Tuesday
The following morning Tony found it harder than usual to push himself out of bed. He had not slept well, waking up twice before sunrise. In his dream, he was rushing out the door before the big game only to return time and again to his flat because he had forgotten the keys to his car. But each time, he remembered he had forgotten something else. The first trip back was to retrieve the car keys, but just as he was about to open the door and rush back to the car he realised he’d in fact forgotten the keys to his flat, in addition to forgetting his car keys again. On the second trip, he remembered he’d left the car keys, the apartment keys, and his clothes. He looked down to see that he was stark naked and ran back inside. The third time, he forgot his bearings altogether - the car and house were suddenly nowhere to be seen, and he’d forgotten why he was outside in the first place. Young boys dressed in London jerseys pointed at him and giggled, taking turns taunting him. The crowd grew larger with each trip until a large circus formed whose main attraction was the Forgetful Old Man.
In the aftermath of the circus dream, Tony had a tough time wolfing down the usual morning toast. Instead, he stared at the orange marmalade long and hard to jog any childhood memories he may have been suppressing. He wanted to revisit as many memories as he could while his mind was still intact, and he had a hunch that a hoard of memories had slipped through the cracks in recent years. He speculated that one could either forget or suppress - the outcome of both actions were the same yet they were entirely different in nature. If he forgot, it was through divine lottery that mandated the erosion of particular brain cells. If he suppressed, it was a dreadfully human attempt to make life easier on himself by strangling the pain or shame or anger. He rattled his brains to conjure up fresh new memories, be they dark or bright, but to no avail. He left for work with sagged shoulders because he knew there were big parts of his past that were either forgotten or suppressed.
Too fatigued to grip the steering wheel, Tony opted for a cab. Inside the cab, he wondered how he should put forth his questions to Mateo.
Mateo, you might be surprised to learn that the pendant you have on is something I bought more than two decades ago. For my wife.
Mateo, did your girlfriend get you a necklace? Maybe she can help me pick one out as well. Except...I believe I picked it out before she did.
Mateo, I will drop you for the United game if you don’t tell me everything.
By the time he reached the training complex, Tony hadn’t settled on an opening line but he figured he’d just be direct and honest with him. He checked in at his office, then walked straight to the pitch. He found Frank warming up with a few players.
‘Morning Frank.’
‘Morning boss.’
‘How’s Mateo?’ Tony worked hard to sound interested, but not concerned.
‘Ah the lad’s called in sick this morning. Upset stomach. Says he had some Chinese last night.’
‘Serious?’
‘No he says he’ll be fine in a day.’
‘He’d better be. We need him at nothing less than full fitness.’
‘I know boss. I told him we’d send someone over but he said he’s taken some pills and is feeling better. Doesn’t seem too bad.’
‘When did you speak to him?’
‘I actually spoke with a friend that was nursing him. I asked him to put Mateo on but said the lad was asleep. Suppose it’s them pills.’
‘Are we not sending anyone over?’
‘Boss he said it’s ok--’
‘It’s not ok if we don’t win this game, that’s what’s not ok.’
Frank shut his mouth and nodded. ‘You’re the boss, boss.’
Tony called Mateo’s cell but there was no answer. Tony began to have doubts. Mateo had not looked himself lately and Tony wondered whether the contract renewal was really bothering the boy. Perhaps it was that swindler Julian Levy pouring poison into Mateo’s ears. Tony regarded agents as parasitic gold diggers and avoided contact with them if at all possible. Ironically, Julian presented the most likely source of information regarding Mateo’s whereabouts because Mateo rarely interacted with his teammates, and the only person he had regular meals with was his agent. Much to Tony’s dismay, the gold digger did not pick up and Tony found a missed call on his mobile from Julian only after morning training was over. He begrudgingly rang him back.
‘Hullo gaffer! How can I help you today?’
‘I take it you were occupied Julian.’
‘Not anymore. Just wrapped up 18 holes with Nick Faldo!’
Tony raised his eyebrows; Julian was always on the lookout for opportunities to schmooze with celebrities.
‘I hope you didn’t lose your car.’
‘Haha. But alas, I played with Nick, not against him. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I’m calling about Mateo.’
‘Ah! Si, mi amigo! Finally want to show me some money, gaffer? We haven’t really picked up speed on that front since December. Fantastic you’re calling, in fact the other day I--’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Where he is? I know he’s at a club that pays him far less than what he’s worth.’
‘Julian I’ve no time for this rubbish. Have you spoken to him today?’
‘Yes I have. As a matter of fact he wanted to talk to you about the contract. He was upset.’
