My fall had clearly startled Torado and I could see him walking closer toward the bush I lay under. I had no idea how I was going to explain to him my reason for being in this bush, covered in dog shit at 3.30 in the morning. As he leant down to look were the noise had come from I knew it was too late for me to make a run for it, I would have to just come clean to him. He peered further into the bush and saw me lying prostrate on the ground there must have been no more than 3 feet separating our faces. He stared down at me a confused look on his face, I couldn’t seem to get any words out and just lay there motionless looking back at him. Then Torado did the strangest thing, he just smiled at me, dipped his hand inside one of the carrier bags he was holding and pulled out a can of Tyskie, which he offered to me “Piwo, go on take it my friend” I was not sure what I should do so I just accepted the can and said nothing and then without another word ny old friend turned away and walked off into the darkness. I must have lain there for at least ten minutes, resting the luke warm can of beer against my chest, just as the drunk I nearly tripped over earlier that night had done. Why hadn’t Torado said anything? He must have recognised me? After all we had known each other for over 14 years now, ever since he had ended my playing career with a bone crunching tackle during the third round of the “coppa Bandelero della Velasquez. He had visited me every day in the hospital as I was recovering from my broken legs. He would often come in the late afternoon and just sit there for hours reading to me, Kafka, Bronte, Orwell, Jilly Cooper or whatever took my fancy that particular day. In fact it was in the Ospedale de Santa Maria that Torado had first fallen in love with wuthering Heights. As I lay there in the bush, smelling of god knows what; I wondered how best I could help my friend who had clearly fallen under the vice like grip of alcohol. I lay there for another ten minutes pondering my next move until I could no longer take the smell and started to wretch. I unceremoniously pulled myself out of the bush almost losing my balance again and plunging into the Odra River. This would have been no bad thing really as it might have helped to wash some of the stench off me. I ached terribly after my half hour stuck in the bush, I stretched out my back which clicked and cracked like the buttons on a typewriter, brushed myself down and started to forlornly walk back to the team hotel stink the smell of dog poo and urine lingering just a few steps behind. As I walked over the footbridge that took me back onto the south side I realised I was still clutching the can of warm beer, I looked like a character from “Down and out in Wroclaw” the yet discovered 3rd chapter of Orwell’s study of the poor.
I was still carefully keeping an eye out for Torado but as I slowly navigated my way back to the hotel I thankfully did not see him or even one other human being. I entered the hotel lobby which was also entirely empty; the night manager had abandoned his post behind the faux mahogany island in the centre of the vast foyer. This was very good news as I did not feel like explaining to anyone the reason for the smell that was reeking off me. I crept passed the “wooden” monolith as quickly and quietly as I could and climbed the two flights of stairs as silently as a mouse, albeit a mouse with questionable hygiene standards. On the second floor I turned down the long dull grey hallway towards my room. I was nearly there now just a few more steps and I would be at the door to my room and I could get inside, wash the foul stench off myself and no one would be any the wiser about my nocturnal activities. I stood by the door fumbling in my pockets for my key card, pulling it out I notice it was covered in what I hoped was mud, wiping it on the last clean spot I could find on my trousers until it was relatively free of whatever brown substance it had been covered in. I pushed it into the door panel, nothing happened, I tried to turn the handle but no luck, it wouldn’t open. At that very moment, José my assistant manager turned the corner into the hallway, he was wearing his trademark herring bone pyjamas and burgundy robe, he stood there and stared at me in utter disbelief. He managed to compose himself “Bossio what has happened to you, mama mama you smell like the manure my uncle Zuberto uses on his farm. This whole time I had been frantically thrusting the key card into the panel, at last the light flashed green, the handle turned and I collapsed head first into the room.
I was now faced with a dilemma should I just shut the door to my room without saying anything leaving poor José to stand outside, to come up with god knows what wild theories about the state in which he had discovered me. I decided it would be best to take him into my confidence so I gestured for my worried looking assistant to enter the room. Anyway I trusted José he had always been loyal and apart from his occasional psychotic episodes on the training ground I respected his opinion on most matters; he had a different way of seeing things compared to most men.
