I need help, too, Lorenzo, don't think I'm so strong. I'm very weak. What are you talking about, that's nonsense. Daniela, let's be straight with each other, please...Nonsense? Maybe. Daniela smiled. Nothing you say makes sense.

But the worst of it all is that Lorenzo did think she was making sense, which is why he didn't add anything. Daniela's smile was a challenge. Her friends were looking through the window from the opposite sidewalk. They smiled and made comments to each other. Maybe I'm just the b.u.t.t of some jokes I don't even get. Daniela gave him a kiss on each cheek before standing up. And that had been the last time they spoke.

Lorenzo had a terrible Sat.u.r.day night. It wasn't a good idea to go out late with Lalo and oscar and their wives. He drank too much and sank into an uncomfortable silence. He didn't have anything to say to them. He could tell they were relieved when he left. At the hospital, that night, on the uncomfortable sofa bed beside his mother, his hemorrhoids tortured him again. In the bathroom, up on a footstool, he applied a cream the pharmacist had recommended. In a position where it was impossible for him to see his a.s.s, he rubbed the ointment into the painful area. It was horrible to do it alone, half drunk on beer, but it managed to calm the burning.

He barely slept and in the morning on Sunday, as soon as his father showed up to relieve him, he headed to the church. Lorenzo saw Daniela's hair in the first rows and he could make out her figure, as always stuffed into tight clothes. The pastor was talking torrentially with his professional sweetness. It took Lorenzo a while to pay attention, to absorb his words.

When one looks at the world in which we live, the society, the life that goes on out there, if one could talk with G.o.d they would say: Lord, save us, convert this Sodom and Gomorrah into dust, destroy us, send a flood to cover it all, and from the ashes may a civilization more just and more faithful to your image arise. He p.r.o.nounced it sivilisation sivilisation, without the peninsular c c and and z z sound. If it were up to me, I would tell you that destruction and disappearance are the only hope for our race. But I have G.o.d's consolation. He tells me wait and you will see. We have to know that in this life there is only one thing we all deserve: death. Everything given to us, all the small joys, the everyday, the tiny good and evil of each day, and the big Evil and the big Good that many of us cannot even reach from our tininess, all that is a gift while we await the Big Gift, death. Our only liberation. But before, from our ashes, perhaps we will manage to mold a new man, a new woman, a new girl, not as some cosmetic exercise, like those sick people on television. No, as a moral exercise. sound. If it were up to me, I would tell you that destruction and disappearance are the only hope for our race. But I have G.o.d's consolation. He tells me wait and you will see. We have to know that in this life there is only one thing we all deserve: death. Everything given to us, all the small joys, the everyday, the tiny good and evil of each day, and the big Evil and the big Good that many of us cannot even reach from our tininess, all that is a gift while we await the Big Gift, death. Our only liberation. But before, from our ashes, perhaps we will manage to mold a new man, a new woman, a new girl, not as some cosmetic exercise, like those sick people on television. No, as a moral exercise.

Lorenzo dropped his head. The stocky man with the guitar played an old Dylan song with the lyrics changed. Oh, it's me, Lord, it's me you're looking for. Lorenzo stayed there almost half an hour more, inside the Church of the Second Resurrection. One resurrection wasn't enough, he thought. Perhaps, yes, perhaps the pastor was talking about him, too. Then he would be able to make a new man from the tattered remains of the old one.

But it was the pastor's words that made him leave without speaking to Daniela. Why? Now, with Wilson dead, he knows. Now he understands better why he took advantage of one of the songs, before the service was over, to sneak out onto the street, to escape that place. Why was death so essential? Why give it so much power? Lorenzo rebelled against what he had just heard. Now he understands, knowing that Wilson is dead, his head bashed in with a brick.

I killed a man, he says to himself. And the worst of it all is not how I'm suffering or how I've had to pay for it, or if I'll be forgiven or reconciled, or if I'll be able to save myself. None of it has any importance, in the face of the incontestable fact that I took a life, as if I were a G.o.d. That's why he couldn't believe in G.o.d, because he had supplanted him so easily.

As Lorenzo goes down into the metro car, he thinks Wilson also died at the hands of a murderer, in a stupid fight over a ridiculous amount of money or for a drunk's violent craziness. So should Wilson celebrate his absurd end? No, thinks Lorenzo, as he goes up the stairs that lead to the street, life is that sun, that light I walk toward, all that I am. You have to walk, keep moving forward.

Thoughts and feelings crowd Lorenzo's head. He knows that he is a murderer and he walks down the street. Maybe Wilson's death was liberating for him as well, because it added to the daily senselessness. I killed a man. I was G.o.d for him. The G.o.d that some pray to, asking for a ending, a way out, a hope, that they devote themselves to in joy and in pain, that dominating force, the holder of power. That was me.

