Exposure

  How far will they have gotten? He looks at his watch, but it’s not there.

  OTELLO MYSTERY BOOSTS SALES OF PAFF!

  SHAKESPEARE TIGHT-LIPPED ON THE OTELLO AFFAIR

  CHILD PORN A BILLION-DOLLAR BIZ

  Picture of the Duke, da Venecia, in La Nación. What’s he got to say, then?

  The Rialto chairman, Umberto da Venecia, yesterday yielded to mounting pressure and made his first public comment on the increasingly wild speculation surrounding the club’s star player, Otello. On Monday the international striker was questioned by police investigating the murder of a teenage girl, triggering massive media interest.

  “I will not comment on the case itself,” da Venecia said, “except to point out that Otello has not been charged with any crime, and therefore there is no question of his having been suspended from the team, despite such allegations in the press. Otello continues to have our full support.”

  Blah blah . . .

  On the subject of their top goalscorer being dropped for their next game, da Venecia said, “Otello is injured. It is as simple as that. If he were fit, he would be playing.”

  Otello reads these words twice, squinting. They were slithery, coming and going in and out of focus. Some were clearer than others. Murder. Crime. Suspended. Support.

  He gets upright on his knees. Yesterday, an hour ago, he couldn’t have. Not without hurting, the hot wire burning up to his calf.

  Yes! A drink. Salud!

  He wants to tell her that it doesn’t hurt anymore. That none of it does. That he’s read it all, that it’s nothing, that it’s full of absolutely nothing. Some sort of joke. We took it too seriously.

  That’s it, exactly: we took it all too seriously.

  It strikes him as a major insight. We took it all too seriously. So important. Terrible that he hadn’t thought of it earlier. She wouldn’t have gone.

  He uses the arm of the sofa to lever himself to his feet. Where’s the phone? He pictures her, answering. Him speaking the words that are as bright as neon. Her listening, then saying, “Michael, I was wrong. It’s all okay. Turn the car around. Take me home.”

  At the third attempt he clicks on her number. Gets her lovely voice saying, “Hi. Sorry, but I can’t take your call at the moment. Leave me a message.”

  NO ONE KNEW what Hernán Gallego did with his money. He’d been in politics for almost fifty years: nearly half a century with his claws in the public purse. Common sense insisted that he must have salted away millions, but he lived as quietly as a spider in a monastery outhouse. His colleagues amused themselves with rumors that he’d built a fabulous domain in the far South and populated it with fabulous prostitutes. Male prostitutes, possibly. (He’d never married.)

  In fact, he never left the capital unless it was on government business, and then reluctantly. He lived where he worked. The new and expanded Ministry of Internal Security occupied a glittering crescent of glass-and-steel offices in a floodlit emptiness. Within this crescent, embraced by it, was a garden: an expanse of ruthlessly maintained lawns and geometric flower beds. And at the end of this garden, just within the security walls, was the old, original ministry: a three-story building with a classical Spanish facade disguising drab and functional offices. One quarter of the top floor was an apartment intended for officials to overnight in at times of crisis.

  Gallego had occupied these rooms for eleven years and had never troubled to refurbish them. He had, however, installed in one of the smaller rooms a big plasma-screen digital television with surround sound, and a pair of huge leather armchairs that resembled crouching pachyderms.

  On this evening of premature darkness he occupies one of these chairs and Nestor Brabanta the other. Brabanta is drinking the cognac that he has had the foresight to bring with him. Gallego is, as usual, drinking Pepsi. He has a four-pack, uncooled, close to his feet. They are watching the extended early news.

  “Ha!” Gallego exclaims. And again, like a darting crow: “Ha!”

  The screen shows the press conference that Hilario Nemiso has been pressured into giving. It is an unruly affair, and the NTV cameraman is having to shift position to get an unobstructed view of the proceedings. Nemiso himself sits at the center of a table along which microphones are ranged. To his left, three other police officers: a stout young dark-haired woman named Navarro and two men from the CCB’s legal department. To his right, but at some distance, sits a severely handsome woman who gazes out at the melee with barely disguised disdain. Camera flash flickers like sheet lightning over all five faces.

