"I heard you played a decent game yesterday," Señor Garcia broke the silence. His head down, focused on some novella.
Jordi looked up from his brand new copy of El juego del ángel. He stared at Señor Garcia as if looking for some hint. Finding none, Jordi looked back down and said, "It was ok. I scored the winning goal."
"Heh, that idiot uncle of yours has been strutting around the neighborhood boasting about his nephew. If I didn't know him any better, I would think you were the reincarnation of Maradona or someone."
Little Jordi, without looking up, just shrugged. This was how Señor Garcia was, and that was how Uncle Ferran was. Both slightly weird in their own ways.
A comfortable silence returned, the third companion to this mismatched duo of an old, grumpy man and a small, sensible boy.
"What do you want to do, Jordi?" Señor Garcia closed his book and looked up at Jordi.
Jordi was, once again, unsure of why Señor Garcia was talking so much today. "What do you mean?"
"You want to run your mother's bakery? You could also grow up and run my bookstore, you know. Sit here and read all day. That sounds good, no?"
Jordi's thoughts went in the direction of Señor Garcia's words. He did not want to run the bakery. His mother and uncle could do that. Running this bookshop, however, sounded like a dream. He could spend every day surrounded by so many stories.
Just as Jordi found comfort in his fantasies, Señor Garcia witnessed him sit up straight as if a current passed through him. His eyes, hazy in thought a moment before, lit up with a sharp and blinding light. Señor Garcia sighed and sat back, awaiting Jordi's response to confirm his fear.
"NO! No, Señor. I want to play football! No, not just football… I will play for Barca at the Camp Nou. I will play with Leo Messi!"
Jordi jumped up and passionately stated. His small shoulders were tense, but his face wore the widest smile ever. A smile only possible after meeting and recognizing one's fate.
Señor Garcia chuckled and shook his head. Melancholy set deep in his eyes, hiding a secret that awaited Jordi one day. A secret as inevitable as football in the storied life of Jordi Lloret.
Fresh off a defining realization, Jordi placed the book back on the pile near the entrance, gave Señor Garcia a wide smile, and ran out.
Señor Garcia watched him till he bolted into the bakery a 100 metres away.
"I did what I could, little Layla. We cannot fight destiny. Even Don Quixote had to surrender to it. Who are we to be able to defeat it?"
He picked up his landline to call his daughter.
"That brat Ferran must be with her again. I should warn him beforehand."
…
As Jordi ran out of Old Garcia's bookstore, across the narrow street, Ferran Lloret was sharing a lover's meal with Ona Garcia in Madam Sofia's restaurant. Spotting Jordi run out, Ferran understood that his sister's plan had failed. Slightly pumped, but also scared of his sister's reaction, Ferran quickly got up to get his coat.
"It seems that the old man failed. I told Layla that he is no good."
As Jordi ran out of Old Garcia's bookstore, across the narrow street, Ferran Lloret was sharing a lover's meal with Ona Garcia in Madam Sofia's restaurant. Spotting Jordi run out, Ferran understood that his sister's plan had failed. Slightly pumped, but also scared of her sister's reaction, Ferran quickly got up to get his coat.
"It seems that the old man failed. I told Layla that he is no good."
"That no-good, old man is my father, Mister Ferran Lloret," the pretty Ona Garcia spoke up in a charged tone.
Ferran halted his steps, walked around a table, and kissed Ona on the forehead. "Am I wrong?" he whispered. Then, he sprinted away from his fiancée and after his nephew.
Ona Garcia could only smack her thigh in anger before breaking into a chuckle. Her eyes tinged in worry for what Layla was about to go through.
"Ona, your father has called for you. Just pick it up from the front desk. Oh, and tell him that I won't come for cards today." Sofia's husband shouted from the kitchen.
…
Layla walked out of the kitchen, just having saved the second batch of bread from burning. As she sat down on the stool behind the counter, the door opened with a sharp bell. She looked up to see her Jordi stopping in front of the counter. Standing on his tiptoes, only his eyes were visible from Layla's position. Yet, for a mother, just the eyes are enough to lay bare all that is hidden.
Layla recognised a passion and happiness she had never before seen in her son's eyes. Jordi's eyes were so bright, the light in them could reflect off the tears slowly gathering in Layla's eyes. Layla quickly looked down and took advantage of the tall counter to quickly wipe her eyes.
"Mama, I will play for Barca! Mama, I know it, I will play for Barca and…" Jordi was cut off by the bell, this time announcing Ferran's return. His face was gripped in anxiety and he was out of breath, but he managed to muster up a smile when he saw his sister and nephew staring at him.
"Uncle, I will play for Barca!" Jordi beamed at his uncle before turning back to his mother, "Right, mama? I will play for Barca. You'll see me in the blaugrana colours. What do you think, mama?" Jordi managed to complete his sentence in between his bursts of laughter.
Instinctively, a clear rejection rose to Layla's tongue, but she stopped when she saw the look on Ferran's face.
Since her return to El Raval, it was she and Ferran who raised Jordi. She knew how fiercely protective of her son her younger brother was. Layla had long ago admitted her fleeting jealousy of Ferran and Jordi's friendship.
Hence, now that she saw that unprecedented look of anger and warning on her little brother's face, she paused. At that moment, Layla realised that she could not hinder her son for her selfish reasons. Her son, Jordi Lloret, should live a life free of the burdens of her past. He should pursue his dreams without hesitation. And if he ever stumbled, she would be there. If she was not enough, then they had her little brother, her rock.
As new tears displaced the previous tears, Layla Lloret let go of her past. The neighbourhood of El Raval, the beautiful people of this neighbourhood, her little bakery, her brother, and her son—this was her world, it was warm and simple. It was lovely.
She stared into Jordi's blue eyes that so resembled hers. She smiled at him and said, "Of course. My little Jordi will light up this city. He will be the best footballer ever."
In that moment, Layla Lloret did not know how true her lightly spoken words would turn out to be.