Furia Page 7

  “Tell me about Luís Felipe?” I’d seen Diego’s roommate in some of the Snapchats Roxana had shown me. Luís Felipe was gorgeous. His face looked chiseled by Michelangelo. Judging by how much Diego laughed when he was with him, he seemed like a great friend to live with. His girlfriend, Flávia, a model, was his childhood sweetheart, and they were trying the long-distance thing.

  Diego laughed. “That guy is Carnaval personified! ‘Tudo bem, tudo bem,’ he says, and then he scores like a beast after partying all night with girls. He . . . he’s a character, that’s for sure.”

  My mouth went dry as I pictured Flávia at home, thinking her long-distance relationship was working while her boyfriend was out partying all night with other women. Did she know? Did she care? And what about Diego? Did he party all night long with them?

  I turned toward the window. We were driving past the municipal cemetery, La Piedad. A legion of stone angels watched over its expanse. Abuelo Ahmed was there. I’d never visited his grave, not even to help Pablo and my mom repaint it yellow and blue last spring. I looked away when we drove past the marble entrance, but I still felt its chill through the car window like icy fingers.

  After a turn on 27 de Febrero, we drove through a neighborhood of freshly painted two-story houses with iron bars on the windows and satellite dishes on the interconnected roofs. There was litter on the side of the road—cigarette butts and beer cans. Vagabond dogs sprawled everywhere. Kids of all sizes and ages walked, played, and worked. Runny-nosed little ones stood at the traffic lights, doing magic tricks or cleaning windshields for a few coins. Trapitos, people called them—Little Rags.

  Diego’s face was grave when we stopped at a light. He lowered his window and handed a boy of about five a hundred-peso bill. There wasn’t much the boy could buy with that, not even a McDonald’s Happy Meal. Diego had been gone too long to keep up with inflation.

  “Pobrecito.” Diego sighed.

  I turned in my seat to see the little boy running toward a girl not much older than he was. Their joined silhouettes became a speck in the distance.

  Diego’s expression was stony. Before Ana had found him, he’d been that boy at a traffic light, juggling a fútbol for spare coins. I didn’t know what to say, so I placed a hand on his arm, and he flexed instinctively.

  “You’re jacked!” I exclaimed half jokingly. He’d always been athletic, of course, but training in Europe had turned him into a sculpture.

  Diego smiled, shaking his head, the sheen of sadness gone from his eyes.

  After a couple of blocks, we pulled up in front of a magnificent sanctuary of red brick and sand-colored stucco. Arched Gothic windows ran along the walls on both sides of the church’s entrance.

  “We’re going here first?”

  Diego smiled sheepishly. “Work first, and then we . . . we can have some fun.”

  I got out before Diego could open the door for me. Flustered, we crossed the street. Once on the sidewalk, I realized Eva María’s practice field was just around the block at Parque Yrigoyen. I must have passed this church hundreds of times, but I’d never noticed it.

  Rosario showed a different face depending on how you looked at her. She changed when you saw her from a bus, or a luxury car, or your own feet.

  The main entrance to the church was chained shut, but we went through a smaller side door. A metal plaque read instituto del buen pastor. fundado 1896. I thought of the girls imprisoned here for fighting for the right to vote, or demanding not to be beaten by their fathers or husbands, or for wanting to earn a decent salary. Las Incorregibles. These walls had witnessed so much pain and despair, and I wondered if the ghosts of those girls still haunted them. Eighteen ninety-six was so long ago, but so many things remained the same.

  We followed a hallway, the characteristic sounds of childhood—laughter, chatter, shrieking—inviting us in. A baby cried nearby.

  We ended up in an inner courtyard dotted with white statues, some of saints I didn’t know and one of Jesus carrying a lamb on his shoulders. A broken fountain was covered in dead leaves.

  A tall, dark-skinned man walked in. His hair was speckled with white, and his eyes were framed by webs of wrinkles. I’d known about Father Hugo for as long as I’d known Diego, but I’d never met him in person.

  “Padre!” Diego called.

  “Dieguito! You’re here!” The joy in his voice made me smile.

  The priest placed his hands on Diego’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “The kids saw you on TV celebrating in the stands with the rest of the barra, and the kitchen exploded. I thought they were witnessing the Lord’s second coming. But that was nothing compared to when they saw you start for la Juve.”

  Diego’s laughter bounced off the crumbling stucco walls that surrounded the courtyard, and the priest beamed at him.

  “This is Camila, Father.”

  “Camila, of course.” He shook my hand. “Diego has spoken so much about you. For years now, it has been Camila this, Camila that—”

  “Now, Father,” Diego said, blushing, “don’t go revealing my secrets. Camila’s here for the English tutoring job.”

  Father Hugo looked at me. His eyes were almost black, but there was no darkness in them.

  “I’ll go play some ball with the kids while you two talk, okay?” Diego asked.

  “Don’t make them wild. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Diego ran to meet his admirers.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Diego and the little boys running after him.

  The priest cleared his throat. “Now, Camila, Diego tells me you taught yourself English, and that you got your licenciatura before you finished high school. That’s impressive!”