He reaches the place, cordoned off with plastic police lines. On that floor, Wilson died not many hours before. No one can bring Paco or Wilson back to life, no matter how hard they try. Nothing better will grow from their ashes. They will no longer be anything, ever, just what they were.

No one would believe, pa.s.sing Lorenzo on the street, that in his head raced confusing, atheist conclusions, which worked for him. He's an angry man, who trusts life, its accidental nature, its energy, who cries over a loss, a man's broken continuity. He also cries over the power of murderers. He doesn't confess or turn himself in. He looks for a white van parked nearby, a van with tinted back windows. He finally sees it at the top of a hilled street. He walks quickly toward it. And he finds it with a green ticket that he takes from beneath the windshield wiper. He tears it up and throws it to the ground. That's the order of men; an absurd ticket for failing to comply with the parking schedule is the only mark of his pa.s.sage through life.

He has a set of keys in his pocket. He gets into the van and starts it. But he doesn't know where to go, he doesn't have anywhere. He bursts out crying over the steering wheel. He cries bitterly, bowing his head. When he rests his forehead against the wheel, it makes the horn sound and he gives himself a start and someone turns in the street and everything is ridiculous for that moment.

A little while later, he drives along the highway toward the airport. He has a pickup at two-thirty. He found the flotation ring Sylvia used as a girl, he found it at the back of the junk room, and he was using it to sit on because his a.s.s was killing him. Along the highway, he pa.s.ses the old folks' home. He understands his visits to Don Jaime as his particular way of comprehending sacrifice, or penitence, or maybe something else. He has time to spare and he swerves off to go in and see him. In that neighborhood, it's easy to find a parking spot.

He finds the man sitting in front of the window, absorbed in the rumble of some plane taking off. I'm not disturbing you, am I? Don Jaime shakes his head and Lorenzo sits on the mattress, near him. They don't look at each other.

The day after tomorrow is my birthday, says Lorenzo suddenly. I don't think I'm going to celebrate. My mother is in the hospital, dying. And I think my father has lost his mind. He spent almost sixty thousand euros on prost.i.tutes. Lorenzo sees that the note with the phone number is still in the same place it was last time. A triangular-shaped calendar from a drug company is now beside it. I'm going to be forty-six. And I'm not going out with the girl I was going out with before. You remember her? But the man doesn't seem to be in any shape to respond. They remain in silence for a moment and then Lorenzo adds, do you believe in G.o.d?

The man moves his head from side to side, as if he is about to speak, but he says nothing. Some time later, he only asks, is lunchtime soon?

Lorenzo takes his cell phone out of his pocket and checks the time. No, I don't think so. As he puts the cell phone away, he misses not wearing a watch on his wrist. The man opens the drawer on the desk and takes out some magazines and some scissors. The pages of the magazine are cut out. Don Jaime cuts around the edges of the photographs with the scissors. He's doing it again, thinks Lorenzo. In a little while, he has cut out all the photos of women who appear on the pages as if it were an a.s.signment he must finish.

Lorenzo has prepared a sign with the name of the person he has to pick up, on the back of an old wrinkled invoice. He holds it up high when the pa.s.sengers from Guayaquil and Quito start to come out. The Quito airport, Wilson had explained to him, has such a short runway and is so interwoven into the city that the airplanes can't carry too much weight, so they're forced to stopover in Guayaquil, where they take on the fuel needed to cross the Atlantic. A man over thirty with bulging eyes walks toward him. There's four of us, the fifth didn't get through customs. Behind him are two men and a woman. They are very warmly dressed for the heat that is awaiting them outside. Lorenzo leads them upstairs. He has found a spot to leave the van in the arrival terminal. One of the men carries his large suitcase tied with rope. The woman lugs two cardboard boxes. Lorenzo offers to help her; she thanks him silently. Aren't you hot with so many clothes on?

Lorenzo sits at the wheel and sticks the key into the ignition. In that moment, someone knocks on the window. Lorenzo thinks it will be a cop and he turns calmly. But it is a st.u.r.dy man with gray hair. Behind him there are others; one of them, looking about sixty years old, is smoking. With a somewhat arrogant gesture, he indicates for Lorenzo to lower the window while he looks at the pa.s.sengers in the back. Lorenzo rolls down the window barely two inches.

Do you think we're stupid? If you want work, go look for it somewhere else, all right? We're sick of seeing you around here. Before Lorenzo could respond, two of them have surrounded the van. The Ecuadorian sitting beside him hugs his bag and locks the door. Some m.u.f.fled blows are heard and, in seconds, Lorenzo feels the van's four wheels deflate, cut with a knife.

