Love in Revolution (3 page)

The ball landed and skidded towards the line, bouncing like a stone skimming across water.

The Bull swiped for it, misjudged it and tried to run backwards at the same time. It was too late to get to the ball before it bounced the second time, but he grunted and threw himself towards it anyway, at full stretch. His black going-to-church Sunday-best shoes slid in the dust. He lost his balance, floundered for a split second, and then fell over.

No one laughed. It would have been better if someone had.

There was a long, long silence. The Bull levered himself up, looked down at his trousers and then rolled each ankle in turn, testing for injuries.

‘Forty-five twenty,’ Teddy said.

I took a deep breath. I could smell dirt and sweat – my own sweat, sharp and peppery – and the pomade Martin stole from Mama to put on his hair. The stones of the square were almost too bright to look at, with one thin edge of deep shadow at the base of the church.

The boy walked over to the ball and picked it up. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. Dust came out of it and glittered in the sunlight. The skin of his face was damp.

One more point, on serve. That was all he needed. One more.

I wanted him to win. I wanted it desperately, so much I could taste it, like thirst. But – not yet. I wanted this to go on for ever. I wanted him to lose the next point but win the next-but-one, on and on, the serve swapping back and forth between the players: so that we could go on standing here, like this, breathless and dry-mouthed, every nerve tingling, and never go back to being ordinary.

Martin took his hand off my arm. I heard the little grinding creak of his teeth as he started to bite his nails. Normally it made my skin crawl, but now it only added to the silence, like the players’ breathing and the drip of the Bull’s sweat on the stones.

But the boy couldn’t win. Could he? Some unknown peasant kid, against Pitoro Toros, the Bull himself. Surely . . .

The Bull won the next point. The ball smashed into the boy’s solar plexus, winding him. If he hadn’t seen it in time and twisted to lessen the impact, it might have done him more damage; as it was, he staggered back, flailing for balance, and gaped for breath like a drowning fish. I felt the air go out of my own lungs, and then turn solid, like a wall of glass. I couldn’t inhale.

Martin grabbed my wrist again and squeezed it. I couldn’t look at him, but I could feel his fingers, like a Chinese burn. I heard myself hiccup with relief as the boy finally sucked in a mouthful of air, and Martin’s grip eased.

The Bull smirked, a little grimly, and served.

The next point went to the boy; the one after, to the Bull. Forty-five twenty, twenty forty-five . . . The court was so bright it was hard to see the lines; it was hard to see anything. I no longer wanted it to go on for ever. I just wanted the boy to win . . . I prayed, in my head: not
for
the boy, but
to
him. Please, please . . . I could hardly bear to watch.

The ball smacked and spun against the wall, finding angles no one could have predicted, catching the dimples and dents in the old stones as if by magic. It was so fast it made my heart race, like hearing gunshots. And the players . . . None of us had ever seen anything like it. It wasn’t a game, it was a duel.

The point went to the boy. For a moment he and the Bull looked at each other, both breathless and sweating, almost smiling. Then the Bull kicked the ball, flicking it up, quick and vicious, at the boy’s face. I heard someone next to me hiss through their teeth. But the boy ducked sideways, and caught it.

Teddy said, ‘Forty-five twenty.’

The boy rolled his shoulders, and served.

I squeezed my eyelids shut, as if someone was going to punch me in the face. I prayed.

A clear, urgent voice said, ‘
Look
.’

I opened my eyes and caught my breath, because it wasn’t Martin holding my wrist, it was the Zikindi boy, pushing between us for a better view. His fingers dug into the flesh between my bones and he gave my arm a little jerk, gesturing at the court. His face was damp, and there were beads of sweat on his neck, where his shirt was open. The damp skin there was very smooth, and there was a shadow in the dip of the collar-bone. In a strange, split-second shock I realised he was a girl. I raised my gaze to meet hers. She said again, ‘
Look
.’

So I looked.