  “Thank you, Father,” I said, unused to the praise.

  “What motivated you to learn?”

  “Honestly, all my life I’ve wanted to attend school in the United States.”

  I might as well have said I wanted to be an astronaut. “The United States? People from all over the continent and even the world come to Argentina for a free first-class education. Why do you want to leave?”

  “I want an education,” I said, “but I also want to play fútbol. The U.S. teams are multi-world, multi-Olympic champions. And it’s because their college programs are incredible.” My heart pounded, and a sheen of sweat broke out on my nose as if I were at confession. I’d never had a normal conversation with a priest before.

  “I see . . . Playing for a school there would be a little like getting a contract with la Juve, right?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. Nothing was further from the truth. “Minus all the millions. College players make no money, actually. But playing for a college would open doors that don’t even exist here. Their female league is professional.”

  His eyes widened.

  “But there aren’t many scholarships for international students, so I’ll aim for the National Women’s Soccer League. Getting there is difficult but not impossible. Even if that goal is too far-fetched, who knows where the journey will take me.” It felt so good to open up to him.

  “Every year, multitudes travel to my native India to find enlightenment,” Father Hugo said. “When I was eighteen, I left to seek myself. I, too, wanted to know what I could do, and never in a million years did I dream I’d end up in Rosario. Now this is my home. These are my people.”

  It wasn’t until he mentioned he was from India that I noticed his slight accent. Behind me, a little kid squealed in delight, and I turned to see Diego in the middle of the courtyard, buried in a pile of dry leaves. His hair looked like a nest. There was no trace of el Titán.

  If he’d been a jerk, drunk on fame and glory, it would’ve been so easy to turn away from him. But seeing him like this disarmed me.

  Before I could hide my feelings, I noticed Father Hugo studying my face. “So, fútbol is your dream?”<
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  “It is,” I said.

  Father Hugo smiled and opened his hands. “In the meantime, you need a job, and I need an English teacher for the kids.”

  I nodded, waiting to hear what he had to say. He continued, “Do you have experience teaching?”

  “I’ve tutored kids for end-of-the-year tests, but not in a classroom setting. I like children, though, and I’m a fast learner.”

  “I see . . . but before you commit to something you’re not ready for, I want to make sure you know exactly what you’ll encounter here.”

  The church’s turret cast a long shadow over the courtyard. Trying not to shiver from nerves or cold, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “A lot of the children here have gone through things most of us can’t imagine.” Father Hugo’s intense gaze accentuated the seriousness of his words. “The kids here aren’t like the kids at the American institute downtown, but in God’s eyes, they’re equally treasured. Other than the help from international charities, we have no support. The work the Sisters and I do here is like running on a hamster wheel. We run, we tire, but we don’t go anywhere. We repeat the same motions the next day and the one after that. Every day. And maybe there will be one or two like Diego. Or like you. A little one with dreams too big and amazing to ignore. When they go for those dreams, all the effort and failure are worth it.”

  “Sounds to me like this is a big job,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “You and the Sisters can’t do it all by yourselves. There might be others like Diego waiting for someone to give them a hand.”

  “That’s true. But you have to understand that Diego is an exception to the rule. He’s among the precious few children I’ve met through the years not to end up in jail or living under a bridge. Most of the kids who seek refuge here, Camila, have families. They come here or else they don’t eat. They come because children still have that divine spark intact in them, and they instinctually gravitate to a place where there is order, warmth, and love.

  “It’s only when they grow, or when they get hurt by those who should protect them, that the spark in them dies. That death, that loss of innocence and hope, is something many volunteers can’t endure. And they give up. If you agree to teach here, will you pledge to keep working no matter how little progress we make?”

  Oddly at ease with this stranger of the strong will and soft eyes, I said, “I know it won’t be easy, Father. I won’t promise I’ll always be in high spirits, but I’ll never lose heart. Now, what do you need me to do?”

  He regarded me in silence, and then his face broke into a generous smile. “You can come after school to help me give the kids their afternoon snack and help with their schoolwork. There are a couple at risk of repeating the year, and I think we can get them excited if, as a reward for passing, they get to learn the English. They want to be involved on the YouTube and Instagram. What do you think?”

  “I think I can manage that.” Practices were at eight, so the schedule worked perfectly for me. My mind was already whirring with ideas for how to start teaching them “the” English.

  “The pay is not great.”

  “No, no, don’t worry about that.” I needed every single peso I could scrape together, but could I really take it from these kids, who needed it even more?

  “But I do worry about that,” Father Hugo interjected. “It’s a meager salary, but you need to take it. This is a job, not a volunteer position.” He said it with such firmness that I didn’t dare contradict him.

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  “Of course you will. Two thousand pesos a week—a pittance.” He shook his head.

  Two thousand pesos a week was eight thousand a month, more money than I’d ever had at once, so for me, it wasn’t a pittance. If I saved for a whole year, it would be about fifteen hundred U.S. dollars. A fortune.

  “Believe me, it’s okay,” I said.

  He took both my hands in his own warm and calloused ones and led me to the center of the cobblestone courtyard. “Let’s go join the children now that all’s settled.”

