Chapter Nine (excerpt)

Capo paced impatiently up and down the hospital corridor in Accra, waiting for the two hooligans who were still being sutured. The committee had made its decision according to the rules, but he could only hope the rescheduled match wouldn’t be up too soon. Those two idiots would take a while to piece themselves back together, and when they did, they’d have to play better than ever before. Anything less, and first place would be out of reach. Capo needed a miracle — but het spent the miracle quota already: the turbulence had saved them from disaster. Without it, they would have been disqualified for substance abuse.

Toledo was the first to shuffle out, followed by a nurse who was determined to stuff him into a wheelchair. He swatted behind him with one hand as if trying to shoo away a persistent horsefly, but she wouldn’t relent. His already massive forehead was now wrapped in thick bandages, making him look like Toad from Mario Kart. The weight of it all seemed almost too much for his neck to bear, though its thickness was finally proving useful.

Of course, he hadn’t told anyone he’d been snorting cocaine. That would have spelled big trouble in Ghana, where drugs were considered a mortal sin and where camps for ‘witches’ held thousands of incarcerated women. Capo had ensured that Toledo was pumped full of analgesics — both local and general — to silence his rambling, which could easily lead to a careless confession. The mix of painkillers, cocaine, and cognac created an intriguing chemical cocktail, resulting in Toledo behaving like a developmentally delayed mime.

Still, somewhere in that mushroom-like head of his, the story from the flight began to piece itself together. He realized he had seriously messed up and felt a pang of regret. But, true to form, he assigned at least half the blame to his unrequited love for Joburg.

Toledo kept waving his hand dismissively at the wheelchair, and eventually, the nurse gave up and clattered away with the empty contraption, but he kept swatting nonetheless. Slowly, he managed to reestablish a tenuous connection between his tongue and his brain, and began muttering apologies.

“I’m really sorry about everything. At least now you’ve got a good reason to replace me,” Toledo said slowly, blending an apology with a veiled accusation.

“Call your PR team. You’ll need a story to explain that bandaged head of yours. And make sure there aren’t any screw-ups,” Capo ordered, his tone sharp.

“Yeah, they know what to do. This isn’t their first time,” Toledo muttered.

“It is the first time they’ve had to spin a story about you during a match, isn’t it? If you bash your head into a lamppost because you think it’s an industrial spy, that’s one thing. I’m sure they’ve got routines for that. But this? This is different. I’m not asking you. Fix it, now — before selfies of you and your bandaged melon with the nurses start circulating,” Capo snapped.

“Fair point. I usually behave impeccably during matches. You’re right,” Toledo responded, conveniently hearing only what he wanted.

“Behaving ‘impeccably’ doesn’t mean you prepare properly or stay focused during a match. It just means you don’t drunkenly brawl with a woman,” Capo shot back.

“Enough! Do you think this is easy for me?” Toledo fired back, his frustration evident. “Do you think everyone is a heartless sociopath like you two? She got involved with me, promised me the world, then killed my son and tossed me aside like garbage!”

“She had an abortion. That was her right. You didn’t have a say in it. Deal with it. Grow up,” Capo said bluntly.

“You’re such a lovely pair of sociopaths,” Toledo muttered, oscillating between anger and laughter as the chemical cocktail in his veins continued to toy with his emotional equilibrium. Capo had had enough of Toledo’s dramatics and shifted the focus to a more pressing matter.

“I can’t replace you, even if I wanted to. That’s the rule. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and start getting ready for the match. The committee will announce the location today, and the team has to stay the same. As your captain, I’m telling you — keep your mouth shut when Joburg comes out. If you say one word, I’ll rip that diaper off your head and shove it up your fat ass.”

It was a timely warning because Joburg emerged from the triage area just then, perched comfortably in a wheelchair like a true aristocrat.

“Handshake?” she said, addressing Toledo.

“Handshake,” Capo replied for him, fixing him with a strict glare.

