Learning To Lose Part 6

Sylvia tilted her head to the side. It's strange to be sitting inside this car. Although it's better than being plastered onto the winds.h.i.+eld. Ariel asked about her leg, about the pain, about the awkwardness of the cast. The worst is when it itches inside and you start to scratch on the plaster as if that would help. Ariel had turned down the music and only m.u.f.fled sounds could be heard. I made a reservation at an awesome restaurant, but then I thought it would be better to go to my house, he said. Do you like Argentinian empanadas? We can buy some on the way...Really Ariel was uncomfortable imagining himself in a restaurant being watched by everyone, that someone would think they were on a romantic date. But her reaction was a long silence. Your house? she finally asked. I don't know. Ariel realized his tactlessness. I only thought since restaurants are a madhouse, the people, all that, but you're right, let's go...Of course, you get recognized everywhere you go. The conversation sped up and Ariel gave too many explanations. No, no, let's go to your house, you're right, she said in the end. Are you sure? If you don't feel...No, no, let's go, I don't want you to spend the night signing autographs.

But in the store where they stopped to order the empanadas, Ariel saw there were two tables in the back, beside a shelf of Italian pastas. He went to get Sylvia from the car. Let's eat here, there's n.o.body else, it'll be good. The owners of the place were two nice Argentinian women who explained that they didn't have a restaurant license, just takeaway, but they served people while they waited and got around the law that way. Sylvia ordered a beer and Ariel a gla.s.s of wine from Mendoza. They settled in the back, surrounded by displayed products. Every once in a while, someone came in to buy something and Ariel's gaze searched for the door. It took him a while to relax. Sylvia seemed more comfortable. She asked him questions. About the game. About his soccer career. How he got started. How he came to Spain. Ariel talked for a long time, while she stared into his eyes. He pushed his hair back and sometimes she imitated his gesture, putting a section of curls behind her ear. Then Sylvia leaned her elbows on the table and put her hands on her cheeks. She was lovely in that gesture of relaxed observation. And Ariel realized that in all that time he had only been talking about himself. I talk too much, he said. The big Argentinian sin. No, it's interesting, she said. Before I met you I thought soccer players were ma.s.s-produced, I don't know, in industrial factories, all cut from the same pattern. And that they always forgot to add the brains, of course, he added.

One of the owners lowered the metal gate. No, no, relax, go on, we're locking up but we still have to clean and close out the register, you're not in the way, she said. That sort of isolation made them feel more comfortable. So choclo choclo is corn, said Sylvia after biting into an empanada. Yeah, all the different food names are confusing. Do you miss your family? she asked. Yeah, of course, he said. Maybe I'll bring them over, if I get settled here. One of the owners brought an open bottle of wine and sat with them. She had come to Spain three years ago. The devaluation of the peso ruined me, and here I couldn't find work as an actress, so I was teaching acting. But it didn't go well for her and she partnered with a friend to import products from over there. Ariel wondered if the women were a couple, but he didn't dare ask. During the rest of the evening, she monopolized the conversation. She talked about her country, remembering people. She made fun of a singer, cursed a politician, laughed at the last plastic surgery a television hostess had done. They're gonna have to operate on her kids so they don't look adopted. is corn, said Sylvia after biting into an empanada. Yeah, all the different food names are confusing. Do you miss your family? she asked. Yeah, of course, he said. Maybe I'll bring them over, if I get settled here. One of the owners brought an open bottle of wine and sat with them. She had come to Spain three years ago. The devaluation of the peso ruined me, and here I couldn't find work as an actress, so I was teaching acting. But it didn't go well for her and she partnered with a friend to import products from over there. Ariel wondered if the women were a couple, but he didn't dare ask. During the rest of the evening, she monopolized the conversation. She talked about her country, remembering people. She made fun of a singer, cursed a politician, laughed at the last plastic surgery a television hostess had done. They're gonna have to operate on her kids so they don't look adopted.

The place was called Buenos Aires-Madrid and it was still being renovated. The rent was so high they couldn't afford to continue the work. One of the women, the quieter one, finished tidying up the stock. The other one talked a blue streak. She cursed the American president's reelection and then she insisted that more than ever the world needed a new Che. I don't know, she said, Subcomandante Marcos leaves me a little cold, always wearing a mask and all that. There were moments when Ariel's gaze sought out Sylvia's eyes and he shot her a subtle ironic expression about the woman and her incessant talking or the obvious moustache beneath her nose. Ariel brought a finger to his face to discreetly point out the facial hair and make Sylvia laugh. But they both appreciated the interruption. It allowed them to study each other without explanation, look at each other without speaking, to share something.

As they left, Ariel told her, I'm warning you, Argentinians never shut up. Sylvia was impressed, what a talker. And did you notice? The dictionary is too short for that lady, she needs a new one and quick. They walked to the car. It was quarter to eleven. That's my curfew, I can't stay out much past it. I'll drive you home, he offered. Sylvia guided Ariel along the streets of Madrid. At a stoplight, she raised enough courage to ask him. Do you live alone? Now I do, yeah, he said. There was a silence. Keep going, straight ahead, she indicated. My brother was here, but he had to go back. I live on the outskirts, in Las Rozas. In one of those big houses? Ariel nodded. Do you like movies? I have a gigantic screen and I watch a ton of them up there, if you want to, one day...I don't like movies much, she said. Everybody likes movies, he said, surprised. I don't know, after five minutes I already know what's going to happen, I get bored, they're so repet.i.tive. Ariel smiled. I've never heard that reasoning before. Everything repeats itself, right? he managed to say, then he regretted having said it, it didn't make much sense. No, in life you never know what's going to happen the next minute, but in the movies you can see what's coming. Just from the cast you already know if they're going to hook up or not, who's the bad guy. Oh, well, you mean American movies, sighed Ariel. People like them so much because they're predictable, they already know what they're gonna see. Like people who go to the beach for their vacations: what they want is sun and waves. And if you give them something else they get mad. If you come to my house someday, I'll put on a different kind of movie, you'll see. Okay, she said. I have a friend, Marcelo, a musician, he's very famous back home, he always says that if you do what the audience wants, you'd have to compose the same song over and over.

