Anxiety bubbles in his gut like blocked wind. As they have so many times before, the words They can’t stay here forever appear in his head. And, as always, they lead nowhere.
Felicia lies awake with her eyes shut. She wonders if Bush wants her to go over to him. Her own need is like a delicious itch down the center of her body. She won’t do it, though. When what she wants to happen happens, it’s not going to be a hurried, furtive thing in the darkness of a dirty old shed that stinks of piss. She clings, foolish girl that she is, to her vision of a white bed, of pale curtains gently billowing at open windows.
And no Bianca.
DIEGO’S GLEE IS short-lived. Within two weeks, Michael Cass is reinstalled as Desmerelda’s bodyguard. In fact, the three of them — Cass and the happy couple — seem tighter than ever. Almost to the extent that he, Diego, feels excluded.
He paces the bedroom. “It’s incredible,” he tells Emilia. “The guy is too stupid to feel jealous. Can you imagine that? Too stupid, too lamebrained, to be jealous. I mean, I led him to it like a donkey, pushed his nose into it, said, ‘There it is, look.’ For God’s sake, I almost had myself believing that she was having a thing with Cass. There was motive — forgive me, sweetheart, but who wouldn’t want to bang La Brabanta? — and there was opportunity. Endless opportunity. Any sane jury would convict. But not Saint Otello. Oh, no. He’s on some other planet entirely. Planet Idiot, in the constellation Moron. Any normal, intelligent man, hearing his wife going ‘Michael this’ and ‘Michael that,’ and ‘Baby, can’t we please have Michael back,’ any man with half a brain would think, Ah-hum. But no. Instead, the pair of them have a ‘sensible discussion of the issues.’ Ha! You don’t need much imagination to know what a ‘sensible discussion’ between those two would consist of.
“It’s my own fault. He believes anything I say. So I should’ve just said, ‘Capitano, Cass is sleeping with your wife when you’re not there.’ Spelled it out, maybe written it in capital letters on a big piece of paper. But you know what? That wouldn’t have worked either. Because he’d have looked at me with those big dumb eyes of his and said, ‘Yeah, well, Dezi says Michael takes his job very seriously.’”
He stands looking through his own reflection at the lights of the city. “You know, it’s at times like this I wish you hadn’t made me give up smoking.” He turns to her. “I think I’ll have a drink. Just the one, don’t worry.”
When he returns to the bedroom, he is carrying a large measure of imported Scotch whiskey in a heavy crystal tumbler. Standing at the window once more, he takes a mouthful and shudders as its fuse burns down into him. He takes another mouthful to smother it.
“Do you remember when heroes used to be greater than us? Generals, liberators, on huge horses. Makers of history. Men who led other men through unexplored mountains, invented countries, gave names to things. Died for causes, became immortal. Now heroes are mere celebrities. Fashion designers. Soccer players. Pop singers. People you think you could be like, given the chance, the luck. Pathetic, isn’t it? No, it’s more than pathetic. It’s insulting. It reduces all of us; it reduces me. And I won’t stand for it. Cannot stand for it.”
He drinks again. “I’m getting impatient, Emilia. And that is disturbing. I am a patient man, as you know. A lover of subtleties, of elegant stratagems. The long game. A user of poisons, not explosives. I used to think I had centuries of patience, an infinity of patience. But I find myself becoming restless. I want to bring them down soon. I want those towers to crumble and plunge; I want to relish the numb shock of the people in the streets. Hear them wailing, ‘Why did we believe? Why didn’t we listen?’ Even though I know that soon afterward they’ll forget they ever wanted answers to those questions. That they’ll go clambering over the rubble to greet the next liar who says he can make everything right again. Tells them he can give them their dreams back.”
He drains the glass.
“I’ll never be out of work.”
Later, in bed, he is silent for a time.