And I was just in time to see the boy spin, his arm outstretched, twisting into his shot so that the ball spat across the court to the wall like a bullet, and ricocheted off, going high and straight. If the Bull had left it, it would have been out.

But the Bull was in the way. There was a kind of double thump. Then the Bull was stretched out flat in the dust, while the ball rolled away, and a little trickle of blood started to weep from his eyebrow.

No one moved. The boy’s face was alight, as if the sun was shining more on him than on anyone else; but he was standing quite still. I felt a moment of pure triumph, blazing through me like a flame. He’d done it. He’d won.

Someone should have moved, run to the Bull to check he was all right – Papa, or the priest, or the person standing closest . . . But no one did. The pause seemed to go on for ever, as if it was the end of the world.

Then the Bull swore and sat up, shaking his head as though there was an insect buzzing round it. He coughed, scraping the phlegm out of his throat, and spat. He said, without smiling, ‘Well played.’

And then, suddenly, underneath the triumph, I felt a kind of shame.

Teddy cleared his throat and took a hesitant step forwards. He said, ‘Er . . . Are you all right?’

The Bull shot him a look of pure contempt, and got to his feet without answering. He wiped his eyebrow with the back of his hand, tilted his head to one side and then the other, testing the muscles in his neck. He glanced around. For the first time I remembered that his family was there: his mother, his aunts and uncles, nieces, nephews . . . The crowd began to separate, spreading out like oil on water. I looked over my shoulder and saw the priest turn and walk away, the Ibarra girls swap a look, Mama’s hat dip and bob backwards like a turquoise horn.

‘Phew,’ Martin said, not to anyone in particular. ‘Don’t think I could’ve stood another second of that. Would’ve killed me.’

The Bull had his family surrounding him now. They moved slowly away, past the tavern and down the street. The old women were talking too loudly, with too many pauses. The kids were subdued, kicking stones along the ground.

The Bull was never going to play pello again. But we didn’t know that yet.

Two

The church clock chimed midday. It rang out across the square, resonating from wall to wall, and I thought I could see the vibration in the dust hanging in the air. The Zikindi girl’s grip on my wrist loosened, but she didn’t let go, and I didn’t pull away.

The boy was still standing in the middle of the court, alone, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Then one hand crept to his collar, fumbling, and he glanced down at his feet.

‘What a player,’ Martin said, shaking his head slowly. ‘Wow. Can you
believe
. . . ? Just turned up out of nowhere and beat the Bull . . .’

I didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything I could have said. I looked sideways, and saw that the Zikindi girl had the same expression on her face that must have been on mine: glowing, dazzled, full of something too pure to smile. Her eyes were pale green-blue, and she met my gaze without blinking. We stared at each other for a few seconds; then she let go of my wrist and glanced around, like someone waking up.

The boy was crouching now, his head bowed, running one hand over the stones. He was still dripping sweat. He looked like a kid playing in the gutter.

‘There’s Mama and Papa,’ Martin said. ‘We’d better go and –’

He stopped. I followed his gaze.

Leon was walking towards us, with a patronising elder-brother smile; but when he passed in front of the boy he paused, and his face changed. His shadow fell across the boy’s hands. He said slowly, ‘What’s your name?’

The boy looked up, and flinched. He scuffled backwards on his haunches, like an animal that didn’t want to be kicked. He said, ‘I’m only looking for my button. My collar button. Then I’ll go.’

Leon frowned, and then crouched so that he could look the boy in the face. He stretched his hand out and patted his shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I just want to know your name.’

The boy ducked swiftly away, out of Leon’s reach; but he licked his lips and finally said, ‘Angel.’

‘That’s a nice name.’ The sunlight flashed off Leon’s glasses so I couldn’t see his eyes. ‘Where do you live, Angel?’

‘Angel Corazon. From Oldchurch Farm. Over there.’ The boy – the angel, Angel – pointed at the tavern, as if there was nothing in that direction but bare countryside and his farm.

‘A peasant. I thought so.’

Angel stared at him, and didn’t answer.