They got to Sylvia's street, but she let the car pa.s.s her door before telling him to stop. I really live back there, but I didn't want anyone to see me get out of a car like this. You don't like it? It's really flashy. Flashy? Kinda tacky, typical of a soccer player. I guess it impresses girls, but it makes me embarra.s.sed, she said. My brother picked it out, I know it's tacky, Ariel apologized. I'll help you out, wait. Ariel got out of the car and opened Sylvia's door, then held her crutch as she got out.

They exchanged a kiss on each cheek. I had a really good time, she said. You don't like my car, you don't like movies, you're a tough one. Ariel smiled. Sylvia gathered herself to ask, you really think so? It's a joke, he explained. Well, thanks for inviting me, she said, initiating their good-bye. My pleasure. I guess it must be a drag for you to have to escort a paralytic around. The cast suits you, said Ariel, and then he smiled. Well, they're taking it off next week, so if you like it that much you'll have to run me over again.

Neither of them managed to quite say good-bye for the evening. Call me whenever you want, said Ariel. You call me, I don't want to be a pain in the a.s.s. Sylvia headed off, trying to look agile in spite of the crutch. Ariel went back into the car and, looking into the rearview mirror, erased his smile, which he thought looked stupid, innocent, and captivated. He didn't start the engine until he saw her disappear, a moment after she waved to him.

They hadn't spoken again since that Monday night. Ariel had thought about her throughout the week, but he felt uncomfortable setting up another date. It was obvious they had been flirting as if she weren't sixteen years old, as if they were getting together for some reason beyond his trying to make up for having hit her. She was a smart, attractive girl, but Ariel could see her childish side, that dangerous inertia that could lead her to fall in love with him, to fantasize about a relations.h.i.+p that was never going to happen. On the bus, when he turned on his cell phone, he figured a message from her would appear. But it didn't. She gave no signs of life. And he shouldn't give any, either.

He wasn't going to give any.

He looks at his watch. It's almost twelve. He can't yet see the lights of the city from the bus window. He writes a message: "You want to come see a movie tomorrow at my house? That way you can tell me what happens in the end." He searches through his phonebook for Sylvia's name and sends it. It's Sat.u.r.day night. Surely she's out with some friends from school. Ariel feels like that would be more appropriate for his age, too, more than sharing the bus with his teammates, surrounded by the sound of the blows of an action hero who, at the end of the movie, as always, will solve all his problems with a fantastic display of physical power.

5.

She raises the neck of her sweater so that it covers her mouth. Her breath burns when it comes into contact with the wool. It's a pleasant sensation. The stone step's cold reaches her thighs through her pants. She shouldn't have sat down. But he makes her wait. He always makes her wait. To be punctual in Madrid, you have to take the metro. It must be hard to be on time with all that traffic. Why didn't she want him to pick her up at home? No, she thought, it's better if he doesn't. She worries that her father or some neighbor would see her getting into that car. That's why she's sitting on the steps of the post office again. It is a horrible place to meet, I know, but it's our place, isn't it?

The last time they went out together, she got into the car and Ariel drove to his house. It seemed far, but at this time of night it only takes a second, he said. Sylvia was nervous and her foot tapped the floor mat. It had taken them almost a week to get in touch again after their first dinner together. She was about to give up hope. Or, better put, she had given up hope several times. On Tuesday a message beep sounded; it was Mai. She had just arrived in Vienna with her boyfriend. On Wednesday someone called quite late. It was Dani, sounding drunk. I never know how to talk to you, he said. Sylvia didn't know either. Just like normal, I guess. Friday, on the way home, she saw a silver car identical to Ariel's. She approached it, coming as close as the edge of the sidewalk. It was driven by a somewhat pudgy fortysomething man, gelled hair, sungla.s.ses, beside him a woman who seemed like a standard accessory with the car. On Sat.u.r.day night, she thought that the incoming message on her phone would be from Alba or Nadia asking her if she was up for going out with some people from school, but it was him. He was inviting her to watch a movie at his house. She said yes. Of course.

What to think. What was he looking for? What was she looking for? The obsessive teenage perspective couldn't be right. It might be deceiving. The typical mirage. Thinking it's something it's not. Desire forces you to see what desire reveals. And reality? He calls me. He talks to me. The normal thing would be that I didn't exist, Sylvia thought, that I ceased to exist after the accident, and yet...He's friendly. He's just being friendly.

He's being friendly, I've fallen in love.

Her thoughts wandered. She couldn't concentrate. In cla.s.s the symptoms were clear. On television footage of the presidents' summit meeting in Vienna was aired, the city overtaken by riot police. s.h.i.+elds and protective helmets straight out of a futuristic movie. Policemen charging. Mai didn't answer her last message. But Sylvia wasn't too worried. She'd be back on Sunday.

The first time he took her to his house, they entered through the garage. On the bas.e.m.e.nt level was a room converted into a gym. He heated up some meatb.a.l.l.s for dinner. They were good, but it was ridiculous to eat meatb.a.l.l.s in that living room, with Ariel standing while he suggested movies to watch until she picked one, this one. He turned off the lights, took out a liter bottle of beer and two cups, the t.i.tle credits appeared, but Sylvia's attention wasn't on the screen: it was on Ariel. His arm rested on the back of the sofa, like an attempted embrace, a caress that never arrived, never would arrive. And Sylvia wondered if her socks had any holes before taking off her boots, making herself comfortable, curling up on the sofa to see if he would decide to hug her. They had taken her cast off that same morning. Well, this way I feel a little less guilty, said Ariel when he saw her. She still needed the crutch to rest her foot safely, but she had gotten her mobility back.