“Yeah, handshake,” Toledo echoed sulkily, like a scolded child.

“Not another word about this. To anyone. Ever,” Capo said firmly.

With an almost imperceptible gesture, Joburg signaled to the orderly, who began wheeling her toward the SUVs waiting to take them to the airport.

As soon as they were airborne, heading home toward Europe, toward Rome, Capo’s captain’s phone buzzed loudly. The phone, which was exclusively for communication with judges, the committee, and for competition logistics.

Capo froze. Already?

“Capo speaking,” he answered the phone, his voice tight.

“The match is tonight at eight in Cairo, at Al-Azhar Hospital. The field is white, the cost is one hundred. Please confirm within fifteen minutes if you’re ready to accept the rescheduled match,” said the committee chairman before abruptly ending the call.

“George, Martha!” Capo shouted, his voice sharp as he directed his anger toward Toledo and Joburg, who were resting in the plane’s cabin. He used their names to accuse them of drunkenness, slovenliness, and everything wrong between two people who couldn’t tell the difference between reality and illusion. “Get over here.”

The two of them scrambled to their seats in the main cabin, which was neatly arranged but reeked of disinfectant. They braced themselves for the bad news that radiated from Capo’s scowling face. He told them what the committee had said, burying his face in his hands with a mix of defeat and disbelief. They sat in silence, listening to the hum of the engines, quietly contemplating their options.

“That’s in six hours,” Toledo somehow managed to add numbers in his head.

“They’ve put us on a white field. Why?” Joburg muttered to herself.

“I don’t know. Playing on a black field is completely different from a white one. We don’t have much practice on the white field, especially not with the pressure that comes with it. But the points are double, which is definitely a plus. If we play as a team and win, we’ll be way ahead. When was the last time we played on a white field, Joburg?” Capo asked.

“You know,” Joburg replied curtly. She was certain that under her leadership, these things wouldn’t happen. If she had been in charge, Toledo would never have been allowed in the team, and if he had been inherited, he would’ve been kicked out immediately. Under Capo, everything felt ‘Byzantine’, she thought, though Capo was far more precise and disciplined than she cared to admit, as she stubbornly refused to acknowledge that a narrow-minded Slav could be better than her in anything.

“Last year, when they introduced it. But it’s becoming more common. Everyone wants to increase revenue. This year, the white field costs one hundred million, last year it was only fifty million,” Capo answered himself, continuing his own monologue. “That’s why we’ve only competed on the black field this year. Let the Russians and Saudis waste their money. For me, it’s about the sport, not the extravagance.”

“We don’t have a choice. Either we pay and play on the white field, or we’re disqualified,” Joburg interrupted his rant, her frustration with Capo growing.

Toledo, too, was unsettled by the direction everything was going. This would undoubtedly be his last match, and now the price was too steep. Ten million for a black field had never bothered him, but one hundred million for six hours of entertainment was a lot. Maybe, he thought, if Capo didn’t plan on kicking him out of the team, but as it was, it was too much.

“If we take this match and lose, we’ll be last on the rankings. If we win, we’ll be first, and that’s with the white field. If we back out, we’re disqualified,” Capo continued his diatribe. “What’s the financial situation?” he asked Toledo.

“Go ahead and pay it yourselves,” Toledo muttered childishly, crossing his arms over his hefty belly. “I’m not paying that much, and I’m still in pain. Look at me. How am I supposed to compete like this? We don’t stand a chance.”

Capo shot a piercing glance at Toledo. He would have preferred to throw him through the emergency exit, watching him scatter across the Sahara with all his junk, only to be licked off the sand by the cheetahs. He turned away, staring out the airplane window. He was thinking. Moving pieces across the chessboard in his mind. Replaying moves, sacrificing pawns, knights, rooks, the queen.