Then he looks over at her and says, “There was nothing wrong with my approach. He has become so big, so gross, that he will — must — collapse under his own weight. But I miscalculated. When he met her, when I saw the fool go slack at the knees, I thought, Aha, my friend, now I have you. Now you have wandered into the alligator swamp. But together they are stronger than I thought. Yes, I underestimated them. I shall have to work a little harder.”
TEN MORNINGS AFTER her missed period, Desmerelda goes to brush her teeth; but as soon as the electric toothbrush whirs inside her mouth, she turns aside and vomits into the toilet bowl. It’s a neat and fairly untroublesome process, but she is glad Otello is not there to witness it. When she is sure that it’s finished, she tries to continue cleaning her teeth — she really needs to now — but realizes that the familiar toothpaste tastes foul. Like rotting shrimp or something.
When she walks through to the kitchen, the answering machine on the landline is flashing and her cell is ringing. She ignores both. The kitchen is big — very big — but this morning it seems bigger than ever. It takes her a long time to get to the fridge, which is much taller than she is. She tries a sip of juice, straight from the carton. It’s okay. It tastes like it ought to taste.
She goes back to bed. There’s a pulse in her head where there shouldn’t be one, but she calms it and starts to think. To take stock. It’s like a luxury she has postponed.
The American tour is off. Well, thank God.
The book contract is on. The ghostwriter is expensive, but you can’t bluff what comes out in print. He won’t write quotes you can’t defend. She wishes she could remember his name.
She is pregnant.
There is not going to be another single lifted from the new album. There were five from the first album. Three from the second. Now only one from the third. It’s not like you need a graph.
She is definitely pregnant.
And yesterday someone had called Ramona asking if Desmerelda Brabanta would consider appearing on Celebrity Lock-In.
No, of course she damn well won’t. Appear on something with Celebrity in the title, and you might as well be dead. But it’s another sign. This part of it is over now, for sure.
She can feel that she is. It is only her imagination, obviously, but she can feel things gathering inside her.
She puts her hands on her belly and imagines several possible ways she will tell Otello. And how she will tell her estranged and bitter father, who doesn’t answer her calls or e-mails. As soon as that thought strikes her, she swings her legs off the bed and hurries back to the bathroom.
Desmerelda decides, eventually, that she will tell no one. Not for a while. You never know. Don’t tempt fate.
As things turn out, the first person to know is Diego. And she doesn’t need to tell him.
He calls her and invites her to lunch at the Parisino. There is something he wishes to discuss with her. She arrives ahead of him, and when Diego gets there, he is greeted by Michael Cass, who has already taken up his station in the armchair facing the doors. Diego notes that Cass is looking a good deal tidier these days. Today he is wearing a well-cut dark-blue linen suit over a pale blue shirt, and proper shoes. Maybe Dezi has taken to buying his clothes for him. Sweet.
Diego looks at his watch. “I’m not late, am I?”
“Nah. We’re early. Dezi said she was starving.”
“Right. Are you okay? Need a drink or anything?”
Cass lifts a bottle of water from the floor beside his chair. “Nope. I’m fine.” There is perhaps something ironic in his expression.
Desmerelda looks charmingly embarrassed when she sees Diego. She is already digging in to an avocado-and-smoked-chicken appetizer.
“I know it’s terrible of me. I just couldn’t wait. I somehow didn’t get around to breakfast.”
“No problem,” he says, smiling. “A girl’s gotta eat.”
She lifts her face to him, and he kisses her on both cheeks.
&nb
sp; When the waiter materializes, Diego says, “I’ll have the same as la señora. It looks excellent. After that, I don’t know. Ask me later.” To Desmerelda he says, “Wine?”
“Uh-uh. I’ll stick to mineral water.”
When the waiter leaves them, Diego regards Desmerelda appraisingly. “You look particularly lovely today, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I think I can stand it.”
“I’m glad you were free.”
“I’m really glad you called. I was feeling a bit . . . well, you know. I didn’t used to mind when Otello was away for internationals. Well, not a lot. Lately, though, I find that I do mind. Quite a bit.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Some of those girls in Rio are pretty spectacular.”
She laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”
He tilts his head very slightly. His face now displays kindly concern. “You are all right, you two?”
“Absolutely.” She eats a sliver of chicken by way of closing the subject. “So, do you really have something to discuss with me, or did you just think your charm needed a workout?”
“No. I have an idea I’d like to run past you.”
“Mmm-hmm. Okay. Go on. I can eat and listen at the same time, you know.”
“Right. Well, a couple of weeks back I was negotiating a new deal on Otello’s sportswear franchises. Despite all the piracy that goes on, the sums involved are pretty significant. As you probably know. Anyway, because the subject was on my mind, I guess, I started really noticing how many people — kids, mainly — go around wearing Otello soccer jerseys and sweatshirts and stuff. And I started thinking that just getting a percentage of all that business wasn’t the best we could do.”
“This is completely fascinating, Diego.”
“Bear with me. Because then I got to thinking about fashion. Kids’ fashion, to be precise.”
“You started thinking about kids’ fashion? Were you running a fever or something?”
“Or just maybe experiencing a violent attack of inspiration. Look, Dezi, thousands — hundreds of thousands — of boys go around wearing Otello gear. And hundreds of thousands of girls go around wearing what you wear. Or cheap imitations of what you wear. Right? In a very real sense, the two of you dictate street fashion in this country. Why not take the logical next step?”
“Which is?”
“Produce it.”
Her eyebrows lift. “What, you mean go into the clothes business?”
“Exactly. Look, I’m talking off the top of my head here, obviously. You know more about this than I could learn in a lifetime. But what I’m thinking of is sort of funky, sportswear-slash-streetwear, right? Like athletic but cool. For both boys and girls. I mean, that’s the kind of thing they’re wearing anyway, but it’s mostly downmarket crap. This would be different. Quality stuff, but affordable. And it would be your own label. D and O, or whatever. You’d have control over it. And control is what matters.”
Desmerelda rests her right cheek on her hand but says nothing.
Diego says, “Okay, maybe my, er, vision is way off. In terms of what kind of clothes, accessories, whatever. What do I know? But I did take the liberty of seeing what Shakespeare thought of the idea before discussing it with you.”
“Uh-huh. And what did they say?”
He smiles. “I got the impression that they were slightly miffed that I’d thought of it before they did.”
He sits back and waits. Her eyes are lowered. On her plate she traces patterns in the avocado smears with her fork.
“Dezi? Speak to me.”
She looks up at last and says, “You must think I’m a very dim girl.”
“What?”
“I know what this is really about. What you’re up to.”
Something wormy wriggles close to his heart, but he holds her gaze. “You do?”
“Yes. You’ve come to the conclusion that my glorious musical career is screwed.”
“I have done no such thing.” His surprise is genuine.
“Oh, yes, you have. And as a matter of fact, so have I. I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to. And this brilliant idea of yours is about rescuing my self-esteem. Giving me something to fill the horrible post-superstar vacuum you imagine my future to be. Don’t deny it. And don’t look like that. I’m not upset. I’m really touched.”
Diego has put on the brave but wounded smile of a man listening to his therapist.
“Also,” Desmerelda says, grinning now, “it is a great idea, actually. Shall we have something else to eat and talk about it some more?”
Later, they order coffee. Desmerelda has one sent out to Michael.
“So,” Diego asks, “shall I set up a meeting between the three of us and Shakespeare in, say, the next couple of weeks?”
“Sure.”
“And do you want me to put the idea to Otello, or . . .”
“No, no. I’ll do that.”
“And you think he’ll go for it?”
“I don’t see why not. I can’t imagine him being particularly hands-on, though, can you?”
Diego allows himself a chuckle. “No, not really. It’ll be the promotion stuff where he comes in.”
“He’ll almost certainly want to build in some charity aspect to the business.”