They watched the movie. It was fun. A real mix-up about two con men. Halfway through he asked her, do you know how it's going to end yet? Well, one of these two is not what he appears to be, that's obvious. Ariel smiles. Have you seen it before? she asks. Yeah, but that doesn't matter to me. I like it. I don't mind knowing how movies end. It's the same in soccer, if it was only the end result that mattered each team could shoot five penalty kicks at the beginning and then go home. No, what's important is the game. Sylvia shrugs her shoulders, nervous. Why was he talking about soccer? She brought a lock of hair to her mouth, biting it again and again. What was he thinking about her? He must have invited her out as a curiosity. A sharp, funny Spanish girl. Like some sort of witty, flirtatious niece. He was talking about soccer, but with a professorial air, he talks to me like I'm a little girl. Sometimes Sylvia lost the thread of the film, focusing on how miserable she felt.

When the movie ended, Sylvia looked through the mountains of CDs. A ton of Argentinian groups. Names she didn't know, Intoxicados, Los Redondos, La Renga, the Libertines, Bersuit, Callejeros, Spineta, Vicentico. Put on something you like, she asked. He put on the latest record by his friend Marcelo. He sent me this but it's not on sale yet. Listen, it's super-good. Sylvia sat down, took another sip of beer. The lyrics...said Ariel, the guy's world is crazy, totally his own. His sentences ended on a high note, as if the last syllables were ringing in the air. I barely listen to any music in Spanish, she said. I like it better when I don't understand the words. I don't know, it's like everything sounds more corny, more simplistic when it's in your own language. Are you crazy? he said. And he repeated the verses: "Tangled in the vines of your jungle, I search for the path that brings me back, sanity before I lose it, lose my sight in the fog, the rope where I hang myself every Monday when my team loses, Madrid is so far away, Ariel." He's talking about me there. Ariel looked at her, without sitting down. Pretty, right? Sylvia was defensive, yeah, I don't know. A little corny. Everything sounds corny if I can understand it. Disagreeing was a way to take a stance. A bit feeble, she said after another band. I hate those groups that look tough with their long hair and tattoos and all those trappings, but then what they sing is pure marmalade, drippy little ballads. Ariel interpreted it as a declaration of her taste, and he searched for a more aggressive band. They come from a shantytown, the poorest in Buenos Aires, he told her. They sounded strong, guitar-heavy. Sylvia liked them better. I see, you're into rock from the slums, he remarked. At least the noise covers up the simple lyrics a little. Ariel laughed. I wouldn't call Marcelo simple, he's been in a.n.a.lysis for twenty years. He's a nutcase. He told me there are people who've done their doctoral theses on just one of his songs. Now he keeps insisting I visit an a.n.a.lyst friend of his who lives in Madrid.

Sylvia found it uncomfortable to listen to music with Ariel's smile fixed on her, his eyes questioning. She nodded, saying, good, or, I like this. The situation was sort of like a test. He asked her what her favorite music was and she named groups he had never heard of. All British or American. You'll have to play them for me, he said, almost to be polite. Sylvia took it as an invitation to continue meeting. He served her beer every once in a while, but always from the other side of the coffee table, its lower shelf filled with magazines and sports newspapers. Sylvia flipped through one, but the cover models were too beautiful, retouched by a computer in search of fabricated perfection, not a trace of pimples, folds, wrinkles, real skin. I made the cover of this one. Ariel holds out a magazine with his photo on it. Don't even think about reading it, the interview is horrible.

They talked for a while more, even though the music played loudly and he changed the songs before they ended, as if he wanted to give her an overview in twenty minutes. It got late, too late. Sylvia said, how am I going to get out of here? It was twenty to eleven. But Ariel insisted on taking her. He took the car out of the garage and Sylvia went through the door to the yard, to avoid the steps. How ridiculous that she had to leave so early. She was sure the night was just starting for him. She got into the car like a childish Cinderella. They got back onto the now deserted highway toward the city. The same music, by his friend Marcelo, was playing. I like it so much that I made a copy for the car, he explained. The return trip seemed to obliterate what had happened that evening. When we get to my house, thought Sylvia, it will be as if we never met. It was a strange feeling. A retraced route that went back to the beginning. Nothing had happened, because there was nothing to happen. Sylvia looked at the highway and started biting on a lock of hair again. In the city, Ariel asked her about her parents. I live with my father, just us. My mother left him six months ago. And without Ariel saying anything, Sylvia felt obliged to add, they're good people. The marriage just fell apart. I don't know, sometimes I think they stayed married just for me, and they couldn't find anything else to keep them together. Sylvia put her hair behind her ears, her sad eyes. He looked at her twice, still driving.

When they got to the doorway, Ariel drove past it. Wouldn't want anyone to see you getting out of this flashy car, he joked. They both laughed. Thanks for the movie. We can do it again whenever you feel like it. Sure, whenever you want. Ariel went over his schedule. Tomorrow we're on the road, we're playing in Italy on Wednesday, but when we get back, I don't know, I'll call you, we'll talk. Okay, was all Sylvia said. They kissed on each cheek, she enveloped him in her hair, he broke away delicately. Ariel helped her out, I had a good time, I don't have that many people here I can watch a movie and have a beer with. Sylvia walked toward her door with a victorious smile.

