The Fragility of Bodies

by Sergio Olguin

  After a silence during which they could hear the whispering of the people sitting at the table, Malvino confessed that he was considering never driving a train again. El Gordo almost said something, but instead only murmured some platitude. Lucio found himself struggling to concentrate on what his friends were saying because the continuous murmur around seemed to be drilling into his head. Without thinking he told Malvino that he was making the right choice. “What a nightmare,” El Gordo lamented without any need to clarify to what he was referring. Malvino said that he was going to ask to be transferred to train dispatch. El Gordo remembered that, when the train he was driving crashed into a car, he had spent months terrified that at every railway crossing a car might try to get across as he was approaching. Malvino said that he didn’t feel fear, just hatred.

  “I hate that miserable son of a bitch who was on the line. If I ever come across the other one, I swear I’ll smash his head against the wall as if he were a cat.”

  “What a nightmare,” El Gordo repeated, like a mantra.

  “When I remember how I smashed into that kid I’m happy. Because he deserved it. They’re bastards. Those shitbags fuck your life up. All the people who throw themselves under trains are shitbags. And the idiots who fall over, who didn’t realize that a train was coming down the track, what are those bastards doing on the line? I never want to drive a train again, but if I did I’d mow them all down. I wouldn’t sound the horn and press the brake for that scum. They deserve to be crushed. No other solution.”

  They spent less than an hour with Malvino. Afterwards, in the elevator, El Gordo Denegri said:

  “He’s fucked.”

  Lucio didn’t answer. He felt too shaken by his own thoughts. Malvino had woken in him something he hadn’t known before: hatred. Because Lucio also hated the people he had run over. He wasn’t even going to exempt that young man who had given him the apologetic look. They were all scum. Malvino was right. He hated them and he hated that job and the kids who played at seeing who was more macho. And he hated the bastard who had jumped too late and burst beneath the compartments. The hatred burned in his chest and buzzed in his ears like the murmur of those other crazies in that shithole that he had no intention of ever visiting again.

  V

  She had managed to persuade Paula to meet for a chat. She needed to tell someone about what had been happening with Lucio. Paula’s only condition was that they not go to Martataka but somewhere quieter, and that the only alcohol be white wine. She had a hangover from a party she had been to the night before.

  They arranged to meet in Barman y Robin, a small bar in Las Cañitas that was still not very popular. Paula give her a rundown of the party she had been to. Neither of them was all that interested in the details, so it was a quick recap, over before they had finished the first round of wine.

  It took Verónica longer to recount the twists and turns of her relationship with Lucio.

  “It goes with the territory, I know that. But, well, there was a connection between us and, I admit it, I wanted to be with him. We looked for each other and we found each other. Then he started with this silent act, this married-with-kids hysteria. You’d think I’d know all about that kind of thing by now, but apparently not. I can’t tell you how surprised – no, furious – I feel when he gives me the silent treatment.”

  “Vero, if you just listened to yourself you’d find all the answers.”

  “Don’t go all Dalai Lama on me and start speaking in aphorisms.”

  “Let me explain. Have you read Lorrie Moore?”

  “A bit.”

  “OK. She has a story you have to read. It’s called ‘How to Be an Other Woman’ and it’s in her book Self-Help. It’s about a girl like you who gets involved with a guy like him. Although it has to be said that your guy sounds more interesting.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s no leeway with married men. They’re like library books. However much you like them, one day you have to take them back.”

  “The thing is, I don’t even want to keep the book. I just want the print to be clear.”

  “Deep down you want to keep it.”

  “Ah, well, now you’re getting Freudian.”

  “The married man is always a hysteric. He demands that you hang on every detail of his life, his wife, his children. If the youngest has got a temperature, he can’t see you. If it’s the wife’s birthday, ditto. You end up even knowing when his mother-in-law’s birthday is.”

  “October the eighth.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No, silly, it’s a joke.”

  “But the married man game is so perverse that even if you know about the mother-in-law’s birthday, that the dog has fleas and the cleaning lady didn’t turn up, you still know nothing about his life. Nothing essential.”

  “I understand that I don’t know about his life. In our relationship there are certain key filters that prevent me knowing or evaluating how complicated he can be, or probably it’s simply that he doesn’t want to be with me. I can’t know those things unless he tells me.”

  “And he doesn’t tell you.”

  “He just sits there, silent.”

  “You see? I hope that at least you’re having good sex, because a married man is only good for screwing if nothing better comes to hand. It’s madness to expect anything else.”

  “Pau, I think I hate you.”

  “It’s not advice I’m giving you, but a diagnosis: leave him before you feel you’ve wasted a big chunk of your life.”

  That same night Verónica wrote a long letter to Lucio. An email, if Lucio had an account. She kept it in a file of drafts and felt relieved, even though she knew that she would never send it. She went to sleep imagining Lucio’s body illustrated by her with a tattoo needle. She saw herself writing a love letter on his skin, while her man’s body became inflamed and bleeding with the pain.