“Obviously. And that reminds me. I had an idea about presentation. Models and so forth. This is months away, of course, but when we start the advertising campaign, I think we should use real kids. Not squeaky-clean little models from some agency. Real kids, off the street. Kids with attitude. That other kids can relate to. Do you know what I mean?”
“Hey, Diego, that is very good. I like that. I like that very much.”
“Thank you.”
She puts her cup down. “I don’t think I can drink any more of that.” She checks her watch. “Well . . .”
He is looking at her in a slightly peculiar way.
“What?”
He is awkward. He lowers his voice. “Dezi, may I ask . . . I’m sorry. This is an outrageously intimate question, but I can’t . . .”
“Come on, Diego, spit it out. What?”
“Dezi, are you pregnant?”
She cannot say anything. There is no need to. It’s like the blood ebbs from her face and wells back up like a tide.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She stares at him, shaking her head. “How did you know?”
“The mineral water. You never used to eat avocado. You couldn’t drink your coffee. And there is, I don’t know, something different about your complexion. Your skin tone. I recognized it.”
“Christ, Diego.”
“I’m sorry. I must be sensitive to these things. Does he know?”
“No. Not yet. And don’t you dare say anything about it to anyone.”
“Of course I won’t. Cross my heart.” He takes her left hand tenderly in both of his. “Congratulations, Desmerelda. I am very, very happy for you both.”
RIALTO ENDS THE season as league champions, seven points clear of their closest challengers. Otello, as the league’s top scorer, is awarded the Golden Ball even though he misses three games with a knee injury and struggles to regain his form in the last five games, scoring only twice.
The club’s success is soured when they lose four–three on aggregate to the Brazilian team Grêmio in the semifinal of the Copa Libertadores. The tabloids, who had overexcited themselves at the prospect of a rare double, are less than charitable. Predictably it is Mateo Campos of El Sol who leads the chorus. Deploying his repertoire of neo-racist terminology, he accuses Otello (yet again) of being more interested in celebrity than soccer. The refrain is taken up by, among others, the mass-circulation soccer magazine Gol!, which juxtaposes a fashion shot of Otello modeling a white suit with one of Roderigo urging his players on, looking sweaty, bruised, and defiant.
La Nación prints an end-of-season report by Paul Faustino, which takes a different and more sober view. It reminds readers that in his first season with Rialto, Otello h
as scored more goals in all competitions than any other player in the club’s history, with the exception of the great Esdras Caballo back in 1968. That, notwithstanding the team’s exit in the semifinals, Otello is the first Rialto player ever to score two hat tricks in the tournament. Faustino also dismisses, with Olympian disdain, the attempts by the tabloids to slime the man’s reputation. He mentions Mateo Campos by name, describing him as “ophidian.” (Faustino had smiled, keying the word, knowing that Campos would have to look it up in a dictionary, if he possessed such a thing.) He points out that it is ironic (to put it politely) that papers whose circulation is built upon juicily fostering the cult of celebrity should turn so savagely upon a man who has had celebrity thrust upon him by those very same publications. On the evening that the piece is published, Faustino appears on Sportsview and forcefully reiterates these views.
Faustino is invited to the celebration of Rialto’s league championship, when the trophy will be formally presented to the club. The event is held in the vast ballroom of the Hotel Real. The buffet is absurd; Faustino surveys it, wondering idly if there is anything remotely edible on the planet that has been overlooked. He wonders, too, if he might be the only guest who is not a multimillionaire. Or a multimillionaire’s escort. The congregation of all this money in human form is not the only reason for the presence of a large number of big men with lumps under their jackets, wired-up ears, and restless eyes. Vice President Lazar and that vulture Hernán Gallego are here, as are several other members of the government and the Senate. Waiters and waitresses weave through the throng, holding aloft trays of glasses of champagne that seem to float like golden dreams above the heads of thirsty dreamers. Along three of the four walls, screens show silent video loops of Rialto’s goals; Otello’s joyous face appears repeatedly above the heads of the assembled plutocrats. The man himself appears a little later, when Ramón Tresor leads the team onto the stage.