Читать книгу The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa” - Michael Ouzikov - Страница 5

The day was drawing to an end.

«Diego! Diego, what is it with you! Why don’t you ever listen to your mother? You’ll 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, you’ll be rushing around till the morning?»

«No, we’re 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 shouldn’t be like this to him, Dalma,» said Diego, the boy’s father, in whose honour the boy was named. He came from behind and gently put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

«After that adventure of yours with him in Mexico, he’s 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 shouldn’t be sleeping with toys!»

«Well, he’s 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, «he’s 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 couldn’t 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…»

«Don’t you worry so much, Dalma? Everything will be alright. Our boy will fulfill his dream. You’ll see – he’ll 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! It’s better than grumbling and frowning all the time. And all the sciences will eventually come to Diego with time. He’ll learn to read and write.»

«It would also be good if he at least learned how to count so he doesn’t end up like his father, who has nothing in his pockets to count. Yes, and you’re babbling about football like at some rally… «Football makes us free!’… you bore me to sleep!»

«Alright, alright, I’ll 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 couldn’t 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 Diego’s 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 Diego’s small room, full of hanging pictures with covers of sports magazines. The father closed the door and said, «Maybe it’s 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.

«Don’t even start,» the father went on in a deliberately strict manner.

«But why? I promise that I will do my homework on time. I won’t 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, don’t howl, I just wanted to say that you’ve played enough with this prehistoric ball, Diego. Why don’t you look under your bed? I think there is something waiting for you now for four hours!»

Diego gave his father a suspicious glance and crawled under the bed, from where a moment later came out a hysterical cry of joy.

«Olé! Olé! Olé! Olé-é-é-é! Thank you, papa!»

Like a brisk snake, he crawled out from under the bed and his trembling hands lay a brand-new football, covered in shiny black and white hexagons.

«It’s real! Leather! The guys will be so pleased. Maybe our team will even be allowed to play on a real field now!»

The father, still pretending to have a stern face, said, «But you must promise your mother and I that this will not harm your schooling! Especially – mathematics.»

«Of course, papa,» Diego was barely listening to him as he swept into the kitchen, «Mama, ma-a-a-ma-a-a, look what I have! Papa gave me this, a ball from real leather!»

«I hope you won’t have any more problems at school, understand?» The mother tried to sound resolute, «Now go wash your hands, you little monkey… with so-o-o-ap!»

«Yes, mama, I promise!»

«What’s the matter with your hand?» She grabbed Diego’s wrist, as he was about to slip by. Dried blood protruded along the edges of the dark plaster glued over his entire left palm. «Your sore has still not healed? Tomorrow we go to the doctor – my uncle Savigna. What is this… three weeks have passed, but the cut has not healed! You’ll catch an infection! How are you going to play without your hands?»

«But I play using my legs,» responded the central striker with an infectious boyish laugh as he headed to bathe.

There, left alone, and furtively glancing at the door, Diego grimaced as he ripped the dirty plaster. Then, his face turned pale and serious as he washed the wound in the cold running tap water and, raising his hand closer to the face, studying it carefully. Indeed, the wound began to tighten. The boy dabbed it with a piece of toilet paper, which quickly turned into a faint pink colour. Diego quivered his hand, brushing a momentary stupor, and pasted the plaster back into place. Then with both hands he «combed» his rough curls, showed himself his pink tongue in the mirror and to his mother’s «Di-e-e-ego!» he shouted back: «I’m coming, ma-a-a!»