Chapter Five

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With her ticket in hand, Nina made her way to the designated seat, Àlex and Ariadna right beside her. Xavi’s parents were behind them, both eagerly reviewing the accomplishments of their son. Ever since Spain won the 2008 Euro, great things had been expected from the team. She envied the pride they held in him. Her parents didn’t care that she had risked her life to fight for their country, much less that she had been millimeters from death.

There were days where she speculated what would have happened if she had died. Would they care then? Or would her sister remain in their minds, as well as their hearts?

She sighed as the field came into view. The seats were amazing, in the ideal location to see the game. She wore the only Spain jersey she owned which she’d gotten in 2008, the gold one they wore in the Euro Cup. She wore it with simple jeans, much like Ariadna, who wore the most recent jersey.

They waited anxiously for the game to start, all of them eager to see the international friendly.

Soon it was kickoff, and they cheered along with the home crowd, the chants ringing throughout Camp Nou. It no longer mattered if a player was on Barça or Real Madrid. It was a unifying game, where everyone wanted Spain to win.

Spain won in the end, and the team celebrated on the field.

Àlex led the way back to where the families were gathering. Many children were there, running around, and there were many beautiful women she assumed to be the wives and girlfriends of players. “Players usually take about half an hour to get here,” he explained as they stood off to the corner.

“Um, is there a bathroom around here?” she asked him. “Um…out that door, take a left, and then a right, and it should be there,” he answered.

She nodded, and headed out, hoping his directions were correct. They weren’t.

But she really, really had to go, so she kept going. Finally, after ten minutes of wandering she found the bathroom, and relieved herself. However, at that point she had no idea how to get back. Ever since she’d joined the army she’d developed an acute sense of direction, but it failed her in the winding halls of Camp Nou. Taking a deep breath, she turned left, since that’d been the way she’d come from, and began trying to retrace her steps. But with so much blue and red, everything looked the same.

She was pretty sure she was hopelessly lost when she heard a child’s cry. She picked up her pace to a jog, hoping whoever it was hadn’t gotten hurt.

She rounded the corner, and found a young girl in a Spain jersey sobbing, standing alone.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently. She knew very well not to startle a child, because they ran. One of the many things she’d done in Iraq was remove children from dangerous situations. She felt confident about how to approach children, for she had done it with explosions in the background at one point. In the empty hall of a stadium, it seemed simplistic.

She looked up, tears in her eyes still. She was around three or four years of age, her brown hair in pigtails. She had warm brown eyes, puffy from crying. “I’m lost,” she said, her Spanish clearly that of a younger child. She smiled, crouching down to be closer to her. “Were you with someone?” she asked. “My Abuela. I was waiting for my daddy…he played on the team.” So they were going to the same place. Perfect! “Well, I might be a little lost too…but do you want to try and find our way back together?” She nodded, eager to no longer be alone.

“I’m Nina,” she introduced. Children liked knowing names. It gave them something near tangible to latch onto, and it was something they had in common. “I’m Zaida,” she said, holding up her arms. She realized the little girl wanted to be carried. She’d been wandering probably for about the same amount of time as herself, and was already tired, most likely, after the match.

She lifted her up easily, thanking the physical shape she maintained after leaving the army, and continued on.

“Who is your daddy?” Nina asked the younger girl, for children also liked to have a conversation about things they were proud of, and when she’d spoken of him earlier, pride had been evident. “Number seven,” she said, pride once again radiating in her tone. Number seven…that made her David Villa’s daughter. She had heard about the break up in the papers, and it’d made her sad about the situation with the daughters. But looking at and holding Zaida, she was in disbelief that any woman could abandon such a beautiful child.

Zaida eventually began talking about her own interests: football, dolls, tea parties, and cheering for her dad. The little girl seemed to have forgotten her worries.

“So who is your favorite player?” she asked, looking up with her wide, curious eyes.

