Learning to Lose (11 page)

Lorenzo thought he shouldn’t talk too much, but maintaining the flow of words calmed him. Lying so naturally surprised him as much as it soothed him. It gave him the strength to confront the detective’s silences. Did he have many enemies? asked Baldasano. As the detective lifted his face, Lorenzo saw that he had a wound on his neck, covered by his shirt, a pink scar, not very long. It looked more like a burn than a cut.
Enemies
is a strong word, said Lorenzo. He didn’t make a good impression on people, that’s for sure. The detective asked him about Thursday night. Do you have anyone who can testify they were with you? Lorenzo thought for an instant. My daughter. I live with my daughter. I’m separated.

The detective nodded his head, as if he already knew those details. He lifted his eyes toward Lorenzo. I’m going to ask you a question that you have every right not to answer. This is just a consultation, though.

There it was, that word again. Outside the door was such a wide variety of telephone rings that you could mistake them for carousel music. Above the detective’s head, on the ceiling, was a gray, moldy, damp leak.

Do you know anyone, from your professional relationship, who might have enough motive to murder Mr. Garrido? Lorenzo pretended to be thinking, going over the list of Paco’s acquaintances. For a moment, he tried to find someone and the exercise calmed him, transporting him to a distant idea, making
him innocent in the simplest way. No, he said. And, without really knowing why, he felt the need to add that Paco was a person you couldn’t hate.

Lorenzo didn’t say anything more. He looked up at the leak on the ceiling again. The detective also looked up toward the stain. Can you believe it? It’s been like that for six days. It’s the bathroom upstairs, in the passport department. I can assure you it’s quite unpleasant to sit here all morning knowing you have a puddle of piss over your head. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. I will ask you to jot down all your contact numbers. I’d like to have you always on hand, in case I need to consult you on anything.

He was in love with that word.
Question
must have sounded too threatening to him. Tricks of the trade. He held out a sheet of paper to Lorenzo, for him to write down his phone numbers. The last one is my parents’ house, just in case. Then he thought maybe that was being too solicitous. He left the office and was grateful that one of the policemen came up the stairs right then, shouting because someone had vomited on his shoes. Goddamn it, even my socks are soaked, fuck. Amid the laughter and joking of the other cops, Lorenzo looked for the door.

He left the station calmer. Lying had given him the same feeling of freedom as telling the truth. A false confession is still a confession. Talking about it, putting himself in a different place, had helped him get distance. Sometimes a lie fits perfectly over the truth. When he said Paco was someone you couldn’t hate, he said it because it was true. He thought that that’s where his mistake lay, from having crossed the line. Actually hating him. Paco was the one to blame for his work situation, for his inability to give Pilar what she needed, for his parents’ commiserating
look when they lent him money, for his fall from grace. Paco was the one to blame for his daughter no longer falling asleep on the living room sofa so he could carry her to her bed. To blame for his having blanked out in a job interview, there in front of some young slick-haired executive who had just asked him, why do you think a professional like you hasn’t achieved job stability in all these years? To blame for the fact that he shares the streets at midmorning with housewives and old folks. To blame for pushing him off the path, a path he now has to find again without anyone’s help.

In the kitchen, Lorenzo dials Paco’s home number. The same number he called so many times to hear his friend’s voice, the voice that arranged to meet him at a restaurant or said, see you tomorrow at the office. The same voice that one day told him, Loren, I think we’ve lost it all, and he was lying because only one of them had. The phone rang once, twice, three times, before Teresa answered in a whisper. That lifeless, silent presence, that woman whose reserve compensated for her husband’s expansiveness. The same one who had pointed Lorenzo out as a suspect. The police often work like that, they have no leads, they have no clues, they have no indications, but they pressure a suspect, they pressure him until he crumbles, and then they work the investigation back from the conclusion, they solve the crime with the criminal. But it wasn’t going to be so easy to defeat him.

Hello, Teresa, it’s Lorenzo. Hello. Her voice sounds distant, as if rising from the depths. I heard about what happened to Paco and I’ve been debating whether or not to call, I don’t know, I wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry, if you need … Lorenzo pauses. He doesn’t want to be cruel to himself, to the last grain
of sincerity rising up inside him. Thank you for calling, she says. No, I … I know it isn’t easy, but I wanted … It’s okay, thank you, she says, cutting him off. A second later she hangs up the phone.

