Learning to Lose (57 page)

It was a big house with a huge yard right on the beach. They prepared an enormous barbecue and there were plenty of coolers filled with cans of beer and soda. They didn’t sit down to eat until late in the afternoon. There were still some players arriving after their morning practice. The idea was that they would all leave early the next day, catching planes to different destinations, and let the party go through the night. The celebration was already almost a tradition. Yeah, like Thanksgiving, joked the host, Tiger Lavalle, a veteran player with a short beard.

The absence of women was absolute. Some players joked about it. The host’s family lived in the city, and they used the beach house on various weekends. His kids were at school, already grown, I gave the world a couple of Spaniards, Tiger would complain. A fullback who played on an Andalusian team asked Ariel for his jersey, I have a kid who collects them from every Argentinian in Spain, he’s wild about it, he doesn’t have yours or that son of a bitch’s, but I’m not gonna ask him, he said in a voice loud enough for the guy to hear and laugh at the comment.

There was constant music playing from the speakers aimed at the yard. The temperature was pleasant. Python Tancredi came out of the house with a guitar and started singing Vicentico songs. Others joined in, some pathetically off-key. The song was about a boat and it was sentimental and sad. There were three Spaniards as well, good friends of the host, and also two Uruguayans who ended up being the butt of jokes. Ariel asked Python if he knew any Marcelo Polti songs. You like that guy? Gimme a break. But then he played part of “Cara de Nada,” Marcelo’s most famous song.

There was food left over and the entire table was filled with bottles of rum, whisky, and gin. One of the Spaniards, who was an executive on Tiger’s team, insisted on bringing girls. He was funny, short, had an infectious smile, and smoked a short, stout cigar. He called up a former player and friend who after retiring had opened two enormous whorehouses not far from there. They all listened to him talk on his cell phone without knowing for sure whether it was a joke. Yeah, yeah, thirty girls is fine, but good-looking ones, don’t just send me any old thing. Then he went out to give the minibus driver directions to a place on the highway he called Venus or Aphrodite or something similar.

An hour later, when pretty much everyone had forgotten about it, they heard the minibus approaching the gate. He promised me the best whores in the area, said the executive, he’s a fantastic guy, he was a player on our team, came out of a little town in Orense.

Thirty-odd young ladies came in and joined the party. They divided up into groups. There were some Latin Americans, but most of them were Eastern Europeans. Thirty-three, someone counted. The men took care of serving them drinks, handing
out chairs. There were people sitting on the steps of the terrace, those more sensitive to the cold were in the living room, scattered over the sofas, a few were even lying out on the grass although it had gotten cooler once the sun went down.

They brought out the birthday cake with candles, a surprise they had been saving for Tiger, and some went to get the presents they had left by the front door. Almost all of them were joke gifts. There was a blow-up doll, several bibs, two hats, a box of cigars, three cocktail shakers, you guys think I’m an alcoholic, he shouted to applause, a jersey from the Argentinian national team, and a small Argentine flag. Ariel had brought him a book, which provoked widespread confusion, who was the asswipe that brought this guy a book, he’s famous for never reading anything. Ariel raised his hand and everyone cheered.

The night progressed and the sound of music and voices continued steadily. There were men who got intimate with women selected from the group. Others stayed on the sidelines; I’m happily married, fuck off. Some danced or changed the music every so often. Ariel found himself exchanging glances with a girl with a very delicate face and light eyes. When he found her on the staircase on the way to the bathroom, he sat down to chat with her.

Her name was Irina and she spoke good Spanish. She was twenty-three years old. In a corner of the living room, one of the girls was sucking off the executive as he reclined on the floor among cushions. The cigar had gone out between his lips, his head leaned against the wall. Ariel moved away with Irina.

They found an empty bedroom. The girl took condoms out of her purse. She was extremely thin and wore a very fine silver chain with a tiny heart around her waist. She had been working
in Spain for almost four months, first on the Costa del Sol, but every month they switched her to a different place. She ended up in Galicia last week, she explained to Ariel as she spread a dilating cream on her vagina.

