Learning to Lose (55 page)

Wait, lie down here, feel the music. Leandro takes Osembe’s hand. He helps her climb up on the piano. The pink sole of her foot produces a dissonant chord as it steps on the keys. Her body lies on the shiny black wood of the piano. She is naked, except for her bra, which once again she has insisted on keeping on. She gathers her legs in a protective gesture, managing to make herself comfortable as she smiles. Leandro sits in front of the piano and starts by playing a slow improvisation. The resonance is magnificent. Osembe rests her head and looks at the ceiling. The light comes from a distant lamp and from the large window where the streetlights’ glow sneaks in. But Leandro doesn’t need light to play. Without consciously choosing it, he is playing a Debussy prelude, leaving out many notes along the way. She closes her eyes and he slows down the rhythm of the music.

The moment gradually loses the ostentatiousness of the staging. They forget about the clothes piled up any which way on the nearby sofa, about the sneakers overturned on the rug and the tiny white socks that stick out of them. The music covers
it all. Osembe’s thigh is just a few inches from Leandro’s eyes. He doesn’t know if the vibration of the music goes through Osembe’s spine and manages to affect her, but he is suddenly surprised to notice his eyes filled with tears. The piece had always moved him.

He suddenly knows that he will carry out with Osembe all that life didn’t let him have with Aurora, when they were both splendid young bodies, filled with desire, wanting to take the world by storm. How absurd. Who is to blame? Is there even a guilty party? In his old age, he gives this private fantasy to someone who isn’t able or interested in appreciating it. A scene reserved for the woman of his life, but played by a substitute who charges to carry out a role she doesn’t understand.

Play something, I can hear you from here, Aurora still asks him some nights before sleeping. And he carefully chooses those pieces that he knows she’ll recognize and enjoy. He remembers the not so distant occasion when she told him, when I hear you play the piano and I’m doing something else, in some other part of the house, I think that’s the closest to happiness I’ve ever known. For years it had been hard for him to come home from the academy and sit at the piano, he associated it with work, and only during his private lessons with students was it heard in the house. The masseuse who comes some mornings says, play for her, you have that touch, I’m sure it’ll help her. Aurora’s pains seem to have spread and in the last few days Leandro has seen her stifling a wince when she changes position and closing her eyes as if she were suffering horrible whiplash. When he cleans the excrement from her backside with the sponge and bucket of warm water, he does it delicately, because the slightest brusqueness makes her cry in pain.

On the last visit to the hospital, the only thing the doctor dared to prescribe was rest. If the pain is unbearable, we’ll admit her, but while she can be at home, she’ll be more comfortable. You know how hospitals are. I prefer to die at home, Aurora had said to Leandro as they left, with a terrifying calmness.

It had snowed that week in Madrid, hiding spring’s proximity. Many trees that had flowered in the previous sunny days received the snowstorm with surprise. Leandro told his son, I wish we lived in a building with an elevator, at least that way I could take her out for a walk every day. But sitting was very painful for Aurora; she prefered to lie in bed. Sometimes she watched the television in her room and Leandro sat by her side, to keep her company, and she said, less television and more looking at the trees is what I need.

Friday I’m going out for dinner, can you sit in for me? Lorenzo was about to answer, but Sylvia beat him to it, offering to sleep over with her grandmother. Leandro explained that he was collaborating with Joaquín’s biographer. You don’t know how hard it is to remember such an awful period. At that point, he had already arranged a date with Osembe in Joaquín’s apartment …

How many hours? The whole night. That’s a lot of money, she warned him over the phone. No problem. Two thousand euros. You’re crazy, I’ll give you what I always do for every hour, that’s it. Okay, honey, but no funny stuff, just you and me alone.

They were alone. Leandro stops playing and stands up. He brings his lips to her body and runs them along the rough skin of her thighs. She puts her hand on his head and musses his hair. You’re an artist. Leandro realizes he has never given her pleasure, just those overacted orgasms she fakes to excite him.
She has never let herself go. Leandro places his mouth between her thighs, but Osembe stops him immediately. No, no, I suck, I suck. Take off all your clothes. Leandro insists. He brings his hand to her shaved, sandpapery pubic hair. She fakes a few seconds of uncontrollable pleasure, making a somewhat grotesque spectacle before sitting on the piano top. She steps on the keys again and amuses herself with the dissonant sounds she makes. She unbuttons Leandro’s shirt with a white smile.

