“I did call!” Luis said, and he laughed the laugh that Gaspar also recognized, a short and pretty loud peal of laughter, a little like a shout. “But there was never anyone here during the games.”

“Dad was here, I think, but he wasn’t about to answer. I watched at a friend’s house for good luck.”

“Too bad, I would have liked to talk to you.”

Gaspar spilled a little milk when he poured it into his coffee. He thought it was strange that his uncle drank coffee without sugar, but he said nothing.

“Did you break your arm?”

Gaspar was expecting the question because his arm was still partly immobilized. He’d be getting the stitches out soon. He didn’t want to talk to his uncle about his injury. From repeating the lie so much, someday he might just end up believing it.

“I cut myself badly falling on the stairs. I’ll show you later, the staircase has a window and I slipped and put my arm through the glass. They operated and everything.”

“Really? Your dad didn’t tell me anything.”

Of course not, thought Gaspar. The scar itched, pulled; he scratched carefully over the bandage. His uncle sipped his coffee: he wasn’t suspicious, he’d believed the story of the accident. And why would he suspect anything? Just in case, Gaspar kept talking. He told Luis how he’d be going back to school next Monday and he still wasn’t allowed to play soccer, though he didn’t understand why, when there were players who did it after injecting themselves with worse things.

He wasn’t able to finish his tale or receive a reply because he was interrupted by his father’s footsteps in the living room. Gaspar was surprised to see him enter the kitchen: it was unusual for him to get out of bed. And it was with even more surprise that he took in their hug, the emotion in his uncle’s eyes, his father’s tall body that seemed so fragile as it made that affectionate gesture. The two of them left the kitchen; Luis gestured to indicate he’d be back in a while, and his father didn’t even glance at him. Gaspar started to wash the mugs one-handed, because he couldn’t get his wounded arm wet.

Vicky was surprised to come home from school and find Gaspar’s uncle Luis drinking mate with her mother in the messy living room of her house; Lidia was off from the hospital that day and the next. Her mom introduced her as “one of Gaspar’s best friends,” and Luis said he’d heard about her. Vicky thought he was like an older and nicer version of Gaspar’s dad. The important conversation was over, Vicky realized, because now they were talking about Luis’s life in Brazil. A neighborhood called Gamboa, near Santa Teresa. How lovely, her mother was saying, and Luis replied: More or less. Maybe I didn’t think it was so beautiful anymore because I missed home. They talked about exile, and Luis said he’d missed the smells, the food, that Río was a wonderful city, but also very melancholic. And this return is also sad, he said, and here they both looked at Vicky, but she reached for a pastry filled with dulce de leche and stayed put.