‘You’re a strong, hard-working son of the earth,’ Leon said, leaning forward, his voice low and thrumming with drama, as if he was telling Angel a secret. ‘A hero. A fighter. You’re the backbone of this country. Without men like you, we would be nothing. And yet – look at you. Covered in dust, dressed in rags –’

‘My button,’ Angel said, in that blurred, scraping voice. ‘It must’ve come off . . .’

Leon grabbed him by the shoulders. The tendons in his hands stood out as if it was an effort not to shake him. ‘No, forget the damn button! Listen to what I’m telling you.’

I heard Martin sigh. He said, ‘Odds on him saying “comrade” in the next ten seconds? Wait for it . . .’

‘Do you know what you’ve done today?’ Leon softened his voice. ‘You’ve given us hope. All of us. You know what you are? You’re a
symbol
.’

Angel gazed at him, his beautiful dark blue eyes wide and uncomprehending.

‘The peasant,’ Leon said, so quietly I could hardly hear him, ‘rises up and defeats the bourgeoisie. Against all odds. He leaves the blood of the old order in the dust. He brings in the revolution. He
vanquishes
.’

Angel blinked. ‘If I go home without it, my father will be angry. The button.’

Leon drew in a sharp breath, and then let it out slowly. The corners of his mouth softened. He said, in his normal voice, ‘All right . . . what about if someone gave you a new shirt?’

‘I – a new shirt?’ It was as if he lived in a world where things like that didn’t happen.

‘Well,’ Leon said, ‘not exactly new, but at least with all the buttons on. Not – well, not . . .’ He grimaced at Angel’s shirt, at a loss for adjectives. Then he took off his jacket and started to tug at his tie.

‘Oh, God, no,’ Martin said. ‘Please, no. Not with Mama and Papa just over there . . .’

I glanced sideways. Martin was biting his lip, but the Zikindi girl had the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Leon dropped his tie on the ground and unbuttoned his shirt. It was too hot to wear a vest, and there were dark patches under his arms where his sweat had soaked through the material. He undid his cuffs, took the shirt off and offered it to Angel.

Martin said, ‘I can’t watch. When we get home it’s going to be
carnage
. . .’

I said, ‘It’s not even
clean
. . .’

But Angel took the shirt and smiled, holding it up to the light as if to admire its whiteness. And – to be fair – it was whiter than the one he was wearing. The smile widened into a grin. Suddenly the triumph was back in his eyes: as if this was his prize for winning the game. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Leon winced. ‘Comrade. Please. Call me comrade.’ He stood up and put his jacket back on over his bare torso, shoving his tie into the pocket. Then he paused, looking down at the stain on the ground where the Bull’s blood had dripped and spread out. His eyes narrowed.

He dropped to one knee, scooped up a fingertip of bloodstained dust and smeared it on his face: two lines, across his cheekbones, like warpaint. He stood up – half laughing, half deadly earnest, the way he was when he fought with Papa – looked round at the last few groups of people, and called out, ‘Death to the oppressor!’

I saw Mama’s hat jump and twist behind a knot of heads, and then she came out into the open, her face set and furious. Papa said a last word to the priest and followed her, frowning. Teddy was the only person smiling; and his smile wilted as he took in the situation.

The priest said, not loudly, but very clearly, ‘God damn all revolutionaries.’

Leon ignored him. ‘Hey, Teddy, listen – this boy, this man, not only is he a pello genius, he’s a symbol of justice – forget the Bull, you have to write a story about this man, Angel Corazon, a true man of the people, a peasant –’

Papa said, ‘Leon.’

Martin said, ‘Let’s go home. Come on.’ He pulled me sharply sideways, so I almost fell over.

‘What?’ I wanted to stay; not to watch, exactly, but because of Angel, and the sunlight, and the heat from the Zikindi girl’s body next to me.

‘Come
on
.’ He tightened his grip and tugged. ‘Please. I don’t want to see this. Please, Esteya.’