Furia Page 4

  I unpacked my bag and hid my medal under the mattress. Cliché, but there wasn’t any other place to hide it. Maybe it would infuse my sleep with strength and feed my hunger for more. I placed la estampita of La Difunta Correa on my nightstand, leaning against a tottering pile of books, mostly TOEFL prep manuals and The Shadow of the Wind, which Diego had lent me before he left. All I had for La Difunta’s ofrenda was a half-empty water bottle, and I set it next to the card.

  After plugging in my phone, I played one of my mom’s old Vilma Palma e Vampiros CDs on my ancient boom box.

  When I lay down on my bed, my sore muscles complained, but not loudly enough to drown out all the voices in my head blaring about homework, my brother and Marisol, my father, the money I’d need for the tournament, the permission I’d need for the tournament, and Diego.

  Especially Diego. Why did he have to show up now?

  Uninvited, a memory of the last time we were together weaved its way into my mind. The loud music of the club booming, Diego’s soft lips on mine. My right hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating through his unbuttoned shirt, my left hand holding a yellow lollipop he’d traded for my pink one.

  I still had the yellow lollipop in my trove of treasures under the mattress.

  That night, a future together seemed magical and possible. And then life got in the way.

  For the first weeks after he left, we chatted constantly. He even called me a couple of times. But then the time difference and his schedule and my unreliable internet connection and having to hide it all from my family took a toll. The emails and chats became shorter, colder, stiffer, until finally, they stopped.

  We hadn’t spoken since November.

  I scoured the internet, looking for signs that he’d made up with his ex-girlfriend, that he’d been playing with me, just like Pablo had warned. But all I found were brief reports of a prodigious boy from Rosario who lived only for the ball and the white-and-black jersey of his new club. I was too proud to ask him if his feelings had changed.

  Still, I wished I could tell him about my games and my dreams and ask him about his new life. When I went on long runs past his building, I carried on imaginary conversations, recycling words he’d once said to me.

  Eventually, I forgot the sound of his laughter. Coach Alicia’s promises that I could have a life playing fútbol replaced fantasies of a future where I was a spectator, witnessing Diego’s transformation from a boy into a titan. Even if I loved him.

  It was true what the songs said—no one dies of a wounded heart—and I believed mine had healed. But the sound of my name on Diego’s lips had tugged at the scar, unraveling feelings I’d ignored all these months.

  The shrill ringing of the house phone pierced through the music and my memories. My mom’s voice reverberated through the walls.

  “Hola, Dieguito, mi amoooooor.” She stretched that o to an impossible length. “I can’t believe you’re back and that you remember your old friends.”

  I tried breathing deeply to calm myself, but it didn’t work.

  “No, nene. Pablo left,” she said. “I thought he was going to meet you.”

  El Pájaro kept singing in the background. I ran to turn the music off.

  “Since when do you ask permission to come visit?” There was a pause, and then Mamá added, “Tonight? This is your home.” She laughed. “I’ll tell her you’re on your way, then.”

  She hung up the phone but didn’t come to my room to tell me Diego had called.

  Diegui was coming here. My phone was dead, so I couldn’t even call Roxana. I had no time, anyway. Ana, Diego’s adoptive mom, lived only a couple of blocks from us. He’d be here in minutes.

  I told myself he was just the same Diego as always. No big deal. But it was midnight, and I looked terrible. I peeled off my T-shirt. It reeked of cigarette smoke from the bus. When I undid my braid, my hair puffed up into a halo of frizz around my head, but there was nothing I could do.

  The slamming of a car door brought me back to my room. As I listened, someone whistled the melody of Central’s anthem. Un amor como el guerrero, no debe morir jamás . . . The melody came closer and closer.

  I was paralyzed.

  Nico’s booming barks preceded the doorbell. I counted the seconds.

  One . . . two . . .

  “Quiet!” my mom snapped at the dog. The door opened, and in a softer, more civilized voice, she added, “Diego! Come in. I’m so proud of you, hijo. I see you on TV, but you look so grown up in person! Say something in Italian for me.”

