Paul Faustino was on a holiday that had turned out to be something else. Work, in fact. He’d been owed leave from his newspaper, La Nación. But then, two days before he’d left, his boss – that crocodile, Carmen – had slunk into his office and coiled into the guest chair.
“So, Paul,” she said. “What are your plans?”
“Oh, nothing much. I thought I’d redecorate the spare room. Catch up on some reading, stuff like that.”
“Liar,” Carmen said.
“Pardon?”
“You’ve booked a flight to Spain, leaving on Sunday.”
Paul sighed and swivelled away from his screen. “How’d you know that, Carmen?”
She didn’t answer his question but said, “What I was thinking was, seeing as you’re going all the way to Europe, you might like to—”
“No,” he said firmly.
“You haven’t heard my proposal.”
“I don’t want to,” Faustino said. “I won’t like it.”
“We’ll pay your airfares. Business class, of course. And expenses.”
Faustino did the arithmetic. Eventually he said, “For what?”
A long piece for the weekend magazine. Interviews with South American footballers playing in Spain and Italy. Talking to them about homesickness, money, cultural differences, the ways football is different. About being magazine celebrities. On the way back, a stopover in London, because Carmen was interested in those identical, baby-faced, nineteen-year-old twins, the so-called “Angels of Peru” who played for Chelsea. Gabriel and Rafael. She couldn’t remember their last name. Nor could Faustino, at the time.
But there’d been a hitch. The way his flights were scheduled, the only day he could interview the twins was the first of April. And on that day, Chelsea were playing an evening cup tie against Shelby. At Shelby. After a hectic flurry of phone calls and texts, it was arranged that Faustino would interview the boys after the game, at the hotel in Shelby where the team were staying the night. A complimentary ticket for the game would be waiting for Faustino.
“Good luck with the Angels,” the Chelsea press guy had said. “They don’t say much. Except to each other.”
So here he was, on the train to Shelby. The incredibly expensive train to Shelby. Faustino watched the suburbs of London pass away behind him. When the trolley came, he asked for a bottle of mineral water (he’d been warned about the coffee) and a slice of fruitcake. He was struggling with its plastic wrapping when someone spoke his name. He looked up.
The man was odd-looking. A young, almost childish face set on an older man’s head. Balding, but with a wild halo of greying hair. Deep, dark eyes. A cautious smile. He wore a suit and a white shirt, buttoned up to the neck, but no tie. He spoke in Spanish, politely.
“Forgive me. It is Paul Faustino, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes,” Faustino admitted reluctantly.
The man’s smile widened. He clapped his hands together. “Yes! I knew it. I am a great admirer of yours, Señor Faustino. You are one of the few football writers in South America who knows what he is talking about. I have also read your books, which are very good.”
“Thank you.”
“I recognized you from your book jackets, and because – only three weeks ago, back home – I saw you on television. Arguing with that idiot from El Sol.”
The man held out his hand. Faustino shook it.
“Theo Chavez,” the stranger said, and glanced at the empty seat facing Faustino. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
Faustino shrugged. “No. Please do.”
Chavez sat and folded his arms. He studied Faustino as if he were a particularly interesting item in a museum. Just when Faustino was starting to feel uncomfortable, Chavez said, “How extraordinary to meet you on a train in England. May I ask what brings you here?”
Faustino said, “Well, as a matter of fact—”
But Chavez interrupted him by holding up a hand. “No. Let me guess. You are on your way to Shelby to watch the Chelsea game. The semi-final.”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
Now Chavez shrugged. “Why else would anyone be going to Shelby? And I suspect that you are particularly interested in the boys they call the Angels, from Peru. Rafael and Gabriel.”
Faustino raised his eyebrows. Chavez smiled again. “Not a very wild guess,” he said. “After all, you are a sports writer and the twins have become celebrities back in Peru. And all over South America. You can’t walk past a news stand without seeing their faces staring out at you.”
Now Faustino had placed the man’s accent. “You are from Peru, Señor Chavez?”
“Call me Theo, please. What do you think of those boys? As players, I mean.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that I have never seen them play live,” Faustino said. They came over here when they were, what, seventeen? But from games I’ve seen on TV, I have to say they seem amazingly talented.”