“I like a lot of players. Your daddy is an amazing striker, but I’m a big fan of Xavi,” she answered. Zaida giggled, “Uncle Xavi is really nice. I like Uncle Pepe too!” She smiled, nodding. She turned, looking at her with a bright smile. “Nina, will you be my friend? I don’t have many of those…” “Of course, Zaida – I’d love you be friends with you,” she grinned. The toddler hugged her as best she could. “I’ll let you play with all my dolls, and you can come to my birthday party,” she said, playing with Nina’s hair. The older female could feel the girl’s loneliness, and hoped that some companionship would help relieve some of that.


~~

Sitting in the pub, Adela cheering along with the other Spaniards at the victory of their national team – she was wearing her jersey proudly. Sure, she didn’t know much about football, but she had national pride. Most people did. Even the Catalans, who desired independence, still cheered proudly for Spain.

She smiled as Puyol celebrated with his teammates, the Catalan flag draped around his shoulders. His long hair was damp with perspiration, but he was still undeniably attractive. She just hated herself for noticing every damn minute.

After having a celebratory drink, she headed back to her apartment, intent on just relaxing before work. She had about a five minute walk back, a little longer, due to the crowded streets from celebrating fans. Sure enough, people were packed, cheering loudly for the win of the national team. It wasn’t even a game that counted, just a friendly, yet the celebrations were great. She remembered just how much more excited everyone was after the Euro 2008 win.

She was nearing her apartment building when she heard a screech.

With a frown she turned, and only had time to register a bright light, pain, and then nothing.

When the world returned, she could see a few stars, and a bright light. It was a street light. She could feel the rough pavement beneath her. And pain, there was a lot of pain. A shadow appeared above her. “Oh my God! Are you ok? Shit, shit, shit – don’t die!” The voice was distorted. She could hear an engine rumbling somewhere, and more footsteps.

More blackness, swimming between deep black, and a lighter grey – it crept up, would twist, and then fade. The noise faded in and out as well.

When she came to again, a dozen or so people were hovering above her, their conversation coming in snatches. Is she dead? No, her eyes are open now. She just moved. When is the ambulance going to come? What were they doing? She might not make it. No, she’s a fighter.

She was cold, which made no sense. It was a warm, September night in Barcelona. It shouldn’t be cold enough to make her shiver. Yet she was. Her teeth chattered.

Sirens. They blared loudly. Then blackness.

Her name. They wanted her name. Adela Baskaran. Someone said it for her. She only managed a whimper. They wanted her to stay conscious. She was trying. Honest. But once again it all disappeared, leaving just her and the blackness. Time became disjointed. She was in the ambulance. She was being told something by someone in scrubs. She was in the darkness. She was in a room,
several people surrounding her. Darkness. Lots of darkness.

And all that seemed to remain was darkness. It was as if she was floating, weightless, but remained tethered down. Flashes passed before her. The death of her parents, her remaining family, France, Spain, Carles Puyol. It was a blur, leaving her dazed, even though she already was to begin with.

And then it was gone. She was alone – all alone. Just her and the darkness.


~~

“Mamá, where is Zaida?”

She looked around, “She was here just seconds ago!” The two adults looked around the room, but the girl was nowhere in sight. And then he panicked.

Pepe and Xavi were the first to notice, and came over. “What’s wrong?” the keeper asked. “Zaida is missing,” he said shortly. “We’ll help you look for her,” the midfielder said. “Thank you,” he said, and the three went separate ways. Despite having visited before, Camp Nou still seemed like a maze to him. He wandered through the halls, praying his daughter was alright, and not afraid. He hoped by that time one of his teammates had found her.

He was about to give up hope when he heard a voice speaking, a female voice. He was about to dismiss it when a young child responded. Not just any child – Zaida. He jogged toward the direction it came from, and was relieved to see his daughter in the arms on a woman who seemed harmless.

“Zaida,” he called. Both turned, and he watched his daughter’s face light up. “Daddy!” she exclaimed. The woman walked towards him, and passed the young girl off to him once they were close enough. He hugged her tightly, “Sweetie, you can’t go running off like that. You have to stay with abuela, sí?” She nodded guiltily. He then turned to the woman, grateful.

