The Fragility of Bodies

by Sergio Olguin

  He walked the blocks between his hostel and the plaza at an unhurried pace. It was early, and he wanted to enjoy every moment of that Saturday. When he arrived at the meeting point his daughter and mother were not yet there. He sat on a free bench and contemplated the chilly spring morning. It would be hotter next month. If it had still been winter he would have had to get a warmer jacket than the one he had, which was only good for days like these.

  He caught sight of his mother and daughter before they saw him. They were holding hands, distracted by the children who were running around, some of them playing with a ball. Martina wore a pink padded jacket with a fake-fur-lined hood. He knew the lengths Andrea would have gone to to make sure that her daughter was well nourished, went to school and wore good clothes. Four years in which he had been absent, making trouble, harassing his own family. He also thought about his mother, who had sacrificed her life to help Andrea and Martina – to help him in other words – to the detriment of his siblings. These days they treated Rafael with contempt or indifference as a way of expressing the jealousy they felt about the love shown him by their mother. When his mother and daughter finally saw him, Rafael stood up to greet them.

  “Daddy, you look different, like someone much less old.”

  “I’m not old.”

  His mother stroked his cheeks, as though feeling for traces of his lost beard. Then she went off to stroll around the square. She preferred to leave them alone. To give them that short time to get to know each other. Martina must have a clear recollection of her father’s presence in their home. She had lived through the chaos that he generated, and had suffered more than anyone when he left the house. She had kept asking for him, though, demanding to see him. She had asked her mother and got nowhere. So she had tried with her grandmother, who had promised her that, when her father was well, she would take Martina to see him, even if her mother was against it. And the grandmother had kept her promise, because here was Martina, with Bushy in one hand and the other holding her father’s, on the way to the drinks stand.

  Martina told him everything; each time they met, her aim was to provide her father with a second-by-second reconstruction of her life. What the house she lived in was like, what school was like. She told him about her teacher, her classmates, her best friend. She explained, in detail, what a greatest common divisor and a minimum common divisor were. She repeated, from memory, a lesson on San Martín, the liberator of Argentina, Chile and Peru, and she challenged him to ask her the capital cities of all the Argentine provinces. Chubut was the only one she was unsure about. She told him that she didn’t like playing with the boys at school because they were all rough, but that she did like playing soccer. That she had two friends in the house: El Peque and Dientes. Rafael told her that he remembered the two boys. That he hadn’t seen Dientes for a long time, but that he often saw El Peque at the club where he worked, because he played soccer there.

  “Poor Peque,” Martina said. “He hasn’t been out of his room for more than a week. His mum says that he’s ill.”

  Then it dawned on Rafael that he hadn’t seen El Peque at the club for days. He hadn’t paid much attention to his absence because all of them had been so upset by the news that Vicen had been killed by a train in Ciudadela. They had found out about this at the club the same way as everyone else: first through a news item on television which didn’t name the victim. Then a few days later somebody brought in a copy of Tiempo Argentino, in which there was a piece naming the boy who had been run over by a train as Vicente Garamona, Vicen, the boy who came from Ciudad Oculta to play soccer at the club. Rafael couldn’t believe that a life might be cut short by something as stupid and dangerous as playing on train tracks. Somebody, one of the regulars who idled away their afternoons between card games and moscato wine, remembered that another boy who used to come to the club had lost an arm in similar circumstances.

  Everyone wondered what Vicen could have been doing in Ciudadela, so far from where he lived. Somebody said that boys from the shanty town ran all over the city looking for cardboard to sell or stealing stereos from cars. Rafael didn’t say anything as he poured out the glasses of wine, but for him it was obvious that, if the boy was larking around on the tracks, he hadn’t gone to Ciudadela to steal things. Even so, he couldn’t understand what he had been doing so far away, what he had been up to. Thinking of Vicen had briefly taken his mind away from his daughter. For a moment he was terrified to think that something could happen to her, a child as small and fragile as that boy was. Hearing Martina’s voice reassured him.

  “But his mum doesn’t know the truth.”

  “What doesn’t she know?”

  “That he isn’t ill.”

  “He’s pretending to be ill so that he doesn’t have to go to school?”

  “No. He’s mad. He’s gone mad.”

  “Come on, it can’t be as bad as that.”

  “Dientes told me. He said that El Peque had seen something that made him go mad.”

  “Something?”

  “He saw someone die. Dientes says that El Peque told him not to tell anyone that he saw another boy die.”

  “And how did he see this?”

  “I don’t know. But Dientes says that the boy exploded into a thousand pieces, like in a horror movie.”

  “Dientes said that to scare you. It must be made up.”

  “Nothing scares me.”

  II

  In the last few months, Rafael had become friends with Julián – you could almost say he was his only friend, not counting the people he had met on the rehabilitation programme. Julián was not his real name, though he had one that was a little bit similar: Xian. He was Chinese and ran a convenience store a few yards from the hostel where Rafael lived. Xian had decided to call himself Julián, his wife called herself Elsa and they had called their daughter, who was born in Argentina, Juliana.