Lorenzo doesn't move. He keeps his gaze focused outside the van. The men, who are probably taxi drivers, cross in front of the windshield and head off into the airport. They do so in a domineering, cowardly trot, without really hurrying. One holds down his shirt pocket as he runs so as not to lose his wallet. None of them turn to look at him. It takes Lorenzo a second to talk to his pa.s.sengers. When he does, he says, well, let's see how we can fix this. And he shows them a rea.s.suring smile.

Let's see how we can fix this.

8.

The ball has a silvery pattern drawn on it and a green gra.s.s stain. Ariel reaches it before it stops rolling. He tricks the defense with a circular feint, stepping on the ball with both feet to go out toward the middle of the field. The ball obeys his control and his speed allows him to easily dribble past the center fullback, who's much slower. Ariel runs his foot over the ball, in one direction, then the other, managing to disconcert both defenders who have stepped up to keep him from reaching the top of the box. As he advances to the right, one defender is blocked by the other. Ariel then fakes with his hip, turns, and hits the ball with his instep. He shot it hard, a lefty kick aimed right at the goalie's face. It's something he remembers right then, something that dates back to a practice with Dragon almost eight years earlier. If you don't have an angle, hit it right to the goalkeeper's face. He'll move away for sure, it's a reflex. And if he doesn't, you break his mug and then apologize later. The ball enters the top corner of the goal and ends up in the net in the opposite corner.

Ariel doesn't run. He makes a half turn. He walks toward the middle of the field with his head down. In the distance, he hears a commentator shouting himself hoa.r.s.e describing the goal. Some teammate comes over to hug him, but he just smacks him on the back or the arm, another brushes the nape of his neck. Ariel bites a lock of hair. The stands applaud and some sections rise to their feet. His teammates give him the s.p.a.ce to celebrate alone, a goal that tastes of good-bye. It's my night, thinks Ariel. Fifteen minutes earlier, he had scored a goal, kicking a neglected ball into the goal area with his toes. But he didn't celebrate that goal either, because it was an ugly one. One shouldn't celebrate ugly goals. One of the symptoms of soccer's decline, Dragon used to say, is seeing players celebrate hideous goals, or even worse, seeing them celebrate the goals scored on a penalty, that is disgraceful, no one ever used to do it.

Today everything goes well. He pa.s.ses the ball and runs. He receives the ball with s.p.a.ce, it's easy to beat the defenders as he races. In the first half they tackled him in the penalty box, but Matuoko hit the penalty kick into an advertising panel. With this score, they would be fourth in the standings. This mediocre, shallow team had come up with a couple of brilliant games. When the referee blows the final whistle, the players greet each other, several teammates embrace him warmly. Ariel walks toward the locker room. One of the equipment men addresses him affectionately and the subst.i.tute goalie gives him a friendly slap. The fans applaud him. Ariel appreciates the gestures, but he doesn't lift his head. Coach Requero is in the mouth of the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms and he extends a hand to the players leaving the field. Ariel refuses to take it.

We had a bad year, the ma.s.seur said to him the afternoon he took him to the bullfights. There are good years and bad years and you got a bad one. The bullfight was horrible. Ariel was surprised by the brutal way the crowd insults the matadors in an arena that amplifies every shout; soccer players in comparison seem spoiled by the fans. Three of the six bulls fell down, almost unfit. The matador didn't know how to deliver the death blow to the fourth, the only good bull according to his companion, and he ma.s.sacred it with stabs to the neck, until a jab to the nape made it fall to its knees. How horrific. The only thing worse would have been if someone in the front row had given him a frying pan and he had killed the poor animal with that. The ma.s.seur turned toward Ariel as the bullfight ended with a rain of cushions tossed onto the sand. This is like soccer, he said, one good day makes up for all the s.h.i.t that came before it.

The ma.s.seur took him to have some wine at a bullfighting bar where the conversations resounded and the old waiters served at a dizzying speed. They talked about the profession and the team. There were some years when every soccer player went through my hands and those of a Sevillian woman named Mari Carmen who performed at a place called Casablanca. They ended up calling her "the Fifa" because of the number of soccer players who went to bed with her. They say she was a handjob wh.o.r.e on the Castellana once she lost her charms. I've compared myself to her many times, one can't think they'll last forever in this trade. You know that a few years ago some j.a.panese guys came to see me, I thought it was to take me to some team over there, I have friends who ended up there, playing or coaching. No f.u.c.king way! The ma.s.seur started laughing, they wanted me to give ma.s.sages to the veal, you know, the Kobe veal, they take incredibly good care of them, they give them beer to drink and then they only serve the meat in very fancy restaurants. They offered me a sackful of money. Never listen to money, it gives the worst advice, when you do one thing for money you end up doing everything for money.