  “Who’s she?” Gallego says.

  “Consuela Perlman. My daughter’s lawyer. And mine, now and again.”

  Gallego gleams at his friend. “Excellent. Can’t do any harm to have an uppity Jew getting in on the act, eh?”

  On screen, Nemiso manages to impose something like silence on his impatient congregation.

  “I repeat, I shall take a limited number of questions after I have read a statement.”

  “By God,” Gallego croaks happily, “that poker-faced prig is really rattled, isn’t he?”

  Nemiso reads from a typescript. He is noisily interrupted several times, and when this happens he stares unspeaking and expressionless into the middle distance until he can once again make himself heard.

  “I have called this press conference in order to correct inaccurate, irresponsible, and misleading reports in the press and other media relating to the investigation into the murder of Bianca Diaz. I hope — indeed, I expect — that this statement will forestall the appearance of further stories of this kind. They are extremely unhelpful to us, the police. They are also deeply injurious to the reputation of Otello.” Here he glances at Perlman.

  “Pompous fool,” Gallego mutters over the sounds of protest, and some jeering, that come from the TV set.

  It takes Nemiso fifteen minutes to get through a speech that should have taken him five.

  “To conclude, and to ensure that there is no misunderstanding: Otello was not arrested. He was not taken into custody. He is not, and never was, a suspect in this case.”

  “Shit will stick, though, eh, Nestor?”

  “Otello has cooperated fully and willingly with the Special Investigations Unit. In fact, he and Señora Brabanta provided us with information that has proved very useful, and we are grateful to them. Our search for the killer of Bianca Diaz continues.”

  Babble erupts. Nemiso points into the mob, leaning forward and cupping his ear. He has to ask for the question to be repeated. Brabanta and Gallego manage to hear only part of it.

  “. . . take Otello’s computer away for examination?”

  “It is perfectly normal police procedure in cases like these,” Nemiso says, and turns his eyes away from the questioner. But there is uproar among which only isolated words and phrases can be made out.

  “. . . three days?”

  “. . . you mean, cases like these?”

  “Captain, Captain . . .”

  “. . . child pornography . . .”

  Nemiso sits out the hubbub. He is clearly struggling to mask his anger and contempt. He looks like a furious Buddha.

  “I thought . . . I am deeply disappointed that individuals in this room are raising the subject of child pornography. I thought I had made it perfectly clear that child pornography has nothing whatsoever to do with this case.”

  Interruptions.

  “I repeat: the pictures of Bianca Diaz on Otello’s computer were entirely, ah, legitimate. They were not, any of them, in any way, pornographic. Otello and Desmerelda . . .”

  Gallego says, “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed anything this much. Isn’t it excellent? Because it doesn’t matter what Nemiso says. It doesn’t matter how many libel writs your Jewish woman throws around. Our gloriously scabby press is not going to let Otello off the hook. And Nemiso has made such a mess-up of the whole thing that I’ll have every reason to transfer him to San Juan or some other godforsaken hole up North to take cha
rge of the traffic department.”

  He takes a celebratory swig of Pepsi. “You know the only thing that riles me, Nestor?”

  From the depths of his chair, Brabanta makes a sound — something like “Gnuh” — that encourages Gallego to continue.

  “It’s that we didn’t organize this. I said, didn’t I, before the election, that this is exactly the kind of thing we should do. Stitch the black so-and-so up, neuter him. Silence him. You remember that, Nestor? Eh?”

  Brabanta does not reply. A few moments earlier he’d experienced a wave of tiredness so extreme that he’d had difficulty swallowing the cognac in his mouth. The television had lurched out of focus. He couldn’t see anything clearly that was farther away than his shoes. He’d forced himself to sit more upright, but as he’d done so, he’d felt as though something was trickling down the front of his face. He could not imagine what it was. It was like blood trickling from his scalp. He’d tried to wipe it away, but his arm and hand refused to move. Then a darkness moved over his brain like the curtain at the end of a play. He could almost hear the swish of it, feel the stroke of its hem.