She gets down from the piano and leads Leandro through the apartment by the hand. It’s beautiful, is this where you live? No, no, I only practice here. A lot of money. She stops to point to an abstract painting. How ugly, eh? she says. She pushes open the door of the bedroom and discovers the large double bed. Osembe walks to the closet and opens it. She brushes her fingers along the elegant women’s clothes, the two or three suits hanging in their designer bags. There is a bathroom opposite the bedroom door. There are barely any traces of life; everything is precisely ordered.

Osembe goes naked through the entire house. He leaves his pants there, on the floor. So you’re a millionaire pianist … Well, I give concerts around the world. You must know women much more beautiful than me. Leandro smiles and shakes his head. He hugs Osembe and tries to kiss her on the mouth. It had been a while since she stopped avoiding his kisses. But she reciprocates in a very contained way, the way she does almost everything with him. Leandro sometimes has the feeling he’s kissing a damp object.

She unmakes the bed that he would have preferred to leave out of their games. But he doesn’t say anything. They’ve opened a bottle of champagne from the fridge. I’m going to get
my bag, she says, and leaves the room. As always, the wait drags on. Leandro lies on the bed, relaxed. He knows they won’t be there all night, because in a couple of hours he’ll want to be alone, he’ll feel guilty and dirty again.

Leandro thinks he hears Osembe talking on the phone. Shortly after, she comes into the room again. She carries a condom in one hand and a small plastic bag hanging from her forearm. The image, together with her nakedness and her bra, is pleasing to Leandro’s eyes. He likes when everything isn’t just a calculated, professional erotic experience. Deep down, he thinks, what he’d like to do is just sit down and read the newspaper and have Osembe watch TV, or just have dinner, one in front of the other.

You’ve got the money, right? Of course, he replies. Leandro runs his fingers over her hair, styled hard. You like it? I like it better when you wear it without so much stuff, it’s like a rock. She laughs. You’re so fickle.

Osembe’s movements are as unbelievable as ever. Her routine is half gymnastic and half erotic. Leandro lets her do it. Today he gets easily excited. The space helps. He tries to free her breasts with his hand and finally Osembe allows it. He manages to get her bra off over her head. He never could open the clasp, because of his arthritic hands. She tries to jerk him off but Leandro orders her to stop, there’s no hurry. Sure, you’re the one paying, honey.

Leandro is asking her for something impossible. For her it must seem sad, pathetic, this romantic and perverse staging I’ve set up. Why do I do all this? Leandro enjoys the mere play of his skin against hers, touching the hardness of her muscles, feeling how her abundant sweat soaks him, sometimes even managing
to get rid of the smell of cheap cologne. He knows this will be his farewell to Osembe. There will be no more nights after the fantasy of owning this apartment, owning these picture windows, this woman’s body, this mirage of eternal life. He drinks from his glass and spills a bit of liquid on Osembe’s shoulder, which he immediately licks off. She smiles.

He hadn’t even wanted to think about or calculate how much money he had squandered in this inexplicable torrent. The last time he checked a bank statement, the bite out of his loan was considerable, so much so that he tore the paper in pieces as if he could refuse to be aware of it. Every time he pays the masseuse or the cleaning lady or buys medicines at the pharmacy, he feels relief that the money also slips out through other, nobler, outlets.

His erection has disappeared and Osembe seems to have grown tired of her mechanical movements. She gets a message on her cell phone. She gets up for a minute to make a call. Leandro likes to watch her walk. She’s picked up her bra off the floor and is heading toward the living room. He imagines her spending her free time glued to her cell phone, which she keeps in a colorful cover. It’s almost like her pet.

Leandro follows her to the living room a moment later. He is naked and he sits at the piano. It bothers him to notice his flaccid arms as he lifts his hands to the keys. When she hangs up the phone, she touches him on the shoulder. Do you wanna fuck or not? Leandro smiles. She sits on the keyboard and interrupts his music. Leandro strokes her thighs. Are you going to stay in Spain forever? She shakes her head no, I’m going back and I’m going to start my own business, I’ll have my own house. And I’ll find a man who loves me and works. You like your country better than this one? Osembe nods without hesitation. But there
democracy is bad, all the politicians are thieves. It would be better to have soldiers, a strong hand, people could be safe.