It was an enjoyable evening. The conversation with the veteran ma.s.seur somehow reconciled Ariel with his trade. It's about enduring it, betraying yourself as little as possible. Old friends approached, they chatted briefly in a way that amused Ariel, filled with phrases he wanted to jot down, with words he had never heard before. One of them said, bah, do you go to the bulls? How dreadful, it's dead, pushing up daisies, they've all ruined it, a catastrophe. The ma.s.seur laughed and then commented to Ariel, they've been saying the same thing for years, that it's coming to an end. They're so annoying, they're the ones coming to an end. This is like soccer, it's different now, not better or worse. Before a player lasted until he was forty, you could watch him excel in three World Cups, amazing, but now that's impossible. They milk you guys like cows, three games a week, pushing to make money, television, all that, but it pays a lot better, doesn't it? And the game has changed, before a player ran about four miles each game, now it's more than six, everything is faster, that's why a good player, now, lasts two or three years, at top level, I mean, then he holds himself back and only makes an effort when it's in his best interests. That's why most of them are faces without the slightest commitment or drive to excel. Everything's like that. Look, I'm from Galicia, I mean I'm really a "Gallego," not like you guys call every Spaniard a Gallego, no, I'm from a little town in Orense. And you know what? Now the cows produce twice the milk they did when I was a kid. You think my grandfather was stupid? No, it's that the people today are smarter. And with his hands he mimed the gesture of giving a cow an injection. Twice the milk.

As soon as he sets foot on the stairs to the tunnel, the referee stops Ariel and shakes his hand. Good luck in England. Do you want the ball as a souvenir? Ariel shrugs his shoulders. The referee hands it to him. It's a shame to lose such a handsome player. It's a pleasure to watch you run over the field. He said it with an insinuating smile. Maybe I'll get a chance to whistle at you over there, or we'll meet up in some UEFA game. A radio reporter runs toward him with a small microphone, we have the star of the game here, a man who is bidding a sad farewell to the team, but happy because he has played his best game of the year. He speaks with contrived emphasis. How ironic, right? Ariel corrects him, I don't agree, there have been less showy days, but I've played better. The journalist nods mechanically. I see that you have the ball, is that a souvenir of your last game in Spain? No, no, if you want it you can have it. Ariel holds the ball out and the reporter takes it in his hands without knowing what to say.

He showers there for the last time. He dresses and puts his clothes into the large bag with the club emblem. He empties his locker of knee socks, shin guards, a bandage, his cologne, a brush, two hair bands, a stack of photos of him to be autographed and the team's official tie, which is ugly, blue and prissy. His teammates are leaving quickly. They have set up a private lunch for the next day to say good-bye to the ones who aren't continuing with them and they'll all surely end up drunk, shouting, drinking, singing, and, of course, throwing croquettes at the fan. Like the last day of school. Ariel turns down Osorio and Blai's offer to join them for dinner that night.

He drives his car out of the stadium parking garage. There are still fans at the exit who bang on the hood to get noticed and throw photos through the windows. He calls his brother in Buenos Aires. That's it, I played my last game here. Charlie has been insisting for days that a more relaxed club in England will suit his interests better. It will be easier to stand out. At the end of the conversation, Charlie talks to him about Dragon. It would be good if you went to see him when you're here. Did something happen? Ariel asks. He always had the impression that the old coach's heart could give out at any moment. No, he's fine, it's his son. They say he committed suicide, I don't know, some drug thing, something terrible. When he says good-bye to Charlie, Ariel pulls the car over to one side of the street. He dials the home number of his old coach, but no one answers. At his country house, a precarious answering machine picks up. h.e.l.lo, it's Ariel calling from Madrid. I don't know if this thing works or if the message is being recorded, but I just wanted to say that...Ariel takes a long pause. He searches for the right words.

Sylvia is waiting for him in the private dining room of a restaurant. She is reading a book and drinking a Coca-Cola. She has a plate of cured ham, cut into thin strips, in front of her. Ariel kisses her on the lips, sits down, and eats two, three, four slices of ham at once. I need a beer, he begs the waiter. So you did know how to play soccer, Sylvia says. He smiles and lifts the book to check out the t.i.tle. How are exams going? She shrugs. I'm hoping to do what you did, shine at the last moment.

In the middle of dinner, just the two of them, Sylvia asks him, do you think that after today's game they will rethink letting you go? Ariel smiles and shakes his head. Pujalte had sent a message to his cell phone: "Congratulations on the game, you are leaving with a bang." Ariel ordered an enormous cut of well-done steak for dinner.