In the elevator, alone, on the way up to her apartment, leaning on the crutch, somewhat dizzy from the beer, she kissed herself full on the lips in the mirror. Then she thought, I'm stupid.

Thursday, after coming back from the game in Italy, he wrote her a message. "Another movie?" he suggested. "The works," she answered, and then she regretted having written it. The works? It sounded bra.s.sy. She also regretted having painted her lips in muted purple, the lips that were hidden beneath the neck of her wool sweater at that moment, at six p.m., sitting in the cold on the frozen steps, waiting to see the silvery reflection of Ariel's car appear in what was now their usual meeting place. She felt that she was exposing her intentions in too obvious a way. Her love. In the purple, in her easy availability, in her enthusiasm. She was nervous.

6.

The hospital makes Leandro sick. In the waiting room, there are only old people. It's like a microcosm in extinction. He's surprised no one has yet shot a science fiction film of a future time where there are just old people left, waiting for transplants, or who've only survived because of some medical discovery. Maybe someone has; it's been a long time since he's paid attention to what's in theaters. Some woman was speaking loudly, animatedly, about her illness. Another responds, my sister-in-law had the same thing. Another, hope is the last thing to go. The nurse tolerates the rebuke of a man who says he's been waiting for an hour, then she gathers up the referral slips of the recent arrivals, asks for patience, and calls for the next three on the list.

Leandro's expression is the opposite of Aurora's. In her wheelchair, she firmly maintains her dignity, her head held high, her shoulders lifted. Only her inert hands, resting white among the rain of age spots, give away that she is the one who's ill. Leandro buries his head, his gaze lowered, his shoulders fallen. Last Sat.u.r.day his piano student, Luis, had said he was having trouble finding time for cla.s.ses during his exams at university and he would stop coming for a while. Sure, sure, replied Leandro, but he felt like that was the end of his work life. In the best years, he had had up to five or six private students spread out in cla.s.ses throughout the week. Since he retired, he had reduced the number, but he'd never had less than three. Last year he limited it to one, Luis, a polite and attentive young man who showed up every Sat.u.r.day at eleven. In the academy they recommended Leandro as an instructor, and he was lazy about advertising or looking for students. When he lost his last student, he said to himself, that's it, this is the end, another chapter closed. He was quiet during that last cla.s.s, so much so that young Luis felt obliged to try to cheer him up, maybe after exams I'll start up again.

The last few days, he had barely left the house. He kept watch over Aurora's fragility, waiting for her bursts of high spirits, while he fulfilled her absurd requests: calling acquaintances for their birthdays, paying Benita the extra hour from last Thursday. At times she came out of her sleepiness or interrupted her reading to organize the routine, look and see how we're doing for oil, we might need some, or, you have to help Benita with the upper shelves in the kitchen, she can't reach. Leandro watched as the maid stood on a stool to laboriously clean off the grease that had acc.u.mulated out of sight, while she shouted, for two inches, yes sir, for just two inches they denied me the dwarf pension. Now, that's bad luck, at least being so short could have done me some good, but no. Leandro was familiar with her personal misfortunes. A husband dead from emphysema, in his prime; a laughable pension; a daughter lost to drugs who, at twenty-two, had thrown herself out the window; and a truck driver son imprisoned in Portugal for some shady smuggling affair. They hid something in his cargo, but he refused to turn in his bosses. That tiny woman showed too much strength, brightening the house with her vibrant shouting; sometimes she sang a copla copla while she vacuumed, and Leandro, who was frightened by the combination of the two sounds, fled to the street in search of peace. When she finished her work, Benita stopped by Aurora's bed and said good-bye raucously. She pinched her cheeks hard, that'll give you a little color, you're very pale, or she repeatedly told her the worst thing is staying still, from still to dead there's only a hair's breadth. while she vacuumed, and Leandro, who was frightened by the combination of the two sounds, fled to the street in search of peace. When she finished her work, Benita stopped by Aurora's bed and said good-bye raucously. She pinched her cheeks hard, that'll give you a little color, you're very pale, or she repeatedly told her the worst thing is staying still, from still to dead there's only a hair's breadth.

Leandro went out to take a walk around the neighborhood, taking advantage of the hours of clean winter sun. He wandered haphazardly in the Mercado Maravillas, among the stalls he's known forever but where he avoids familiarity. On the street, he caught the performance of Gypsy women selling clothing, lipsticks, scarves. Sometimes he would lose himself in the small streets and his steps would lead him to the Tuning Fork Academy, and during cla.s.s hours he would listen to some music theory or piano student playing with young, tentative fingers. For thirty-three years, he had taught cla.s.ses there.

His worry over the state of his finances had kept him away from the chalet. He had gone to great lengths in taking care of Aurora, as if that task would keep him from temptation. On some afternoons, he locked himself in his room to listen to a record and fantasized that he was done with his disgraceful behavior. His son, Lorenzo, stops by the house every day and asks him if everything's okay. Can you manage everything, Papa? Ask for help if you need it, please.

One Sunday he found his granddaughter seated at the piano and he sat beside her. He helped her determine the notes to the melody she sang softly with some English words, as if composing a song in the air.

Aurora asks him to wait outside, they'll do tests and weird things, it's best if you don't come in, and she forces him to stay on the other side of a door with a sign on it warning about radioactive levels. Leandro amuses himself in the hallway, rubbing each of his fingers with the other hand, walking up and down to avoid going back into the waiting room filled with chance conversations.

Where did it happen, when, Leandro doesn't understand how the wall rose up between them, that protective area where they don't get involved in the other's suffering, in what the other is feeling. Aurora, so open, alive, sincere, always available, happy, enthusiastic, but reserved when it came to anything that could affect him, inconvenience him. She had respected his s.p.a.ce, his silence, his lack of implication, and she had done her best to keep anything from disturbing it. Now Leandro is ashamed of having a relations.h.i.+p like that. His wife isn't going to share her fear and pain with him and it may be that she needs to, but she'll keep it inside, she'll act strong and self-sufficient, because that is what she learned to do at his side.