Leandro smiles at the unexpected analysis of Nigerian politics, at her almost completely naked, with her muscular rear end resting on the keys, speaking in defense of military dictatorships. In what other moment in history could someone like you and someone like me have met? Does it seem like a miracle to you? Leandro felt like talking. He didn’t really mind showing his nakedness in front of her. Where would you have met an old man like me? A dirty old man, she says. Someone must have taught her the expression.

Exactly. An old man who’s hooked on spending his money on a surly black girl. I’m surly? Yes, very, that’s why I like you, I hate friendly people. Osembe asks him to explain the meaning of surly. He gives her a few synonyms. She looks at him with challenging eyes. We could get married, we make a good couple. You’re romantic today, cheerful, she says to him. You wanna fuck?

Leandro is amused by her efforts to arouse him on the sofa. He stretches out his hand every once in a while to drink a sip from his glass. Don’t drink any more, she says. If you drink you can’t boom-boom. Suddenly their roles are switched. I’m cold, she says, bring a blanket. Leandro stands up and goes toward the bedroom. He pulls the comforter off the bed to bring it to the living room. It is pleasant, not very heavy, filled with down. Leandro tosses it carelessly onto the sofa. He notices that the champagne is starting to affect him. It will be a pleasure to sleep against another body. Osembe covers herself with the comforter. Stay and sleep here with me. He places himself on top. He starts to move as if he were going to make love to her.

But barely a few seconds later the front door opens with a violent shove. The man who comes in closes it behind him without making any noise. He looks around and walks toward the sofa. Before Leandro can say anything, the guy grabs him by the arm, lifts him in the air, and throws him across the room. Leandro hits the wall, in pain. The guy has a shaved head, he’s black, well built, not very tall. He is wearing a leather jacket. Osembe has gotten off the sofa. The man walks toward Leandro and gives him two kicks in the stomach. Leandro folds, afraid. The man picks up Leandro’s pants from the nearby chair and empties his wallet of money, then tosses it.

Osembe has started to get dressed. The man says something to her that Leandro doesn’t understand. His fragile, whitish, scared body doesn’t want to participate in the scene, not even to hear what’s being said. She points to the bedroom and the man goes over there. He hears drawers and closets being opened, rummaged through. He comes back with coats and some more clothes that he tosses to Osembe.

He lifts up Leandro’s head. More money. Where? Jewelry? His mouth is pink inside, his tongue like strawberry chewing gum. He doesn’t speak very loudly, he has a funny voice with a strange timbre, but Leandro doesn’t laugh. There’s nothing, it’s not my house, really, it’s not my house. The man lets Leandro’s head drop and now kicks him twice right in the face. They aren’t brutal kicks. They’re moderate. But they split one of his eyebrows, which bleeds. The warmth of the blood is about to make Leandro faint. His eyes search out Osembe to try to get her protection. But she is putting on her sneakers.

The man is now in the kitchen. He is rummaging through everything. The sound of cups and plates breaking is heard.
The man comes back to the living room with an enormous knife. Leandro fears he will kill him. How absurd. Osembe says, let’s go. But the guy starts to stab the sofa cushions, tears the intense red curtains. Osembe seems to be smiling. The man passes in front of Leandro, but ignores him. He goes to the piano and starts to stab it as if it were an animal. The wood resists his violence. With the tip of the knife, he starts to carve into the varnish along the entire piano, leaving a conspicuous trail on the black shiny surface. Then he throws the knife and rips out a DVD player from beneath the television and a CD player from one of the shelves. He wraps them in one of the coats.

Leandro lifts his head, trusting that he will see him leaving. Then he gets a kick in the thigh. It comes from Osembe. He looks toward her, but she doesn’t look at him. She kicks furiously with her sneakers three or four times. He remains immobile, shrunken. The man has opened the door and gestures toward her, she joins him, and they leave. They close the door with unexpected delicacy. Leandro, on the floor, spits out his own blood, which has slid from his eyebrow to his mouth. He feels his body, trying to calm the pain in his side. He sits up on the wooden floor. He hugs himself and discovers that from his glans hangs the useless condom, amorphous, like a dead hide. He looks around and feels panic.