How To Get Back

A short story I once wrote, just because…


How To Get Back

You wonder: did she ever pick up that small plastic piece from the hardware store, to fix the light and fan in the study?

           She must’ve because now the study is someone’s bedroom and they’ll be needing a light and a fan.

            You and her that day joined a long queue, which spilled from the hardware store to the street. The man in the store was as patient with the customers as he was wiping the sweat from his forehead. The Sevillian heat was too much. Enough to make people do things they don’t want to do.

            The man showed you both a few plastic pieces and you settled on the right one, and he said he had to order it, so come back in a couple of days.  

            But by then you’d left. It seemed best to put an ocean’s worth of water between you.

            Almost a year on, you still load your food with rosemary like she does. You read books about the two football teams in Sevilla. You collect beer mats and glasses, like you both did, though now neither of you drink.

            At four or five in the afternoon, sunlight hits your new desk. Here, in England, you’ll likely never need a fan.

            Chewing your biro, you get to thinking. There’s a virus sweeping the world. There’s little to do but think. About the man in the hardware store, is he still waiting for you both to pick up the plastic piece? Was he inconvenienced? Out of pocket?

            For dinner you fry pork with garlic and rosemary.

            You imagine what she is eating.      

***

Wanderson. He was born 5.12.14 in Brazil, most likely in Rio. You imagine he wanted to be a footballer since birth, because now he is a teenage professional and, in the year 2033, he’s coming to Europe. To Spain. To Seville. To play for Real Betis.

            It’s the chance of a lifetime. Sure, it’s a two-year loan from his Brazilian team, so Betis only have to pay his Brazilian salary, and the big money will have to wait. But it’s the chance of a lifetime.

            You imagine his tears as he leaves his family at Rio Airport, the feeling in his belly that keeps him from sleeping during the entire ten-hour flight, him tossing his holdall on his hotel bed as the Sevilla sun flames the grin on his face.

            But his first year isn’t so good. Competition rules about the registration of non-EU players means he doesn’t play a minute in the league. Only a few minutes in European competition, often at the end when the match is more or less won.

            You imagine him stalking the city, buying huge plastic jars of olives from the street-side sellers, taking a coffee on the Alameda, eating champiñones with the mystery green salsa at that amazing tapas place in Triana. All the time safe yet sad in the knowledge that no one yet knows who he is.

            When he returns to Brazil for summer you imagine him begging his team to let him come home a year early, only to be told it isn’t contractually possible. You imagine him lying to his parents – life is good, I’ll get some game time, I love the city. He’s a man who will cry and, alone back in his tiny Sevillian flat, he cries freely until the top of green training shirt turns a military shade.

            You imagine him back on the Alameda, sitting outside the café in which the English waiter, in Spanish, once told you to put away your laptop while everyone was eating their tostadas con tomates. Around him yelling kids play football, as he picks up a newspaper and reads an article about footballers as commodities. Despite what his coach, team-mates, friends tell him about the press, he feels this article to be true.

            As the English waiter takes away his coffee glass, Wanderson puts on his sunglasses. As he stands the legs of his chair rake the concrete, and the thought comes that one day he might not love the thing he loves most.

***

You’ve been talking more and more. Every day now. Among your work, the hour-long walks by the river – legally permitted exercise, which in Sevilla is not permitted – there’s a fizz of expectance whenever your phone buzzes.

            You arrange a ‘disco night.’ You’ll each order a takeaway burger from your favourite place, and then choose five songs each. You assume all this will take place by message. But then she calls.         

            There she is. On screen. The best anyone can do these days.

            ‘Qué rico!’ she says as she bites into her burger.

            You talk about what you’re allowed and not allowed to do here. You don’t feel shy.

            Then the music. She picks a song you like, which you didn’t think she liked, and which you were sure she didn’t remember.

            You pick Frank Ocean. At Frank’s words and what you might be using them to say, you do get shy. You cover it with intellectualising – theories about why the song climaxes in such an awful high-pitched clanging, what, artistically, this…

            She picks a song from ‘your playlist.’

            You rap.

            ‘It doesn’t feel weird?’ she says once she’s stopped laughing.

            ‘Not really. Did you think it would?’

            ‘Maybe. And to see the flat again?’

            ‘Not that weird.’

            She rolls a cigarette. ‘I can see you,’ she says, shaking her head. You miss the smell of her cigarettes.