Perhaps they'd established that way of being right when they met. Leandro was twenty-three years old and visiting an office in the former Ministry of Education headquarters to try to get financial help in postponing his studies so he could travel to Paris. He went from window to window, with a written recommendation he showed to anyone willing to read it. Aurora was hammering away at a typewriter, and she was the one who noticed him and offered to help, even though she was just a temporary secretary. Maybe Leandro already sensed he was ill-equipped to face those challenges, that he needed someone to resolve the domestic catastrophes, the smallest fears. Aurora took an interest in his case when Leandro, sitting on a wooden bench, rubbing his frozen hands together, was only expecting to get a final no to his request. He told her he was looking for a scholars.h.i.+p for a school in Paris and she asked him about his field of study. He said cla.s.sical piano. And Aurora's eyes, on that day so many years ago, opened enormously wide, and it seemed as if Leandro held the only key capable of opening them that way.

Cla.s.sical piano.

Leandro always thought it had been those two words that had opened up Aurora's heart. He said them with smug intention. Madrid, 1953, cla.s.sical piano. It was like talking about life on other planets. Aurora read the recommendation written by some luminary and asked him to wait a moment. She disappeared down a back hallway and was gone quite a while. So long that when she came back, Leandro responded to her smile with, are you sure I'm not wasting a lot of your time? But Aurora shook her head. I hate my job, any interruption is a stroke of luck.

In spite of Aurora's good intentions, Leandro only got a few kind words and promises that never materialized. On the street, that first day, he took his leave of Aurora with a proper squeeze of her hands, and he headed off, raising the lapels of his coat. He didn't look back to see her in the dark doorway. He didn't want to force himself to be nice or thank her for her effort. That was how he presented himself as a romantic candidate, laden with silences, an aura of mystery, and a very hidden warmth. When he walked away from those offices on Calle Trafalgar, he knew he would see her again, that he would go looking for her behind that window to offer her the nothing he had to offer, the little he had to say. I don't think I thanked you enough for all you did for me, he went to tell her two days later. Then she blushed like a schoolgirl.

They strolled that afternoon along the downtown sidewalks. Leandro faded out his on-again, off-again pa.s.sion for a ballerina he had met at the ballet auditions where he worked as a pianist for hire. Aurora dashed all the hopes of a young colleague of her father's, whom her father had insisted on inviting over to eat at the house so he could moon at her over his soup with his solicitous husband eyes. After six months of reading Primer Plano Primer Plano to choose what movie to see, of avoiding puddles on the street or the stench of b.u.ms on the sidewalk, of listening to the radio together, Aurora handed over her savings and told him, go to Paris and give it a shot. At that point they knew they were in love, but their financial future was not at all secure. Joaquin's letters to Leandro promised him a shared destiny. to choose what movie to see, of avoiding puddles on the street or the stench of b.u.ms on the sidewalk, of listening to the radio together, Aurora handed over her savings and told him, go to Paris and give it a shot. At that point they knew they were in love, but their financial future was not at all secure. Joaquin's letters to Leandro promised him a shared destiny.

After the war, Joaquin's father reappeared like the living dead, but victorious and heroic. Nothing like those who came back from the front or the internment camps like languid shadows. Rumormongers said he had been leading a double life romantically and was now purging his sins by becoming a devoted father who dragged everyone in his path to daily Ma.s.s. He magnanimously helped the less fortunate in the neighborhood and from the first day he insisted that Leandro share piano cla.s.ses with his son Joaquin.

Three afternoons a week, an old professor, who had lost his post at the conservatory for socialist sympathies, came over. Too old to be sent to the firing squad, too stubborn to change ideas now, was how he had described himself once in a very rare glint of intimacy with his students. Don Alonso tried to discipline the two boys in front of the piano. They learned as much from their lessons as from his taciturn sadness, the bitter grat.i.tude with which he received his payment from Joaquin's father at the end of cla.s.s, the careful way he put away the worn scores in his leather satchel that was coming unst.i.tched. Leandro always thought of Don Alonso, and his exercises for the left hand, affectionately. He remembered one afternoon when the professor told them about music schools in Russia, about the discipline of their conservatories, the natural selection of talent from the entire country, and he spoke in such a quiet, guilty voice that it was as if he were telling them about an orgy in forbidden brothels. He also remembered the silences, deep as wells. Even though Leandro and Joaquin, at eleven and twelve years old, were devoted almost exclusively to life's joys, they still noticed their professor's downbeaten integrity.

That parallel life with Joaquin, seated in front of the piano, had perhaps given Leandro false expectations. Their families were quite different, their economic realities even more so. As Joaquin started to squander money on entertainment, Leandro was working to help his widowed mother. And the thousands of hours shared on the street and later in the cafes, all the conversations and the confidences, would be left behind when Joaquin went to Paris.

From Paris, Leandro wrote two long letters to Aurora. They were few compared to what she was expecting, but they were very expressive in their bitterness. Leandro didn't earn a spot at the conservatory, nor did he manage to establish himself in the city. Joaquin had a celebrated teacher, an Austrian emigre who spoke leaden French, for whom Leandro auditioned. He had the courage to take on Mozart's Jeunehomme Jeunehomme piano concerto and she asked him why he was playing that piece. Leandro answered the same thing he still thinks today, that it is perhaps the most beautiful piece ever composed for piano. The woman's declaration at the end of his audition was devastating. We didn't choose this profession to make beautiful things sound conventional. Leandro went back to Madrid after three months. His mother's health had worsened and he missed Aurora. Joaquin told him something that even then sounded like a compa.s.sionate lie, you can achieve the same thing in Madrid as I can here. piano concerto and she asked him why he was playing that piece. Leandro answered the same thing he still thinks today, that it is perhaps the most beautiful piece ever composed for piano. The woman's declaration at the end of his audition was devastating. We didn't choose this profession to make beautiful things sound conventional. Leandro went back to Madrid after three months. His mother's health had worsened and he missed Aurora. Joaquin told him something that even then sounded like a compa.s.sionate lie, you can achieve the same thing in Madrid as I can here.

