Corporate Carnival (9 page)

10

Fooled by a Football

I
had a day and night in Dubai before I had to catch my flight to the Zuid Africaanse Republiek (that was the day I realized why the South African currency was referred to as ZAR). It was a good feeling not having to pay a visa fee. It made me feel very welcome. There aren’t too many countries where you don’t have to pay a fee as an Indian national. It’s not exactly a travel-friendly passport, though I dream of the day it will become one.

Emirates had introduced a direct flight to Durban, the city that Kitty and Shree were now visiting. Mina was at the King Shaka airport to meet me along with Kaushik uncle, Kitty and Shree. Also greeting me was a large banner of Nelson Mandela holding the golden World Cup trophy and another of President Zuma. There were numerous pictures of a footballer in silhouette against a swirling backdrop of South African colours – red, orange, yellow, black and blue – the tournament logo. A large printed message in front of me said: ‘Welcome to the land of the Zulu. Your soul may remember being here before’. Well, my soul couldn’t remember anything from the past, but it was already beginning to get a sense of things to come.

Kapoor had fixed a breakfast meeting with Prospero Pindoria who, coincidentally, was in SA for the World Cup. I was dreading the meeting. It was one thing meeting him along with Kapoor and have him fill in the blanks, dot the i’s and cross the t’s as required. But the thought of being on my own in a coffee shop with a deaf, eccentric old man with a high-pitched voice filled me with horror. But Kapoor had decided that the way to Pedro was through his brother, so that was that The magic of the World Cup was everywhere. You couldn’t miss it. Everyone was in football t-shirts. Billboards spoke one language. There was one that read: ‘The World Cup’s coming to Africa. Let’s keep it here’. Another one said: ‘Kick out Malaria. Africa 1, Malaria 0’. There were many others along similar lines. ‘Fan Fests’ were being organized in private by various groups of people, complete with giant screens and free eats. Dutch supporters were travelling all over in their ‘Oranje’ caravans. Waiters at restaurants had a picture of a football stitched onto their uniforms and a little message underneath: ‘South Africa can’.

I was sitting in the coffee shop at Hotel Beverley Hills, located in an upmarket suburb of Durban called Umhlanga Rocks (I will tell you later how the word ‘Umhlanga’ is pronounced), where Prospero had a permanent suite. I was told by my aunt that this was where Shahrukh Khan had stayed during a part of the IPL in South Africa. I was staying at the Oyster Box, which was just adjacent.

Smiling brightly and trying to erase the memory of my last meeting with the gentleman, I started off chirpily. ‘So!’ I said. ‘How was Spain?’

‘The pain in my feet has subsided,’ Prospero replied, his voice echoing around the place, ‘but I have got a frozen shoulder.’ He made a couple of bird-like movements with his arms, bending them at the elbow and turning them in a circle. ‘I can do this,’ he said, ‘but it hurts to do this.’ He showed me a few more exercises. He had already got the attention of a good number of customers in the coffee shop. ‘For my feet, I dip them in warm water three times a day. Morning, afternoon and…’

The others stopped eating midway as they eagerly waited for him to complete his timetable for soaking his feet in hot water.

He had put two sugar cubes in his tea by mistake – apparently against his doctor’s strict instruction to stick to just one – and was busily engaged in fishing one out with a spoon. ‘It has got half melted,’ he said, unable to hide an element of glee from his voice. ‘Morning, afternoon and evening,’ he concluded loudly. ‘The doctor says it is good for my feet.’

The waiter hovered around, asking us if we would like bread. He seemed concerned that Prospero wasn’t replying. But Prospero’s mind was elsewhere.

‘I was there at the bull run at Pamplona last week. I go every year. It is…’ He gestured with his hands, eyes closed, trying to think of the perfect word. ‘Magic!’ he said, spreading his hands wide like one who has just conjured up a trick. ‘It makes me feel young, strong, masculine!
Viva Espana!
’

‘Er… would you like some bread?’ I asked him, trying to save the waiter from further embarrassment. ‘Bread!’ I repeated, raising my voice.

‘Red? Oh, yes, red. It is supposed to attract the bull. But you know what, young man? The red colour is just to make it attractive for the spectators. The bull is actually colour blind. It makes no difference to the bull if it is red or yellow.’

Towards the end of the meeting, I desperately tried to bring up the subject of his brother, but he simply refused to even acknowledge the Pedro motif in the conversation. The meeting turned out to be a complete waste. Later, I called my uncle, who turned out to be far more enterprising. He fixed up a meeting with Pedro that very afternoon.