  It had started as a simple business relationship. Rafael often went to Julián’s store to buy what he needed for the day: ham, bread, spaghetti, rice, sachets of Tang powder for juice, hamburgers, toilet paper, soap, crackers, yerba maté. Not much else. Gradually, Julián started showing his curious side. Not so much in relation to Rafael’s life, but to Argentine customs. He might ask him what he should do if his van was involved in an accident, or where he should go to get vaccinated against measles, or why, when preparing maté, the water must not be boiled. Rafael gave brief answers to start with, but soon he discovered that Julián was not only willing to learn about life in Argentina but keen to talk about himself, too. Then Rafael took his cue to start asking the questions. That way he found out that Julián had arrived in the country five years previously, that he had lived in London for two years before that. That he had been born in Beijing and that Elsa, his wife, was from a little town three hundred miles from the Chinese capital.

  “Me, city man. She, country woman.”

  Julián was a teacher of martial arts and a writer. He had published a book on kung fu techniques.

  “I sold many thousands of copies. I earned nothing. Everything for the state. That’s why I left.”

  In London he had taught kung fu and tried to translate the book, but he couldn’t get used to the city. Since he already had a lot of relatives in Buenos Aires, they suggested he move there. It wouldn’t be difficult to start a business if he could count on the support of his fellow countrymen.

  “I paid for everything. No debts and no enemies. Everyone happy,” he said and laughed because that was the name of the convenience store: Todos Contentos.

  Their friendship would not have progressed from that of a shopkeeper and his customer (like the kind Rafael remembered from his childhood in Bernal, when his father used to spend the evenings chatting to the owner of the local store while they ate little pieces of provolone cheese) if it hadn’t been for Julián telling him one day that he wanted to support a soccer club. Could he recommend one? Rafael told him that he was an Independiente fan.

  “Red make me thi
nk my country flag. Another team.”

  “Let me think. You could support Boca, River, Huracán, Chacarita. Any of them apart from Racing.”

  “Chacarita. I like this name: Chacarita.”

  “I should warn you that they’re about to be relegated.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The love for the shirt is stronger. I, from today, fan of Chacarita.”

  A few weeks later Chacarita were playing against Independiente in San Martín and Julián invited him to go and watch. They went together to the Chacarita terraces. Julián didn’t get to celebrate much because the Reds won two–nil, but he had already familiarized himself with his team’s line-up and even insulted the coach with impressively accurate cheek. As they travelled home on the 114 (Julián not wanting to talk or ask questions, too depressed by the defeat), Rafael told him about his history of addiction, about his daughter and Andrea. When they got off the bus, Julián said to him:

  “You are strong. I like strong people. In kung fu, I taught people to use their spirit. You are a fighter and you have already won some battles. That is very good.”

  Perhaps because of those words, when Andrea did finally call him on the mobile, Julián was the one Rafael told. Julián nodded as he heard the news, gave his wife and employees a couple of instructions in Chinese and said to him:

  “Let’s go to the cafe.”

  That was the first time that they sat down together at one of the tables in the old bar, Por La Vuelta, on the corner of Zambroni and Obligado. The waitress, who looked to be in her late teens, brought them two strong espressos.

  “She sounded very serious. I said that I’d like us to see each other, speak to each other. She wasn’t at all sure about us meeting, but eventually she agreed.”

  “She is scared to imagine that you are well and to see you looking bad. But she’s going to see you well. You don’t need to worry.”

  Since he didn’t have to go to work until the afternoon, the hours passed unhurriedly for Rafael that morning. He wished he could stay there, in the bar, a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, listening to Julián’s slightly shrill voice. Going to Spring Breezes made him feel uncomfortable. He couldn’t pretend to be blind. Invisible to others, yes. Blind himself, no.

  III

  Because Rafael knew that something was going on and that Rivero was responsible. He could tell that simply from observing the coach, who walked around the club as though he owned it. In fact, he was the one who took decisions that ought to have been made by the club’s president, an old man who smoked Toscano cigars and spent his time playing cards with the other pensioners.

  But if there was one thing Rafael had not expected, it was that Rivero himself would approach him and open the door to a place that he did not know if he was willing to go. It was one afternoon when the conversation he had had with Martina about El Peque was still very fresh in his mind and when the memory of the boy who had been killed on the tracks had not yet faded among the club’s regular patrons.

  Rivero had installed himself at one of the tables in the bar. He had ordered a Fernet with cola and, when Rafael took it over to him, he asked him to stay, to sit down, because he wanted to talk to him. Rafael had not spoken to anyone about his doubts. Rivero could not know about them, unless he was a mind reader. Or unless he was cannier, more observant than him.

  “I hear you have a daughter. How old is she?”

  “Ten years old.”

  “Ah, that’s a nice stage. No messing around with boyfriends yet.”

  Rafael didn’t want to offer him anything of himself, not even a fake smile. So he merely nodded and waited for Rivero to get to the point.

  “What you earn here can barely be enough for a pot to piss in, am I right? Especially if you’re separated – because you are separated, aren’t you? What with giving money to the witch, and the kid who needs books and pens, and some girlfriend you want to take out. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Not right now.”