Aurora and Leandro began an official courts.h.i.+p, happy and intimate, isolated from the world and its limitations. They were waiting for Leandro to finish school before marrying and living together. He could string together two or three jobs and get a salary that would allow them to pay the rent comfortably. She kept her secretarial job until she got pregnant. When Leandro's mother died, they sold her apartment and bought another one in the Plaza Condesa de Gavia. By then Aurora had already grown accustomed to Leandro's reserve. It was enough for Aurora to know that he felt much more for her than he was ever able to express. Then she was fueled by her baby's energy, by the newborn's vitality.

By then Joaquin was flying solo. He had an agent and had moved to Vienna for some master cla.s.ses and to a.s.sist Bruno Seidlhofer and give his first performances. His letters were increasingly shorter and more infrequent. There he spent time with pianists such as Friedrich Gulda, Alfred Brendel, Ingrid Haebler, Walter Klien, Jorg Demus, Paul Badura-Skoda. Yesterday I saw Glenn Gould play, he wrote to Leandro, in a concert where he destroyed Bach, as usual. Or he went to the Staatsoper to see Clemens Krauss or Furtw.a.n.gler conduct and to see pianists like Fischer and Alfred Cortot, who they had listened to countless times on a recording from the 1930s of the twenty-four Chopin preludes that Don Alonso had taught them to revere. Shortly after, Joaquin would sign a contract with the Westminster record label and Leandro would become an old childhood friend in a Madrid he visited as little as possible, especially after his public declarations against the regime became frequent and well-known in his adopted Paris.

Returning home that morning, Leandro just led the attendants up the stairs as they carried her. On each of the steps that he had traveled over thousands of times, he sees the shadow of what they once were and thinks that Aurora's legs will never again walk up to their apartment, loaded down with a child in her arms or shopping bags. Leandro helps her get undressed and comfortable in bed. A little later, he will place a tray of food on her lap and settle into the nearby armchair. They will listen to the radio news of the day. Aurora will not share the details the doctor gave her with him. Neither will Leandro confess his pressing need to leave, to go back to the chalet where Osembe works. After two weeks of abstinence, he will see her again that evening.

7.

Around noon on Sat.u.r.day, Lorenzo is setting the table for the midday meal. Sylvia is surprised. It's early. Are you going to the stadium? No, but I have plans, he answers cryptically. She cooks some pasta and two steaks and they eat in front of some celebrity gossip show and the start of the news. Sylvia tells him that she is going to spend the afternoon at her grandmother's house.

Have you talked to your mother lately? Sylvia nods. Do you have exams soon? In two weeks. Are you studying? I do what I can.

Two hours later, Lorenzo waits for Daniela in front of her door. When he sees her, he notices she's got makeup on, a bit of violet eye shadow and lip liner. She's wearing tight elastic pants and a fuchsia T-s.h.i.+rt beneath a jean jacket. Her damp hair falls over her back. A large canvas bag hangs from her shoulder. You look very pretty.

One Monday Lorenzo had waited for that uncertain hour of the morning when everyone is occupied with ch.o.r.es and the unemployed stand out with their slow gait along the sidewalks and their overly persistent gazes into shop windows. He went up the stairs to the floor above and rang the bell. Daniela opened the door. Behind her you could hear the television and the boy's gurgling in front of cartoons. Once again she wore that challenging expression, somewhat put out, but pleasant. She stepped forward across the doorway, as if that ensured she was not committing any wrongdoing in their home.

Pardon the intrusion, but I think I have something for your friend. Wilson? Lorenzo nodded. Tell him to call me. It's a little job he might be interested in. I'll tell him, thanks.

The conversation ended quickly, but she remained there, with the trace of a half smile. Lorenzo took the plunge. And one other thing, would you like to go to El Escorial this Sat.u.r.day? I'd love to take you, remember I promised you I would? I don't know, this Sat.u.r.day...Daniela lets her thoughts drift. You don't have to...You can bring your friend, if you want. I don't know if she'll be able to. Ask her, I'd love to. Okay, I'll let you know.

Lorenzo apologized again for having come up and then disappeared down the stairs. Half an hour later, his cell phone rang. It was Wilson. He hadn't gotten more than sporadic construction jobs, nothing regular, every morning he waited early in a plaza in Usera for the vans that picked up daily workers. I get in line there, I stick out my chest to show off my muscles, and lower my face to hide my crazy eye. Lorenzo explained that that afternoon he was going to start emptying out a house and the money would depend on how long it took them to do it.

The job opportunity came up during a dinner with friends at oscar's house. Lalo had mentioned an apartment that the real estate agency he worked for had just bought. It belonged to one of those old men who obsessively h.o.a.rded trash, upsetting his neighbors. Why do they do that? someone asked. I remember an old lady in my neighborhood who lived with a million cats, she was like that, too. Diogenes syndrome, said Ana. It's a psychological disorder called Diogenes syndrome. It's becoming more and more common. oscar said that it must be some kind of social rejection, something you did when you hated your environment. Craziness. Fear of the void, said Ana, they're all old people who live alone. Well, we have to empty it out this week, and you can't imagine how creeped out we are about what we might find there, there must be at least six tons of garbage, said Lalo. I'll take care of it, said Lorenzo, to everyone's surprise.

