No, don’t back down! This guy can never beat you, look at him, look at him, he can’t beat you! Nor the six either, no! This time the six doesn’t beat me, I swear it! But… what are you doing, idiot? Stop thinking about the others! Focus on your own race, fo-cus-on-your-own-race; plant your foot well, no, no, not like that, loosen up, loosen up a little; now! Crouch, stretch the leg, first spike dug well into the rubber, bend the left well, lift your butt higher! …though if I slip again like last time… no, but anyway! Remember what that old man told you: “hips high”; head down, calm down, now calm down; okay, be alert, calm down, don’t be afraid, come on, hey! Listen, look ahead, we’re almost there… easy… easy…, ready…, set…, go!
…And he sets out in the same clothes as every day. The worn shoes, which look more and more like a single hole; the same as his white T-shirt, once colored. Over it the pullover that covers the holes underneath, but overlaps new ones, lighter in color. The trousers, which are not his size, but at least keep him warm, with pockets full of bread crumbs and pieces of old rag. His features are not worn like his clothes, though they are weathered. His eyes are lively and bulging, and often hide behind his tangled fringe, shielding themselves. His hands cold as always. As always agile and strong his legs, which are his only trustworthy belonging, since nobody can take them from him nor do they go off in search of other owners, as everything that passes through his hands does.
He starts walking with a new day ahead, with the challenge of every day.
…And the six has already pulled ahead, damn it! as always, let him go, let him go! Keep his pace, firmly! Match your breathing; don’t let him get so far away! Think that he’s afraid of you, come on, this idiot is afraid of you! Besides he’s making too much effort, he’ll tire soon, hold him for now, hold him; stick to the line, get right up against the line, strength, strength! Don’t worry, you’re in the best lane! Only 150 meters in! and my side already started to hurt, no, no! don’t think about that, forget about that! You have no pain, understand?! You have no pain at all! Clench your fists, strength, strength! …and this one keeps increasing his speed, come on, he won’t beat you! Grit! Don’t back down! Come on, you weakling!
But today is not going to be for the weak, because it starts to drizzle. And he is not weak. The dampness flattens his hair, slides down his forehead and falls, in a single drop, down his nose and cheek. The balconies and the occasional trees, as he passes, shield him for a moment from the drizzle, now a little thicker. The wind grows stronger and stronger, and the direction it takes is exactly opposite to his. Headwind. The wind brings cold, and the water, of course, intensifies it. And the cold slips in through his short sleeves, through the holes of the pullover, through the collar, through all his soaked clothes. He feels the cold and is cold, but, step by step, without hurrying, he firmly advances. He walks the same road as yesterday and before. He reaches the church and leans against the usual wall, the one facing the busiest street. There he stays. He is almost in the middle of the city.
But I still have 50 to go to the halfway mark, 50 meters to the 400! …damn, I’m already slowing down, come on, strength! …there’s still half to go, don’t stop, you coward! You have the two behind you, you’re beating him! Strength, weakling! Adjust your stride, hold your arms a little away from your body, raise your eyes, raise your eyes! Now, speed up, strength! Increase your speed! A little more… a little more, you have to make it, think about your mom, think about the others, they’re watching you, strength, don’t let up! Less than half a race! Strength and then you rest!
But not now, because noon does not mean food and rest for him, as it does for others. No. It never meant that. What he does every noon… today too: he sits on the curb and waits. The curb is wet, but surely it doesn’t add dampness to his trousers. The cold has eased a little, though the cold doesn’t give him much trouble. The waiting does. Because at noon nobody passes by. People go to eat and take a nap. Though every now and then a lady passes late from her shopping; then he stands up: “Ma’am, could you give me something?” But there are never more than two or three. Yes… the waiting tires him a bit, but he bears it.
Today the fat man, who eats every day at the bar across the street, did not come. Maybe because of the rain. The fat man always brings him some bread left over from lunch, but today he did not come… yes… surely it’s because of the rain. His stomach, which doesn’t understand absences and postponements, complains and makes itself felt. But he, used to this daily rebellion, doesn’t pay it much attention.
…And if you pay attention you lose, understand? Your revenge will be beating him; he stepped on your heel because he’s desperate, he can’t go on! No! You have no blood! He stepped on your shoe! Keep going, beat him! That’s your revenge, beat him till he dies! Strength, he’s right there! One more effort, strength or he steps on you again, don’t let him catch you! Defend yourself! Run!
“Defend yourself, sissy!” It’s the six kids who pass every day along the sidewalk across the street. He always has a couple of stones at hand. He moves away a little and waits. He knows well what he has to do… if they come at him… one good stone at one of them and the others won’t come near… although… but anyway, he is not afraid; he must not be. All the more because today the rain is his ally. By itself it goes out to meet them. He is grateful to it, though it doesn’t seem so, and watches them run until they are lost from sight.
But this time you don’t lose; that’s it! You’ve got him! Go on, push, yes you can do more! Come on! He can’t go on, put in the force! Your last chance, a little more! Your mom, think about your mom, find your strength! Go on, you’re drawing level! You’ve got him! Strength! Body to body… a little more… breathe deep, pass him now! He’s falling behind, yes, he’s falling behind, he’s falling behind! First, damn it! First and 200 meters to the tape! Strength, you’re getting there!
But he doesn’t get there, no. With what he collected today it is still not enough for the bag of bread he takes home every day. And he cannot go back without the bread.
The only thing left for him to do is knock on doors. “Ma’am, do you have anything?”, “Sir, could you give me something?” Impossible to arrive without the bread. And the day is ending.
He walks five, ten, twelve blocks, knocking and calling at doors. At this hour many don’t open, others close with a “no” or with some excuse said just to say something. Every so often a “later” or an “another day” is heard, demagogically postponing the handing-over, as if that could also postpone, to another day, his need to eat.
“Ma’am, could you give me something?” “Here, son, take it,” says, in the shrill voice of an annoyed person, the owner of the house he has just knocked at, “take it, but tell your dad and your mom to go out and work and not send you out to beg, you hear?! Did you understand me?!” His mom he saw every now and then. She was hospitalized. But dad… he never had one… at least not that he remembers. “Thank you, ma’am! Thank you very much!” With this money he surely has enough for two loaves and a little cold cuts.
Happy, he returns home.
The day ends.
Finish, finish! Run! It’s yours! The race is yours! Listen, they’re applauding you already, the cup! The glory in your hands! You’ll be in the newspapers! Strength, we’re getting there! At last the cup! Yes, I’m getting there! 20 steps… I’m getting there… I’m getting there…!
He arrived. Behind the door, as every night, his little sister is waiting for him. She is five years old. She is always left alone at home from early morning. She waits for him to arrive. “I’m hungry.” A loaf and a half with the cold cuts are for her. “Here, Nina.”
He sits on the crate, with the half loaf that is left, and so he rests from the day. His little sister eats and looks at him with gratitude.
The next morning the newspapers hit the streets and announce with big headlines: “Excellent champion of the 800 meters”; “Through unsurpassable effort he achieves an unequaled triumph”; “New idol and world hero”.
He opens the door, as every day, and lets the intense cold of the morning swallow him. Nina stays waiting.
ARIEL DEMARCHI · SAN MIGUEL, BUENOS AIRES, AUGUST 1987