Ariel escaped from the party when he heard someone announce that a taxi was arriving. There were still people scattered through the yard and lounging between the living room sofa cushions. He hugged Tiger good-bye and shared the cab ride with two friends. On the way back, they talked about the party. Last year’s was better, the girls took some of the charm out of it. It’s awful, that asshole fucking it up by bringing them. Well, did you sleep with one? How was it? Bah, fine. But you’re young, you have to take advantage, life lasts as long as a fart in your hand.

Ariel had offered Irina money, but she said everything was already paid for. Even so he left a bill in her bag when they said good-bye. In the hotel, Ariel checked his cell phone. He had a message from Sylvia. She always managed to pop up, her simplicity, her purity like a smack in the face. “I love you,” said the message, “I want to be with you.”

When Pujalte sees him stand up, he asks, how’s that ankle coming along? Fine, he answers. Those photos could hurt an innocent person, Ariel dares to say before leaving, don’t think that … Forget about the photos, the manager interrupts, they don’t even exist. Ariel nods, about to thank him, but luckily he stops himself.

Ariel leaves the office with his head bowed. He puts weight on his ankle without any problem. Tomorrow he’ll have normal practice. He’ll start hitting the ball around again. He missed it. When he was a kid, his father used to punish him by locking the
ball in a bedroom closet. When the sanction was lifted, Ariel would get back the ball and spend hours kicking it against the brick façade where for years there was a message no one painted over:
PERÓN LIVES
. If the ball is in motion, everything is easy.

Sylvia turns in her test with indifference. She doesn’t meet the teacher’s eye as he divides the papers into stacks on the table. She goes back to her desk and gathers her things. She doesn’t feel Don Octavio’s gaze on her back, his surprise at getting a blank sheet. At the end of the hall, some classmates have congregated to discuss the questions. Sylvia joins them, but doesn’t participate in the conversation. After leaving school, they gather on the benches of a nearby park. Someone has bought some beers from the Chinese guy at the corner store. It’s nice to just relax in the sun.

They talk about Easter break. One group wants to go camping, at least for a couple of days. Another student says his father is forcing him to go to his provincial town for the processions, I’ll do it for him, for him and for my grandfather, but boy what a drag. I’d like to see you with your pointed hood on, someone kids. And are you going to continue the tradition by forcing your son to go, too? I guess it grows on you, it’s a ritual, he says without much passion.

Sylvia spent the weekend at her mother’s house. She had a good time. It gave her a chance to distance herself from Ariel’s problems, to not feel so dependent. She was comfortable with
Santiago, Pilar laughed at his jokes, relaxed around him. During lunch downstairs at Casa Hermógenes, when Sylvia told them the school year wasn’t going very well for her, he added that it must be that you’re devoting your time to more interesting things. Must be, said Sylvia. Her mother tried to draw her out about the boy she was dating. Sylvia was evasive. She turned the tables, as Ariel had shown her how to do in soccer, when there’s pressure on one side of the field, the best thing to do is shoot the ball to the opposite side, you force the defense to fan out in the other direction. Papá is the one with a girlfriend, said Sylvia. He already introduced her to Grandma and Grandpa. Sylvia tried to evaluate if that caused a reaction in Pilar, but if anything, all she noticed was a relaxed sigh.

The night before, she had slept over at her grandmother’s. Aurora had insisted she lie down beside her. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a warm body next to me, that warmth. Lying still, so as not to hurt her grandmother or make her uncomfortable, Sylvia remembered needing her mother’s warmth as a girl. She ran to her mother’s bedroom when she had nightmares, or sometimes Pilar curled up on one side of Sylvia’s bed when she put her to sleep, their faces pushed close together, sharing a warmth that could be the same one her grandmother was referring to.

On Saturday afternoon, they went for a walk by the bridges, near the river. They visited the Virgin of the Pillar and the Aljafería Palace, then they had dinner in a nearby restaurant, Casa Emilio, where they were barely able to carry a conversation because in the attached dining room there was a literary gathering accompanied by constant shouting and banging on the table. The regulars, a group of drunks, shouted threats at the waiter about ordering a pizza. One of them sang a folk song,
bemoaning, “they told me a thousand times but I never wanted to listen.” The painfully discordant voice resonated throughout the restaurant. At first Sylvia and Pilar listened with a mocking smile, but the singer conveyed such impressive neglect and abandonment that in the end they were moved.