Ariel's cell phone won't stop ringing. It is the media, but he doesn't answer. A call comes in from Husky, asking if they should all have a drink together. I can't, answers Sylvia. Ariel says he'll call Husky back later, surprised by Sylvia's response. You can't? What do you have to do? Sylvia scratches a shoulder beneath her clothes. Tomorrow my grandfather is moving in to live with us, we have to help him get his things organized. Ariel doesn't say anything. When they finish dinner, he again suggests going somewhere for a drink. Really, I have to go.

Ariel has also used these last few days to organize his things. He wants to take full advantage of his vacation time. He'll empty out his apartment, and in two days he's off to Buenos Aires. He wants to forget about the compet.i.tion there, recover his excitement about the game. By mid-July he'll have to be with the new team in England. Sylvia refused his invitation to go with him to Buenos Aires. I want to stay close to my grandmother, she said. In recent days, Sylvia's been quiet, elusive.

At his insistence, she agrees to have a drink in an expensive, elegant spot that clashes with her youth. Ariel's phone rings again. It's Husky, you talk to him. Ariel pa.s.ses his cell phone to Sylvia. She says hi. She smiles at something he says on the other side of the line. No, I'd rather say good-bye now, I don't want to be one of those people who cry buckets at the airport. Today's been a lovely day and that's it. I prefer it this way, you don't mind, do you? Husky seems to have suddenly grown as quiet on the other side of the phone line as Ariel had sitting in front of her. Sylvia hangs up after saying good-bye, he puts an arm around her shoulders. Sylvia can barely hold back her sobs. I didn't want to cry, she says, and she pulls away to take a sip of her drink. Nothing's ending, you're being stubborn, he insists. Fine.

On the street, his car is brought to them. A boy shouts at them from a distance, you were hot today, man. Ariel is surprised at her refusal to yield. I'd rather take a cab. Are you crazy? Ariel opens the door for her and invites her into the car. Let's not end this badly, okay? A minute later, they are stopped at a traffic light. The red light illuminates Sylvia's face inside the car. I don't want a horrible good-bye, filled with tears, the same old story. I don't want us to call each other every night and end up promising to see each other every three weeks in a hotel. It's been wonderful, for me it's been like a dream meeting you, being with you. But it's over and that's that. No big deal, right?

The light has turned but Ariel doesn't feel like driving. He is silent. Random moments lived with Sylvia run through his head, in some sort of chaotic slide show. A section of her skin, along with a laugh, a look with a scent. Sylvia points to the traffic light with her head. Ari, it's green.

Ariel arrives at Sylvia's door. Today he brings the car closer than ever before. A guy flashes his lights at him as soon as he turns onto the street. He pulls over, settling in front of a garage entrance, but the car seems to want to go into just that garage and honks again. Ariel leaves the spot, angry. Son of a b.i.t.c.h, he had to go in right there. He stops again at a crosswalk. This is horrible, he says. Sylvia wants to hasten the good-bye, she doesn't want the scene to go on forever. Take good care of yourself, okay? And she places her hand on the door handle. Ariel brings his fingers to the nape of Sylvia's neck and she turns. They kiss briefly. Ariel wipes away Sylvia's tears with the back of his hand. You take good care of yourself, too, he says. Sylvia nods and leaves the car without saying a word. Here, before she closes the door Ariel hands her the CDs he has in the glove compartment. I can buy other copies. Thank you, she says. She takes them and turns quickly.

She heads away from the car. Ariel sees her reach her door. Sylvia crosses between two parked cars, gets up on the sidewalk, and searches in her pocket for her keys. If you don't turn around to look at me, I'll kill you, whispers Ariel. Sylvia seems to hear him and very slowly turns around and waves the hand that holds the keys. She vanishes into the doorway. Ariel readjusts himself at the steering wheel. Now where do I go?

9.

It's Sat.u.r.day. Sylvia opens the door for a young man. Her grandfather sticks his head out of his room. It's my student, Luis. My granddaughter, Sylvia. They both say hi and avoid each other's gaze. Sylvia takes refuge in her room and listens from there, to the piano cla.s.s that takes place in the living room. Soon the new routines will become settled. Today they still hold surprise.

