Philip Kerr - False Nine

We parked in front of the entrance hall, which was like the lobby of a very modern hotel, where we were met by some people from the youth academy who led us to ‘the white house’ — the area reserved for the youth teams. Here were several dressing rooms, and seven pitches each with their own stand and the very same natural grass as that used on the pitch in the Santiago Bernabéu, which comes from Holland. Or so we were informed.

I wished the boy luck and then left him to get changed while Raul Serrano Quevedo from the club’s public relations department gave Madame Zakkai and me a tour of the main building.

This giant, T-shaped building is huge and contains dressing rooms, gymnasiums, classrooms, conference rooms, offices, a hydrotherapy pool and medical centre, press area, etc. on both sides of the complex. There are ten grass and AstroTurf football pitches surrounded by stands with a capacity for more than 11,000 spectators.

After our tour, Raul took us to the café-restaurant called La Cantera. He was a handsome, good-humoured man wearing a blue shirt and tie, and a blue quilted jacket, and his English was impeccable. Through the enormous windows the players’ friends and families could watch training sessions on the nearby pitches; members of the public were forbidden to watch however. Everything was brushed steel and white wood. A waiter brought us coffee, fresh orange juice and some delicious, sugar-free carrot cake.

‘Frankly, this is the most amazing training facility I’ve ever seen,’ I told Raul Quevedo. ‘I’ve stayed in some five star hotels that weren’t as good as this place. In fact, I think I just did.’

Raul nodded. ‘It’s taken a long time to get here, but we like it,’ he said, modestly.

‘You must like coming to work here.’

‘I love it. Every day I arrive I tell myself I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’

For obvious reasons my arrival had been scheduled so that I wouldn’t see an actual training session. Just in case. We were watching the kitman collecting each player’s boots from where they had left them beside the door to the dressing room a little earlier.

‘But then everyone who works here thinks the same,’ said Raul. ‘Even him. The kitman. He’d probably do the job for nothing if we asked him.’ He shook his head. ‘Actually, he’d probably pay us to do the job. Lots of guys would. That’s what this team means to people.’

I nodded. ‘I get that.’

‘It’s hard to see this place and not believe that you’re not going to win an eleventh Champions League title this year.’

‘Coming from a man with your Barcelona connections that’s high praise indeed, Mr Manson.’

We went to watch the game — Real Madrid’s Cadete A team versus the Cadete B team. John played for the Bs, which is as stern a test of a fifteen-year-old there is. I was nervous for him, as I wanted him to do well. John didn’t try to showboat, which is what happens to a lot of kids, but he was very strong and creative on the ball and when he chipped the goalkeeper from outside the box to score a goal, I knew he’d probably earned his golden ticket.

Almost as soon as the ball was in the back of the net Santiago Solari from Cadete A came to find us. Jokingly nicknamed the little Indian, Santiago was a tall, powerful-looking Argentine who was probably the same age as me. Back in the early years of the century Solari had been an effective midfielder for Atlético and then Real Madrid, before ending his playing career at Inter Milan. But like Zidane with whom he’d played — Solari had passed the ball to Zidane when he scored that famous wonder goal in Real’s 2–1 defeat of Bayer Leverkusen — he’d chosen to come and coach at Real. And when you saw the secret city it was easy to see why.

‘Where the hell did you find this kid?’ Santiago had been educated at Stockton University in New Jersey, USA, and his English was as good as my Spanish. ‘He’s excellent.’

‘So you will take him?’ I said.

‘Are you crazy? Of course we’ll take him. He’s the best kid I’ve laid eyes on since the first time I saw Lionel Messi play for your cadets at FCB. I’ve never seen a boy with better control of the ball than him. Balance, agility, confidence, and a ferocious shot. And what’s more he’s strong. Very strong. He can mix it with the best of them. With a physique like that he could be playing for the first team within two years. Like Martin Ødegaard. I just don’t understand how he’s not been on anyone’s horizon. There were thirty different clubs vying for Martin’s signature.’

‘He’s a Jew, that’s why,’ I said. ‘Since Charlie Hebdo it’s not so easy to be a Jew in Paris right now. Most of France’s Jews are keeping their heads down, or even leaving. And who can blame them?’

‘Jewish, huh? Then he could be the best Jewish player since José Pékerman.’ Santiago wagged his finger as I looked blank. ‘Argentine player. Coached the national side in the 2006 World Cup.’

John’s mother, Sarah, began to weep when I told her the good news. I took her hand and squeezed it.

‘All of this means you can get away from the banlieues ,’ I said. ‘That you and John can come and live here in Madrid. You’ll like it here. What’s not to like?’

‘Sure,’ said Santiago. ‘You’ll love Madrid.’

‘Thank God,’ she said.

‘Come with me, please,’ said Raul. ‘I’ll have someone show you around the place where the families live.’

They got up and went away to get someone from the accommodation wing to show Madame Zakkai where it seemed she was now going to be living.

‘But I don’t get it,’ said Santiago. ‘You’re a Barca man, Scott. At least you were before you went to London City. Why would you bring him to us and not to the Catalans? They’ve got an excellent youth academy of their own. You know, I’m still half-convinced that this is some kind of cruel joke. That you’re going to take him to FCB after all.’

‘You can sign him this afternoon, if you like,’ I said. ‘His mum’s here. And me to give him advice. So go ahead and draw up a contract. In fact I insist on it. But I’m not his agent. He doesn’t have an agent. Yet. But he soon will. As soon as you’ve signed him I’m going to call Tempest O’Brien in London and have her look after his interests from now on. However, just so as you know, I’m not making any money from being here. And I don’t intend to, so please don’t spoil it for me by offering. Perhaps you can cover my expenses and we’ll call it quits.’

Santiago nodded.

‘But you’ve still not explained why you brought him here to us. Does this mean you’ve fallen out with Barcelona? Please. I’d like to know.’

‘No, I haven’t fallen out with them. And if you don’t mind I’d like to keep it that way. My bringing John Ben Zakkai here to Madrid must remain confidential.’

‘Now I’m more puzzled than ever. No money. No kudos. I don’t get it.’

‘Oh, I thought about taking him to Camp Nou. Believe me, this wasn’t easy for me. I suppose I wanted to make sure that what I was doing was right for the boy and not me. I couldn’t have been sure of that if I’d obeyed my first instinct, which was to take him to my friends in Barcelona. It would have bothered me, you know? We’re born selfish and the game of football encourages us to be that way. To be tribal. To win at all costs. I’m surrounded by it. Infected by it. And that’s all very well but it’s not what makes us human. I guess I wanted to see if it was still in me, to perform an act of pure altruism.’

‘I see. At least I think I see.’

‘You might say that the pleasure of helping this kid get into football is sufficient reward for me. There’s not much room for religion in my life, Santiago. Maybe doing something like this is all the religion one really needs.’