Keeper (13 page)

My father dashed into the house, which was awkward for me because I had to pull myself together and ask the visitors to sit down. My sister stuck her finger in her mouth and gazed at these people from planet television.

I managed to say, ‘You are welcome, and your guests, to our house, Señor Hellman.’

Hellman smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Gato.’

It was the first time he had called me that. What the hell was going on?

My father returned with a tray carrying four glasses and a bottle of the cordial we only ever drank at Christmas. He poured a little into the glasses and handed them to the guests. The glamorous woman asked for water instead. My father made a fancy gesture of apology and went back into the house. Another awkward silence. The man with the mustache sipped some of the cordial. My father reappeared with a glass of water and set it down in front of the woman. Then he sat down. At the same instant, all four guests stood up because my mother had come out of the house. The whole situation was getting ridiculous: up and down, up and down, and nobody saying anything. Mother sat down on a chair against the wall of the house. The guests sat down again and drank, or pretended to drink. Hellman said ‘Cheers!’ in English, then turned to my father and spoke with the greatest respect. He began by introducing his companions.

‘Señor,’ he said, ‘allow me to introduce Señora da Silva. Her husband is Gilberto da Silva, the president of DSJ. This gentleman’ — he gestured toward the man with the mustache — ‘is Milton Acuna. He is director of soccer at DSJ.’

I knew — all the boys in the township knew — DSJ. Deportivo San Juan. Pictures of the team were splattered all over the walls of the café. We had roared at their victories, howled at their defeats. They were our local team. San Juan was only three hundred miles away. And, now that she was sitting opposite me, without the big sunglasses, I recognized Flora da Silva. Her husband owned DSJ but he had bought it with her money, and she ruled the roost. When DSJ were on TV it was always her the cameras lingered on as she sat in the directors’ box. I was hypnotized.”

“A good-looking woman,” Faustino said, smiling. “I’ve been hypnotized by her once or twice myself.”

El Gato smiled too. “I bet you have. But it wasn’t her who had me sitting there starstruck. It was the great Milton Acuna. There were many fading photos of him on the café wall: a long-haired, dangerous-looking boy in the pictures, more like an American rock star than a player. One of the best forwards ever to play for our country: fifty-eight goals in seventy-two matches, twenty years before. They had named an after-shave and a brand of clothing after him. And here he was, at our table, watching my face as I struggled to make sense of what was happening, and failed utterly.

Then Hellman looked at me and opened his hand toward Larsson. ‘This man you know already. Today they called him El Ladron, and he did steal a goal from you. The Loggers did not ask him to play; I did. He played as a favor to me. I asked him to find out if you could be made to explode.’

Larsson reached across the table, put both his hands around one of mine, and shook it. He looked into me with his pale European eyes and said, ‘My friend here asked me to put you on a roller coaster, to make you feel down, up, down again. I was amazed at how cool you were. Also, you made one or two saves that I thought were impossible. I felt I had found the rage in you toward the end when I deliberately fouled you, but you somehow got yourself together. You are perhaps the best goalie I have played against. You do know why we are here, don’t you?’

Señora da Silva spoke, addressing my father. ‘We want to sign your son, señor. Señor Hellman called Milton and said there was someone special we should come to see. We came. It was a long trip, but worth it. He is a keeper, your son. I have a contract in my bag. I also have a checkbook. When you sign the contract on behalf of your son, I will write a check for ten thousand dollars. The check will be made out to you, of course. Your son is not able to sign any legal agreement until he is eighteen, as I am sure you know.’

She took papers out of her expensive handbag and laid them on our poor table. ‘The contract is for two years. If he proves to be unsuitable, the contract will end when the two years are over. However, we will pay him a salary of three hundred dollars a week for as long as he remains a member of DSJ. Very large game bonuses, should he play for the first team or the B team, are paid on top of that, of course. The terms of the contract allow us to sell him within that period. Ten percent of any profit we make from such a sale will be paid into an account you specify. Do you have any questions you wish to ask me?’