Two days ago, her grandfather moved in with them. Sylvia was used to seeing him in the hospital, when she visited Aurora. One day she'd found him sitting near the bed. With his head glued to the transistor on the nightstand. Almost out of batteries, he said, when he realized Sylvia had been watching them from the door for a little while. Aurora wasn't really there. Sylvia opened the door to the closet and searched for a coat. She put it at the foot of the bed, then opened the wheelchair. It's a beautiful day out, Grandpa. Leandro looked at her and then stood up. Let's go, she said. Leandro took the saline bag off its hook and put it on Aurora's lap. Then he did the same with the bag of painkiller fluid. Between them they laid her down and moved her carefully to the chair. She barely weighed anything. They had put her coat on while she sat up on the mattress, and Sylvia had looked at her pale nudity under the nightgown. Aurora opened her eyes but she didn't have the strength to maintain her modesty. Seeing her bare feet, Sylvia took two thick socks out of her backpack, llama wool, they're from Patagonia, she said as she put them on her grandmother's feet. Leandro took off his belt and put it around Aurora's waist to fix her to the chair. So she won't fall out on us. Aurora didn't appear to be aware of what was going on around her. The important thing is to act as natural as possible, said Leandro as he pushed the chair. Sylvia opened the door for him.

They waited for the elevator for a few tense minutes. Leandro looked at his granddaughter but they said nothing. There were too many floors in the building and the elevator would get too full. Sylvia readjusted the bags of saline solution and painkiller, making sure that they weren't moving where they entered the skin under her coat. It gets harder and harder for the nurses to find a vein, said Leandro.

The doors opened and they were able to go down and out. The entrance plaza was an enormous cement square. They walked slowly until they got to a nearby street, its wide sidewalks lined with trees. It was filled with an intense smell of soldering metal, as well as the percussive sound of nearby construction, behind the corrugated fence. They headed away from the noise toward a street thick with traffic, an enormous avenue almost the size of a highway. The exhaust pipes poisoned the air; a bus pa.s.sed closely by, braking with a metallic shriek at the stop. It was hot, but a slight breeze brushed across Aurora's skin. They sought refuge on a calmer side street. Years ago all this was a vast open ground and in the summer they organized festivals here, said her grandfather.

Aurora traveled with her eyes open, although it had been several days since her words made any sense. She nodded hesitantly with her head when they asked her if she knew the people in front of her. Sylvia offered to push away obstacles in the street: when the sidewalks became narrow, it was impossible to pa.s.s between a garbage can and a traffic sign, the post of a streetlight or a tree. Without saying anything, they went around the block and headed back toward the hospital. The levels of the fluids were getting low.

At least she sees the street, said Leandro. The hospital is horrible. Sylvia complained that the stroll was frustrating. The street wasn't welcoming, the noise was bothersome, there was nothing lovely to show to Aurora's empty gaze. It's a very contradictory feeling, said Leandro. When we lived together, I always wanted to be alone, for her to go out for a walk with her friends. I loved the silence the house was plunged into. But if she was late coming back, I would get nervous and worried, pace along the hall, peek out the window. They stopped at a traffic light; the street noise forced Leandro to raise his voice. Now I know I liked that silence so much because I knew that later she would come back and fill it with her voice, her questions, her radio program. And now...

Leandro couldn't finish the sentence. They were approaching the hospital.

Sylvia spent the first day that her grandfather lived at the house observing him. He was a quiet man. He went down to the street early to buy bread and the newspaper and he served himself a slice with a trickle of oil as he sat in the kitchen reading the news. He washed what he dirtied and left it in the dish drainer. He watched as Sylvia played a few notes on the piano. It's out of tune, he said, from the move. I'll call Suso, the tuner, this afternoon.

The man appeared around nine. Leandro had just arrived from the hospital. Lorenzo replaced him at night. It was quite a show watching the piano tuner work. He had Parkinson's, but when he pressed the keys, the trembling vanished. Sometimes he sang over the notes, with a frightening tone. La, ti, do, fa. Leandro winked at Sylvia, who was struggling to contain her laughter. The man's vibratos created some sort of comic feeling of despair. He used to tune all the pianos at the academy, her grandfather explained, he knows the workings better than anyone. Your grandmother invited him for lunch every time he came to the house to tune the piano. He used to make her laugh. The man heard Aurora's name mentioned and only said, what rice she used to make, amazing. You don't eat that well even in a restaurant.

