Furia(21)

After a turn on 27 de Febrero, we drove through a neighborhood of freshly painted two-story houses with iron bars on the windows and satellite dishes on the interconnected roofs. There was litter on the side of the road—cigarette butts and beer cans. Vagabond dogs sprawled everywhere. Kids of all sizes and ages walked, played, and worked. Runny-nosed little ones stood at the traffic lights, doing magic tricks or cleaning windshields for a few coins. Trapitos, people called them—Little Rags.

Diego’s face was grave when we stopped at a light. He lowered his window and handed a boy of about five a hundred-peso bill. There wasn’t much the boy could buy with that, not even a McDonald’s Happy Meal. Diego had been gone too long to keep up with inflation.

“Pobrecito.” Diego sighed.

I turned in my seat to see the little boy running toward a girl not much older than he was. Their joined silhouettes became a speck in the distance.

Diego’s expression was stony. Before Ana had found him, he’d been that boy at a traffic light, juggling a fútbol for spare coins. I didn’t know what to say, so I placed a hand on his arm, and he flexed instinctively.

“You’re jacked!” I exclaimed half jokingly. He’d always been athletic, of course, but training in Europe had turned him into a sculpture.

Diego smiled, shaking his head, the sheen of sadness gone from his eyes.

After a couple of blocks, we pulled up in front of a magnificent sanctuary of red brick and sand-colored stucco. Arched Gothic windows ran along the walls on both sides of the church’s entrance.

“We’re going here first?”

Diego smiled sheepishly. “Work first, and then we . . . we can have some fun.”

I got out before Diego could open the door for me. Flustered, we crossed the street. Once on the sidewalk, I realized Eva María’s practice field was just around the block at Parque Yrigoyen. I must have passed this church hundreds of times, but I’d never noticed it.

Rosario showed a different face depending on how you looked at her. She changed when you saw her from a bus, or a luxury car, or your own feet.

The main entrance to the church was chained shut, but we went through a smaller side door. A metal plaque read instituto del buen pastor. fundado 1896. I thought of the girls imprisoned here for fighting for the right to vote, or demanding not to be beaten by their fathers or husbands, or for wanting to earn a decent salary. Las Incorregibles. These walls had witnessed so much pain and despair, and I wondered if the ghosts of those girls still haunted them. Eighteen ninety-six was so long ago, but so many things remained the same.

We followed a hallway, the characteristic sounds of childhood—laughter, chatter, shrieking—inviting us in. A baby cried nearby.

We ended up in an inner courtyard dotted with white statues, some of saints I didn’t know and one of Jesus carrying a lamb on his shoulders. A broken fountain was covered in dead leaves.

A tall, dark-skinned man walked in. His hair was speckled with white, and his eyes were framed by webs of wrinkles. I’d known about Father Hugo for as long as I’d known Diego, but I’d never met him in person.

“Padre!” Diego called.

“Dieguito! You’re here!” The joy in his voice made me smile.

The priest placed his hands on Diego’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “The kids saw you on TV celebrating in the stands with the rest of the barra, and the kitchen exploded. I thought they were witnessing the Lord’s second coming. But that was nothing compared to when they saw you start for la Juve.”

Diego’s laughter bounced off the crumbling stucco walls that surrounded the courtyard, and the priest beamed at him.

“This is Camila, Father.”

“Camila, of course.” He shook my hand. “Diego has spoken so much about you. For years now, it has been Camila this, Camila that—”

“Now, Father,” Diego said, blushing, “don’t go revealing my secrets. Camila’s here for the English tutoring job.”

Father Hugo looked at me. His eyes were almost black, but there was no darkness in them.

“I’ll go play some ball with the kids while you two talk, okay?” Diego asked.

“Don’t make them wild. That’s all I ask.”

“I’ll do my best.” Diego ran to meet his admirers.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Diego and the little boys running after him.

The priest cleared his throat. “Now, Camila, Diego tells me you taught yourself English, and that you got your licenciatura before you finished high school. That’s impressive!”

“Thank you, Father,” I said, unused to the praise.

“What motivated you to learn?”

“Honestly, all my life I’ve wanted to attend school in the United States.”

I might as well have said I wanted to be an astronaut. “The United States? People from all over the continent and even the world come to Argentina for a free first-class education. Why do you want to leave?”

“I want an education,” I said, “but I also want to play fútbol. The U.S. teams are multi-world, multi-Olympic champions. And it’s because their college programs are incredible.” My heart pounded, and a sheen of sweat broke out on my nose as if I were at confession. I’d never had a normal conversation with a priest before.

“I see . . . Playing for a school there would be a little like getting a contract with la Juve, right?”