The silence that followed this speech was intense. It seemed to me that even the frogs’ chorus had ceased. As you can imagine, I simply could not believe what I had heard. I think I was in shock. Then, as the meaning of Señora da Silva’s words sank in, I began to be filled with delight, with an outrageous joy. The Keeper has done it, I thought. He has rescued me. He has made this happen.

I did not dare look at my father’s face. I was afraid of what I would see in it. Then someone spoke, and it took me a moment to realize that it was my mother.

‘Forgive me, señora,’ she said, ‘but you speak of my son like he is a thing, something you shop for in the market. It is not like that. My husband tells me that our son has a genius for soccer. I know nothing of this. In fact, I find it hard to believe. My son does not play soccer like the other boys. And he will not always work at the logging camp. He wants to be a scientist, perhaps a biologist, and we will help him. He loves the forest and already knows a great deal about it. I hope you will pardon me, señora, but as far as I am concerned, this soccer thing of yours has nothing to do with us.’

It was as if Señora da Silva had heard a statue speak. She stared uncomprehendingly at my mother for several moments. The muscles around her lips twitched. Then she turned to Hellman. The question in her face didn’t need to be spoken.

Hellman looked uncomfortable. He said, ‘The young man has spent a great deal of time deep in the trees that surround us here, señora. At least, that is what his father has told me. I cannot explain how this has made him such a great keeper. As I said on the phone, there are things going on here that I do not understand.’

Señora da Silva shook her head as if it were surrounded by irritating flies. She spoke to my father, not my mother. ‘I am a little confused,’ she said. ‘Señor Hellman told us that a boy had appeared from nowhere who was a born goalkeeper. Now I am told that he will be some kind of biologist.’

Now, at last, my father spoke.

‘Please forgive my wife, señora,’ he said. ‘She has ambitions for our son. A college education. Myself, I don’t know. In a year or two, perhaps . . .’ He trailed off. Maybe he felt my mother’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. Then he struggled on. ‘But my son shows promise as a mechanic. That is true, isn’t it, Señor Hellman? A mechanic is a good thing to be, señora. A real job. This soccer thing is, is . . .’ He ran out of words.

Señora da Silva was clearly annoyed. ‘To be frank, my husband is not especially interested in engineers or biologists, and nor am I. I did not drive all the way out here with Señor Acuna to meet someone who could fix my car or describe the mating habits of lizards.’

Another silence. A very uncomfortable one. I stared at the tabletop.

Señora da Silva leaned back in her chair and tapped a polished fingernail on the papers in front of her. ‘Is it the money? The terms are quite generous, considering that your son is only fifteen.’ She shrugged. ‘But there may be some room for negotiation.’

My father was dismayed that anyone should suggest that he could drive a hard bargain. ‘No, no, señora,’ he said hurriedly, ‘it is not the money. The money is . . . well . . .’ His voice died on him again.

Señora da Silva glanced at Hellman. He would have told her what my father’s wages were, of course. She would have worked out how many years it would take him to save ten thousand dollars.

Then Milton Acuna spoke for the first time.

‘Señor,’ he said, very calmly, ‘this is all very
disturbing
for you, I am sure. Perhaps you and your wife would like a little time alone to discuss the issues.’

Señora da Silva flashed a glare at him. Acuna laid a calming hand on her wrist. My father turned to look at my mother. She nodded. My father got to his feet.

‘A good idea,’ he said. ‘So if you will excuse us, we will go inside. Are you comfortable here?’

‘We are fine,’ Acuna said, also standing. My parents turned to go into the house. ‘Excuse me, señora,’ Acuna said, ‘but a thought has just struck me.’

It was shocking that he had spoken directly to my mother. It was a terrible disrespect to my father. Yet Acuna spoke with such softness that it didn’t seem like that. All the same, I flinched.

‘Señora, you may be right. Perhaps your son is not a goalkeeper. He may look like one now, but in two years who knows? Professional soccer is not an easy way of life, no matter what the TV tells you. DSJ signs about twenty young men every year. Most of them do not make it. In two years from now your son may come back here, knowing that soccer is not his future. But you will have ten thousand dollars all the same. And I am sure that you have worked out how much it would cost to send your son to college.’