That same morning, Sylvia finished her cla.s.ses. All she had left was a few makeup exams to avoid more Fs. She was able to push one final to September, but she thought she could pa.s.s the rest, which was almost a miracle after her lack of involvement the last few months. To prepare her father, some days earlier she told him that she thought she'd have three incompletes. Lorenzo was shocked. Are you crazy? You want to get left back? She a.s.sured him she would pull through. Just you watch, your mother is going to kill me, said Lorenzo. I should have nipped that whole boyfriend thing in the bud, with these late hours you've been keeping, but we've all got our minds somewhere else. Come on, Papa, forget about it. I screwed up and I'm going to fix it, promised Sylvia. That was when Lorenzo grew serious, staring at the tray of croquettes, and said, if only I could go back to high school. Then he stood up and opened a can of beer. Can I have a sip? asked Sylvia. He hesitated for a second and pa.s.sed her the can. As she took a small sip, Lorenzo sat in front of her. When did you start drinking beer? He shook his head without waiting for a reply. Then he talked to himself, without daring to look at his daughter. I don't know, I just don't want you to turn into a piece of s.h.i.t, you know? It's so easy to turn into a piece of s.h.i.t. Now you're...Lorenzo stopped himself. I don't know, it's so easy to screw up. Do everything wrong.

Sylvia then wanted to hug him, but a physical barrier had been established between them some time ago. It was only broken when joking around. He would muss her hair, she would squirt him with the cologne he hated, he would trip her from the couch, she would grab the remote from him. A hug would be a big deal. She asked him if he was still dating the Ecuadorian girl and all he said was, Daniela? No, it got messy.

Eat, Papa, your croquettes came out awesome, said Sylvia. And he stuffed a whole one into his mouth, as if he were trying to make her laugh.

Sylvia had gone into the math teacher's office before the end of the day. I'm here to hand in the a.s.signment you asked me for. Oh, leave it over there. There were two other teachers from the department, they were having a little wine one of them had brought. Sylvia placed her papers on the desk. How'd it go? Did you do a good job? I don't know, answered Sylvia. Don Octavio smiled at her and glanced at the pages. Well, I'll have a closer look at it and see if we can improve your grade, okay.

Before leaving, Sylvia shot a last look at the teachers in the back of the room. They seemed happy. Yeah, maybe they were drunk. There was barely three inches of cherry-red wine left in the bottle. They were celebrating the end of the year, too. Don Octavio was sitting down and reading what Sylvia had written with a vague smile.

The nurse confronted her grandfather when she saw them coming back down the hall. You are irresponsible, taking her out without permission, we'll see what the doctor says when he gets here. But the doctor just smiled and increased the painkiller dose. Then he took Leandro out of the room to talk to him alone. Sylvia remained seated beside Aurora's bed.

Her breathing began to get erratic. She opened and closed her mouth as if she were drowning. Sylvia got nervous and stuck her head out into the hallway. The doctor entered the room with Leandro. She is dying, he told them. Leandro and Sylvia stayed by the bed, one on each side. Alone with her. Leandro held her hand and Sylvia stroked her face.

It wasn't long before she was dead. She didn't take long to die. She did it discreetly. Her breathing became more s.p.a.ced out, and soon it seemed that each breath was her last, but then another, weaker one would come. And it went on that way for a few minutes. Until her mouth stopped, half open, and Leandro tried to close it for her. In the moment of her death, Sylvia felt something leaving Aurora. It wasn't her soul or anything like what you might imagine. It was as if the person she had been was leaving her, the essence of what Sylvia loved about her, her presence. And all that was left was a body, like a souvenir, more of an object than anything else. It wasn't mystical at all. Sylvia looked at Aurora and no longer saw her grandmother in her, or even a woman, just defenseless flesh and blood. She lifted her tear-filled eyes and found her grandfather, who was looking at her, too, but she smiled at him. It was now just something between the two of them, a matter for the living.

Sylvia crosses from her room to the kitchen. Her grandfather and his student stop the exercise. Go on, go on, you want something to drink? Then she leaves a pitcher of water with ice and two gla.s.ses on the table for them.

Sylvia thinks the guy has an interesting face, with an unexpected mouth that gives meaning to the rest of his features. He was dressed discreetly, as if he didn't want to reveal too much with his clothing. As she returns to her room, she notices he is staring at her.

When she hears him get up, at the end of cla.s.s, she sticks out her head to say, see ya later. Her grandfather remains beside the keyboard arranging the musical scores. Sylvia escorts Luis to the door. Will you be coming all summer? she asks him. Yes, I don't have vacation until August. Oh, well, then I'll be seeing you. Luis pushes the elevator b.u.t.ton and turns toward Sylvia, who is waiting to close the door. Don't wait for me, go ahead and close it, he says. No, no, that's okay. Sylvia waits for him to get into the elevator and they wave good-bye.

Do you want to play a little bit? Sylvia is surprised by her grandfather's question. She shrugs her shoulders and walks over and sits at the piano.