  When he wakes up, Hernán is peering at him around the side of his chair, repeating the word Nestor.

  Brabanta says, “It’s all right. I’m just a bit drunk,” but it’s as if he is mumbling into a pillow on a bed that is a great distance away.

  Gallego does not hear him. “Nestor? For God’s sake, man. What’s wrong with you? Nestor!”

  Brabanta gazes up at him with a comical, lopsided leer on his face. His left eye winks. “Shnight. Shnunk. Wassarm?”

  “Hell’s teeth, Nestor,” Gallego says. Then he sees the way Brabanta’s right hand is cupped inward, connects that with the foolish droop on one side of the face and the mute pleading of the one good eye.

  “Jesus,” Gallego murmurs, and goes to the intercom. He hits the red button that will summon his men, two of whom are paramedics.

  OTELLO IS TEMPORARILY baffled when Desmerelda doesn’t answer her phone, but then he gets another idea. Another good one: stop hiding. God, if only he could think this well all the time. If only he weren’t so . . . distracted. By stuff. Stuff. He drinks a toast to this insight.

  He plays soccer — that’s what he does. So he heads off down to what Dezi likes to call the Trophy Room Ha Ha. No, not Ha Ha, he tells her now. Should’ve told her before. Not many men have stuff like this, Desmerelda. Medals, all of that. Respect. Tokens of it, anyway.

  It’s the smallest of the guest bedrooms, but not much smaller than the yard of the house he grew up in. No bed in it now. A black leather swivel chair and a TV he watches recordings of games on. The shelves display trophies, some of them very ugly; also medals in Perspex cases; a pair of cleats once worn by Diego Maradona; signed photographs — Kaká, Beckham, El Gato, Henry. On the walls, more medals hanging from long gaudy ribbons, more photographs, pennants. Beside the door, hanging from a hook, a big net bag of soccer balls: souvenirs of internationals, cup victories, hat-tricks.

  He takes the bag down, opens it. The balls tumble across the floor. Some are soft, disheartened-looking, but several are still match standard, more or less. With difficulty, he gathers these and puts them back in the bag, slings it over his shoulder, then remembers.

  Can’t run out looking like this, man.

  He puts the bag down again, goes to the chest below the window and drags open the top drawer. Shirts, dozens of them, swapped for his own with other stars, other captains. He pulls them out one at a time. Red and white, River Plata. Blue, Italy. Yellow and green, Brazil. Some are signed. Here’s a white England shirt signed by Jenny. No, Terry. Red and black, Flamengo. Is he looking for one in particular? He can’t remember.

  But no, of course! What was he thinking? He abandons the scattered shirts, picks up the bag of balls, dribbles a slightly flabby one out of the door and along the passage. He plays a more or less successful one-two against the wall, and aims a shot between the legs of the table in the hall. He gives it a little too much lift and it smashes the Tiffany glass lamp. Whoops. Like dead butterflies on the carpet. Sweep them up later. Watch your feet.

  In the dressing room he struggles into a pair of sneakers and out of the grubby T-shirt. He rifles through the closet until he finds his own unique Paff! shirt. Its color is an acidic yellow so bright that it is almost fluorescent. On the back his face smiles through the number 23 in black and lilac. He has forgotten what the English word on the front means. He puts the shirt on and admires himself in the mirror. There are one and a half Otellos: a ghostly twin stands behind him. He closes an eye and it disappears. Good. He lifts his left foot, pulling the toes up to test the Achilles tendon. He loses balance and staggers sideways into the closet, but this does not bother him because there is no pain in the ankle. No pain anywhere, now. Excellent.

  On his way out, he spots the drink he’d lost track of earlier and pauses to drain the glass. He shudders as it goes down, then holds himself erect and inhales deeply, preparing himself. Focus. Eliminate everything else. Weakness. Doubt. Fear.

  When the elevator indicator chimes, the concierge looks up. When the doors hiss apart and Otello himself emerges, he is so surprised that his mouth drops open to display the wad of gum stuck to his lower front teeth.

  “Theñor?”

