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TITLE : Gramatica
Espanola, Coches Del Juguete David lies alone in the darkness
of an already too familiar hotel room, and tries not to think of anything
at all. Not the pressing heat, not the exhaustion, not the confusion of
verbs and nouns and cases and conjunctions ¡V whatever they are
¡V which have been dancing round his head all day without ever once
making any sort of a meaningful connection. Not the unfamiliar pronunciation
or the strange place names or the horrible disjointedness that comes with
being surrounded by new and strange things and not even having a familiar
smell for comfort. And he tries not to think of all the details which
must be sorted about child care and schooling and plane fares and translators
and sponsorship and attacking down the right and about a hundred and fifty
other pressing concerns which have been whirling around his head And most of all, he tries not to think of the loneliness. Victoria has taken the boys to stay with her mother and sister. He misses the boys. Misses their wide, trusting, uncomprehending smiles; misses slobbery kisses and tiny hands tangled in his unruly hair; misses the reassuring sound of gentle, snuffly breathing in the dead of night when everyone but him is asleep. And he misses her too. He opens his eyes, stares around the empty room, in his mind's eye filling it once more with warmth and love. Brooklyn playing on the floor, toy cars racing each other across the carpet; Romeo asleep on his chest as he lies sprawled out across the big double bed; and Victoria draped gracefully across that chair in the corner by the window. *** 'What's the matter?' she asked, looking not at him, but at Brooklyn. 'It's hard,' was all he could say, looking not at her, but at Romeo. 'You knew it would be hard,' she said, and her eyes flickered up to his face. 'You wanted the challenge,' she added with a hint of malice. Her eyes narrowed. 'What are you thinking about?' she asked. He closed his eyes. 'Nothing. I'm thinking nothing.' 'You're thinking about him, aren't you?' 'I'm thinking nothing,' he repeated and it was not a lie. Michael's face swam before his eyes, but it was not thinking. Thinking wouldn't have choked him like this. Thinking wouldn't have squeezed his throat or pricked the back of his eyelids with a thousand tiny needles. Thinking wouldn't have taken his heart and broken it into a thousand sharp little pieces, and scattered the pieces around the hotel room for his children to find and cut their fingers on while racing toy cars across the carpet. Later, changing into his kit for a practice session, he found one of the toy cars in the toe of his boot. He smiled a little and hid it in his locker under a pile of clothes. When he got back to his hotel, the rest of the toy cars were gone, and the room was empty and cold. *** And now he's lying in the darkness, thinking nothing. Images float before his eyes. Brooklyn's pudgy hands. The toy cars. Romeo's tiny chest moving up and down, baby fists drawn up to his chin. Victoria, in the chair by the window, refusing to meet his eyes. And Michael. Michael, always Michael. *** 'I'm taking them,' she said, not even looking at him. He couldn't reply. Brooklyn, old enough to understand the anger and the sadness if not their cause, stared up at him with wide eyes. 'Where?' he asked, cars forgotten
on the floor in a moment of sudden 'To see Nana,' she said. His lips started to tremble. 'Don't want to,' he said, tearful, afraid, uncomprehending. It tugged at David's heart. Victoria sighed; ignored him. She was almost in tears herself. 'If I went back to England... if you couldn't see me or touch me or do anything but miss me... would you feel the same way about me?' she said suddenly, almost to herself. He started to say something, but she cut him off. 'No, don't answer, David, I just don't want to know.' Her hair was falling across her face. Brooklyn was bashing the cars together, chanting under his breath *don't want to don't want to don't want to don't want to.* David wondered why he wasn't screaming. He knew he would be. 'Don't,' he said. 'Don't go. I'll miss you. I'll miss the boys.' She didn't answer. *** Later, in the changing rooms,
