OTELLO IS TEMPORARILY baffled when Desmerelda doesn’t answer her phone, but then he gets another idea. Another good one: stop hiding. God, if only he could think this well all the time. If only he weren’t so . . . distracted. By stuff. Stuff. He drinks a toast to this insight.

He plays soccer — that’s what he does. So he heads off down to what Dezi likes to call the Trophy Room Ha Ha. No, not Ha Ha, he tells her now. Should’ve told her before. Not many men have stuff like this, Desmerelda. Medals, all of that. Respect. Tokens of it, anyway.

It’s the smallest of the guest bedrooms, but not much smaller than the yard of the house he grew up in. No bed in it now. A black leather swivel chair and a TV he watches recordings of games on. The shelves display trophies, some of them very ugly; also medals in Perspex cases; a pair of cleats once worn by Diego Maradona; signed photographs — Kaká, Beckham, El Gato, Henry. On the walls, more medals hanging from long gaudy ribbons, more photographs, pennants. Beside the door, hanging from a hook, a big net bag of soccer balls: souvenirs of internationals, cup victories, hat-tricks.

He takes the bag down, opens it. The balls tumble across the floor. Some are soft, disheartened-looking, but several are still match standard, more or less. With difficulty, he gathers these and puts them back in the bag, slings it over his shoulder, then remembers.

Can’t run out looking like this, man.

He puts the bag down again, goes to the chest below the window and drags open the top drawer. Shirts, dozens of them, swapped for his own with other stars, other captains. He pulls them out one at a time. Red and white, River Plata. Blue, Italy. Yellow and green, Brazil. Some are signed. Here’s a white England shirt signed by Jenny. No, Terry. Red and black, Flamengo. Is he looking for one in particular? He can’t remember.

But no, of course! What was he thinking? He abandons the scattered shirts, picks up the bag of balls, dribbles a slightly flabby one out of the door and along the passage. He plays a more or less successful one-two against the wall, and aims a shot between the legs of the table in the hall. He gives it a little too much lift and it smashes the Tiffany glass lamp. Whoops. Like dead butterflies on the carpet. Sweep them up later. Watch your feet.

In the dressing room he struggles into a pair of sneakers and out of the grubby T-shirt. He rifles through the closet until he finds his own unique Paff! shirt. Its color is an acidic yellow so bright that it is almost fluorescent. On the back his face smiles through the number 23 in black and lilac. He has forgotten what the English word on the front means. He puts the shirt on and admires himself in the mirror. There are one and a half Otellos: a ghostly twin stands behind him. He closes an eye and it disappears. Good. He lifts his left foot, pulling the toes up to test the Achilles tendon. He loses balance and staggers sideways into the closet, but this does not bother him because there is no pain in the ankle. No pain anywhere, now. Excellent.

On his way out, he spots the drink he’d lost track of earlier and pauses to drain the glass. He shudders as it goes down, then holds himself erect and inhales deeply, preparing himself. Focus. Eliminate everything else. Weakness. Doubt. Fear.

When the elevator indicator chimes, the concierge looks up. When the doors hiss apart and Otello himself emerges, he is so surprised that his mouth drops open to display the wad of gum stuck to his lower front teeth.

“Theñor?”

“Hi. How ya doin’?”

“Uh, good. You going out, Señor Otello?”

“Got to. Can’t sit aroun’ up there. Geddin’ stale. Outta condition. Need to put some trainin’ in.”

Cautiously the concierge says, “It’s raining out.”

“S’all right. Good. Good for strikers, rain.” He winks. “Puss a lil’ wiss. Puts a lil’ whip and hiss on the ball, you know? Keepers, no. Keepers hate rain.”

He smiles.

“Yeah,” the concierge says. “I guess they do.”

The glass doors slide open for him, and Otello goes out. He is surprised, momentarily disconcerted, to discover that it is dark. Never mind. He doesn’t mind floodlights. Likes them, actually; they shrink the world to the size of the field. Besides — and this thought pleases him — he has the right kind of shirt on for dark work. He goes down the steps and weaves along the illuminated walkway and through the line of low trees. The rain cools and cleanses him. There are several cars sweating jewels in the brightly lit parking area, but plenty of free space for him to work in. He does a few high lifts on the spot, the balls bouncing against his back.

He feels good; he castigates himself for not thinking of this sooner. Why had he sat up there, brooding, rotting, for so long? Letting all that stuff get to him, suffocate him? Then the happy thought strikes him that the steel mesh of the fence over there is like a goal net, and the uprights are more or less the right distance apart. Ideal. So, a bit of loosening up, then shooting practice.

The ranks of paparazzi have thinned. Several have been summoned to Nemiso’s press conference. Others have simply given up, convinced that Otello was in the tank that drove out in the morning with that psycho Cass behind the wheel. The returning bike boys had been full of it.

