The One Who Covets the Canary

Monday evening. The restaurant row near Santa Catalina Park.

Unable to hold out any longer against Pedri's pestering—for once, just answer your phone—I showed up at El Tendedero de Catalina, hauled in by the collar as good as voluntarily.

The view of the park from the third-floor rooftop wasn't bad. The clean wooden floor and interior furnishings, such a contrast to the peeling paint on the building's outer walls, struck me as more than a little satisfying too.

Pedri and Freckles had their noses buried in the menus, chattering away in a steady stream.

"Picked out everything you want to eat?"

"I'll… have this one."

"Don't worry about the price when you order. He's paying."

To Freckles, who stole a glance my way, I lowered my chin in a nod of assent.

I'd brought money from Dad, so there was nothing to be frugal about. And at the same time, I had to avoid poking the Chihuahua's hair-trigger temper whenever possible. He was the one who'd have to carry the conversation with Freckles on my behalf, after all.

I more or less settled on a blueberry drink, a hamburger, and a salad, then turned my head over the rooftop's low wall. The park below looked so densely packed with people there wasn't a square inch left to stand in.

They'd come thronging in before the sun even set, all for the Las Palmas Carnival held around February.

Once I'd finished giving the waiter our order, Freckles looked over the jammed-together tables around us and opened his mouth.

"How did you manage a reservation here? Anywhere on the parade route costs a fortune."

"I booked it to come with my family, originally."

My gaze was clearly fixed on the park below the building, but I could feel Pedri's eyes boring into the side of my head all the same.

How petty could a person be… over a restaurant reservation.

"Oh, I see. Could I ask how much a reservation at a place like this runs? I'm thinking it might be nice to bring my family here sometime."

While Freckles's lips fell slack in astonishment, I did my level best to keep my own jaw from dropping.

Hm. So the Chihuahua's rich.

"It's not that expensive."

"I only got this table because I know someone. On the day they burn the Sardina, I wouldn't even dare."

"What's a Sardina?"

"A kind of fish!"

Freckles whipped out his phone and showed me the word sardine through a Korean translation app.

"…Why would anyone burn a sardine?"

"Technically, it's a sardine's funeral. I don't really know where it comes from."

"I know this one! Back in the old days, as Lent approached—the forty-day fast observed before Easter (April 12)—every single sardine shipped to Madrid went rotten!"

Freckles rattled off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a history I hadn't been that curious about.

"So everyone who was disappointed grabbed torches and marched through the streets, and that supposedly grew into a playful funeral-procession culture. They pretend to weep, console one another, and when the procession reaches its end, they burn the sardine to send it off."

"……"

"It's a fake sardine. Made as a model."

Pedri spoke up from across the table, clearing up my private doubt for me.

Well, fair. They weren't about to burn a sardine alive.

"You've never seen it before? Not even once? It's genuinely fun."

"Like he would ever come to a place like this."

The playful look on his face needled me more than a little, but Pedri wasn't wrong. I'd caught the festival from far off before, but coming right into the thick of it… it had never been to Dad's taste, or mine.

What was so fun about it, anyway? Leaving the pair of snickering idiots behind, I took the drink the waiter set down. An orange wedge was wedged at the mouth of the enormous glass jar, and the ice inside had stained the drink a drab violet. For all its clarity, it fell well short of paying rent on the name blueberry.

"Looks like it's getting underway."

"Whoa!"

The crowd's cheering and singing filled every crack between the alleys to the brim, and Freckles's eyes sparkled like falling stars. A parade bus painted with palm trees was rolling into the park. Then a long, trailing skirt, fanned out like a peacock's plumage, came wheeling round and round along the prepared route.

Performers armed in every color flaunted an opulence of splendor you could feel even from afar. And so… until we were halfway through our food, the three of us watched the park below without exchanging much of anything. The relentless din did knit my brow every now and then, but the sight of the parade setting off was every bit as grand as it was loud.