‘Is that so?’ Tony took a pause to digest this information. If that was the reason why Mateo hadn’t shown up in training Tony was extremely disappointed. He thought Mateo was older than that.
‘Absolutely. You called at the right time. I’m free for lunch. Why don’t we meet at one at the River Cafe?’
‘Bring Mateo along.’
‘Will do. I’m in Surrey now but I’ll give him a ring.’
And before Tony could add anything else the phone went dead.
The secret flat Mateo owned for private situations like this had only bare walls and a single window that looked out onto a lonely car park. Luong stood at the kitchen counter in Mateo's oversized training top, the hem reaching his knees, stirring a pot of pho on a portable gas burner. The broth had been simmering since five in the morning — beef bones, star anise, cinnamon, a thumb of ginger charred black over the flame.
Mateo watched him from the mattress on the floor. No bed frame, no headboard. Just a mattress, two pillows, and a duvet that smelled of both of them. Luong's hair was still wet from the shower and fell across his forehead in dark streaks.
'You need to eat,' Luong said without turning around.
'I'm not hungry.'
'You're always not hungry. Then you play ninety minutes and wonder why your legs die at seventy.'
Mateo smiled. It was the kind of smile he never showed anyone else — unguarded, almost boyish. He got up and padded across the cold linoleum to stand behind Luong, wrapping his arms around him. Luong leaned back into his chest.
'I'm going to get you out of here,' Mateo said quietly.
Luong said nothing. He ladled pho into two bowls, garnished them with Thai basil and bean sprouts, and carried them to the small table by the window. They ate in silence, knees touching under the table, while the first grey light of Tuesday crept across the car park below.
Tony arrived five minutes early at Thames Wharf. A gangly waiter with nose piercing promptly intercepted him at the entrance and showed him to a terrace seat with a Reserved sign propped up in the middle of the table. A few people stopped Tony to wish him luck for the game as he and the waiter moved along the blue carpet. Tony noted that the table had only two chairs prepared.
At one o’clock sharp, Julian’s shadow arched over the table.
‘Where’s Mateo?’
‘Mateo? He’s feeling a bit ill and told me to go ahead. He’ll be here later I’m sure.’
‘So he’s actually ill?’
‘Yes. And no. He was feeling a bit blue so I took him out for a wee bit of wine last night. Pretty foul plonk I must say. Don’t think I’ll be drinking in Shoreditch again.’ As if reliving the experience, Julian grimaced theatrically and waved at the gangly waiter, who came and took his order for a glass of Tuscan red.
‘I must speak with him,’ Tony demanded. ‘He’s not picking up my calls. It’s extremely unprofessional of him to skip training because he wants a new contract.’
‘Skip training?’ The reiteration was a dead giveaway - Julian clearly had not the slightest inkling of what was going on.
‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’ Tony growled.
‘About what gaffer?’
‘You haven’t called Mateo, and he’s not interested in contracts.’
The gangly waiter returned, slicing the tension and handing Julian his wine. He then received orders for bistecca fiorentina and veal with risotto milanese. Tony stared at his nose piercing, which made him think of hooligans, which in turn made him think of the Vietnamese pitch invader.
‘What I fear is that Mateo’s head may not be straight. I don’t care what the issue is, I just want to get rid of it. He must be absolutely one hundred percent for this game.’
‘Of course, gaffer. Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘To that end I must speak with the boy, and I won’t tolerate this opportunistic nonsense you just pulled!’
‘All right, all right. I’m sorry I lied. But it’s true he needs a new contract and he’s wanted to talk about it so we can all avoid a shambolic summer of gossips and headaches.’
‘That’s not the point. Do you know where he is?’
‘No I don’t bloody know where he is. I’m not MI6 am I?’
‘Julian I’m concerned for the lad. He’s not turned up for training and nobody at the club’s been able to get in touch with him. I just checked with Frank and the club. Not a soul that’s heard from him since he left training yesterday.’
‘Blimey, man takes a break for a day and you badger the shit out of him. Don’t be surprised if he wants to go back to Spain. It’s probably the contract anyway. If we sort this out here I bet he’d start picking up calls.’
‘Give him a ring will you?’
Julian’s calls did not go through. He tried four times, twice before his T-bone arrived and twice after he was done with it. Finally, Tony proposed going over to Mateo’s house.
‘But Tony I’m too swamped today. I’ve got a meeting later with--’
‘We’ll talk contracts as soon as we have Mateo in front of us.’
And they both got into Julian’s Range Rover.