“Thank you for finding her,” he smiled. She waved her hand dismissively, “I wasn’t much help, I think I got the pair of us more lost.”

He winced, “So you don’t know where you are either?” She shook her head, “Not a clue. I do know, however, that I’ve passed by this office three times now.” Zaida giggled, “Nina says the halls are moving, and that’s why we got lost!” “It’s true,” the older woman confirmed with a solemn nod. David couldn’t help but smile. He watched the adoring look his daughter had for the woman.

“Well, should we try and find our way back?” he asked.

She nodded, looking around, “Sure. I hope you have an idea of where to go.” He shrugged, “Not really.” She grinned, “Well then, I guess we’ll have to guess. Zaida, which way?” she asked, looking at the little girl. “That way!” the toddler said, pointing down the adjacent hall. “Ok, good idea,” the woman, Nina, said with a smile, and started out.

He was curious as to who she was. He hadn’t seen her before, yet she had a pass around her neck that allowed her to be in the area.

But the woman was not the normal type he ran into that could get backstage. She was kind, and obviously was concerned about Zaida. He felt the compulsion to learn more about her. She was the type of woman that he should be dating, not the girls who only wanted him, not a family. They wanted one night, not a lifetime.

After twenty minutes of wandering and talking, they came to a stop. “Still lost?” she asked. He nodded.

“Ok, desperate times call for desperate measures,” she said, pulling out her phone. She dialed a number, and waited. “Xavi? Yeah, I’m totally lost. Oh, shut up. My sense of direction is perfectly fine, thank you. It’s not my fault everything looks the same, and that Àlex gives horrible directions. I’m by the picture of Guardiola’s last year…I think…how do you know where that is? Oh well, just come.”

With that she hung up, smiling. “Well, Xavi knows where he’s going, not that he needs to know I acknowledge that. His ego is already hyper-inflated.

Five minutes later the midfielder arrived, “Brilliant sense of direction, Nina, just as described. And I see you found David and Zaida along the way!” He draped his arms around the female’s shoulders, and he felt his heart drop some. Of course a woman as beautiful and kind as her would be taken. The first woman that he’d had true interest in, and she was taken. It figured.

“Nina, my bow fell out,” Zaida said interrupting his thoughts.

“Oh no! Well, let’s fix that,” the female said, taking the bow. She carefully arranged his daughter’s hair, and then placed the ribbon in, tying a neat bow. “There we go, all fixed!” “Gracias Nina – you’re the best.”

Of course she had to be taken.


~~

Adela wasn’t there. He’d gone to the club hoping to finally ask her out, but she was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t there the next night, or the night after that. After a week he finally asked, and was given the news.

She’d been in a car accident, and was at the hospital, in a coma.

He was sitting in the chair by her bedside. Her already thin body looked frail, her skin deathly pale, and sunken in. It had turned ashen. Her hair was limp from lack of care. Tubes and wires were hooked up to her, the steady beating of the heart monitor in the background.

It wasn’t fair that it had to happen to her. She had so much to live for, yet it had been taken. And then she’d lost herself in it all, and hadn’t woken up.

He gripped her hand tight, “Estoy aqui para ti, Adela.” There was no movement, but he prayed harder than he had ever before. He prayed for movement, he prayed that he’d heard her, he prayed that she would wake up. Nothing else mattered to him.
His teammates pitied him, but be abhorred it.

He didn’t need their pity. He was just a helpless admirer, unable to voice his feelings. She was the one stuck in the hospital bed, not him. She was the one who was being fed through a tube, not him. He was still playing and living his dream, but she was confined to a bed in a lonely room. She was dressed in a simple hospital gown, wasting away.

He always knew life wasn’t fair, but this was horrible. She had been so full of life, but now…empty.

But he was determined to stay by her side, no matter how long. He didn’t know if she had anyone else, but he would be there. He would sing or read to her, talk to her, or simply hold her hand. Anything to let her know she wasn’t alone. Someone cared – he cared.