We stood in the tiny non-descript room facing each other for a few seconds. I told José to fix himself a drink and make me some tea, while I took a shower, then I would tell him what had taken place this night. I closed the door to the bathroom, flicked on the fluorescent light over the basin. As soon as the light stopped flickering, I saw why José had looked so shocked when he had seen me and why my old friend Torado had not recognised me earlier in the park. As I stared into the mirror that some idiot had hung crookedly over my basin, the only feature I could make out were my eyes, the rest of my face was entirely covered in mud and something else that while a similar colour was decidedly less fragrant smelling. Looking down at my filthy clothes I wondered exactly how many different breeds of dog excrement I had smeared over me. Alsatian, Labrador, Terrier and a good few cross breeds I suspected. Peeling the clothes of layer by layer I had to laugh at myself when finally naked, my body pale and milky white with a completely brown face, my blue eyes peering out from behind the thickly caked mud. I stepped under the shower, the water was icy cold but still I stayed under it for twenty minutes until I finally felt as if the mud and shit had been washed away down the rusty plughole. I had scrubbed my face so hard that by the time I finished showering my face had turned from murky brown to sore and red.
I pulled a robe around me and walked back into the bedroom, gratefully taking the cup of hot tea from Jose’s hand before perching on the end of my bed. José sat down in the armchair facing me, swilling the ice cubes around his glass of Scotch, he clearly wanted some answers. I tried to imagine how confused poor José must have felt sat there waiting for me, after having discovered his boss in the early hours of the morning, looking like something the cat would refuse to drag in, he also knew about my alcoholic past and at this precise moment I was sure poor Jose was fearing the worst.
I placed the cup of tea down on the sideboard and started to explain everything to him. I told him I had been worried about our old friend Torado, that I had seen him sneaking out of the hotel late at night and decided to follow and where I had followed him to. It felt good to share my worries over Torado with my trusted aide. After I had finished telling him everything that happened we both sat there for a time quietly in our own thoughts.
I broke the silence, taking a deep breath I said “José” “I think Torado has a drink problem”
José remained quiet for a while longer before telling me he agreed and confiding in me that he had suspected this was the case for a while now but had been unsure over whether to say anything. We sat there together for another hour till it was almost dawn; discussing what we thought would be the best way to help our dear old friend. We both decided that tomorrow morning after breakfast we would reach out to him and offer our friendship and support to help him through these troubles. Jose got up poured his unfinished Scotch into the sink of the kitchenette and nodded to me a goodnight. I slumped into my bed and fell asleep instantly.
I awoke a few hours later and the first thing that greeted me was the most unpleasant smell that leaked out from the bathroom. I got up to investigate this putrid smell and was quickly reminded that although I was now clean I had left my filthy clothes from last night on the floor in the bathroom. Picking up a carrier back I walked into the bathroom holding my nose, holding the clothes as far away from my face as possible I dropped the offending items into the plastic bag, tied it opened the window and tossed it into the bins that were against the wall in the courtyard beneath my room. Then I took another shower put on a fresh Rio Grande tracksuit and made my way downstairs for breakfast. I arrived in the dining room to the familiar cacophony of the Rio Grande players arguing and teasing each other. Acosta was trying to wind Gargagno up by telling him that “Marquez was a hack and if he wanted to read a truly great writer he should try the delicate prose of Jeffrey Archer” Gargagno replied “that while he admired the liberal musings of Archer, he felt his writing lacked something when compared with the languid beauty of Katie price’s Angel books.”
I was pleased to see my players in such good spirits but as I scanned the room I could see no sign of Torado. I joined José by the hot buffet, he was stood by the fried egg section and was piling what looked like about 8 or 9 of the badly overcooked things onto his plate, until they encircled the huge mound of bacon he also had, like a greasy moat around a fatty castle. José’s appetite never ceased to amaze me it was a wonder he wasn’t the size of a house by now, the overpowering smell of the eggs was making me feel so nauseous that I walked off and got myself a coffee and sat waiting for José and his fortress of food at our table. As he sat down and started to devour his breakfast in front of me, I asked if he had seen Torado this morning, he just shook his head and carried on shovelling the rubbery eggs into his mouth. The sight of the wobbling white albumen almost made bring up my coffee. I got up and walked out into the hotel gardens that overlooked the Odra River, the sun and the breeze whipping up off the river making me feel instantly refreshed. I pulled the packet of cigarettes out of my pocket, lit one and looked out across the river to the brightly coloured buildings on the far bank. A feeling deep within my stomach and unrelated to José’s eggs told me that something was wrong and that somewhere out there in this city was Torado, missing and in danger and in need of our help!!
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