Learning to Lose (47 page)

The goalkeeper was expelled from the game before Ariel recovered from the blow. He looked like he was in pain. Now they’re gonna take him to the hospital with a broken leg and I’m
gonna be alone in this hotel room in Munich. It’s ridiculous, thought Sylvia. But Ariel got up and was still readjusting his socks when a teammate sent the foul shot right into the genitals of a German player who was part of the wall. The game was interrupted again. The Spanish commentator was insisting that the player had gotten a very hard blow to the knee, as the guy twisted on the ground, his hands clamped over his groin. Sylvia would later say to Ariel, if that had been you, you’d have a bag of ice over your balls right now, for sure.

No one managed to score, but Ariel’s run was replayed several times and ended up being the play of the game. Although nobody managed to shift the balance of the score in their favor, he had stopped the German assault cold. A psychological blow, said the commentators.

Sylvia found a channel with music videos where women danced pseudo-erotically, showing PG-friendly parts of their perfect anatomy and performing superficial versions of sex acts. She dozed off. The room was hot. How should I receive him? How much longer is he going to be? She had put on the white hotel bathrobe. She was naked underneath, her hair still damp from the bath. She thought about getting dressed, but she didn’t do it.

Ariel showed up almost two hours later. He had left the team on the bus, on their way to the airport. He had permission from the sports director and the coach. I have family in Munich, I’d like to spend the day off with them. Would you like to hang out a day in Munich? he had asked Sylvia a few days earlier. Then he explained his plan. I was there once, it’s almost like something out of a fairy tale. I played there with the under-seventeens.

They embraced, undressed, made love. Ariel ordered some dinner and the best champagne they had. By the third glass of Veuve Clicquot they were smiling and relaxed. We’ve got to finish it, he said. They were sitting on the bed. Sylvia’s head resting on his belly. He stroked her hair. She had her arm around his bended knee. Were you faking it? What? Were you faking it when you were twisting in pain on the field after the foul the goalie made on you? Well, I had to get the referee to kick him out of the game. You’re good at faking, I was worried for a little while.

Before falling asleep, they made love slowly. They stretched out each moment as if they didn’t want them to end. Afterward they slept in each other’s arms on one edge of the bed, relaxed for the first time, with the whole night ahead of them. They were awakened by the bustling of the cleaning woman in the hallway and the murmur of the elevator. They looked at each other to find something they had never seen. Morning faces, waking up with the eyes of a child. They had breakfast from two abundant trays that made them feel fortunate. Sylvia read him the sentence from the Süddeutsche Zeitung that mentioned Ariel.
“Die Spurts des argentinischen Linksfusses waren elektrisierend, er war zweifellos der inspirierteste Stürmer der Gastmannschaft
.”
*
Her German was pathetic and they both joked about the words. What did it mean?
Elektrisierend
, it sounds good. Then Sylvia said, I have an idea, do you feel like going on a raft?

They started the journey at the pier where the hotel minivan dropped them off. They had paid for the activity at the reception
desk. Sylvia was able to make herself understood with the brochure in her hands. In the raft was a gas heater that radiated a bearable temperature thanks to a heat umbrella. The Isar River ran placidly and soon they found themselves with two steins of lager in their hands. They shared the seats with a group of Americans and a young Finnish couple who didn’t stop drinking. There was a guy dressed as an American Indian who sang songs in German. Every once in a while, along the shores of the Isar some passerby lifted a hand to greet them. I forgot to bring a camera, said Sylvia. We don’t have any photos of us together. The group of Americans took pictures of each other next to the oarsman and the singer. He says he’s a Cherokee from the Isar River, translates Sylvia when she hears him speak English. The trip down was almost an hour long. It was pleasant, a cold day but sunny. The last stretch dragged out a bit. Sylvia joked with Ariel. She didn’t want to kiss him. You smell like mustard.

The hotel car brought them back to the city. Ariel and Sylvia went for a walk. The streets were comfortable, allowing them to relax their usual furtiveness. When they passed a group that spoke Spanish they lowered their heads and fled onto a side street.

