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sky, and Faustino was taken aback. “Oh, right,” he said. “Of course. Sorry.” He waited for the other man to calm. It was an interesting process, like watching clear water sluice away a stain. When it was done, Faustino tried again.
    “What made you hate him?”
    “He was hard, unemotional. He didn’t seem to know what praise was. He was building me, and he did it ruthlessly. Much of what we did was as you’d expect — push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, sprints — all in increasing repetitions as time went by. I would meet one target, and instantly he would set another. And while I was working — usually when I was beginning to fade — he would suddenly blast the ball at me, and if I failed to get a hand or foot to it I would feel his icy disapproval. A few times he reduced me to tears, and when this happened, he would simply turn his back and wait for me to pull myself together. He was driving me, hard. The thing that puzzled and disturbed me was that he didn’t seem to be doing this for my sake, but for his. So, sometimes, I hated him.”
    Faustino had to ask the obvious question. “So, why didn’t you quit?”
    Gato seemed to find this surprising. “It never occurred to me.”
    “No? Not once?”
    “Not once.”
    “Okay,” Faustino said.
    “Besides,” Gato said, “it worked, this discipline. I gained stamina. I grew stronger. My body looked less and less like a bundle of sticks tied together with string. My arms and shoulders and thighs began to fill out. My big feet started to look appropriate. I was rather pleased with myself. I began to think that sometime soon the Keeper would announce that he was pleased with me too. I should have known better.”
    Gato poured himself a glass of water and drank from it. Faustino was quite sure that this break in the story was meant for dramatic effect.
    “One day,” Gato resumed, “I came into the clearing and was surprised to see the Keeper already in the goalmouth. It was a hot, heavy afternoon. The sky was stacked up with dark, grumbling clouds, and the light seemed unnatural. The air in the clearing shifted uneasily from side to side. A storm was brewing not far away.
    As soon as I stepped onto the turf, the Keeper moved a short distance out of the goal and told me to take his place. I stood more or less halfway between the posts. He watched me, silently, holding the ball under his arm. A glimmer of lightning flickered behind his left shoulder. I began to feel awkward but didn’t know what to say, or even if I was expected to speak. I shifted my feet, embarrassed. Then at last he spoke.
    ‘What do you feel?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
    ‘It’s not a difficult question. Tell me what you are feeling, standing there.’
    ‘Um . . . there’s a storm coming,’ I said. ‘And I’m wondering what you are going to make me do today. I’m wondering what you want me to say.’
    ‘No, no,’ the Keeper said. ‘Those are things you are
thinking,
and that is not what I asked you. You are standing in a special place. I want you to tell me what it feels like.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    He regarded me for a few moments.
    ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘I want you to walk to the goalpost to your right.’
    I did.
    ‘Now, put your hand on the post. No, face me, not the post. What do you feel?’
    What I felt was the coarse grain of the wood. Was that what he meant? I didn’t think so. I didn’t answer his question.
    ‘Very well. Now walk to the other post. Put your hand on it. What do you feel?’
    What the hell was he expecting me to say? This was stupid.
    ‘It’s an old piece of wood,’ I said. ‘The other post is an old piece of wood. The bar is another old piece of wood.’
    The Keeper’s shadowed face told me nothing. He may have felt my impatience but clearly it was of no importance to him.
    ‘How long did it take you to pace from one post to the other?’ he demanded.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘What is the distance from one