I lifted my head and looked at my parents. It was obvious to me that Acuna’s words had struck a chord in my mother. The way she simply nodded, looking directly at him, rather than turning away to continue into the house, told me that. And besides, a famous and handsome man had spoken to her, appealed to her, directly and respectfully. That was not an everyday thing. By contrast, my father looked lost, baffled. He looked like a general whose troops had deserted him, leaving him to face the enemy alone. It hurt my heart to look at his face. My mother lowered her head and went inside. My father followed her.

Señora da Silva drank a little water. Then she looked right at me for the first time. She flashed me a smile, probably one she had rehearsed in front of a mirror. It was very good.

‘For such a talented and versatile young man, you are remarkably quiet,’ she said. ‘But, of course, this is difficult for you. I understand that. It seems that your parents have different ambitions for you. All the same, I would like to know what you think.’

What did I think? I thought that the world had suddenly become huge. I thought that my life was bursting at the seams. I thought that it was the Keeper who explained things, not me. And yet I had to say something.

‘I am very honored that you came all this way to watch me play, Señora,’ I said. A pathetic answer.

She made a dismissive sound —
tcherr!
— and leaned back, tapping her nails on the table. Then she leaned forward and said, ‘What are you? Are you a scientist, some sort of expert in this forest of yours? Are you an engineer? Or are you a goalkeeper? Come, your parents are inside. Speak for yourself.’

I looked down at the table and concentrated on an ant that was struggling with a drop of spilled cordial. It was hard to tell if the ant was trying to carry the sugary liquid away or escape from the sweet stickiness that had trapped its legs.

Then Larsson put his hand across the table and flicked the ant away with his finger. ‘You are not stuck, my friend,’ he said. ‘You know the answer to that question. There is only one answer.’

‘I think I am a goalkeeper,’ I said.

Señora da Silva raised her sculptured eyebrows. ‘Think?’ she asked. ‘Only
think
?’

‘I am a keeper,’ I said. ‘I have no choice in the matter.’

‘No,’ Acuna said. ‘I watched you today, and I have to say I think you are right. You have no choice. You are a keeper, at least for the time being. It is hard to imagine you being better at anything else.’

My parents came out of the house. My mother sat once more against the wall. My father sat in the chair facing Señora da Silva. His face was full of trouble. It took some seconds for him to be able to speak.

‘Señora. My wife and I have discussed what you say. My wife’s opinion is that I should sign this paper of yours. She does not want our son to be a soccer player, I want you to understand that. You already know what she wants for him. But yes, it all comes down to money. Everything does, always.’

Señora da Silva regarded my father seriously, nodding slightly as though she too found this simple truth regrettable. Then she produced a slender silver pen from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and placed it and the contract in front of my father. Instead of picking up the pen, my father put his elbows on the table and combed his fingers through his thinning, frizzy hair.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I find this very hard. My son has a good job. He is good at tool shop. Estevan and all the others say so. What is soccer, compared to this? Okay, he can keep goal, Saturdays. But he is my only son. How can I say okay, take him away to San Juan, take him from us? We have no telephone, nothing. I do not know what it would be like not to have him here. I cannot imagine it. When would we see him? And in San Juan, who would care for him and protect him? Forgive me, señor, señora. This is so, so . . . surprising. I cannot sign anything here and now. I need time to think.’

My feelings at that moment were very complicated. I was proud of my father. He was alone in this situation, in which everyone except him wanted the same thing. Bravery was not something that came naturally to him. But he was standing — or, rather, sitting — alone. And he was talking, perhaps for the first time, about how much he loved me and wanted me to stay near him. And yet, inside, I was gasping with impatience. I wanted, desperately wanted, him to shut up and sign the contract. The door to my real life was open, and my father stood in front of it, blocking it. I loved him and hated him at the same time.

There was then a stalemate, another painful silence. It was broken by a brisk tapping noise, a stick banging against the wall of the house. Uncle Feliciano came around the corner into the light, blinking like a stunned owl. Señora da Silva slumped back in her chair, thinking, I suppose, that here was another member of this dumb jungle family coming to make life difficult.