Lorenzo gets up from the chair and drinks water straight from the kitchen faucet, like a kid at a fountain. It bugged Pilar when he did that. Why dirty a glass? he used to say. He leans on the counter and the world seems to stop. She suspects me, thinks Lorenzo. She has a right. It’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to be easy.

Ariel drives into the house’s attached garage. The living room is cold. When the sun goes down, the weather changes. There are newspapers piled up beneath the table, towers of CDs on the floor, a flat-screen television stuck to the wall. Emilia’s hand organizes it all, imposing an impersonal air that rules over the house. Charlie is no longer with him and the only sound is the refrigerator engine and the sprinkler that spits in the yard.

When he overcame his paralysis after running over the girl, he was able to get out of the car and pick her up off the ground. He helped her to stand, but then she collapsed. He got her settled into the backseat. She was almost a little girl, her curly hair messy, covering her face. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t complain about the pain. Through the rearview mirror, Ariel saw the girl’s torn pants, her chest heaving as she breathed. He couldn’t get his bearings, he didn’t know where the closest
hospital was, he feared he had made a mistake in lifting her, moving her. He dialed Pujalte’s number on his cell phone, thinking that it was the most sensible thing to do. I just ran over a girl on the street, he said, I don’t know what to do. Pujalte calmed him down, didn’t ask him for any more explanations. Where are you? Ariel referenced the places he knew. You’re very close to the stadium, can you get there? Of course, he said. Wait for me at door fourteen.

It didn’t take him long to drive there. He stopped in front of the designated door after going around the building. He got out of the car. Through the window he saw the girl lying down. She was breathing, she seemed calm, as if she had fainted. The waiting seemed eternal. The stadium grounds were still littered with trash from the game. Papers, cans sprinkled around the sidewalk. Finally a car arrived quickly, running a red light. It stopped beside him. It wasn’t driven by Pujalte, as he was expecting, but by Ormazábal, the head of security. Did she recognize you? Did you talk to her? No, hardly at all, said Ariel, I just whispered don’t worry, we’re on our way to the hospital.

From the front passenger seat emerged a man about forty years old, with short black hair. He took the keys out of Ariel’s hand and sat at the wheel of the Porsche. He’ll take care of it. Come on, get in, I’ll take you home, relax. Ariel saw his car head off, driven by the man. It took him a little while to get into Ormazábal’s car. They barely spoke. He seemed to know the way to Ariel’s house without any directions. His cell phone rang. Ormazábal nodded, two, three times. Uh-huh, he said. Then he turned toward Ariel. Everything’s under control, the girl is fine. Ariel wasn’t able to ask him anything. A bit later, the
phone rang again. Ormazábal passed it to Ariel. It was Pujalte. Well, she’s at the hospital, with reliable people. Ormazábal’s guy took care of everything, he said that he was driving. You don’t need to worry about anything. Is it serious? asked Ariel. It was an accident, nothing special, she has a fracture, but she’s in the best hands. Ariel was silent. You were drinking, it looks like. A little bit. Well, tomorrow I’ll see you at practice, okay? Go home and get a good night’s sleep. Everything’s fine. Thank you so much, said Ariel. It’s my job.

Pujalte’s reply stuck in him like a dagger. That was his farewell. Then he hung up. Ariel felt like the smallest man in the world, paralyzed there beside the stadium. The place where he had supposedly come to make it big. The loudspeaker that would make his name known throughout the world now was merely witness to his cowardice. Up until that point, he had been an exemplary player, never argumentative or aggressive, and now at this new post everything was a problem, unanticipated difficulties. Ormazábal left him at the fence that surrounded his house. These things happen, he said as he drove off. He was a cold, creepy person and he went to great pains to seem friendly, but he didn’t pull it off.

Ariel had trouble sleeping. He didn’t call his family, even though he promised he would after the game. He didn’t want to share bad news. Charlie had left him a message. He was already in Buenos Aires.