Chavez nodded. “Yes. Soon, they will be the two best mid-fielders in the game. Gabriel is the better defender. He reads the opposition very well, sees what they intend to do. He and Ashley Cole are already the best left-side partnership in the world, I think. He is a great passer of the ball from deep positions. But in offence, Rafael is the more inventive player. He is very good at appearing from nowhere and attacking the box. Chelsea let him roam, so there is always confusion about who should be covering him when he comes through. Unfortunately, he has something of a temperament. Eleven yellow cards and two reds this season.”
Faustino said, “You obviously follow them with great interest.”
“Of course,” Chavez said. “They are my sons.”
Faustino spluttered mineral water. A little came out of his nose. When he’d recovered his composure, he said “Forgive me, Señor … er, Theo. Do you mean that literally? That you are Gabriel and Rafael’s father?”
“Yes. And I am very happy because I will be with my boys today. I haven’t seen them for eleven months and twenty days. Each year my sons send me the money to come to England for a month. I look forward to it very much.”
Faustino had a good nose for liars and con artists. In his line of work, he met them on a daily basis. But there was no whiff of dishonesty coming off Theo Chavez. The man’s face was almost unnaturally innocent. His happiness and his pride seemed entirely genuine. And there was no mistaking his physical resemblance to the Angels.
“Well,” Faustino said. “It’s a fantastic coincidence, meeting you like this.”
“Perhaps it is fate.”
“Yes, perhaps. You know, before I came over I did a bit of homework on Gabriel and Rafael, but I couldn’t find anything much in the way of family background. I didn’t come across an interview with you, for instance.”
“No,” Chavez said. “We don’t trust journalists.”
“Quite right too,” Faustino said seriously.
Chavez’s smile flickered. “Forgive me, Paul. I didn’t mean… You are an exception, of course.”
“Thank you,” Faustino said graciously. He glanced at his watch. An hour and a quarter before the train got to Shelby.
“Ah, look, Theo, I wonder if you…” Faustino hesitated, tried to look a little ashamed of himself. “I know this is a cheek, but I wonder if you would do me the honour of granting me an interview. I mean, this seems like a God-sent opportunity. My editor would kill me if—”
“An interview? You mean now?”
“Yes. I’ll understand if you refuse, of course.”
Chavez looked out at the alien green landscape blurring past the window. Faustino waited.
“OK,” Chavez said at last.
“Excellent! Thank you.”
Faustino stood and rummaged in his bag for his voice recorder. He set it on the table and squinted at its tiny buttons. “You happy to talk to this thing, Theo? We just need to use normal voices. It’s very sensitive.”
“Sure,” Chavez said.
When the machine’s green light came on, Faustino said, “So. As I recall, the boys grew up in a place called La Hoya. Up in the mountains, right? What can you tell me about it?”
Chavez grunted, half humorously. “A little place. Rough. Poor. There are only two temperatures up there: hot as hell or cold as ice.”
“And may I ask what you did for a living?”
“Auto repair. Me and the boys lived in two rooms over the workshop.”
“You and the boys? Was their mother…?”
“May I see your ticket, please, sir?”
A guy in a blue uniform was looking down at Faustino. Faustino sighed and pressed the pause button on his recorder. Fished his ticket out of his jacket pocket. The guy printed a smudge on it, thanked him and moved on down the carriage. It was odd that he hadn’t asked to see Chavez’s ticket, that he hadn’t even appeared to notice the Peruvian. But Faustino gave it no thought at the time.
Paul pressed record again, and, as if nothing had happened, Chavez continued. “My wife died ten days after the twins were born. The births were hard. They damaged her. We had no hospital in La Hoya.”
“I’m very sorry,” Faustino said.
“The will of God,” Chavez said.
“Yeah. So, you brought the boys up single-handed?”
“No, no. How could I? A father with twin babies? And I had a business to run.”
“So…?”
“I had a niece, Dolores. My older sister’s eldest daughter. She was seventeen. A beautiful soul but, unfortunately, lacking the physical beauty to go with it. Her mother despaired of her ever finding a husband. So I talked to my sister, and Dolores came to live with us, to look after the boys. She had four younger brothers so she knew what to do. At first they all shared the big bed. Then, when that became … inappropriate, I built myself a little lean-to shack on the side of the workshop and Dolores moved into my old bedroom.”