  VI

  Federico was quick and efficient. He called her on Monday at lunchtime to say that he had investigated Juan García, that he had got hold of the Misiones case details and that he had his ID card number. But that was where the trail went cold: Juan García had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  “He sold some properties that were in his name and didn’t keep anything. From then onwards he didn’t buy cars, or property, or take out credit cards, or open a bank account, or make any social security payments, or pay any taxes. He has no driving licence, or any kind of insurance. Anyone would say he’s dead.”

  “But he’s not dead.”

  “Unless the dead vote. Which also wouldn’t be unheard of. The only place in which he appears is the electoral roll. The address given there is Avenida Julio Roca 3874.”

  “You’re a genius, Fede.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m better than a genius, I’m a practical man. Since the office boy spends most of the day twiddling his thumbs, I sent him to that address to get a clearer picture of how García lives. The office boy’s just got back and he says that the address doesn’t exist. That stretch of the avenue is the Parque Roca. And unless he lives inside the park as a forest ranger, it appears to be a fake address.”

  “There are no rangers in the Parque Roca. It’s fake. The address is in Comuna 8, right?”

  “Like all the kids who died under trains.”

  When she hung up, Verónica was furious. She felt as though Juan García were mocking her. They had to make that son of a bitch squirm. Verónica didn’t yet know how, but she would think of something. For now, she had to go into enemy territory. She had to go to Spring Breezes.

  13  Who Doesn’t Know Juan García?

  I

  Men who love soccer take particular pleasure in seeing a good kick-about and they may not even watch the whole encounter, because ten or twenty minutes are enough to know that those games, arranged informally, not respecting certain basic laws such as the offside rule, played without the benefit of a referee and depending for their success on a gentlemen’s agreemen
t to recognize fouls, throw-ins, the legality of goals – something not always honoured – those games can be much more engrossing than a professional fixture in a stadium, not to mention on TV, which represents the absolute adulteration of the sport of soccer converted into a mere game for multitudes who, in the majority of cases, will never know the joy of pulling off a rabona or a gambeta or getting thumped for trying to dribble a ball between two hulking defenders with a licence to kill, as often happens in a kick-about.

  There were no more than ten people watching those boys in the Plaza Calabria. Some of them must have been fathers or friends, because they were shouting out to the players using their names and giving directions. That small group spread out over the improvised field followed the action with a certain rhythm. The boys – meeting one another in teams of six or seven players – were between ten and fifteen years old. There was a striking variation in physique between the biggest and the smallest, as if the different ages or sizes had not been considered important when the teams were formed.

  Among those who stayed longer than usual watching the game was Rafael. He had spent much of the morning observing different games on various patches of land in the old neighbourhood of Parque Almirante Brown, and had continued on as far as Plaza Calabria. He was on the lookout for boys who seemed to be around the age Rivero had stipulated. He would watch for a few minutes and, once he had reached the conclusion that no special talent was hiding there, he moved on to a different part of the park, looking like a soccer lover who had all the time in the world on that springlike Saturday morning.

  For the last few minutes he had been watching those boys in the square; they moved quickly, with no tactical discipline, but with an astounding clarity when it came to knowing where to stop and where to go and look for the ball. As always, the defenders were shaky, hoofing the ball forward, terrorizing anyone who tried to cross them, especially because they were all at least a head taller than the rest of the boys. On one of the teams there was a dark-skinned boy, quite small, skinny, pure nerve, who played with the seriousness of an adult. In fact all of them played like that, as though they were in a cup final. The dark boy ran fast, closely controlling the ball, and had a mean left foot. He wasn’t afraid of being tackled and he knew how to place his body to mitigate the effects of the blow and at the same time hit back. The boy knew how to play soccer and was brave to boot.

  Rafael had arrived when the game was already under way, so he didn’t know what the score was, but while he was there the brave boy’s team scored four goals against two from the other side. When they finished playing there was hardly any celebration, as though the result were the least of it. The boys separated into groups and the one with the skills started walking with three others towards Avenida España. Rafael approached them. He congratulated them on how they had played and the boys, who must be used to praise, didn’t pay him much attention. He told the skilled one that he was from the Spring Breezes club and that they were looking for new players. He asked his age. The boy was eleven. Being small, he looked younger. He was called Jonathan. The others wanted to know which division Breezes played in. He explained to them that it was a five-a-side soccer club but that they often took boys to try out at Vélez and River, just as Rivero had briefed him. The four boys liked the sound of that. One asked if they could all go for a trial and Rafael told him that for now they were only looking to fill one position, but in the future, why not? Jonathan asked what the club colours were and if they would give him a shirt and shorts to play in. Violet and orange. Yes, they would give him the kit for official games, and the club would pay for it. That seemed enough to convince Jonathan, who said that he was definitely going to go. Rafael explained how to get to the club from the park. The boy knew the area very well and understood perfectly. Rafael gave the boys ten pesos to go and buy a Coke, and they went off happy.