Ariel wore a wool hat that went down to his eyebrows and covered his hair and ears. No one seemed to recognize him among the few people they passed, retirees defying the weather and early darkness. They passed people on bicycles and a dog sniffed in the grass while its owner listened to music. Sylvia didn’t say anything, but for the first time in her relationship with Ariel she discovered peace and tranquillity. Normality. His slight accent had hardened somewhat since living in Madrid. She liked to listen to him talk. They went beyond the former
Turkish bath building with the enormous dome and looked at the cable car that divided the street. Sylvia hid her childishness in an intelligent silence. Ariel jumped up on a street bench and said, it’s a lovely day.

The airplane leaves at five minutes to eight. On time. Although they board separately, their seats are next to each other. In first class. Ariel jokes with her after takeoff.

Are you Spanish? Yes, what about you? Don’t tell me, Uruguayan … Buenos Aires. It’s not the same thing. You’re a soccer player, aren’t you? Are you in school? When I can get there. Well, I’m a soccer player when I can make it, too. My name is Sylvia, she introduces herself, and extends a hand, which he shakes. Ariel. Like the detergent brand. Yeah, I get that all the time. He was slow to let go of her soft hand.

Nearby a businessman looks at them over his newspaper. The flight attendant smiles and offers them something to drink.

And you live in Madrid? Don’t you miss your country? Sometimes. I’ve never been to Buenos Aires. Well, you should go. Maybe one day I’ll find an Argentinian boyfriend and he’ll invite me to go … An Argentinian boyfriend? What’s wrong with that? You don’t recommend them? Sylvia feigns alarm. There’s all kinds, I suppose.

They continue to talk, pretending they’re strangers. Without realizing it, they experience a certain pleasure in the charade. It’s as if they were starting over. The flight attendant asks him for three autographs for some passengers. I’d rather they didn’t come over to bother you. Sylvia is surprised by her cordiality. She is reassured by the fact that she is neither young nor pretty. You were the best yesterday, says the businessman as they exit the plane. Thanks, it wasn’t much help. Ariel and Sylvia say
good-bye in the line for taxis. Are you sure you have money? he asks her in a whisper. They each get into a different taxi. Sylvia and Ariel smile at each other through the windows. Then the cars separate and move apart. At the highway exit, they take opposite directions. It’s almost eleven. On the radio someone talks in a bitter tone about the political situation. The buildings surrounding the city are ugly and chaotic. There is a big traffic jam before Avenida de América. It seems a truck charged into a car stopped on the hard shoulder. What was on his mind? asks the taxi driver out loud.

Huh? And Sylvia lifts her head. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about. In that moment she was remembering Ariel’s hand holding hers when they greeted as strangers on the plane.
Elektrisierend
, yes, that was definitely a good description.

Leandro returns from an upscale neighborhood where he would never hear a distant radio playing from a window, where a woman would never shake a rug full of lint balls and dirt from a balcony, where no staircase smells of stew and no pressure cookers whistle. The sky today was a gray mass against which the heads of buildings and the tops of trees were silhouetted. The light of day was a filtered shadow, sunless. Leandro walks back home after meeting up with Joaquín.

In Joaquín’s apartment, the day’s newspapers were on the table. One was open to a page where he was interviewed. The photo showed him pensive, resting his chin on one hand. His
hair messy, his eyes lively. The photo makes him look better than he actually does, thought Leandro. He was the living image of dignified, attractive old age. He had arrived punctually to their date. Come up and that way you can see the apartment, Joaquín had told him when they spoke the day before. It was ten in the morning and Joaquín was talking on his cell phone while Jacqueline tidied up the remains of their breakfast and got ready to go out shopping. Beside the newspapers he had placed a mug of steaming tea. Leandro refused the offer. He skimmed the interview. Joaquín spoke of the public’s lack of interest in education and culture, of the pleasure of teaching young people. Then he presented a pessimistic view of humanity. Nothing new. The fatalistic vision of those who enjoy an above-average living. The world is getting worse, say those who know that for them it couldn’t get better, thinks Leandro.

