with one in less than ten minutes. What do you think?”
Twenty pesos. A hundred pesos. When in his life would he be able to make a sum like that?
“Are you up for it?”
“Yes, yes.”
“You know what? I always knew that you were going to say yes. You’re as tough as they come. You’re going to go far in soccer. In fact, if you carry on like this, next year I’ll take you to try out for Boca or River.”
Twenty pesos. A hundred pesos.
“One other thing. People can be idiots. So I’m going to ask you, I’d almost say I’m going to insist, that you do not tell anyone. Because the likelihood is that if they find out they won’t let you take part and then you can wave goodbye to the money. You’ll never see another peso.”
As he was leaving, El Peque ran into Rafael, who shot him a questioning look. El Peque said a quick hello and ran back to his barrio, head spinning. He couldn’t tell anyone. Not even Dientes.
III
He didn’t have many options to choose from. He put on his newest sneakers, which were not different in any way from the oldest ones. He would have liked to have a padded jacket. He thought that something like that could be useful in case the train got too close. With a good padded jacket he could wait until the train touched him then fire off it, like a cannonball. Or more like a soccer ball, bouncing off the engine and then falling onto the road or landing in the branches of a tree or some electricity cables. But he would have to make do with his usual jacket, which was warm enough but as thin as the coat on a skinny dog. Underneath that he put on the thick sweater he usually kept for special occasions. After all, tonight was a special occasion.
Lies and promises. He told his mother that the Breezes team was going to play a game at River’s home ground and that he had a lift there and back. His mother wasn’t sure about letting him go. He was going to get back very late. She didn’t like him being out and about at night. He told her that the club’s coaching staff were very good and that if he played the game they would take him to try out for the Boca youth academy. He promised to do his homework early and that he wouldn’t hang about in the street when they brought him back that night.
Rivero picked him up on the corner of Zelarrayán and Gordillo. In fact they were already waiting for him halfway down the block. He climbed into the back seat already occupied by Cholito, who gave him a frosty look and didn’t even say hello. Rivero was driving, and in the passenger seat was a man who didn’t introduce himself but said to him, “Here comes our champion.” That man – who had a black leather jacket like the kind bikers wear – spent the whole trip talking on the phone. From what El Peque could understand, he was telling everyone he spoke to that they were on their way.
After going up and down hundreds of streets and avenues which El Peque had never seen before, they arrived at a railway crossing. They drove across the tracks and parked a few yards further on. When they got out of the car and were standing on the sidewalk, El Peque saw that Cholito was wearing a padded jacket. Rivero gave each of them twenty pesos. El Peque put the money in his good trouser pocket.
There were various parked cars around with people inside them. Some people got out and walked towards the barriers, which were still raised. Then there were other cars – between five and ten – parked on the other side of the tracks. The man who had come in their car kept talking on his phone. “Five minutes,” he said loudly, as though announcing the start of a show.
“This is Peque, and you already know Cholito,” Rivero said, addressing the rest of the men and then, looking at the boys, he added: “All right boys, we’re expecting the best of you.”
The other man crossed over to the other side of the tracks. He had a notebook in which he was jotting down what the others said to him. El Peque heard each of the men say one of their names: “Peque” or “Cholito”.
Rivero, still in his role as coach, was giving last-minute directions.
“Boys, you have to stand right beside each other. You can’t step backwards. Whenever you think the time’s right, jump to the side of the track that you’re standing on. Take up your positions. Peque, take half a step back. That’s it. Stay right there. May the bravest one win.”
However hard he looked, El Peque could see nothing in front of him. Nor could he hear a train in the distance or anything that sounded like it. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the men standing on the sidelines had retreated and he could no longer make them out.
“You should jump quickly,” Cholito told him.
“So should you.”
“Do you know Negro Mauro?”
“No.”
“He waited for ages and when he jumped the train hit him. Moron lost an arm.”
“What a moron.”
“So jump quickly.”