            ‘And I can see you.’

            ‘Vale.’

            After stubbing out her cigarette, she holds her cat – the cat that wasn’t there when you were there – to the camera. ‘Say hi to Doro.’

            ‘Hi, Doro.’

            ‘Es el mejor. Muy precioso. Mi bebé.’

            Doro nestles his head in the crook of her arm.

***

It’s December in Wanderson’s second year. He’s still barely played. Only six months left, you imagine him thinking.

            Then there’s a few injuries to players carrying the importance you imagine Wanderson craves. Against Granada – 248km from Sevilla – he’s promoted to substitute. Then there’s one more injury.

            In his first nine minutes on the pitch he scores three goals. Betis wins three-nil. You imagine he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling inside him. Now they see him. Nine minutes, that’s all it took. You imagine he feels bitterness and relief and violence.

            Next is a cup match against a small, local team. He starts the game, scores five in the first half and is substituted at half-time so he’s rested for the next match. You imagine his chest swelling with this proof of his importance.

            Days later Betis pay the release clause to make his transfer permanent. Now comes the money.

            He finishes the season top scorer despite only playing regularly since December.

            You imagine he can’t take coffee on the Alameda anymore. If the people of Sevilla do see him on the street they shout his name. He forgets about the idea of himself as a commodity. Or maybe he likes being a commodity, so long as he’s a valuable commodity.

            You imagine he moves into a bigger flat. He buys his parents a house in Rio. With gates and a pool.

            He’s someone now. You imagine he’s happy.

***

The rules relax. Shops re-open, pubs. People meet again – in person.

            She books a flight to England.

            Then you’re in Arrivals in Manchester Airport. It’s deserted except for you and a Spanish-speaking father with his young daughter. You feel your hot breath on the inside of your mask. Your heart thump-thumps.

            Holding her, the shape of her body, was a memory that refused to fall. Now it’s real again. It’s the most normal, maddest thing.

            ‘I look so eighties in this denim jacket,’ she says as you hurry outside, so you can lower your masks and see each other’s mouths.

            In the car you go to kiss her, but she pulls away, smiling. ‘I’m not that easy.’

            Then you are kissing. Her lips, her tongue are full. They feel good as ever.

            You drive to a nature park with big rocks. It rains a lot.

            ‘Dios, I haven’t seen rain in a million years,’ she says.

            ‘You’re so dramatic.’

            ‘I’m Latina! I’m allowed.’

            You clamber over and between wet rocks. No one slips. She asks you to take a picture of the information boards so she can read them later.

            Lighting up next to the car, she moves away from you. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to blow smoke on you.’

            ‘No, I missed it. The smell I mean.’

            ‘Really?’

            ‘Really.’

            ‘You’re weird.’ She pulls a face. It starts raining again. You both laugh.

***

For two years Wanderson’s the star of the team. You imagine in training his coach making a habit of laughing with him, cajoling him, squeezing his shoulders. ‘This city loves you,’ you imagine him saying. ‘Stay here your whole career and they’ll build a statue of you on the Alameda.’

            But other teams like him. English teams with more status and money. It makes him think, you imagine.

            One Thursday that January, more or less three years since Granada, he knocks on his coach’s office door after training.

            ‘If these teams really want me, please listen to them.’

            They argue. When the coach shouts, his phlegm dots the papers on his desk. Then they calm. Have a coffee. They’re in there until the afternoon fades and a slight chill enters the room.

            ‘It boils down to this,’ the coach says. ‘If they pay your release clause (€150m), you can leave. How’s that?’

            They shake hands on it.

            ‘It’s just I don’t know if I can win the Champions League here. I don’t know if I can do everything I want.’          

‘If you’re patient you can. Let’s see about the clause.’

            No one pays it.

            Of course, in May, Betis are in the Champions League final. But Wanderson has been injured for weeks. He’s only fit enough to make the substitutes’ bench.

            The coach brings him onto the pitch with ten minutes left. It’s a gesture.

            Betis win. They are champions of Europe for the first time in their history. Wanderson is a champion of Europe.

            He’s on his knees at the final whistle, unable to hold in his tears. You imagine them running hot down his cheeks.