  Diego said something I didn’t catch. She laughed like a young girl, and the sound spurred me into action.

  My hands moved lightning fast as I put on a clean T-shirt. My mom’s footsteps approached my door, and I jumped back onto my bed and grabbed a book. A second later, she opened without knocking.

  “Camila?”

  “What, Ma?” I looked at her, but I avoided her eyes, pretending I’d been reading.

  “Diego’s here.” The glow on her face was back. My heart went into triple time, as if I were sprinting to the goal line.

  We stared at each other for a couple of seconds until I whispered, “What’s he doing here?”

  She shrugged. “He wanted to come see Pablo, but your brother’s gone. I told him you were the only one home.”

  I scrambled off the bed, and when I put the book back on the nightstand, the rest of the pile tottered and collapsed, knocking down the bottle of water that was La Difunta’s offering.

  My mom hurried to help me pick up the mess. “What’s this?” she asked, studying la estampita.

  “La Difunta Correa, Ma.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From a little boy on the bus. He looked hungry.”

  Mami sighed, the kind of sigh that took my soul into one of her specialties—the guilt trip. “What have I told you, Camila? Those kids never get to keep their money. There’s always an adult exploiting them.”

  She placed the estampita on the nightstand and the bottle beside it. “Make sure you go to a shrine and leave the offering. La Difunta is a strict cobradora. She never forgets who owes her.” Her voice was so serious. “I hope whatever you asked for was worth it.”

  I’d already asked for so many things . . .

  “Diego’s waiting,” I said.

  She stared at me for a few long seconds. Finally, her finger raised for emphasis, she said, “Don’t keep him too long. That boy must have places to go.”

  7

  Roxana didn’t like Diego, but she’d give me grief when she found out I’d let him see me looking like hell. She’d say that I could have at least put on some lipstick or perfume to impress him. I was supposed to be over him, after all. But it was too late for all that.

  Diego’s footsteps moved from the dining room to the laundry. “There you are, old boy,” he whispered as he let Nico out.

  The dog’s nails click-clacked on the kitchen floor, and from the darkened hallway, I saw him lick Diego’s face with such tenderness that even my prickly heart was moved. Then Nico whined and ran to the door that led to the front balcony, looking at Diego with urgency. Diego laughed and opened the door. My dog lunged from the apartment.

  I could only see Diego’s outline illuminated by the pale silver moonlight, unguarded and forlorn.

  The times Diego and I had talked on the phone, he’d told me stories about the places he’d visited and what life was like having roommates from all over the world. His tales had sounded like adventures right out of Harry Potter, boys training to be wizards. I’d had to squash my envy—Diego was living a life that I could only dream of, no matter how much I loved fútbol, no matter how great an athlete I might be.

  And now he was here.

  As if he felt my eyes on him, Diego turned around and looked straight into the hallway where I stood. He looked at me
. He saw me. Not the Stallion’s sister. Not Andrés and the seamstress’s daughter. Me, Camila Beatriz Hassan.

  The fútbol star replaced the forlorn boy. He took a step in my direction.

  “Camila.”

  Now that there were no cameras or adoring fans, I stepped into his open arms. He hugged me tightly and picked me up a little, but I refused to let my tippy-toes come unglued from the floor. He smelled like the cologne they sold at the expensive shops in the Alto Rosario Mall, and his leather jacket was buttery soft against my cheek. When I moved my head, my lips brushed the tender skin of his neck. I wanted to kiss my way to his mouth and pick up where we’d left off.

  I resisted.

  “I missed you.” His voice tickled my ear.

  I pulled away from his embrace and looked up at him. From this short distance, I saw the gold flecks in his light brown eyes. His eyes were galaxies I could lose myself in, but the cold floor brought me back to earth. I was a barefoot schoolgirl in my barrio apartment; he was a star flashing past us all, and the glow would disappear with him when he left again. In spite of our shared childhood, we now lived worlds apart. As much as he might say he missed me, it hadn’t been enough for him to stay in touch.

