I patted his hand and then pulled away so quickly I almost knocked the mate over. “Ay,” I muttered, pushing back the swear words I would’ve said if he hadn’t been here. “Like I said, I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.” Then, trying to change the subject, I added, “Do you want some pizza to go with el mate, or crackers? Or my mom made pastafrola yesterday. Maybe there’s still some left.” I looked inside the fridge, and yes, the quince pie was still there.
Diego’s eyes flared with desire. For the cake. He had a sweet tooth. “Just a little.”
“Come sit here.” I led him to the table, taking my regular spot in front of the window, and he sat across from me, as he’d done a million times before.
“I . . . I see you on TV. I mean, we watch the games.” I poured water in the mate. “My mom and me. She says the black and white looks good on you, bianconero.”
My eyes wandered over him, caressing his bashful face, which was so closely shaved I could almost feel the softness of his skin against my fingertips. I took a sip of mate and almost scalded my tongue.
“You watch the games?”
I swallowed quickly so I could reply. “Whenever we can. Sometimes we listen on the radio, and when we watch, it’s online. Because the pay-per-view costs an egg and a half.”
He laughed. “Always so delicate.”
He swallowed a bite of pie. Crumbs clung to his lips, and ay, Dios mío, my insides twisted, but I went back to the mate and pretended to be cool.
“Oh, you meant chicken eggs,” he said.
“Of course! What kind of impure thoughts are you having, Ferrari?”
He licked his lower lip and bit it before he said dramatically, “All of them, Hassan.”
My mind exploded with indecent images. I laughed, lowering my eyes to my napkin. I had shredded it.
Another uncomfortable silence enveloped us. Smothered us. Frantically looking for a way to shatter the awkwardness, I remembered I still had his book. “I have something for you.” I sprang out of my seat to get The Shadow of the Wind from my room. When I returned to the kitchen, he was still nursing el mate in his hands. “I’m sorry I kept it for so long.” I laughed. “Your house is too far to return it.”
The lamp in the corner cast a feeble light that didn’t reach me, and I hoped he couldn’t see that I was blushing again. Avoiding his eyes, I handed him the book. When he took it, our fingers brushed. I balled my hands into tight fists and crossed my arms so he couldn’t see I was shaking.
“What did you think?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he went on, “I mean, if you still remember the story. It’s been so long.”
“I read it more than once. I just don’t know where to start.”
His face glowed with surprise. “Oh, you liked it, then.”
“Yes, I loved it. The translation is great. It reads just like in Castellano.” He looked at me with a small smile, and I continued, “Barcelona! What else can I say?” I picked my words carefully to avoid mentioning the romance at the heart of the story. “I loved the bit about leaving a part of ourselves in every book we read. How we collect the fragmented souls of those who found the story first. That’s beautiful.” Put like this, reading a borrowed book sounded like an extremely intimate experience. “And you? What’s your favorite part?”
Diego blinked and stared into the darkness of the kitchen. “That sometimes we’re cursed, and we can’t break free without the help of those who love us.” He took my hand in his, and this time I didn’t snatch it away. “I’ve been to Els Quatre Gats and all the other places Daniel and Fermín go. In the old city, I even thought I saw Julián and Penélope once or twice.”
Diego had strolled through those crooked alleyways and la Puerta del Ángel, had gone down Las Ramblas and through el Barrio Gótico to the Mediterranean Sea, which I’d only seen online.
“And you found the Cemetery of Forgotten Books?”
His eyes flashed with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “Not yet, Cami. Not yet.”
The quiet laughter coming from the TV in my mom’s room clashed with the intimate mood in the living room. The mate was lavado, but I didn’t want to change the yerba. I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I didn’t want Diego to let go of my hand.
“How did the test go?” Diego asked.
“The test?”
He studied my face, and I realized he was talking about the exam I’d taken last month. I was studying and doing prep tests when he left. He was stuck on old news.
“Oh! I aced the TOEFL and the SAT.” Before he could say anything, I added, “Not only that, but you’re now speaking to a licenciada in the English language.”
“You’re still planning on going to school in Norteamérica, then?”
When he said it like that, it sounded so simple: because I had aced the tests, all the doors would be open to me.
“No,” I said, and sipped my mate. “It’s impossible.”
All my life, I had wanted to go to college in the United States, because there I could play fútbol while I got an education. But school in the States was irrationally expensive. With the exchange rate from peso to dollar, I wouldn’t be able to attend if I saved for a million years, not even with scholarships.
But the Sudamericano would be a window of opportunity for a team to discover me. I could put college on hold and keep playing fútbol. I’d start small on a Buenos Aires team like Urquiza. Their men’s team wasn’t even in the first division, but the women had been to Copa Libertadores de América.
Maybe in a few years, I’d climb my way up to the North American national league, the best women’s league in the world. Then my English would serve me well.
“Nothing’s impossible, Camila. I assure you, the people who knew me when I was nine never imagined that one day I’d be playing in Italy.”
He was right. Diego’s was a Cinderella story, which inspired me. It really did. After all, Rosario exported players to all corners of the world. Male players.
“Anyway, look at you! A licenciada!” he said. That smile again. “You should’ve told me!”
I retied my hair. “Well, you’ve been busy, haven’t you?” I hesitated, but if not now, when? “Besides, it’s not like we’ve been talking. You stopped calling me and never wrote me back.”
The glow on his face dimmed. “Ay,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.
“Ay,” I echoed.
Diego bit his lower lip. “I’m sorry . . . things got . . .”
“Complicated?”
He nodded and grabbed my hand again. “Camila, you don’t know . . . I almost quit so many times. I missed you. I was homesick, lonely, confused . . . The mister said I wasn’t playing with my heart and asked if I wanted to come home.”
“What did you say?”
“That I wanted to stay in Turín. What else? Being there was my dream, and the possibility of them sending me back was terrifying. I focused all my energy on doing my best one day at a time. Before I knew it, weeks had passed, and then I didn’t know how to explain . . .” He exhaled like he had just dropped the heaviest burden. “Forgive me?”