            When the captain lifts the trophy in the centre circle, atop a podium sponsored by a tyre company, green and white confetti falls into Wanderson’s curly hair. On the open-top bus parade, past Triana Bridge, Plaza España, the cathedral, he gazes out at the sea of green and white. Also, the colour of the Andalucian flag. A voice whispers in his ear, ‘You’d regret leaving this city. No good can come of it.’

***

You’re in Spain. Sevilla. In her – your – flat. You rub Doro’s belly and he twists and turns in delight. The smell of her roast chicken – rosemary and lemon – drifts from the kitchen.

            Despite talk of a Madrid lockdown, you have to get the overnight coach there. Only when you arrive at a café next to the Visa Centre at 6am can you take off your masks; yours is damp with the night’s drool. She goes into the bathroom and fixes her hair and top.

            ‘You know it’s not an interview, right?’ you say as you sip coffee outside. The sun hasn’t appeared yet.

            ‘You know me.’

            ‘I do know you.’

            ‘Just love me then.’

            Waiting outside the Visa Centre, a woman on her way to work trips and falls on the pavement. Her nose is bleeding. This woman stays down.

            She hands this woman some tissues. Normally she’d help her up.

            A few concerned onlookers gather. You don’t understand everything but they are taking the council to task for the state of the pavements. You feel bad for the woman, but are glad of the distraction. 

            The sun’s up now. An orange hue softening the skyscrapers.

            Back in the queue, she says, ‘How long do you think it’ll take? Our appointment was at 8:45am. What did we pay extra for if they’re not on time? Why can’t anyone be on time here?’

            ‘I don’t know. Picture. Fingerprints. Give in passport. Leave.’

            ‘Do you think they’ll ask me anything?’

            It’s the fourth time she’s asked today. ‘I doubt it, my love,’ you say again.

            She clutches her folder of papers. You love how organised she is.

The day before you return to the new rental home you hope will be her first in England, you both take the train to the beach. You eat at your favourite place. Lagrimitas de pollo. Little chicken tears.

            It’s warmer than expected for October. ‘Let’s buy something to swim in,’ you say as you pass the market.

            The sea is cold then after a while not so much. You lie on your back in the water, sun on your face. You run up the sand back to her like a child.

            You both laugh so hard when, as you discreetly change back into your pants and denim shorts, your pants get caught on your undercarriage for a long and painful time.

            Back in the flat, late, you order takeaway.

            ‘All we eat is chicken,’ she says.

            ‘It’s great, right.’

            ‘Oh yeah.’

            ‘Here, have this piece. It’s too greasy for me.’

            The cat watches you hand her the chicken. You say, ‘He’s good isn’t he? He doesn’t beg for food or anything.’

            ‘I did a good job of training him.’

            ‘You think he’ll like England?’

            ‘Sí. I’m going to get a – what do you call it to go round his neck?’

            ‘Lead.’

            ‘Lead. And we’ll take him for walks.’

            ‘Sounds cool.’

            Chicken skin slips from the meat into the bucket. ‘You won’t be embarrassed?’ she says.

            ‘How could you be embarrassed at him? Look at his face. He’s perfect.’

            ‘Purr-fect.’

            ‘Ha.’

            She takes three napkins from the stack on the table and cleans her mouth.

            ‘Los tres amigos en Inglaterra,’ you say.

            ‘I’ll have to buy a lot of napkins there. One on a table isn’t enough.’

            You take the plates and bucket to the kitchen like you used to. On the way you stop and kiss her cheek.

            As you scrape chicken into the bin, she calls, ‘Gracias, mi amor.’

            You could test the light and fan in the spare room, but the thought doesn’t come to mind.

***

You imagine Wanderson taking the last of his stuff from his locker – boots, shinpads, tape, deodorant. Before getting into his Range Rover and driving away for the final time, he stops off in the coach’s office.

            ‘That’s me then.’

            ‘Remember what I said about getting those English lessons in early.’

            ‘Gracias por todo.’

            ‘Nada. You did it all. Not me.’

            You imagine they hug. That Wanderson has always found the coach to have bad breath, has ripped him behind his back to the other members of the team, and so now, with the press of flesh and the bad smell, comes a bolt of shame. He could cry.

            When he turns the door handle, the coach calls, ‘I still don’t think you should leave this city.’

            ‘Maybe I’ll be back one day.’

            ‘Okay then.’

            ‘Okay.’

            You imagine the coach unmutes the TV.

            ‘It’ll all turn out good.’