Lorenzo explained he was planning on setting up a small moving and transport business and if it paid well, cleaning out this apartment could be the perfect job to start with. When he noticed his friends' looks, he felt offended. Isn't that a decent job? Sure, man, of course, it's just a little surprising. Surprising? I have to make a living somehow. I don't know if you guys noticed, but I'm sc.r.a.ping the bottom of the barrel here.

Yeah, of course. And they avoided one another's eyes, as if it were a contest to see who could hold out the longest without saying anything. Lorenzo didn't want the conversation to die out like that. He insisted. I'll take care of cleaning it up and emptying it out, and depending on the hours it takes we'll negotiate a price. But you're going to do it yourself? asked Lalo. The place must be infected.

That was when Lorenzo remembered Wilson and he turned it into, I know some Ecuadorians who can lend me a hand. He felt his friends breathe easier, as if the delegation of work elevated him in the business hierarchy, steering them clear of the degrading image of their friend hunched over, picking up the acc.u.mulated c.r.a.p from a mentally unbalanced old man. Lorenzo was improvising out loud. I'm thinking about setting up a fleet of vans, something small, but the market is definitely there.

It doesn't sound like such a bad idea to me, said oscar. Oh, man, I was imagining you with lumbago, messed up after a week, admitted Ana. Well, let's talk about it on Monday, said Lalo, feigning enthusiasm.

Wilson waited in the van while Lorenzo went up to Lalo's office at the real estate agency. His friend handed him the keys to the apartment. He wrote down the address on a slip of paper. He was still uncomfortable. I'll need an invoice and all that. Of course, of course. You're sure the owner's not still in there...No, man, no, everything's been past the notaries. The apartment is ours. As far as the money, you'll let me know...Do you need something for the initial expenses?

Lorenzo and Wilson went up the stairs to the apartment. The peephole had been pulled out and sealed with black masking tape. Before they managed to open the door, trying each of the keys Lalo had given them, a female neighbor emerged from the opposite apartment. We're from the agency, Lorenzo said to rea.s.sure her. I can't believe you're going to cart away all that s.h.i.+t. The smell is unbearable.

It was nothing compared to the stench that came out once the door was opened. We need masks, said Wilson. The amount of objects piled up in the apartment made it almost impossible to walk through. On top of the sofa and the television, the regular furnis.h.i.+ngs of any home, there was a layer of junk, accrued garbage, stuff piled high until the whole apartment was submerged. There was furniture of different sizes, chairs, old newspapers, plastic bags filled with who knows what.

You think there are rats? wondered Wilson. Or worse. And the place isn't bad. Wait and see how much dough they ask for once it's cleaned up, answered Lorenzo. By then he had already transformed into a professional. I've got to buy masks, garbage bags, gloves, shovels, coveralls, add a couple more employees. And after lifting up some boards and seeing a stampeding army of c.o.c.kroaches, he added an insecticide bomb.

It took them two entire days to empty the apartment. The sewer smell was intense and unpleasant. They parked the van on the sidewalk and filled it with overflowing bags of garbage, drove to a nearby dump and emptied it there, and then went back to start again. The junk seemed to never end. Newspapers and magazines that went back to 1985, as if dating the start of the old man's dementia. During one of their breaks, the neighbor chatted with Lorenzo and Wilson and the two other Ecuadorians who had joined their team, told them the little she knew about the man. First his appearance had started to get sloppy and then little by little his house went downhill. Women? No, she couldn't remember any. She was sure he used to work for the post office, but in the last few years he didn't seem to have any schedule. He was just as likely to head out early in the morning as to not leave the house for days. No noises or fuss. But when neighbors started to criticize his behavior, complaining about the smell and the dangerous acc.u.mulation of junk, he tore out his peephole and covered it up. Another day he threatened the president of the building with a knife. And the police got tired of coming over with social workers, until finally they issued the eviction order. Then the real estate agency showed up and, no one really knows how, managed to buy the apartment.

Beneath one of the dressers was a huge wooden box filled with photos of women, cut out as if by a child. It must have taken years because there were so many. The women in the photographs weren't nude or particularly beautiful; they didn't really seem to have been specifically chosen. They were all women, though. They were precisely cut out. He took no shortcuts in his useless high-detail task. They looked like old paper dolls. There was also a collection of metro tickets, held together in bundles by crumbling rubber bands that broke at the touch. In drawers were pins, empty bottles, and advertising flyers. In the kitchen, there was only enough silverware and dishes for one person. One cup, one plate, and one set of fork, knife, and spoon. A radical declaration of solitude. Hundreds of rags and plastic bags balled up. The senseless obsession for saving seemed only to grow in relation to the uselessness of the objects. Whole collections of nothing. There wasn't much organic garbage and the worst smell came from the broken toilet with its relentlessly dripping cistern. The bathtub was a pool of rust, the toilet was missing a lid, and yet there were mountains of empty bottles of shower gel and soap. In the kitchen, one slip of paper was stuck to the door of the fridge, with a telephone number and the name Gloria.

Lorenzo saved the piece of paper, and on his break the second day he dialed the number. Gloria? he asked the voice that answered. Yes, that's me, said a woman. She must have been about forty years old. Look, sorry, apologized Lorenzo. I'm calling from Altos de Pereda, number forty-three, apartment 1A. From the home of Mr. Jaime Castilla Prieto. Lorenzo had memorized the former owner's name. What do you want? asked the woman.