“What a piece of work that Cass is! He wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like that if Otello hadn’t been in the car with La Brabanta. Because he’s Otello’s guy, right?”

“No, nah. He’s her guy. Been having a thing with her for ages, man. Wouldn’t be surprised if the baby . . .”

“Ah, c’mon. You believe that, you believe anything.”

“Yeah? I have reliable sources, my friend.”

“Sure you do. They’d be the same reliable sources told you the Diaz chick had an address book full of big names, right?”

And back and forth, keeping their spirits up while the rain came down.

Now the silent freelancer who’s been keeping his camera dry inside the comical green parka gets it out and aims it through the fence, and if he weren’t such a dork, he’d keep quiet. But he doesn’t, and his excited little exclamation alerts the others. They turn as one, triggered like a shoal of fish.

“Who’s that?”

“What?”

“Over there. See? Who’s that?”

Eyes go to viewfinders; wet hands twist lenses.

“It’s him. It’s him!”

“It is. Christ, it is.”

“What the hell’s he doing?”

Motor drives whir.

“He’s training, man. Look at him.”

“What’s this mean? Something’s happened we don’t know about.”

Cell phones come out.

He does a number of slow runs — five, maybe, he loses count — combined with upper-body twists. His balance isn’t good, after all that time banged up in the penthouse. That’s why he stumbles; that’s why the world tilts.

Then he lines up six of the balls about a yard apart, taking a long time to get them straight, and runs zigzag step-overs along the line. It is absolutely astonishing that he falls over, finds himself on his back on the tarmac with bright lines of rain arrowing into his face. He laughs at himself.

“You know what? I think he’s smashed.”

“Yeah, look at that. He’s out of it.”

The word has spread. Guys from other parts of the marina stakeout congregate behind the fence. The security men murmur into walkie-talkies. The one with the slobbery dog loops its leash twice around his fist and starts to walk back and forth, looking over his shoulder to where the bright yellow figure struggles to his feet.

He picks up another ball and studies it. In the wet glare he cannot make out the name scrawled on it. Ronaldo maybe, or Robinho. He bounces it, catches it on his instep, then takes it on a weaving run between the other balls. He gets to the fourth one before his control goes. His ball cannons into it, knocking the others out of line, and suddenly he can’t tell which is which. They’re rolling everywhere. He collects one with the underside of his shoe and for no reason drives it away into the rain-streaked darkness. The crowd roars.

“Otello! Otello! Over here! This way, man!”

His supporters are gathered behind the away goal beyond a barricade of twinkling stars. So yes, he will give them what they want. He shepherds the balls — each with its own ghost now, so it’s difficult — in that direction. Then, without the least indication that it’s what he’d planned, he takes the real ball, the one that matters, on a diagonal run toward the penalty area.

And you’re being closed down. No support to your left, your overlapping right back is covered, so go for it. Don’t signal the shot. Fake the pass out wide, shoulder the body-check aside, get into space. But the ball is too close to your feet and the fullback is coming across to block. You can’t get the shot in. So you do that amazing thing you do: stop the ball dead, dummy a right turn, switch your weight to the left, turn all the way. The fullback slides past you with his left leg bent under him, his arm out, his mouth open, his hand reaching to clutch at your beautiful shirt. The keeper is already committed to a dive toward the near post. He knows what you have done but is powerless to do anything about it. His body turns but his legs can’t. You’ve swiveled and the goal is there in front of you as big as the world. Someone hammers into your back and you go down, but it’s too late. You’ve already hit the ball and you know from the feel of it, the lovely fat square level heft of it on the front of your foot, that it’s on its way home and you can rejoice, run past the goal toward all those people that you love and who love you, and fall on your knees in all humility and let them chorus your name:

Otello Otello Otello.

“This way, Otello!”

“Where’s Dezi, Otello?”

“. . . young girls, Otello?”

“. . . kill her, Otello?”

“. . . Bianca?”

What are they saying?

Electrical lightning and pouring rain.

“. . . comment, Otello?”

“. . . porno?”

“Porn, Otello?”

His fingers cling to the steel mesh. He is so tired suddenly. They are not fans, after all. Not people. He has made a terrible mistake. They have long eyes on white stalks, like insects. Predators. He must get up. But he is so tired. His legs have stopped working.

They take brilliant pictures, these lucky few. The fallen Otello, clutching the wires of his cage. Drunken, wild. His face gaping at the rain. Or, if you prefer, howling tears. His sleek head lowered like a penitent. His saturated and ridiculous shirt clinging to his chest, with the cartoon map of Africa and the foreign word FAITH on it. Some of the greatest sports photos of all time. Works of art. Iconic. Worth millions, globally.