  “And forget it if you want to go to a strip club. Those chicks get more expensive all the time. Bah, that’s life. Listen, my friend, would you like to earn a bit extra?”

  “Yes, I’m interested in any kind of paying work.”

  “OK, let me explain. First, a question: do you like soccer, do you go to games?”

  “Yes, quite a bit.”

  A lion, that was what Rivero seemed to him. A lion, well fed, powerful, not frightened of anything. Who could afford to be generous even with the prey he was about to eat.

  “Look, I need someone I can trust. Someone on the ball, who knows how to pay attention. This club is a seedbed. The kids come here and we nurture them. We bring in urchins off the street and turn them into fine players. And from here they go on to Argentina Juniors, to Vélez, to River. We can be proud of the quality of our kids’ game. If it weren’t for the fact that the club’s such a shithole, we could be playing in the best junior leagues, but what can you do? The president prefers to have these old farts in here playing cards. Don’t you think we should get shot of all these oldsters?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  Or perhaps one of those circus lions. Who seem tame but can suddenly pounce and deliver a fatal mauling.

  “What I want is to keep supplying the youth academies of the big clubs with good players. And for that I need people. Because most of the lads playing here we find kicking balls about in the streets, in the squares. I’ve got people on the lookout in those areas, I myself go out every weekend to scout for boys. I probably look like an old paedo eyeing up the children. But the truth is that that’s the way to find the best players.” Rivero took a long drink of his Fernet and cola. He wiped his mouth with his hand and went on: “I won’t beat about the bush. I need someone to go looking for boys in the areas on the other side of the Dellepiane freeway. Do you know where I mean?”

  “Yes, I know the area.”

  “Even better. You need to go, watch the boys who are playing soccer, have a chat with them and bring the ones who are worthwhile back to the club. Notice that I said ‘worthwhile’, and not ‘best’. Because one thing is not always the same as the other. I’m not interested in the skilled-up little shit who wants to be a star. Don’t get me wrong; if you find a Tevez then grab him and bring him over. But what I’m after is a boy with a bit of spirit, someone who’s ahead of the game. And for that I need you to know about psychology as much as soccer. Talk to the boys. If they seem like delicate flowers who’ll get their dads onto you for the slightest thing, I’m not interested. The best ones are the lads who can look after themselves. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so. Boys with the spirit of men.”

  “Exactly. You said it. I can see we understand each other. It’s the kind of work you’ll have to do at the weekend or whenever you can fit it in. I’m not going to be hovering over you to make sure you do the right hours. There’s a hundred pesos a week in it for the work, but for every boy you bring who’s worthwhile, there’s another five hundred pesos. A nice figure, right? And I’ll pay you in cash, the moment the kid signs his club membership card. The hundred pesos you’ll get every Monday, whatever happens. Are we in business?”

  Rafael felt that he was putting his head in the lion’s mouth. A lion that was at that moment showing its teeth in a smile that looked paternal, affectionate but which opened all the same into the maw of a wild beast.

  “Yes, absolutely. This Saturday I’ll go and watch some kids play.”

  “Excellent. The best ones are the boys of about ten years old. What a shame you don’t have a son. If you did, you could bring him here and I’d turn him into a Maradona for you.”

  IV

  Two years ago he had also been clean. That was when he had joined a group of recovering addicts. It was at a Pentecostal church in Aldo Bonzi, run by a North American family. The process had been much easier than he was expecting. He hadn’t abandoned his previous friendships, though, and when his old associates saw that he wa
s clean they had offered him a quick and simple job: to go to Bolivia and bring back a packet containing a kilo of cocaine. The most tedious part of the job was the twenty-two hours it took to get there and back by coach. When he arrived back in Buenos Aires with his delivery he got paid the agreed amount and decided to call Andrea to show her how well he was. Grudgingly, she had agreed to meet him in a bar on Avenida Eva Perón. He had thought of proposing that they get back together.

  But nothing turned out as Rafael had expected. Andrea had arrived and started talking without leaving him any space to show himself to be a reformed man ready to start a new life. She said that she had been going out with someone for a few months, that he and she couldn’t go back to being a couple. That she was very happy to see him well, recovered and working but that he should forget any idea of getting back together with her. Their only bond was Martina, nothing else.

  Rafael left that meeting with confusion in his head and hopelessness in his heart. For hours he walked aimlessly until he felt a thirst in his throat that grew until it took over his whole body. He went into a seedy bar near Liniers station and asked for a whisky. They brought him a rough Criadores which scoured the walls of his stomach. He had never been sure about what happened after that – it was one of many moments of amnesia that he experienced in those years. All he could remember was that days later he found himself drinking beer and snorting coke in a drugs den some distance from the capital, that somebody had a revolver on the table and that he didn’t have a single peso left from the money he had made from his trip to Bolivia.

  So began a precipitous fall that took him ever further from Andrea. That was why, now that they were meeting again, he knew that he was walking a tightrope, twenty yards above the ground and with no safety net.