Only once the parade had poured out of the park did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠conversation finally begin—complaints about school, the Christmas party (Pedri and Freckles were already old acquaintances), and UD Las Palmas. A new signing named Ribera had joined, apparently, and some player I'd never heard of called Araújo had gone off on loan to AEK. The two of them traded facts that were complete news to me as if it were nothing.

"Next up is the Copa del Rey? Against Real Sociedad?"

"Yeah. First leg on Thursday, second leg in March."

"Huh? Why would they suddenly play twice?"

"Ah."

Having spent his brief exclamations, Freckles went back to picking at the low-sodium lunchbox he'd brought along separately.

The gathering didn't break up until after eight. After two or three more parting jabs about answering my phone and some warm wishes for Freckles's transplant surgery, we scattered each to our own road. Pedri and Freckles vanished in a taxi almost at once; I waited a little longer on the street, then climbed into Uncle Bari's bumper car.

Thud— the old door made a noise like it might drop clean off its hinges. I was sure I hadn't shut it that hard.

"Have fun today?"

"Yes. More than I expected, actually."

It was true. Bearable, considering I'd been held captive for four hours. The show had been worth a look, and the food wasn't bad either. Maybe once Freckles was out of surgery, it would be nice to come back and eat here with him again. Of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠course, the prices on the food had been an absolute disaster.

"Good. Keep meeting up and hanging out like this. Do you have any idea how long it's been since you, Kyung-heon, called something fun?"

"…I suppose that's true."

There was ample grounds for suspicion, wasn't there.

And so the two of us went on trading jokes about each other's slouching in our seats—until, all at once, Uncle Bari's phone buzzed with a long bzzt.

The live drop in Uncle Bari's voice felt somehow ominous. I turned my eyes to the murals and banners lining the street, trying to ignore the bad omen. Just look at that pirate captain carved into the building, I told myself.

The familiar voice bleeding out of the phone belonged to a Las Palmas club official. I hadn't stirred up any particular trouble, so where had things gone wrong this time? My acorn-sized heart couldn't sit still and started performing somersaults all on its own.

"What is it?"

"The club wants me to come by for a word. I didn't catch the details."

"……"

"As long as it doesn't run too late, I'll stop by the house afterward and tell you the rest."

"Okay."

And a short while later, the man deposited me at Dad's house and rumbled—no, rattled—off toward the club office.

However I turned it over, there should have been nothing to worry about. I folded laundry on the bed and decided to stop stewing over the murky business. Of course, the fact that the worrying refused to stop made a lie of the decision, but there it was. By the time I noticed, the clock on the desk had crept to 10:50. I folded Dad's boxers at the sides and laid them on top of the pile. Was it that comfortable, wearing boxers… maybe I'd buy a pair and find out for myself.

Just then, a heavy thump-thump of knocking sounded at the front door. Given the heft of it, there was no mistaking Uncle Bari's pudgy fist. Desperate not to betray my nerves (so much for quitting the worrying), I did my best impression of calm. While Dad went to answer the door, I shoved my own clothes anyhow into the closet and stacked Dad's tidily into the living room drawer.

"You're back?"

"Yeah. Is Kyung-heon asleep?"

"Not yet. I told him you had something to tell me, so he's staying up."

"Mm. There's beer at home, right?"

"Only one bottle."

"Aigoo."

I rose from my spot and traded a nod with the man. His expression didn't look bad—which meant the first sign was about as good as signs got.

While Uncle Bari settled himself at the living room table, Dad fished a bottle of beer and some bar nuts out of the fridge. Ungh— no sooner had the man let out a small groan and planted his backside on the chair than the question shot straight out of Dad. The fallout, no doubt, of how clipped his words had been when he first walked in—and how poorly he'd hidden the unease beneath them.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Honestly. Let me get some beer down me first."

Uncle Bari bobbed his Adam's apple a few times, then came right out with something patently absurd—no, respectfully declared it, I mean.

"Barcelona's offering to pay the buyout. An official transfer proposal."

"……"

"What?"

