Tolana also remembered for how long, how awfully long, she dragged Kuluangwa across the narrow steps down from the top of the temple. She remembered how hard the child fought in her womb, resisting every strain of the mother. The warm hands of old Ma-Is helped drag Kuluangwa into the hut, put his limp body into the corner on a low couch and covered him with a blanket. But what came before this? Her memory was confused, and she could not recall the events. Kuluangwa was breathing hoarsely, while Tolanas head rose and fell with his every sigh. Then he stretched with a groan, exhaling pain, straightening his muscles that had stiffened at night. The blanket harbouring his body slipped to the floor and Tolana looked up, not fully realizing what had opened in front of her. She gasped. What she saw made her tightly shut her eyes. Kuluangwas entire lower body was covered with scabs of dried blood his legs, hips, ankles, and feet. A large, ugly, black, and red body part faintly trembled between his legs like a sponge. What once took an active part in the tender creation of a small creature in her womb had turned into an unimaginable nightmare. And now Tolana remembered yesterday.
CHAPTER 3
34° 38» 17» S
58° 21» 12» W
Buenos Aires, Argentina
October 14, 1972
The day was drawing to an end.
«Diego! Diego, what is it with you! Why dont you ever listen to your mother? Youll smash your head in such darkness. How much longer can you fool around? Come home right now ri-i-i-ight no-o-o-ow!»
There was no answer.
«Die-e-e-ego!»
«Give me a moment, mama! Well, until the next goal we have to break the tie!»
«So, youll be rushing around till the morning?»
«No, were gonna finish soon!»
The mother walked away from the third-floor window, taking with her the faded laundry that had been baking under the merciless sun on a rope crossing Santo Domingo Street. Downstairs, in the darkness illuminated only by the dim lights of a few windows, a throng of teenagers was chasing a ball, excitedly shouting something ungodly. This game, already lasting dozens of halves, started in mid-afternoon from the moment school finished. The boys played in the yard among the crowded block houses, the walls of which were completely covered with graffiti. Here and there, the facades were clung onto by tin shacks pantries for all sorts of junk, garages for broken trucks, motorcycles, and bikes. Between the huts as well dried up laundry. The boys game was accompanied by a cacophony of screaming traders, roaring babies, rattling cars, melodies of bossa-nova, and sounds of salsa.
On one side, the goalposts were represented by a dusty gateway arch overgrown with stunted vines. On the other side a pair of empty boxes. The short kid who responded to the call of his mother seemed to have played the best in this poor neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Taking the ball to his chest, he easily moved it from his torn knee to the shin. Smoothly beating the opponent, the boy made a masterly kick to send the ball rocketing between the two boxes.
«Go-o-o-al!» One group of boys rushed to hug the striker, while the other stood in silence at the gate, rolling the ball.
Meanwhile, the capital of Argentina was descending into a warm October night.
«You shouldnt be like this to him, Dalma,» said Diego, the boys father, in whose honour the boy was named. He came from behind and gently put his arm around his wifes shoulders.
«After that adventure of yours with him in Mexico, hes crazy on that football.» Dalma nervously freed herself from his arm, «You know, he even sleeps with that stupid ball in an embrace. Our little Maria sleeps with her doll! But at his age, he shouldnt be sleeping with toys!»
«Well, hes still a child. Ten years what do you want?» Diego paused. «By the way, yesterday I spoke with Antonio Labruna, the schoolmaster.»
«Yes, I know Antonio!» retorted Dalma. «And?»
«Well, he said that in general, our little guy is not doing too well in school»
«Oh, is that it?!»
«but on the other hand,» the father continued, «hes so good at football! A genius! Antonio wants to put him on the senior school team for city competitions. You remember how he was bullied like a little chicken a year ago because he couldnt put two movements together with the ball in gym class. And now»
«And now our boy has surpassed himself by kicking a stupid ball around the street!» She said with disappointment, «We need him to spend more time on the important subjects, yet you continue to indulge him»
«Dont you worry so much, Dalma? Everything will be alright. Our boy will fulfill his dream. Youll see hell become a hero of Argentina!»
Dalma grunted, while Diego went on, fascinated, despite the sarcasm in the look of his wife. «We, the working people always need football! It makes us free! It elevates our mood, provides food for an evening of chatter with a glass of wine. By the way, let me open a bottle for dinner! Its better than grumbling and frowning all the time. And all the sciences will eventually come to Diego with time. Hell learn to read and write.»
«It would also be good if he at least learned how to count so he doesnt end up like his father, who has nothing in his pockets to count. Yes, and youre babbling about football like at some rally «Football makes us free! you bore me to sleep!»
«Alright, alright, Ill talk to him,» Diego gave in, seeing where Dalma was going.
At this point, little Diego stumbled clumsily through door. He was a sturdy and of short height for his ten years of age, covered in dust and with eyes glowing. His left hand firmly pressed a black ball against himself.
«Papa, papa! Mama! Five three! We killed them!» Diego was raging with pride.
«But you said, up until the first goal» His mother frowned with displeasure. «I warmed your dinner twice!»
«Yes, I rolled them a fourth, and then, while thinking to leave or not, I sent a fifth to the right. And then, Aunt Samantha turned off the light in her window I couldnt see my ball, so we had to go home.»
«And who scored the first three, son?» his father asked with a sly smile.
«Also me, papa. Who else?»
Dalma seemed to have replaced her anger with compassion, going into the kitchen and warming the dinner for a third time. The father patted Diegos curly head and leaned to his ear, quietly, conspiratorially whispering: «Central striker Diego Gonzalez, while mama is busy with dinner, I have something for you.»
Slipping through the dark corridor past the door into the kitchen where his mother rattled dishes and cursed as she dispersed the smoke from the stove, they entered Diegos small room, full of hanging pictures with covers of sports magazines. The father closed the door and said, «Maybe its time you stopped kicking around,» he started from afar, «this filthy, old, black ball, of dark Mexican origins?»
«But pa-a-apa» Diego cringed at the thought of being deprived of his single favorite preoccupation.
«Dont even start,» the father went on in a deliberately strict manner.
«But why? I promise that I will do my homework on time. I wont ever skip school. I promise! I promise! I promise!» Big tears flowed down his face.
«Oh, I never knew that you could cry!» The father chuckled, «Alright, dont howl, I just wanted to say that youve played enough with this prehistoric ball, Diego. Why dont you look under your bed? I think there is something waiting for you now for four hours!»