Lorenzo beat around the bush, trying to get information. He said he was emptying out the house and had found her number jotted on a piece of paper. Why call me? I've never been in that house. I don't know anyone by that name. But your number was on a piece of paper, on the refrigerator door...I don't know why...

Lorenzo insisted on how strange it was that she didn't know the place or the man who kept her phone number as his only visible contact. It was, it seemed, the sole bit of information that tied him to the real world. But the woman, this Gloria, denied any relations.h.i.+p with him. Her refusal turned out to be sincere, surprised, somewhat concerned. Lorenzo realized he was beginning to upset the woman and he apologized and said goodbye. It was weird.

In his own way, the guy who lived here was organized, pointed out Wilson when they had paused for a moment. The everyday objects were striking, fossils of a conventional life that appeared as they removed the layers of acc.u.mulated junk. A stationary bicycle pushed beneath the bed, hangers, shoes in good shape. Why live like that? Why end up that way? Lorenzo felt dizzy and afraid, as he asked himself these questions on his way to the dump. Finally he consoled himself with Wilson's answer. The guy let himself go. And why not?

And why not?

The last vanload was filled with things Wilson or Lorenzo deemed to have some value. Small, cute pieces of furniture, a sideboard, three wrist.w.a.tches, some gla.s.s bottles. In that final load, Lorenzo filled a cardboard suitcase with some small-format records, two or three books, and the enormous collection of cutout photos.

At the last minute, he called his friend Lalo. That's it, the apartment is empty. Tomorrow I'll give you the invoice, okay?

Lorenzo brought Wilson's buddies back to near Tetuan. Then they both went to an antique dealer in the Rastro district who had said he would have a look at the furniture. This isn't worth the effort, thought Lorenzo when he heard the amount the guy offered him for the pieces. Wilson was more skillful, bargaining boldly until he got the final price up by a few euros. Wilson insisted on accompanying Lorenzo to a gas station to wash the van, to try to get rid of the unpleasant smell. The Ecuadorian scrubbed the back as if it were his. Lorenzo felt strangely pleased. He liked the guy. Once in a while, Wilson would say something funny and laugh through his teeth. When Lorenzo took Wilson home, he asked for a favor. Can you ask Daniela to please come down for a minute? I have to ask her something, he justified when Wilson smiled at him knowingly.

Lorenzo waited in the darkness, parked at the entrance to a nearby garage. Daniela came out of the doorway and approached the van, avoiding the headlights' beam. How'd it go? she asked. Exhausting, said Lorenzo. Wilson will tell you.

Outside work Daniela seemed more relaxed. Her loose, damp hair fell around her eyes. Yeah, well, okay, she said suddenly.

It took Lorenzo a little while to realize that was her reply to his invitation for Sat.u.r.day. So I'll pick you up after lunch? Okay.

Lorenzo started the engine and she left, a half smile still on her face. Lorenzo watched her walk back inside. She didn't swing her hips as she walked; instead she seemed propelled by small defiant impulses. She knows I'm watching her, thought Lorenzo.

Then he pa.s.sed by his parents' house. Leandro and Aurora were having dinner in her room. A simple potato frittata. Lorenzo noticed their subdued intimacy. He was happy, exhausted by the job. I'm only here for a minute, I gotta go home and shower, he explained. You sure you don't want dinner? No, no. He asked how they were. He got angry because they hadn't asked him to go to the hospital with them and then was giddily evasive about the job. When I get it more established, I tell you about it, was all he'd say, convinced that sounded good. What did the doctor say? he asked his father on his way to the door.

Nothing, just a regular checkup.

At home a note from Sylvia was waiting for him. "I'm studying at Mai's house, see you later." Studying. Lorenzo smiled to himself.

After showering he got in bed. He tossed and turned. Exhausted, but wired with excitement. It took him a while to fall asleep. He got up to take the Barbie doll from the back of the nearby walk-in closet. He went back to bed with her. Under the sheets, he caressed her plastic curves. But he was too tired to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e and he fell asleep with the doll resting on his belly.

He was awoken early in the morning by the sound of the front door opening. Sylvia's light steps. Lorenzo checked the alarm clock on the bedside table. Almost three. Was she going out with some boy? Let's hope she knows what she's doing. I'll have to talk to Pilar. I'll ask her. She'll confess to her mother. He couldn't get back to sleep. He waited long enough for Sylvia to get into bed, then ventured over to her room. Do you know what time it is, Sylvia? I lost track of time. Well, that's obvious. I got caught up over at Mai's. I don't want you coming home so late, I worry. Okay, let me sleep. Lorenzo noticed her body, a woman's body, beneath the sheets. He wondered if some boy was enjoying her curves and then he put the thought out of his mind. It disturbed him. He related it to his own s.e.xuality. Worrying about his daughter didn't keep him from masturbating with the doll once he got back to his bedroom and then putting her away, ashamed, at the back of the closet.

When on Sat.u.r.day, after lunch, Daniela walks out of her door and hops into Lorenzo's van, he restrains the impulse to greet her too effusively. He just smiles in response to her smile. Is El Escorial very far? No, an hour, tops. Ah, I thought it was further.

No, no, it's very close.

8.

He went down to the garage as quickly as he could. He didn't want to be late for practice. He took the sheets out of the was.h.i.+ng machine. He didn't really know what to do with them. They were still damp. He spread them out on a rack. It's cold outside.

At practice his hands are freezing. His legs feel heavy. He didn't get enough sleep. Flashes of the previous night come back to him.

What am I doing? She's underage. She's sixteen years old. Yet Ariel's lips didn't part from Sylvia's. She broke the tension, bringing Ariel's hand to the back of her head, burying it beneath the weight of her hair. Ariel reached to caress her full neck. What was going to happen? It was Sylvia who pulled apart for a moment, searched out Ariel's eyes and smiled.