“Sounds like a hard life, Theo,” Faustino said. “But the boys did OK?”
“Yes and no, Paul. La Hoya was – is – a backward sort of a place. Superstitious. Identical twins were … how should I say it? Suspect. Not normal. Old women would often cross themselves when the boys passed by. And Gabriel and Rafael … well, you know, they played tricks on people. They had ways of communicating with each other that no one else understood, not even myself or Dolores. It was hard for other kids to be friends with them. At the school, the teachers gave up trying to tell them apart. They gave them the same mark for everything and wrote exactly the same things about them in their school reports. The boys thought it was funny.”
“Yeah,” Faustino said. “I can see how that would work. Almost like having a superpower or something. The ability to be two people at once; to mess with people’s heads. Useful on the football pitch, too, I would think.”
There were rumours that Chelsea used the twins interchangeably, played Gabriel in Rafael’s shirt, and vice versa. Faustino was hoping that Chavez might rise to the bait and say something indiscreet. He didn’t.
So Faustino said, “And do you still live in La Hoya, Theo?”
“Oh no. I’m in a much better place now.”
Yeah, Faustino thought. The boys would’ve bought dear old Dad a nice apartment in the Lima suburbs. Maybe with a view of the sea.
Back to the subject. “So, um, the boys played football with the other kids in town, right? And they got noticed?”
Chavez said, “I guess they played with the other kids now and again. But they were loners. I used to worry about it, but…”
He shrugged. Faustino nodded sympathetically, then said, “So when did you realize they were special? In football terms, I mean.”
Chavez brightened up again. “That’s a question I can answer. I remember the day as if it were yesterday. I was in the workshop, underneath a Ford pick-up, seeing if I could figure out a way to make the suspension last another six months. Then I hear Dolores come in, see her legs on the other side of the truck. She says, ‘Uncle Theo? You got a minute? I think you oughta come and see what the twins are doin’ in the yard.’ Now the yard was just a big patch of dirt behind the workshop, where I had wrecks parked for spare parts. Rafael and Gabriel had painted a half-size goalmouth on the wall and they used to kick a ball around out there. Which was fine by me. At least I knew where they were. But I say, ‘Hell, Dolores, I’m busy right now. What’re they doing that’s so special?’ And she says, ‘You gotta come and look for once.’
“So I crawl out and go with Dolores into the yard. The boys are there with a ball. Not a football, something a bit smaller. Red-and-white striped. No idea where they got it from. They’re doing what the Brazilians call freestyle, you know? Like, juggling with it and doing tricks. Me and Dolores sit down on an old back seat ripped out of a Toyota and watch. I don’t know if the boys knew we were there or not. They didn’t pay us any heed, anyway. But after a couple of minutes my mouth is hanging open and I’m thinking, Oh, my God. Because it was, I don’t know, kind of spooky, almost. Mainly because they were doing all this stuff with the ball, but not saying anything to each other. They were completely silent. Rafael would balance the ball on his foot, change feet, lob the ball over one of the wrecks; Gabriel would lean back, take the ball on his chest, let it roll down his leg onto his foot, turn, stop, turn back, side-foot a pass off the bonnet of another wreck and Rafael knew exactly where it would fall. He’d play a one-two around an engine block and hit the goal right in the top corner. Then, without a word, they’d start over again.
“I sat there watching for a long time with my mouth open. They were magical. They were deadly serious. As far as they were concerned, those wrecks and bits of scrap were the Brazilian defence. Or the Argentinian defence. After a while, Dolores said, ‘I reckon you should talk to Jinky Lopez.’”
Outside the train window the countryside was giving way to brick suburbs. Faustino said, “Who was Jinky Lopez?”
“He ran a football team in the nearest city, San Miguel. But he had a house in La Hoya. I looked after his car. He was a sort of scout for the big teams.”
“Ah, yes,” Faustino said, remembering. “San Miguel. Your sons signed for FC San Miguel when they were, what? Fourteen?”
“Yes,” Chavez said.
“Then a year later they were recruited by Club Alianza in Lima. Enrolled in their youth academy.”
“Yes.”
“You sound less than happy about it.”
