domingo, 27 de julio de 2014

THE FLAVOUR OF MEETING 2 (El sabor del encuentro 2)


The TV advertisement showed a succession of rapid scenes of groups of people in front of TV sets and crowds congregated before huge screens in the streets. In living rooms, in bars, everywhere, people were watching a national selection match; they were holding the national flag, some were even wrapped in it; they clung to one another in anxiety, their faces bursting with joy as they jumped, wincing at the rival team’s counterattack.  And at the background of these flashing-by scenes, there was a crescendo of triumphal music that climaxed into a slow motion-going-still close-up of a fair-haired boy kissing the Argentinean flag and raising his eyes to heaven. The beer trademark motto that crowned the ad read “The Flavour of Meeting”

Leaving the TV set on, Raul rose from his chair, walked past his mother, who was arranging her hair in a plait, and went out to the street. The Football World Cup Championship was only a week away, so he must manage to get a big Argentinean flag to hang from his house front window. But not those cheap, plastic flags that some shops gave out as freebies; no, it had to be a real flag, like the one that waved in the middle of his schoolyard. He must not fail to support the dreams of glory for his country.  Everybody celebrating in communion, everywhere… It seemed that nothing else mattered to him.

Raul took his savings from his pocket, counted the roll of two and five pesos bills and a handful of coins, and a smile of satisfaction brightened his Indian features: not only was there enough for a decent flag but he could also buy himself an imitation selection T-shirt. He walked away from the slum where his house and his friends belonged in and made for the commercial street that glowed ahead in the dusk.

The long-awaited day of the national selection debut had come at last. Raul and his family were at home, waiting for the TV broadcasting to begin. The effect of the never-ending string of ads picturing people in eager anticipation of the outcome was infectious. Raul’s little sister --a tiny resemblance of his humble-looking mother-- on watching the ads, remarked just out of plain naivety, ‘Why don’t they show my neighbourhood as well? Everybody around here is as crazy about the championship, too.’
    ‘Why should they? You know nothing about football,’ replied Raul and waved her mute, for the match was about to start.

The girl pulled a face of puzzlement at his brother’s reaction. This time his mother spoke, since she had surveyed her adolescent son from head to toe: Raul was wearing a brand-new T-shirt which read Messi on the back, but the tennis on his feet were as shabby as usual.
     ‘Son, weren’t you going to buy yourself a new pair of tennis? Where are they?’
Raul pretended not to hear and approached the TV set to raise the volume but he could not get away from his mother’s ensuing sermon because of his insensible spending spree. Although the boy tried to make her see how important this championship was for him, his mother did not see the matter eye to eye. Particularly, when it came to his passions, her words all the more tasted of platitudes.
      ‘Raul, the World Cup won’t do much for you. It won’t pay for our food; it won’t buy you the clothes you need badly…’
      ‘Mom, you don’t understand because you aren’t Argentinean. But I am; I was born here. So let me enjoy this like everybody else does.’ He made another muting gesture with the hand and said, ‘This is the last ad!’
It was true, his mother thought: Raul could have been born in Bolivia, where she and her husband had come from, but Raul was born in this country. It was only natural then that he took pride in this fact. As this reflection crossed her mind, the last seconds of the sponsoring beer ad was on for the umpteenth time. And she saw all those people on the screen as arrested by the matches as her son was; but this time she happened to mind particularly what they looked like: no darkish complexions, no province-looking people, let alone looking like the members of the family. Had this fact not dawned on her when she first came to live in this city? Did Raul not get involve in fights at school because he could hardly fit in?  On leaving the room, she let out a careless remark:
       ‘It seems as if it wasn’t your country that is playing, Raul…’
She promptly regretted saying that; it did not matter anyway, for her son appeared to be all absorbed in the match. She acknowledged that football fans’ excitement exerted a stronger influence than the ties that bound a family.