He smiled when he noticed Joaquín’s last answer. In it he spoke of pianists who had influenced his career. I could name classical pianists without whom my profession would have no meaning, and not Horowitz or Rubinstein, by the way, who seem more myth than anything else, but I would be lying if I denied that the pianist I’ve most admired, tirelessly throughout my life, is Art Tatum. How appropriate, thought Leandro, someone he can’t be compared to or measured against. Joaquín closed the cell phone and sat beside him. Don’t read that nonsense. Art Tatum, you remember? What was the name of that amazing song we used to play as a duet? Leandro had no trouble coming up with it, “Have You Met Miss Jones?” Exactly. Joaquín has a flirtatious way of toying with his memories, they just piled together in a life filled with emotions and experiences, too many to retain. Then he hummed the melody.

Leandro congratulated him again on the concert. Yes, people left happy, it seems. He asked him about the tendinitis that had kept him from performing. Completely psychosomatic, a horrible thing, now I see a specialized psychotherapist in London. And soon you discover there’s a repertoire that you have to start giving up, too debilitating on the hands. You no longer play “Petrushka,” said Leandro with a smile. No, no, not the “Hammerklavier” or the “Fantasia Wanderer,” we’re not up to that sort of thing anymore. It’s for young people, now they’re real athletes. It’s like tennis, every year somebody comes up that hits harder. Leandro reminded him of Don Alonso’s obsession with eating and developing muscle mass. He had them lie on the floor to do sit-ups. Joaquín nodded. What did he used to say? Forget inspiration and trust in constitution. He was a funny old guy.
Mens sana in corpore sano
and all those Latin expressions.

That’s why I wanted to talk to you. The little details, you always had a better memory than me. Actually what I want is for you to talk to a young man who insists on writing my biography. He’s from Granada, but he lives here in Madrid, a very persistent boy, he knows music, he writes well. Your biographer? Leandro asked him. Don’t call him that, it sounds ridiculous. My life has no interest beyond the fact that there are few Spanish concert pianists, it’s sort of like being an Ethiopian weight lifter, I don’t know … I have a meeting with him this morning, in a little while, in the bar at the Wellington. I hope we won’t have to put up with that pianist, he always plays something by Falla for me, which is, I don’t know, fine, I just loathe Falla and he does it in my honor and he ruins my morning with that
Amor Brujo
stuff. But I wanted to see you first, not dump it all on you without asking. We hardly ever see each other anymore.
I hardly ever see anyone, honestly. You know the feeling that you’ll never again meet anyone interesting in your life and you don’t have time for the ones you already know anyway? It’s distressing. Jacqueline says it’s all a problem of anxiety. You know me, anxiety is my life, I’m not going to get rid of it now, am I?

Joaquín’s wife said good-bye at the door. With her coat already on. A patterned scarf around her neck. I don’t know if I’ll see you when I come back. Leandro stood up and they meet halfway to exchange a kiss on each cheek. When she left, Joaquín seemed to relax. The expensive perfume left with her. I like this apartment. Joaquín gestured to the lovely place, the windows overlooking the branches of two white mulberry trees, upscale, historic buildings across the street. In a hotel it’s different, here I have my space, I can rehearse, relax.

It’s lovely, the apartment, said Leandro.

This area costs a fortune. You can’t even believe it. Sometimes I come here to get away from Paris and prepare my concerts. Joaquín smiled impishly and Leandro thought he understood what his friend was suggesting with his escapes to Madrid. You know me like no one else does, when that nagging self-criticism springs up, the awareness that I haven’t gotten anywhere with what I’ve tried to accomplish, that I pound on the piano without any art, any class, then you are a fragile man, capable of falling into the arms of any woman who makes you believe that you are what you wanted to be. Sex is nothing more than reconstructing a battered ego. There is nothing worse than an old seducer, but it’s better than just being old, what can we do.

Leandro was surprised by his expression of sorrow. Many times Joaquín had tried to explain what attracted him to women, to the wild love affairs, that it had more to do with his insecurity
than with his carnal appetite. Soon he changed his tone and asked about Aurora, almost in contrast. Leandro was concise, he spoke of her illness without beating around the bush. She’s really bad, there’s no hope. We’re so old, for fuck’s sake. Now every year I go to more funerals than concerts. The comment didn’t bother Leandro. He knew the superficiality with which Joaquín usually faced any serious situation; he had been like that even as a young man. He avoided the blow. We are strangers to each other, thought Leandro, we’re no longer what we were.