He wanted to scare him. There was no doubt that he wanted to scare him. El Peque saw a light that was coming closer but that was still very far away. So should he jump now?
The light began to grow. Slowly, it was getting bigger.
Twenty pesos. He had twenty pesos in his pocket. That was already fantastic. He should jump.
The light was coming towards him. It couldn’t be very far away now. Beside him, Cholito was like a statue.
A hundred pesos.
A padded jacket, some new sneakers. What can you buy with a hundred pesos?
It wasn’t a light. It was a shining ball getting bigger all the time. A giant ball rolling towards them, making a terrifying noise.
“Jump, dickhead, what are you waiting for?”
A hundred pesos. He was waiting for a hundred pesos.
It was like when the hardman from the other team came at you studs up. You had to calculate exactly the right moment to move your legs to avoid getting gouged by the son of a bitch.
It seemed to him that the train was howling. There was a terrible screech that frightened him in a way the light had not.
“Fuck’s sake,” shouted Cholito, and that was the last thing El Peque heard him say. Because Cholito threw himself to one side while he stayed in position.
Then he jumped.
The hardman on the other team arrives too late and you escape with the ball towards the goal.
It was like scoring a goal.
The train kept bellowing like an injured dinosaur.
A hundred pesos.
In the darkness he could make out Rivero gesturing at him to run towards the shadows. He ran. They got him into the car. Inside, Rivero was exultant. As he was driving he kept turning back to look at El Peque, shouting, “You won, you champion, you won!”
They drove around for a bit before arriving at the street corner where Cholito and the other guy were waiting. They got in. Cholito sat in the back and, as on the outward journey, said nothing. The guy gave El Peque a hundred-peso bill and asked for the twenty back.
They dropped him three blocks from his house. He hadn’t put the money in his pocket, but still held it tight in his hand. As he ran home he thought about the surprise he was going to give Dientes. He was so happy that he felt like crying.
5 The Others
I
They had both arrived in the building on the same day. Marcelo started work on the first of March and Verónica moved in then too, on
a day of suffocating heat. In truth, Marcelo had moved in the day before, with his wife, into a small apartment on the ninth floor, which served as the doorman’s living quarters. At seven o’clock the next morning he came out to wash the sidewalk and an hour later Verónica arrived in a removals van from which a couple of men began to unload furniture and packing boxes. Verónica introduced herself and Marcelo mentioned that it was his first day. She smiled at him.
“Then today is the first day of our new lives,” said Verónica, beaming.
It was more than five years now since that first encounter, and Verónica had marked every intervening anniversary by giving Marcelo a bottle of Rutini wine which he opened that same night to drink with his wife. He didn’t give her anything because doormen aren’t expected to give presents to the occupants of the buildings where they work, but he was always ready to help with any repair that needed to be made in Verónica’s apartment.
Perhaps there is no such thing as coincidence; perhaps there is a world of secretly magical encounters. If so, their arrival on the same day at that building on Calle Lerma had joined Marcelo and Verónica’s lives in a special way. At least he liked to think that, and he treated her differently to all the other neighbours. Obviously he liked her – a lot. Verónica was a pretty girl, tall and with short chestnut hair which put him in mind of a North American actress, a nice ass that made up for her small tits, a sweet voice and a captivating smile. She lived on her own, and he still indulged a fantasy of getting her into bed. But he didn’t want to make a false move. He wasn’t prepared to lose this job that it had been so hard to get, not least because he had lost his last job as the caretaker of a building for holding on to the service charge money too long, among other trivialities. He had been sacked without any compensation and would never have worked in his profession again if it had not been for his contacts in the building managers’ union, who had wiped his record clean and had even arranged this job for him. Besides, when he had arrived it had just been his wife and him, but two years ago his first child had been born and he couldn’t really play the romantic hero with the female residents like he had in previous jobs. He was thirty-five years old and had a family to look after. All the same, he still let his mind wander whenever Verónica called him to carry out some electrical or plumbing work in her apartment.
The Fragility of Bodies Page 8