  The children, Diego included, played under the supervision of one of the Sisters.

  Peter and the Lost Boys. I prayed they all reached their dreams like Diego had reached his. But more than that, I prayed that I might reach mine, and that nothing and no one—not even me—would get in the way.

  10

  “Everything went well?” Diego asked.

  “Yes, I think the job’s going to be fun.” My heart was pounding, and not because of the kids or Father Hugo. It was only three thirty, and the promise of spending the rest of the day with Diego, just the two of us, made my body thrill.

  “The kids already love you.” His smile was blazing, and then his eyes got bashful. “And how can I blame them?”

  “Stop it,” I said, slapping his arm but really wanting to slap myself.

  It didn’t take much more than a charged look for my fantasies to grow like a wildfire. I didn’t know what to do or say.

  “What’s wrong?” He must have felt my anxiety.

  A dry leaf was lodged in his hair, and I reached out my hand to pluck it. My fingers lingered on his soft curls for a second, and when I brushed the back of his neck, his skin broke into goosebumps.

  “Your hands are cold,” he said, grabbing my wrist and kissing my palm.

  Softly I pulled my hand away and crossed my arms.

  In a few days, he’d be back in Turín. Was I really going to do this again? Fall for him even though he was leaving? I didn’t want to have him and then lose him again.

  Diego turned the engine on. “Do you still want to go out with me, Mama?”

  “Do you?”

  Chamuyo and histeriqueo: the Argentine national arts of sweet-talking, teasing, and flirting. I didn’t want to play this game with Diego, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “I’ve been dreaming about taking you to the river forever. And look, the weather’s perfect. We couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

  “I thought we were going to the planetarium.”

  “It’s closed until December. They’re renovating it. Next time I’m taking you for sure.”

  “Let’s go, then.” I sat back, relishing the warm caress of the sun on my face. Diego turned the radio on and pushed some buttons on the dashboard before he landed on FM Vida.

  “You still listen to this station?” I asked, tapping my foot to a Gustavo Cerati song I’d never heard before. His voice and the guitar were unmistakable.

  “All the time. On the app,” he said. “The guys on the team love my music.”

  A car behind us honked and passed us on the right.

  “You’re driving too slowly, Titán,” I said. “Are you scared?”

  Diego shrugged but kept his eyes glued to the road ahead. He sped up, honking at every intersection, even when he had the right of way, just like all the other cars around us. “I’ve driven in Paris and Rome, but driving in Rosario requires a sixth sense, you know?”

  “No, I actually don’t, seeing as I’ve never driven before,” I said, worried for the delivery girl with giant headphones zigzagging through the traffic on a motorcycle.

  Diego glanced at me. “Do you want to learn?”

  “Sure!” I laughed. “But how? My dad’s never going to let me touch his Peugeot. Not even my mom knows where he hides the car keys.”

  “Let’s do it, then,” Diego said, turning sharply on Chacabuco toward Parque Urquiza.

  “What?” I asked, sounding panicky. “What if I crash into a tree, or a person?”

  “It’s not like jumping out of an airplane, Cami. You’ll see how easy it is.”

  Too soon, the planetarium dome peeked through the naked tree branches and palm trees. The park was teeming with activity. A group of elderly people practiced tai chi on the lawn, apparently oblivious to the teenagers playin
g fútbol next to them. On the other side of the sidewalk, older men in berets and knitted cardigans threw bocce balls with the same concentration I saw on my mom’s face when she embroidered dresses. A young father jogged next to a little girl pedaling furiously on her tiny pink bicycle. His hand hovered behind her when her bike wobbled, but she didn’t fall.

  Diego slowed down and finally stopped at an empty parking lot behind an abandoned supermarket. “Now get out.”

  “I can’t,” I said, grabbing on to my seat.

  Diego got out, came around the car, and opened my door. “Let’s do it, nena,” he said, taking my hand and gently pulling me out.

  “What if you get hurt?” I tried to take my hand back, but he didn’t budge. He tugged me to the driver’s side, leaving me in front of the door. “¿Estás loco?”

  He turned around and held my gaze as if daring me to read the answer in his eyes. He stepped forward, and I stepped back like we were in a tango duel. The car pressed against my back. I had no escape.

  “Nothing bad is going to happen,” he said. “Don’t be scared.”

  The scent of his cologne went to my head, and before I did something stupider than driving a car that cost more than my life, I stomped my foot and said, “Fine!” I got in the driver’s seat, fuming.

  Diego laughed and got in the passenger seat. He turned the music off. “So you can focus.”

  As if his presence wasn’t the biggest distraction of them all.

  I rolled down the window so the breeze would help me stay cool.

  “First, put your seat belt on.” He waited for me to comply, and I could tell he enjoyed being in charge. “Next, press the brake and shift to drive. The D.” He put his hand over mine as I fumbled with the gear shift. “Let go of the brake, and give the car a little bit of juice. Yes, accelerate like that. Softly and slowly. You’re doing perfect. Go straight. Confident.”

  I was trying to focus, but my mind twisted around every single double meaning of his words.

  He sat back, looking as relaxed as if he were sunning at La Florida beach. “Eyes on the road.”