“I was glad for my boys, but I was lost without them. Twice a week I went down to the post office and talked to them on the telephone. By then they were already a little bit famous. People slapped me on the back, congratulated me, you know? Then I would go home to Dolores, who cried a lot because she missed them. And because she had got very fat and grown a moustache. Then one day I was on the phone to Rafael and he told me that he and Gabriel had been given the chance of a lifetime. That a man from England had come to sign them for the great English club Chelsea. My heart died in my chest but I said, ‘And what? Are you going?’ And he said, ‘Yes, Papa. We are going.’”
By the time the train pulled into Shelby, Faustino was feeling pleased with himself. He was pretty sure that his magazine could splatter “EXCLUSIVE” above his interview with Theo Chavez. Spliced with whatever he got from Rafael and Gabriel, it should make a very nice piece. It was even possible that Carmen would show her teeth by way of a smile for once. He parted company with Theo on the station forecourt. Chavez was going, he said, straight to the stadium; Faustino to check into his hotel. He watched the Peruvian melt into the crowd and then headed for the taxi rank.
The game was a good one. Shelby had a highly disciplined defence, which broke up Chelsea’s attacks, forcing the visitors to rely on crosses from wide positions. They counter-attacked well too. Twenty minutes in, John Terry had to hoof the ball out of his own goalmouth with his keeper, Čech, sprawled on the six-yard line. But, as great sides always do, Chelsea grabbed the lead just before half-time, and it was Rafael who scored, sneaking into the box to side-foot the ball home from close range.
During the interval, Faustino craned his neck to see if he could spot Theo Chavez in his guest of honour seat in the directors’ box, but his view was blocked.
Chelsea scored again early in the second half, and Shelby looked dead and buried. With thirty minutes left to play, the Chelsea manager decided to beef up his defence and substituted Rafael with Gabriel. The changeover was slightly weird, Faustino thought. It was almost as if Rafael went over to the touchline, did a double hand-slap with himself in a mirror, then ran back onto the pitch.
Just as the game moved into extra time, Gabriel scored Chelsea’s third: a free kick from twenty-five yards out that swerved and dipped into the top right-hand corner of the Shelby goal. All in all, Faustino thought, the perfect reunion between Theo and his boys. Nice.
The interview with the twins took place in a private dining room at the Shelby Sheraton Hotel. After the handshakes, the boys sat down, close together, and smiled across the table, recognizing the bafflement on Faustino’s face.
“I’m Rafael,” the one on the left said.
“I’m Gabriel,” the one on the right said.
“OK,” Faustino said. “Thanks. And thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”
“You’re welcome,” the twins said, at the same time.
“First thing I have to say is, congratulations. You both played brilliantly this evening.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said. “God was with us today.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Faustino said. “So, as I think you know, I’d like to talk to you about living and playing in England, the cultural differences, that kind of thing. But first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about what it was like for you guys growing up in La Hoya, being raised by your cousin … um … Dolores. Your training sessions in the back yard, stuff like that. OK?”
The smiles vanished from the twins’ faces. They looked at each other, one frown the reflection of the other. Eventually, Rafael said, “How do you know these things, Señor Faustino? About Dolores and so on? We have never spoken about them.”
Faustino grinned, enjoying the moment. “Your father told me. I found it all fascinating, I must say.”
Another exchange of glances between the boys.
“You talked with our father?”
“Yes. Didn’t he mention it?”
A silence.
Then Gabriel said, “When was this?”
“This afternoon. On the train from London. I’m surprised he…” Faustino’s voice trailed off. It was as if the two boys had put on wooden masks. Identical wooden masks. What the hell is going on here? he wondered. What’s wrong?
“Is this your idea of a joke, Señor Faustino?”
“What? No. Why do you…?”
Rafael said, “Our father is dead. He died a little less than a year ago.”
“What?”
Faustino had the peculiar feeling that the floor had dropped away, and that he and his chair were suspended in space.
“But,” he stammered, “I… Wait.” He fiddled shakily with his voice recorder. “Please listen to this,” he said, pressing the play button.
For ten awful seconds, the three of them listened to … nothing. Nothing other than the muted rush and rumble of a moving train.
Faustino swore and stabbed forward. Then play again.
Nothing. Not a word.
Faustino sat staring down at the machine for a long moment. When he found the courage to lift his head, the Angels of Peru were gazing at him. The gentle smiles had returned to their faces, and now their eyes were full of forgiveness. Or was it pity?
