The Proven Canary (1)
Monday, April 20, 2020. 7 Palmas.
Outside the hallway lockers after fourth period.
A fist-sized glass jar thrust abruptly into my field of vision. Inside was something pickled, and the lid was cinched tightly with chestnut-brown twine.
“Kim, my whole family made this together! We, we tried shaping the Las Palmas crest on top with lemon slices. And… you were so incredible in the final!”
“Thank you. I'll enjoy it.”
“Yeah!”
I had already lost count of how many gifts I had received today. Turning my head, I looked at my blue locker, which was practically retching from being stuffed to the brim, and fell into a dilemma.
Leaving the bulkier items on the floor seemed sensible, but I hesitated, worrying about how awful I would feel if some petty thief made off with them. It wasn't that I distrusted my classmates; rather, what bothered me was that the vast majority of these presents had been entrusted to them by outsiders. Dads and moms who were die-hard Las Palmas supporters, uncles, elderly neighbors next door, owners of regular neighborhood restaurants—and even absurd confessions that a complete stranger waiting outside the school gates had handed it over.
Every single one would have to undergo Dad's silver spoon test—Dad had even volunteered to be the royal food tester himself—but taking them all home first was the polite thing to do, wasn't it?
A moment later, beside the locker bank.
The moment I finally gave in and began stacking the overflow in a distant corner, a tap-tap on my shoulder pulled my gaze to the right. A male student with cropped brown hair and a prominent, angular jaw was holding out a rectangular wooden crate.
“My dad told me to give you this.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Delivering the crate and nothing more, he promptly spun around and vanished down the hall.
The rich fragrance of cedar drifting from the exterior piqued my curiosity. Sliding the lid open slightly, I found, nestled in a bed of wood shavings, a bottle of wine adorned with an elegant ribbon.
What in the world?
What was I even supposed to do with this?
…Is it for cooking?
After being thoroughly swamped by mountains of gifts, I arrived late at the cafeteria.
By the window, the beige table remained firmly under Freckles' command. An orange lunchbox was laid out, accompanied on the right by her ubiquitous scrapbook—an everyday sight that hadn't changed in the slightest.
“You're here?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you feeling… any better?”
I appreciated her concern, but the endless deluge of sympathy from the teachers since morning had already filled me to bursting. Without a word, I set down my oversized lunch container. Stella stole glances at my face, gauging my mood.
“I mean, after yesterday evening and everything… I thought you might be in a foul mood.”
Once again, I realized that everyone processes emotions at their own pace. I was already ready to take my next step, but evidently, others couldn't see it that way.
“What about me?”
“Well. You did say the runner-up plaque was basically a fruit platter… and that you felt like chucking the top scorer trophy straight into the bin.”
“……”
Poking her fork between slices of sweet pumpkin and cucumber, Freckles launched an unexpected ambush that completely ruffled my feathers. In that moment, I resented my own lips, which could only flap open and shut like a goldfish.
Damn it.
The more last night's rant was dredged up, the more disadvantaged I became.
“…I'm fine now. Don't worry about it.”
“Okay.”
‘Okay,’ my foot. Beneath the constellation of freckles peppering her cheeks—literally speaking—the corners of my wicked classmate's mouth showed no sign of dipping back down.
Shaking off the awkwardness, I laid out grilled fish, braised potatoes, asparagus, and thick cuts of beef across the table. Compared to the standard trays eaten by our peers, it might have looked extravagant, but the day after a grueling match, forcing down such a heavy meal felt rather burdensome.
“Oh, by the way, there wasn't a huge variety of articles today. Partly because time was tight, but mostly because so many editorials focused on Barcelona's internal strife. So I only picked out a few that looked worthwhile.”
“Sure.”
As I sluggishly lifted my spoon, Stella's buoyant voice signaled the start of her daily briefing.
“I'll start with Mundo Deportivo. Instead of offering customary victory remarks, Lionel Messi opened by saying, ‘The squad spent the time talking about Kim.’ He mentioned that the Barcelona players experienced quite a fresh shock—”
“Next.”
“Huh?”
“Read the next one.”
“U-uh, alright.”
That completely killed my appetite, prompting me to instinctively cut Freckles' reading short. I didn't want to nitpick the clippings she had worked hard to gather, but hearing Messi's name made my mood sour bit by bit. I wished she would stick to local Las Palmas outlets if possible.
Yet as bizarre articles followed one after another—a second, then a third—I finally began to understand why the school had been bombarded with gifts today.
“…Next.”
“……”
“Ah, there's one from France too. ‘The leadership of Paris Saint-Germain has opened the door to Neymar's potential transfer. The move aims to facilitate negotiations between Barcelona and Las Palmas to acquire Kim—’”
“Stop.”
Seeing her giggle right in front of me was profoundly grating. Perhaps a sharp rebuke was in order after all.
“Sorry, you'll actually like this next one. Honestly, this was the one I really wanted to read to you!”