In the morning at practice, he waited for Pujalte’s arrival on the edge of the field. He lay down on the ground for the first stretches and he liked feeling the dampness, the smell of fresh-cut grass. That was the same in every field. Caressing the green, feeling your cleats sink in like an affectionate bite.

There wasn’t a lot of press, just the usual. The cameras would arrive later in the morning. The group of kids who had skipped class to collect autographs and the retirees gathered in the stands. Pujalte appeared and stopped to chat with the physical trainer. Then he gestured for him to come over. Ariel ran toward him. That was power. That and his street shoes on the damp grass, something that always bothered the players.

Pujalte put an arm over his shoulders and walked with him along the sideline. He explained that Doctor Carretero had taken care of the girl, there was total discretion. They had talked to the father, everything was worked out. Your car is in the parking lot. For all intents and purposes, someone else was driving, you got that? Ariel nodded. The girl is sixteen, she’ll heal fast.

Ariel was quiet. So much so that the sports director gave him an encouraging slap. Come on, what you should be worrying about now is the game. Ariel thanked him for his words with a nod. Last year the vice president died on us in a hotel in Bilbao, fucking a conference hostess. We had to be quick on that one, fuck. That thing with your brother, too, he added, these things happen. It’s better if they don’t, okay, but we’re here to solve problems, keep the ball out of the goal box. That’s what I’ve spent all my life doing. Pujalte smiled with his whitened teeth. I was never an elegant player, but I was effective.

Ariel went back to practice. He joined in the one-touch passing exercise. When it landed in the center, he was slow to recover the ball. Sixteen years old? He thought, poor girl. Had Pujalte lied to him? Was it worse than he had said? He tried to remember the impact, if something more than her leg had been hurting her. She was passed out for a while. The coach handed
out the bicolored training bibs for the final practice game. Ariel couldn’t focus; he just killed time.

In the parking lot, he looked for his car. The keys were in it. There was no trace of blood or the girl or the bottle. Someone had gone to the trouble of cleaning up after him. Knuckles knocked on the window and Ariel jumped. It was a journalist, young, with blond bangs. Ariel lowered the window and she approached with a tape recorder. She introduced herself and asked him some questions, the last one: when do you think the Spanish fans will see you in full form? Ariel hesitated. The young woman made an effort to have her body language mimic the gestures of a man. Looking him straight in the eye.

Soon, I hope.

When he got home, Emilia was almost finished making
cocido
, a traditional stew in Madrid. Have you ever tried it? Yes, well, something similar, it’s like
puchero
, said Ariel, looking at the mess of chickpeas, vegetables, meat, chorizo, bacon, and black sausage. I’m leaving you a pot of soup. He tried to nap, but he ended up in the yard knocking the ball around. When he was thirteen, he once spent an entire afternoon kicking the ball without it touching the ground. He got up to five thousand kicks without it dropping. It was a useless exercise, exhausting, but at that moment it helped him to clear his head, to bring him back to a state of comfortable oblivion. Suddenly, he decided the exercise was over. He stepped hard on the ball.

He had made a decision.

Being recognized was the most absurd part of his job. He liked when some kid asked for his autograph, when they looked at him on the street, when he was recognized in restaurants, but it was a pain in the neck when you were trying to lead a normal
life. The accident would have been completely different if he wasn’t a celebrity. He had been drinking, he was driving fast, it would be easy for the press to vent their anger on him, for it to get him into real trouble. He understood the club’s cover-up, the favor they’d done for him, erasing his trail. But he wasn’t like that. He arrived at the hospital when it was already night. When he could be sure visiting hours were over.

He knew the place. He had had his physical examination there the day after he arrived in Madrid. And when he left, he posed for the reporters. Do you know how much they pay us to photograph you here? Pujalte whispered to him. Twenty thousand euros. It was his way of explaining how the advertising business around soccer worked.

The receptionist recognized him. I’m here to see a friend, she was run over yesterday, a young girl. Three twelve, she said. Sylvia Roque. Then she pointed to the elevator with a huge smile.

Ariel was slow to approach the door. He knocked cautiously. He was surprised at how the girl received him. You’re the one who ran me over, right? She had beautiful curly black hair that fell onto the pillow. The bedspread covered her, pulled up over her breasts. She smiled with one leg in a cast that hung in the air. And that accent? Where are you from?