They walked home. Pilar hated the clusters of people who insisted on having fun as if it were their vocation, you can’t imagine how downtown gets. They took refuge on the sofa and watched a celebrity gossip show where everyone lectured as if they were talking about something essential to humanity, even though the topic was the anal fistula of some survival contestant on a Caribbean island. Pilar went to bed early. Sylvia stayed up a bit longer. On TV a blond woman appeared, insignificant beside her operated lips and breasts. After this brief break, she is going to reveal the long list of soccer players who have been in her bed, announced the host enthusiastically. So don’t go away, we’ll be back in three minutes.

Sylvia had a hunch that was confirmed after the commercials, when the woman on television let drop that among the famous soccer players she fucked was an Argentinian player on a Madrid team who has the same name as a detergent brand. Sylvia sent Ariel a message on his cell phone. Turn on the TV, to Telecinco. Barely a few seconds later, Ariel called her. Did you really fuck that monstrosity? Ariel shivered, is that what she said? She gave clues. No shit, I’m gonna sue her, this is incredible. It doesn’t reflect the best taste, honestly, she said. But it’s a lie, she hooked up with my brother Charlie, he brought her up to the hotel room, we had just gotten to Madrid. So you hadn’t met me yet, right? Of course not, answered Ariel. Then Sylvia asked him, and since you met me have you fucked a lot
of girls? Don’t be silly. No, no, I don’t care, well, I’d prefer they didn’t look like this pathetic ho bag, but … Can anybody just go on TV and say whatever runs through their head? protested Ariel. That’s how people are, said Sylvia halfheartedly.

During their walk beside the river Ebro, Pilar told Sylvia that she had started an adoption process. Santiago wants to have a child, he says he envies me when he sees you. Sylvia wasn’t expecting her mother to want to get involved in family life. And you want to be mixed up in that mess again? Pilar laughed heartily, that mess is now you and you’re great, why wouldn’t I want to experience that again? Doesn’t it appeal to you? Sylvia only answered, I’m not the one who has to like it, you do.

And what if things don’t work out with Santiago? Why wouldn’t they? Because sometimes they don’t. But when you’re with someone you can’t be thinking, maybe this isn’t going to work out, you have to invest in everything going well, trust, otherwise … Pilar didn’t finish the sentence.

Sylvia was envious of her mother’s attitude. In her relationship with Ariel, she always had an alternate plan ready in case of catastrophe, an escape plan, an evacuation route like the flight attendants pointing to exit rows. Although most times, when tragedy strikes, no one reaches the exit or it’s blocked, locked tight as drum. In her relationship with Ariel, there was something that told her, all this that you are experiencing will be over tomorrow and you won’t be able to cry about it or tell anyone about it. She had never deceived herself. That’s why her mother, with one painful defeat on her record, was a model in the way she took on her new life. Having a little brother or sister could be good, she felt obliged to say, which got a smile out of Pilar.

Mai had suggested to Sylvia that they go on vacation together. Come with me to Barcelona, this way you can get to know the city. To the squat? No, no, we’ll find a little hotel and if Mateo wants to go out with us one day that’s fine, but there’s no way I’m going to be tied down. In that case, why are you going to the city he’s in? Let’s go somewhere else. Yeah. Mai was left speechless. Then she said, well, you’ve never been to Barcelona, it’s a trip, nothing like Madrid.

Sylvia and Ariel had made plans to go somewhere during the three days off over the Easter week. But it all depended on the situation with the club. His time off for the injury had been exhausting. When we don’t play, we’re like disabled, he had explained to Sylvia. Now I understand those retired pro players who come to watch us train, they want to chat with us, they need to maintain contact. They put together teams of former players and they still compete between themselves, as if nothing changed. They turn into regulars at coffee shops, recalling anecdotes. They still sign the occasional autograph and someone might ask them about the next game as if they knew the secrets better than anyone else. And, of course, they agree to participate in chats and commentaries on the radio and television. Soccer players without soccer, Dragon used to call them, a dangerous breed, like singers without songs or businessmen without business. Stopped watches.