  “Hi. How ya doin’?”

  “Uh, good. You going out, Señor Otello?”

  “Got to. Can’t sit aroun’ up there. Geddin’ stale. Outta condition. Need to put some trainin’ in.”

  Cautiously the concierge says, “It’s raining out.”

  “S’all right. Good. Good for strikers, rain.” He winks. “Puss a lil’ wiss. Puts a lil’ whip and hiss on the ball, you know? Keepers, no. Keepers hate rain.”

  He smiles.

  “Yeah,” the concierge says. “I guess they do.”

  The glass doors slide open for him, and Otello goes out. He is surprised, momentarily disconcerted, to discover that it is dark. Never mind. He doesn’t mind floodlights. Likes them, actually; they shrink the world to the size of the field. Besides — and this thought pleases him — he has the right kind of shirt on for dark work. He goes down the steps and weaves along the illuminated walkway and through the line of low trees. The rain cools and cleanses him. There are several cars sweating jewels in the brightly lit parking area, but plenty of free space for him to work in. He does a few high lifts on the spot, the balls bouncing against his back.

  He feels good; he castigates himself for not thinking of this sooner. Why had he sat up there, brooding, rotting, for so long? Letting all that stuff get to him, suffocate him? Then the happy thought strikes him that the steel mesh of the fence over there is like a goal net, and the uprights are more or less the right distance apart. Ideal. So, a bit of loosening up, then shooting practice.

  The ranks of paparazzi have thinned. Several have been summoned to Nemiso’s press conference. Others have simply given up, convinced that Otello was in the tank that drove out in the morning with that psycho Cass behind the wheel. The returning bike boys had been full of it.

  “What a piece of work that Cass is! He wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like that if Otello hadn’t been in the car with La Brabanta. Because he’s Otello’s guy, right?”

  “No, nah. He’s her guy. Been having a thing with her for ages, man. Wouldn’t be surprised if the baby . . .”

  “Ah, c’mon. You believe that, you believe anything.”

  “Yeah? I have reliable sources, my friend.”

  “Sure you do. They’d be the same reliable sources told you the Diaz chick had an address book full of big names, right?”

  And back and forth, keeping their spirits up while the rain came down.

  Now the silent freelancer who’s been keeping his camera dry inside the comical green parka gets it out and aims it through the fence, and if he weren’t such a dork, he’d keep quiet. But he doesn’t, and his excited little exclamation alerts the others. They turn as one, triggered like a shoal of fish.


  “Who’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Over there. See? Who’s that?”

  Eyes go to viewfinders; wet hands twist lenses.

  “It’s him. It’s him!”

  “It is. Christ, it is.”

  “What the hell’s he doing?”

  Motor drives whir.

  “He’s training, man. Look at him.”

  “What’s this mean? Something’s happened we don’t know about.”

  Cell phones come out.

  He does a number of slow runs — five, maybe, he loses count — combined with upper-body twists. His balance isn’t good, after all that time banged up in the penthouse. That’s why he stumbles; that’s why the world tilts.

  Then he lines up six of the balls about a yard apart, taking a long time to get them straight, and runs zigzag step-overs along the line. It is absolutely astonishing that he falls over, finds himself on his back on the tarmac with bright lines of rain arrowing into his face. He laughs at himself.

  “You know what? I think he’s smashed.”

  “Yeah, look at that. He’s out of it.”

  The word has spread. Guys from other parts of the marina stakeout congregate behind the fence. The security men murmur into walkie-talkies. The one with the slobbery dog loops its leash twice around his fist and starts to walk back and forth, looking over his shoulder to where the bright yellow figure struggles to his feet.

  He picks up another ball and studies it. In the wet glare he cannot make out the name scrawled on it. Ronaldo maybe, or Robinho. He bounces it, catches it on his instep, then takes it on a weaving run between the other balls. He gets to the fourth one before his control goes. His ball cannons into it, knocking the others out of line, and suddenly he can’t tell which is which. They’re rolling everywhere. He collects one with the underside of his shoe and for no reason drives it away into the rain-streaked darkness. The crowd roars.