Something in my brain had unmistakably short-circuited. Today was February 10. The winter transfer window had been shut for ten days now. Were they planning to talk business for the next window ahead of time? Even Dad, no student of the sport, waved the man's words off as nonsense.

"What on earth are you saying? That makes no sense. Explain it properly."

"A Barcelona attacker named Ousmane Dembélé picked up a long-term injury. They were originally planning to promote someone up from the B team to paper over the hole, but apparently they've applied to the La Liga offices to invoke the emergency signing rule."

"Emergency signing rule?"

"It's a mechanism that lets a club bring in a replacement—restricted to the same league—whenever one of their players goes down injured for six months or longer. Only the big clubs ever get to use it; on its face, it's a dirty, cowardly little trick."

So in the end, what it came down to was hunting for a stopgap player. I let out a short breath through my nose and turned my head toward Dad—meaning to check his complexion, in case he was unhappy about any of this.

…Dad looked, strangely enough, delighted.

"There's a system like that?"

"Yeah. Apparently Barcelona got their unofficial blessing as of last night. This morning an offer flew in promising to pay Las Palmas the buyout, and around evening… an official letter from the league office landed."

"And what's the club saying?"

"Saying? It's pandemonium over there. The coaching staff, the club owner, all of them pleading that you should at least see the season out first—but there's nothing to be done. They have to negotiate either way."

I was mildly bewildered. I'd assumed he would hate feeling the ground of our life shift under his feet, yet—from the sweep of his gestures down to the very tone of his voice—Dad was floating on air, as if he'd just unwrapped a birthday present.

"Kyung-heon, what do you think?"

"About the transfer?"

"Yes. Barcelona's transfer director even reached out directly—says he wants to meet you in person."

What was I supposed to do? I'd never once thought seriously about a transfer, and yet the very people closest to me all seemed to want me to change teams.

"No one's asking you to decide on the spot. But whatever you choose, I'd like you to meet the Barcelona man first. Nobody knows how things will unfold from here, and this experience will only serve you well."

"…It looks to me like you'd be happy if I transferred, Dad."

"First, weigh whether the terms are good. Meet the man, talk things through. There are things you simply can't know until you've seen them with your own eyes."

His gaze had drifted somewhere along the window, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and Dad went on lobbing lumps of worry at me, one after another.

"But if I'm being honest—go, if you can. Of course, staying at Las Palmas longer would be fine too. Just… don't wall off even the chance to climb somewhere higher."

"……"

"Sliding down is easy. Climbing up is hard. That's just how the world works, Kyung-heon."

Uncle Bari's advice to think of it lightly wasn't much comfort either. Until that single bottle of beer ran dry, I didn't add a single word.

"Let's think it over some more and talk again later."

"Okay."

Once Dad left to see the man home, I tidied the table and carried the empty beer bottle out to the veranda. A hush had settled over the interior. Should I open the veranda door, at least, and let the festival's clamor pour into the house? But delaying the puny decision in hopes of forgetting the enormous worry did no good whatsoever.

I switched off the living room light and went into my room, where I straightened out the heap of clothes I'd flung into the closet.

Barcelona.

I had wanted it too—to become a great player who kept stride with the world's best, whose face flickered across the TV season after season. For anyone with ambition, going had to be the right call, failure or no. Even Dad wanted me to go. I'd heard that line about a child's success being a parent's joy until I was sick of it.

But… Las Palmas. The island that had announced my new beginning—my home. Could I really hand over the alleys and buildings nailed into my head, and start all over from nothing? And what was I supposed to do about the bold boast I'd made to Head Coach Laios—that I'd become like Barcelona?

My head was a tangle. It had been barely a few hours since the three of us—Pedri, Freckles, and I—had sat down to dinner together, yet it felt as though I'd let the hem of that memory slip from my hand in a dream.

Even after the clothes were all put away, the business of laying weights on the scales of my heart went on. Not that I had any illusions about its usefulness.

Choosing only one thing was what I was dreadfully, hopelessly bad at.