Her grandfather numbers the notes of a score from one to five with an old pencil. Then he places Sylvia's hand on the keyboard and tells her which number goes with each finger. Sylvia repeats what he has marked. No, pay close attention, play what's written there. She starts again. Straighten your back. Keep your wrists in line, don't force it. Very good. As if you had a ball in your hand. Now we are going to play it one octave higher. He places Sylvia's hands again. His arthritic fingers brush his granddaughter's young ones. This is a do, fa, sol, fa, la, ti, do, do. Her grandfather starts to sing the notes with each of her strokes.

Sylvia hangs out with Mai and Dani that afternoon. They talk for a while. Mai makes them go into a clothing store. Then she comes out to talk for almost half an hour on her cell phone while she crosses from one sidewalk to the next. They both end up sitting on the curb waiting for her to finish her conversation.

I realized something about Mai, Dani tells her. n.o.body would guess it from the way she looks, but I swear that deep down she's a housewife, she can dress as modern as she wants, but in ten years she'll be married, paying off the mortgage on a terraced house, and working the checkout at a Carrefour supermarket, or something like that, you'll see. With dreadlocks and everything.

I don't know, maybe we'll all end up the same way, answers Sylvia.

No f.u.c.king way, girl.

Sylvia gets together afterward with some friends from school at a bar in Malasana. The street is packed with drunk students celebrating the end of the year, gathered on the sidewalks and at the doors to the bars. There are police observing the benches in the plaza and boys pile up in the overflowing bars. Sylvia is surrounded by cla.s.smates. Once in a while, someone lifts their voice above the noise, with a laugh or an insult. Her cell phone rings. It's Ariel. Nice t.i.ts, he hears Sylvia say to a guy when she pa.s.ses in front of a group on her way out of the bar. I'm in the airport, I'm about to board. Sylvia covers her other ear with her hand. I can barely hear you, wait, I'm going outside.

I wanted to say good-bye, I hope you don't mind. Sylvia listens to him. She has gone out to the street and leans her foot on the edge of the sidewalk. Not at all, I love it, call me whenever you want, I don't know. I can call you, too, right? Of course. How many cla.s.ses did you fail? asks Ariel. Just one, I think. Next week I'll know for sure. So you shined at the last minute. Just like you, she replies. And math? I pa.s.sed it, by the skin of my teeth.

Sylvia raises her hand to greet two friends from her high school. On the other end of the telephone, in the background, she hears the voice of the airport public-address system. Ariel talks to her. Are you wearing the necklace? asks Ariel. Yes. Are you touching it? Sylvia takes it out from beneath her T-shirt and strokes the small golden ball broken in half that hangs from her neck. Yes, I'm touching it. Me, too...says Ariel. I'm gonna be watching you, eh, Sylvia. I'm gonna be watching you. And I'll be watching you, she says.

The sound as the connection breaks is the most abrupt sound she's ever heard. Sylvia stays out on the street for a moment. She is somewhat drunk. She had to eat a sandwich a little while ago and slow down on beers. Her clothes and hair stink of smoke. In one of her ears, an uneasy, percussive ringing sounds. The asphalt is still giving off the heat of the day and Sylvia notices her T-shirt is sweaty.

A little while later, she says good-bye to her friends. She decides to walk home. She does it unhurriedly, in the road, beside the cars, avoiding the people on the sidewalk. She pa.s.ses in front of Ariel's apartment. I'm going to rent it out, I don't want to sell it, he had told her. If you need it, all you have to do is ask. She wants to be alone, to walk alone. She feels some sort of pain in her chest, intense but pleasurable. It's as if there were a wound, but a slight wound, a mark on her skin that you want to stroke, acknowledge, enjoy for everything it means to you. While it's still there, because it might, soon, disappear.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

In the process of writing this novel, I had the indispensable help of a few people. Most of them are friends, so I won't name them. This way I'll avoid pointing fingers. I want to say thank you for the many things that belong to them in this book. Some were essential readers; others brought their inspiration to my perspiration. I am indebted to them for Argentinian and Ecuadorian expressions, reflections on the game of soccer, legal details, medical knowledge, musical notes, corrections to my syntax, squinty looks, erotic experiences, and above all the generosity to share them with me. I also borrowed a logic treatise from Adrian Paenza and his book Matematica...estas ahi? Matematica...estas ahi? and musical and poetic fragments from some teachers who are quoted or hinted at or camouflaged, like for example behind that life lesson I strive to follow: and musical and poetic fragments from some teachers who are quoted or hinted at or camouflaged, like for example behind that life lesson I strive to follow: non piangere, coglione, ridi e vai... non piangere, coglione, ridi e vai...But perhaps the most important thing is to recognize the patience and support of those who were close to me during the writing process. I hope to have opportunities to share with them any happiness that this book brings us.

---- The translator would like to thank David Trueba, Javier Calvo, Doug Fielding, and Didac.