  “How long are you here for?” I asked, stepping away from him and crossing my arms like a shield.

  “A week. It’s a FIFA date, and everyone else is with their national teams.”

  “Héctor and César said you’ll get called up next time, Titán.”

  There was a fire in his eyes. “They said that?”

  I nodded.

  Diego brushed his hand through his hair and said, “We have so much to talk about. Will you invite me for some mates?”

  An enemy wouldn’t be refused this request, much less Diego.

  “I’m shocked you’re still drinking mate, Titán.” If I used this name, I wouldn’t forget that he wasn’t my Diegui anymore.

  He followed me to the kitchen. “Of course! I always have the Central thermos you gave me. But you haven’t watched my stories or liked my posts or been online at all in forever. You disappeared.”

  “At least I have an excuse,” I said, trying not to sound like a rejected telenovela heroine and totally failing.

  He didn’t seem to notice the ice in my voice. “What happened?”

  “Got my phone stolen a couple of months ago. The one I have now is from the nineteen-hundreds.” I laughed like it wasn’t a big deal, but I shivered at the memory of the two young boys, no older than twelve, pointing a gun at me. Diego didn’t need to know the details.

  He hugged me one-armed and said, “We’ll have to fix that, then. Come, I’m dying to tell you everything.” He paused for a second, and then said, “I thought I saw you at the stadium today, wearing a gray jersey. What team was that?”

  “Wasn’t me,” I said, and changed the subject. “And you didn’t come for pizza with the family. Pali didn’t invite you?”

  He shrugged and continued filling up the kettle. “He did, but I went to the stadium straight from the airport and hadn’t seen Mamana yet. After the game I took her out, just the two of us.”

  I filled my favorite mate cup with the herbs (yerba and peppermint) and just a pinch of sugar, but then I remembered he was a world-class athlete. “Is this okay?”

  He narrowed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “Okay, but just a little, because if the boss finds out . . .” With a tiny smile, I added just a little more, and he whispered, “Temptress.”

  I didn’t shake the mate to settle the dust or do any of the theatrics some people fell for. The secret to the perfect mate was in the temperature of the water and the hand of the server. And my touch was magical. Even my father had complimented me once or twice.

  I looked up to see Diego staring at me, leaning against the Formica countertop. He looked so out of place here. I had to make an effort not to stare back. He seemed taller, his smile brighter. Had he had his smile whitened and his chipped tooth fixed? Absentmindedly, I brushed my tongue over my own teeth; my gums were still sore from when the ball had hit me. His skin was clearer, too, as if it shone from the inside.

  The water started humming; a few seconds, and it would be ready. Just so I had something to do besides gape at him, I pulled my hair into a ponytail. My T-shirt crept up, exposing my belly. His eyes followed it.

  “What?” I asked, blushing. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped, way better than mine, and when he moved, the diamond studs in his ears cast sparkles of light all around us.

  The kettle sang. I turned off the stove and picked it up. “What?” I asked again.

  “So . . .” He swallowed. “I was walking up the stairs, and I looked up at your window, and . . . nena! You were wearing just your bra!”’

  I had to put the kettle down so I wouldn’t drop it. My face felt hotter than the water, and I feared steam was coming out of my ears.

  “I didn’t notice the shutters were open,” I whisper-shouted.

  I wanted to die.

  “Be more careful next time, then.” There was concern in his voice. “Don’t encourage the creeps. What if someone other than me saw you? If your dad finds out, he’ll lock you up in the tallest tower, and you’ll have to wait for me to come rescue you.”

  “I’ll rescue myself,” I said, a couple of seconds too late. “And don’t worry. No one will ever lock me up in a tower.”

  “I’d like to see someone try.” He was standing so close I felt the heat of his body. Or maybe it was just me burning up. “I heard about Gimena.” His face was unreadable, but his voice was so sad. “She was in my class in elementary school. She dropped out in seventh grade, and Pablo was devastated. He had a crush on her, remember? Back when he liked brunettes.”