he didn't know what to do with himself. 'You look terrible,' a friendly voice said in his ear. Arms were around his shoulders, warm hands gripping his arms. 'Our fine weather must be playing havoc with your complexion.' David blushed, thought about shaking himself free, then gave in and smiled back at Luis Figo. The constant, casual flirting was one cultural difference he hadn't expected. A changing room in England would have been all machismo, laddish jokes, rough hand claps around the shoulders. But seemingly, in Europe things were a little different. The men smiled that bit more openly, touched that bit more freely, and flirted that bit more obviously. David wasn't yet sure whether he liked it or not. Maybe in a few months time, when everything wasn't so strange and up in the air¡K 'Or maybe it's that you're missing the lads back home,' Figo added with mock innocence. David caught his breath. Figo laughed. 'So, tell. Is it Roy?' he asked. David almost laughed back. In Figo's fluid accent, the name sounded too sophisticated to belong to the thuggish Roy Keane. He shook his head mutely, with a small smile. 'No?' That couldn't have been disappointment in Figo's voice, could it? 'Ah, well perhaps one of the England boys, then?' David jerked free, and shook his head violently. Figo smiled. 'No need to get upset. I'm just joking with you,' he said. Then he touched David's shoulder. 'Seriously, you look rough,' he said, more gently and less teasingly than David had thought him capable of. 'I know everything's strange, but don't get disheartened. You've been doing a good job. Look how your team mates accept you.' 'It's not me,' David said miserably. 'I love it here.' Only once the words were out of his mouth did he realise they were true. He loved the heat, loved the food, loved the accent, loved the Spanish style of play, loved his all-star team, loved a manager who held the team not with anger and violence but with respect. 'Then what?' Figo asked, but David shook his head. Figo looked up at him with a strange glimmer in his eyes. 'I was right before,' he said, and it was not a question. 'There's someone you've left behind. Someone you're close to.' 'Yes. No¡K' David blurted out. Then he drew a deep breath. 'Partly.' He looked away. 'Victoria's walked out,' he said softly. 'She's taken the kids. *I* might love it here, but *she* hates it. And I've done enough to hurt her already.' He sighed. Figo's hands were on his shoulders again, strong hands, masculine hands, footballer's hands. 'So you're on your own tonight?' Figo asked innocently. David's chest constricted again. 'Yeah, I guess.' Figo smiled. 'If you're lonely, you could always give me a call,' he said. 'You've got my number.' And then his hands were gone
from David's shoulders and he was walking David's head reeled. That
was a bloody come on, that was. Just what he *** And now he's lying in the
dark, and trying not to think about the He *is* lonely. Horribly,
desperately lonely. And just one phone call could make it all go away. He might see more of Mikey if he's travelling to England to see the kids. But, if he's realistic, he knows that he'll probably just see a whole lot less of Brooklyn and Romeo. It's almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. He buries his face in his hands, and draws a deep breath. And then reaches for his phone. There's a message. It's from her. It's long, and tearful. They need to talk, she says. They need to sort things out. It's not fair on the kids. It's too unsettled. Does he want Romeo to grow up speaking only Spanish? She has to move him back to England. She has to. She hates Spain, and she's sure the kids do too. She doesn't know what they're going to do. Of course, she knows he can't just drop everything and move back to England. She wants him to play for Real as much as he does. She wants him to have a good team where his talent will be appreciated and where he can be happy. But she wants to take the kids back to England. But god... she doesn't want them growing up not knowing their father, either. She doesn't know what they're going to do. She hates Spain. She's lonely. She misses home. She misses him. They need to talk. He listens in silence, fighting
back tears. He stares at the phone for a long, long time. It rings and rings, and he almost hangs up before anyone answers. Then, a sleepy voice mutters his name. 'David?' 'Yeah,' he manages. A small noise from the other person, perhaps disbelief, perhaps¡K relief. 'I thought you'd never call.' 'Of course I called.' A long silence. 'David. Oh, David...' And suddenly he's crying, the tears that have been threatening all afternoon flooding down his face. Spanish grammar and heat make his head reel. Toy cars and footballer's hands and confusion. He's overwhelmed. A soothing noise from the other end of the phone. 'David... oh, David, it's alright.' 'Mikey,' he whispers. 'Mikey, I miss you. Oh god, Mikey, I've made a mistake. It's too much. I want to go home.' And Michael murmurs gentle words, tells him he's stronger than this, tells him he'll be fine, tells him of course it's overwhelming at first... And secretly, they both wonder how long words alone will be enough. Brooklyn's car is in one pocket. Figo's number in the other. And they're tearing him apart. And half a continent away, there's nothing that Michael can do to make it better. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ AN: The title means Spanish Grammar, Toy Cars. Or at least I hope it does. My Spanish being considerably worse than poor bloody Beckham's...
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