Fortunately, Stella quickly flashed a broad grin and moved on to an article from an entirely different perspective. It was a column from a local Las Palmas newspaper.
“The title is ‘The Seeds of the Copa del Rey.’”
“Go on.”
“‘On the evening of April 19, the quest for glory came to an end. It was an outcome far removed from what the supporters of UD Las Palmas had prayed for. 5 to 3. Before sixty thousand spectators at the Estadio Olímpico de La Cartuja, Lionel Messi lifted yet another trophy, while we were forced to watch our first challenge in forty-two years dissolve into foam.’”
“……”
“‘How could anyone claim their heart was not broken? Who could speak calmly of what comes next? If defeats possess different calibers, one would have to say Las Palmas tasted a monumental one. Ah—wait, listen to just a bit more!’”
I didn't interrupt Freckles. If she had working eyes, she would have noticed the considerable disparity in height between my left and right eyebrows by now.
“‘Yet amidst the grief that weighed upon our chests, I glimpsed a spark destined to illuminate the coming era. At the very moment we wept alongside Nicolás Varela and swallowed our bitter frustration with Rubén Castro, that singular boy of Gran Canaria was standing upon the pitch, consoling Pepe Mel. Telling him we would go again, that we could do better. In doing so, he pledged a return to the fight.’”
Damn it…
“Huh?”
“…Nothing. Keep going.”
My appetite plummeted straight through the floor tiles.
No wonder Freckles, who usually trembled in horror whenever transfer rumors surfaced, was acting strange today. No wonder an avalanche of nonsensical gifts had inundated my locker.
There was no such thing in this world as goodwill without a reason.
The stadium's stands were unevenly tiered: two tiers ran along the touchlines, while the end stands behind the goals were single-tiered. As a result, a dense grove of trees was visible to the left of the stands, while to the right stood orange apartment buildings that blended seamlessly into the city's overall aesthetic.
“Kyung-heon, you want some peanuts?”
“No, thank you.”
Uncle Barry held out the snacks he had brought along, but my collar was stiff and irritating, completely killing my appetite. The dress shirt and black suit pinched uncomfortably around my armpits.
Who knew that needing only a draw to clinch the league title could make a person feel this miserable?
Why do people even wear suits in the first place?
“Kim, could I trouble you for an autograph?”
“Sí.”
Over the stepped rows of red seats, a man who had approached the front row asked for an autograph. Drooping eyes and an aquiline nose sat behind a round spectacle frame. His salt-and-pepper hair and deep nasolabial folds spoke of his seasoned age.
“…Chendo?”
Just then, an unexpected name tumbled from Uncle Barry's lips.
“Barry, long time no see. Please don't treat me too coldly.”
Though they didn't converse for long, the ripple effect left behind by the man named Chendo was immense. Real Madrid's match delegate had directly inquired whether we could clear some time in our schedule.
Uncle Barry had clearly not anticipated this encounter either; with a complicated expression, he had merely replied that he would be in touch.
“Do you know him?”
“Mmm, from back in the day.”
“…Should we go meet him?”
“Honestly, from a player's perspective, there's nothing to lose. The president of Real Madrid is asking for a meeting.”
For me… it felt a little bad.
If I had to choose between one and two, between Las Palmas and anything else, I didn't want to waver indecisively anymore. In the first place, I had no intention of sparing any mental bandwidth for such matters.
Soon, with kickoff fast approaching, the players of both teams lined up and walked onto the pitch holding hands with young mascots. Amidst the roaring cheers of the crowd, Uncle Barry whispered sweet words of persuasion into my ear.
“Well, it's not like you're transferring to Real Madrid this very second, right? So just hear him out. You never know how life turns out. Besides, sometimes you gain leverage just by showing your face, even without saying much. Haha, just wait and see. Once word of this leaks out, Miguel will go absolutely berserk.”
“…Miguel?”
“Of course. I didn't tell you, Kyung-heon, but counting Chendo—this is already the third formal approach since the Copa del Rey final. Before, Barcelona was the only one aggressively charging in.”
“Yes. And?”
“Kyung-heon, a seller's mind changes completely when there's one customer versus three. The seller starts questioning whether the price tag is set too low. Then greed kicks in: ‘Ah, even if I have to keep him a bit longer, I should hold out for a much steeper price.’”
I raised my right index finger and rubbed the back of my neck.
The prospect of meeting Real Madrid's club president, someone I'd never met in my life, felt burdensome, and at the same time, this half-finished dress shirt—in my personal estimation, at least—was tormenting my skin.
“…Alright, I understand for now. But Uncle, how much more do you intend to ask for in wages?”
“I don't have a specific number in mind yet. But I am unconditionally securing the highest wage on the team for you. On this… there is no room for debate. Even if you don't like it, Kyung-heon, as your agent, I cannot compromise on this.”
I couldn't tell if the problem was Uncle's uncompromising tone or this godforsaken yellow tie. Either way, it felt as though my throat were being suffocated.