  If she hadn’t been hanging out with the wrong crowd, she’d still be alive . . .

  “Every day there’s a new girl.”

  “If anyone ever bothers you, you tell me, and I’ll kick his ass. I’ll make him swallow his teeth. Just say the word.”

  But what could Diego really do? He didn’t even live here anymore.

  I patted his hand and then pulled away so quickly I almost knocked the mate over. “Ay,” I muttered, pushing back the swear words I would’ve said if he hadn’t been here. “Like I said, I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.” Then, trying to change the subject, I added, “Do you want some pizza to go with el mate, or crackers? Or my mom made pastafrola yesterday. Maybe there’s still some left.” I looked inside the fridge, and yes, the quince pie was still there.

  Diego’s eyes flared with desire. For the cake. He had a sweet tooth. “Just a little.”

  “Come sit here.” I led him to the table, taking my regular spot in front of the window, and he sat across from me, as he’d done a million times before.

  “I . . . I see you on TV. I mean, we watch the games.” I poured water in the mate. “My mom and me. She says the black and white looks good on you, bianconero.”

  My eyes wandered over him, caressing his bashful face, which was so closely shaved I could almost feel the softness of his skin against my fingertips. I took a sip of mate and almost scalded my tongue.

  “You watch the games?”

  I swallowed quickly so I could reply. “Whenever we can. Sometimes we listen on the radio, and when we watch, it’s online. Because the pay-per-view costs an egg and a half.”

  He laughed. “Always so delicate.”

  He swallowed a bite of pie. Crumbs clung to his lips, and ay, Dios mío, my insides twisted, but I went back to the mate and pretended to be cool.

  “Oh, you meant chicken eggs,” he said.

  “Of course! What kind of impure thoughts are you having, Ferrari?”

  He licked his lower lip and bit it before he said dramatically, “All of them, Hassan.”

  My mind exploded with indecent images. I laughed, lowering my
eyes to my napkin. I had shredded it.

  Another uncomfortable silence enveloped us. Smothered us. Frantically looking for a way to shatter the awkwardness, I remembered I still had his book. “I have something for you.” I sprang out of my seat to get The Shadow of the Wind from my room. When I returned to the kitchen, he was still nursing el mate in his hands. “I’m sorry I kept it for so long.” I laughed. “Your house is too far to return it.”

  The lamp in the corner cast a feeble light that didn’t reach me, and I hoped he couldn’t see that I was blushing again. Avoiding his eyes, I handed him the book. When he took it, our fingers brushed. I balled my hands into tight fists and crossed my arms so he couldn’t see I was shaking.

  “What did you think?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he went on, “I mean, if you still remember the story. It’s been so long.”

  “I read it more than once. I just don’t know where to start.”

  His face glowed with surprise. “Oh, you liked it, then.”

  “Yes, I loved it. The translation is great. It reads just like in Castellano.” He looked at me with a small smile, and I continued, “Barcelona! What else can I say?” I picked my words carefully to avoid mentioning the romance at the heart of the story. “I loved the bit about leaving a part of ourselves in every book we read. How we collect the fragmented souls of those who found the story first. That’s beautiful.” Put like this, reading a borrowed book sounded like an extremely intimate experience. “And you? What’s your favorite part?”

  Diego blinked and stared into the darkness of the kitchen. “That sometimes we’re cursed, and we can’t break free without the help of those who love us.” He took my hand in his, and this time I didn’t snatch it away. “I’ve been to Els Quatre Gats and all the other places Daniel and Fermín go. In the old city, I even thought I saw Julián and Penélope once or twice.”

  Diego had strolled through those crooked alleyways and la Puerta del Ángel, had gone down Las Ramblas and through el Barrio Gótico to the Mediterranean Sea, which I’d only seen online.

  “And you found the Cemetery of Forgotten Books?”