Gradually, a plan began to take shape in his head. At first, it was only a vague outline, but soon it became more tangible, more complete. The gaps were closing, the pieces were being fortified. He barely nodded to himself, still staring out the window. The raw, brutal plan he had come up with was something he truly liked. He turned away from the window and looked toward Toledo.

“The last match of the season, Toledo. Let’s play together and win, as a team,” Capo played his part as captain, with forced enthusiasm. “We’ve been through a lot, but let’s push through just this once, my friend. You’ll get the money back, each of us puts in a third. It’s not that much. What do you say, Toledo?”

“Capo’s right. I’m sorry for today’s incident, Toledo. Come on, I’m sure you can do it,” Joburg chimed in, sensing that Capo had something juicy lined up. She knew him well enough by now. The fact that he switched from contempt to flattery meant he had checkmate all planned out.

But Toledo just shook his head stubbornly, like a spoiled child. “No, no,” he muttered softly.

“My friend, you know there’s no team without you. Without you, we’re lost. You’re the core of our team,” Capo pressed.

“No,” Toledo persisted, still obstinate.

“After Cairo, we’ll talk about your position in the team, Toledo. You deserve more,” Capo escalated.

“I said no. Period.”

Capo’s patience was wearing thin, but he had to hold it together. He hadn’t been able to tolerate Toledo for a long time. His drunkenness and drug use had pushed them into a difficult situation, one they barely managed to crawl out of, and now this ungrateful fool was balking and being stingy. Any other captain would have kicked him out of the team by now, but Capo always prided himself on being lenient and tolerant — an altruist, a true humanist a heart, a soft soul, he told himself. Well, the truth was that he enjoyed the sport, but didn’t pay for it with as much enthusiasm. It was just entertainment for him, one of many side activities — not even the most important one.

“Toledo, my dear companion, you know I love you. Listen, settle the finances, we’ll return a third to you. And you’ll be the captain for this match. Captain! Captain Toledo! And I’ll be on the machine, you’ll give the orders and guide us!” Capo said.

“Really?” Toledo asked, his eyes sparkling, like a child promised ice cream for cleaning his room. “Really?” he looked at Joburg.

“Really,” she said maternally.

“Alright, let’s do it!” Toledo suddenly relented. He grabbed his phone and tapped on it a few times, surprisingly precise and decisive, as if he had suddenly sobered up and found a new purpose in life, muttering “Captain Toledo. Captain Toledo” as he did.

“Scan the Bitcoin address for the transfer,” Toledo offered Capo his phone, displaying the open crypto wallet. Capo scanned the address they had received from the commission and handed the phone back.

“Done. A hundred million.”

“Thanks, Toledo,” Capo said.

Toledo immediately corrected him.

“No! Say ‘Thank you, Captain Toledo,’” Toledo demanded seriously. “Say it!” he shouted.

Capo’s ears turned red. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, but managed to smile. He stood up abruptly from his seat.

“That’s right! We have to toast to this,” he said, standing tall, but didn’t say what Toledo wanted.

“To the captain!” Toledo yelled, still a cocktail of all sorts of substances in his bloodstream.

Capo moved to the drinks cabinet, where two new, full bottles of cognac stood. He pulled them out and showed Toledo, letting him choose. Toledo pointed to the Courvoisier, the one he had rejected on the way to Accra.

“Good choice, I’d pick that one too,” Capo praised him, with a forced sweetness. He popped the cork and slowly, ceremoniously, removed it. He moved behind the seat where Toledo was lounging like an emperor, roaring with laughter, mouth wide open, slapping the armrest with his palm. Capo gripped the bottle with both hands, his thumbs pressing on the bottom, palms squeezing the sides, elbows bent so the bottle neck shot upward, over his head. He raised it above Toledo like a trophy.

“You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time…” Capo recited Baudelaire somewhat accurately, before swinging the bottle down hard, hitting Toledo’s open mouth with the bottleneck. With both hands, he roughly pushed the bottle down his throat, forcing it into his windpipe… (continues)