  Rafael had his suspicions that Rivero wasn’t only looking for boys to put together a good soccer team. And while he entertained such suspicions, he ought not to bring any child to the club. But he also thought that, if he took no one, Rivero would make his life impossible. The best compromise was to bring a boy back while simultaneously trying to discover Rivero’s secret.

  II

  “So, old man?” García’s voice sounded imperious. And he, who was used to being the one who gave the orders, who said what could and couldn’t be done, was obliged to hang his head (even if the gesture couldn’t be seen, since this was a telephone conversation) and to use a tone of voice that García would accept as submissive. Rivero didn’t have to make an effort for his voice to come out that way. There had been years of working for García, of blind obedience. After all, it was only for a few minutes every day. The rest of the time he could do whatever he wanted, take it out on whoever he felt like. But he would have preferred to be like García, the man who never had to measure his tone. That was true power: not having to watch what you said.

  “So, old man?”

  “All done, boss, it’s all arranged.”

  “You’re screwing me around.”

  “It’s not easy, boss.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You have to be careful when it comes to kids.”

  “I’m losing money, old man. Do you know what that’s called? Lost profits.”

  “This new lad I’ve got looking —”

  “What new lad?”

  “The one who looks after the bar for me. He’s found one that could work.”

  “Could or will?”

  “Will.”

  “Don’t screw me around any more.”

  “And I’ve got another one.”

  “Watch out for the family.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, boss, you have to be careful.”

  “And the other little kid, the one who was good?”

  “He doesn’t want to know. I went to see him. I didn’t want to lean on him too hard. He’s got a mother.”

  “It’s going to be on Tuesdays now.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Two Tuesdays from now.”

  “That’s not very long.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No, no. But the thing is, you have to find a way to sell it to the kids.”

  “Sell it however you want, but I’ve already got a load of guys interested. It’s on the twenty-seventh.”

  “Yes, of course. No problem.”

  “Let’s see if you can wake up a bit.”

  “Yes. Just one question, boss.”

  “…”

  “Is everything sorted with the boy – Vicen’s – family?”

  “The mother cut up rough. Iriarte convinced her, and they’re leaving in a couple of days.”

  Rivero hung up with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was used to García’s orders, but he didn’t like lying to him. The boy Rafael had brought in was still green. He hadn’t had enough time to observe him. In any other circumstances he would have taken another couple of weeks to be sure that the kid could work. Plus, there was that other boy, the one called Dientes. He didn’t like it one bit that the boy had put himself forward for the tracks. It was the first time that had happened, and he considered it a bad omen. The fact that Dientes had found out and that he had approached him showed that anyone could get wind of it. He didn’t like the fact that El Peque had talked about it, or that these things were left to chance.

  He sat down at the table and Rafael appeared with the Fernet. He poured him out a generous measure, which was how he liked it.

  “Che, that kid you brought in…”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Are you sure that he was on his own in the park?”

  “He was with some friends.”

  “No family, I mean.”

  “Yes, he was on his own.”

  “And the other kids, none of them was a brother or an uncle?”

  “They were all more or less the same age as Jonathan. I don’t think they were relatives.”

  Co
uld he trust Rafael? The guy didn’t seem very switched-on. That could be good, or bad, depending on the circumstances. He took a long drink from his glass. There wasn’t much room for manoeuvre. Just two weeks. He’d have to pay a bit more attention than usual.

  III

  He had a two-peso note, a fifty-centavo coin, another of twenty-five, three tens and a five-centavo piece. Altogether, three pesos and ten centavos. El Peque stared at the money laid out on a step as if it were an oracle that could tell him the future. He didn’t know what an oracle was, but he had an aunt who could look at coffee grounds and tell the person who had drunk the coffee whether they would die or win the lottery. Without knowing what his lot would be, he carefully folded the note and put it in his trouser pocket with the coins. In the other pocket he had a piece of chewing gum. His mother would soon call him for dinner, but he put the gum in his mouth anyway. If his mother found out, she’d make him spit it out with a sharp blow on the neck.

  El Peque was sitting on the stairs that led to the terrace. From there he could see the courtyard and main door. He neither wanted to go up to the terrace nor down to the courtyard. Dientes must be doing his homework or getting washed. He chewed the gum with indifference and boredom.

  It was getting dark, but he still recognized him. Rafael had come in, the man who worked in the club bar. He was carrying some shopping bags, and after stepping over the threshold he paused for a few seconds, as though unsure what to do next. He must have been sent by Rivero to persuade El Peque to go back and play at the club, or to take part in the competition on the railway again. Or perhaps he had come to kill him because it was his fault that Vicen wasn’t around any more. He didn’t have time either to hide on the terrace or to run down to the room where his mother was. All he could do was make himself small and hope that Rafael didn’t see him. He kept quiet, without breathing, but that didn’t help: Rafael had seen him and was coming his way.