The camera panned slowly across the stadium’s grandstands teeming with fans that wore their national’s colours; they were cheering and dancing and waving for the audience around the world; and down there, on the bright green grass that was the grail for the lovers of this sport, the football players stood in a row, ready to sing their national anthems. The ball was kicked off and two hours of worth shooting passionate scenes for an odd kind of TV ad, featuring Raul and his siblings in their uninviting home started too.  A far-fetched idea, real life though.

But the next time the national team was scheduled to play (the previous time had been a victory), a power cut left the neighbourhood in darkness just minutes before the match.  Raul and his friends, who had got together for the occasion, hollered aghast when the image of the stadium was cut off from sight. So after considering several alternatives, they dropped going to their relatives’ or friends’ houses and decided that, despite the chilly evening, they would watch the match in the nearest public place furnished with a screen.

Try as the group of friends might to make it as quickly as possible, they got to the public screen five minutes into the game. They were desperate; teams’ fortunes may change altogether in a matter of seconds! But they liked neither the available position nor the lack of seats. Raul then decided that they head for the nearest bar in the commercial street. Ordering a single beer there would cost them much dearer but at least they could watch the match comfortably.

Having run like mad along deserted streets, on entering the bar, they slumped over the only free table left that was in the farthest corner.  Nobody noticed their noisy entrance; the national selection’s goalkeeper had just saved his team. The anxiety made the group of friends turn a deaf ear to the waiter who was wanting to take the order.  A single bottle of beer, that was it, and they could watch the match.

During the game break (the score was still at a draw), the group of friends commented on the salient moments as anybody else who pretends to be a sports media specialist. The emptied bottle stood alone on their table while on other customers’ –the boys were amused to notice- there were assortments of different snacks and drinks. And looking beyond the tables, they saw a mobile-unit girl holding a microphone and being escorted by a cameraman; these were approaching the place where the friends were sitting.  ‘At least let’s comb our hair. She’s coming towards us,’ joked Raul.

Meanwhile, in Raul’s neighbourhood, the electricity supply had been restored. And as luck would have it, in Raul’s house his family happened to tune the presenter of a live TV programme contacting a mobile unit reporter to show what the Argentinean fans were making of the match. Raul’s little sister shrilled when she saw her brother sitting at a table with his friends in a crowded bar. The mother hushed the rest of the family. On the screen, the mobile-unit girl was standing next to the table where the group of boys was.
    “Let’s see who we have in here… Well, you’re not Argentinean, are you…?” asked the girl, putting her microphone close to Raul’s mouth. Promptly, his friends came in a huddle behind him, grinning and waving their flag excitedly at the camera. Raul’s family at home heard the presenter’s voice from the studio interrupt the girl:
    “Sorry, Paula, just show us Argentinean fans, the match is about to start…!”
     To the dismay of Raul’s family, the image shifted abruptly to another group of people whose appearance resembled much more those of the fans in the ads in rotation. They were not asked if they were Argentinean; the fact was taken for granted.

     The match ended in another victory for Argentina; Raul and his friends joined in the celebrations on the streets, oblivious of the sense of vicarious rejection that lingered in his family’s mood. Later that evening, the family was having supper.
    ‘Your voice has gone hoarse,’ pointed out the mother.
    ‘We came back all the way shouting and chanting with all the people. It was great!’  Raul replied. A related news report was on the screen.
    ‘I see. You are proud, aren’t you?’ said the mother trying to acquiesce her son’s attitude.  Her expression was telling. But she was not expecting what he added:
    ‘It is my country that played today, and it could be yours as well. Otherwise, why have you and dad come to settle down here?’ 

At that moment, the recurring beer ad was on again with all those fans that bore no resemblance to the likes of Raul, his family and friends. It was not just a matter of physical appearance, though; the lifestyles, the background settings, the TV programme presenters’ attitudes: everything struck this household as belonging to another country.
More ads like these came in succession. The mother had kept staring blankly at the TV screen. And then Raul heard she say:
   ‘You’re right, son. I do hope that you stick to your words even when this championship is over’.