Pedro owned a large resort overlooking the Indian Ocean at Umhlanga Rocks, close to where I was staying. One part of the resort, Kaushik uncle told me, was reserved for the parties he frequently and famously held, usually for footballers, cricketers, diplomats and the well-heeled. But I met Pedro at a sprawling mansion in another of Durban’s prosperous suburbs, Lalucia Ridge. I was guided to his room – or den, as he called it. It was in the basement, a large hall at least 50 feet long. At one end was a 56-inch television. He sat at the other end, sporting the air of a reigning monarch. He was a tall man – by my standards – just over six feet perhaps, and sat comfortably on a bulging sofa. What was particularly striking about him was not his height, though. It was his build. If you asked an eight-year-old to draw a ‘muscleman’, the kid would probably end up drawing a body like Pedro’s. He was wearing a t-shirt and track pants. His rippling muscles beat any steroid-pumped film hero’s. Unlike his elder brother, who was distinctly European in appearance, Pedro was fair but with very Indian features. I wondered where his loyalties lay, what with an Indian father who had settled in Uganda, a Spanish mother and a lifetime split between Spain and South Africa. On the two long walls were several frames which contained t-shirts signed by – as far as I could make out – football players. There were several other pictures of the football players themselves. One large picture was that of several elderly African women playing football. I wondered what that was about. Behind him were pictures of women, some known to me, some unknown, some of them posing with Pedro, some by themselves, but all of them dressed somewhat uninhibitedly.

‘How’s it, man?’ Pedro asked, stretching out his hand. Deducing correctly that this was some form of greeting rather than any real intention of gathering information on ‘it’, I smiled and stretched out my hand to shake his. What followed was a bit of unintended comedy not unlike what happens sometimes when Western Heads of State meet the Japanese Prime Minister. I stretched out my palm in the regular Western style at waist level, while he swung it in from his right, chest high, fingers pointing upward, all bluff and hearty. Just as he switched to my style, I changed to his, resulting in some mild embarrassment, never a good thing to start a meeting with.

With a light smile and an air of imperiousness, he gestured to a sofa by his side. My uncle had told me that Pedro was better known in Durban as ‘the Don’ and at that moment the name seemed apt. I perched at the edge of the sofa. The sofa was so deep that if I leaned back, I would be practically lying down.

‘You like football?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said guardedly. ‘But I’m… er… still learning about it.’

‘What do you mean, learning?’ he rasped sharply. ‘You’re old enough to know all about it.’

I felt my heart sinking. It seemed to have reached knee level already. This guy was not going to be easy. He might not be hard of hearing like his brother but he seemed downright nasty, which was worse. A pang of self-pity shot through me. Why couldn’t people open accounts based on one’s knowledge of investments? Why did football have to come into it? And why did I keep bumping into eccentrics? Why not normal people? Maybe because, I answered myself, normal people had only normal amounts of money. And that was not something private banking businesses were interested in.

‘But you do
like
football?’ he said suspiciously, with the air of one all set to treat me like one if I replied in the negative.

‘Absolutely!’ I said, more confidently this time. And added, rather cleverly, ‘The beautiful game!’

His face lit up. ‘Ah!’ he said and closed his eyes as if in complete agreement. ‘So you would like to open my account at Abbott bank.’

‘Very much,’ I said. I liked it when people came straight to the point. But could it be this easy?

‘I have four accounts with four banks. At least 10 million dollars each. All those bankers are huge football fans. Maybe I can open a fifth account with you.’

I smiled brightly and respectfully. Also, I hoped, endearingly and winningly.

‘Who is your favourite player?’ he asked.

‘Pelé!’ I said at once. I knew very few footballers, past or present, but I knew Pelé as one of the greats and that was the first name that came to mind. Then, noting a slight look of surprise on his face, I added, ‘My all-time favourite player.’

‘Who is your favourite 2010 World Cup player?’

I blanched. The only two current footballers I knew of were England’s David Beckham and Bhaichung Bhutia of India. I understand enough football to know that India did not compete in football at this level, but I had no idea if Beckham was playing in the World Cup. I decided to take a chance. ‘Er… David…’

‘Viya!’ he exploded. ‘Yes! Daveed Viya! He is one of
my
favourites too!’ He pointed to a picture of a chappie wearing a red shirt. On it was written ‘DAVID VILLA’. I smiled weakly.

We looked at each other. He seemed to be sizing me up. I decided to change the subject.

‘Are you in the construction business, sir?’ I asked.

‘I am,’ he answered, ‘but all that’s handled by other people. Nqobile takes care of my business and Govinder handles the finance and investments. In terms of time spent, you can say I am now, for all purposes, in the football business. My main aim is to promote football, particularly African football. For all of us on this continent, especially in South Africa, FIFA 2010 is a dream come true.’

We were back to square one. Football. Now I knew how Peggy must be feeling out in London.

‘All I do for the construction business is to sign cheques. How it takes care of itself I don’t know. Maybe He plays a role in it.’ He pointed upward.

Sudden a flash of brilliance passed through my brain. I had remembered that infamous goal of Maradona.

‘The hand of god,’ I said, feeling terribly pleased with myself. Even a genuine football fan might not have caught this cue, I thought vainly.

‘Do you know what we call the South African men’s team?’ he asked.

Much to my delight, I remembered this question from a recent quiz at my friend Harsh’s place. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the answer very well. I knew it was not ‘banana banana’ but it was very close to that. Could it be ‘bamana bamana’ or ‘bawana bawana’? I decided to take a chance. ‘Bawana bawana,’ I said in a low voice, hoping he wouldn’t notice the mistake even if there was one. It worked.

‘Correct!’ he said, beaming with pleasure. ‘Bafana bafana! And our girls’ team is banyana banyana!’

I smiled nonchalantly, intending to convey that this was basic stuff.

‘Our football stadium in Durban is called Soccer City, agree?’ he asked.

I didn’t have a clue, so I nodded. It must have been the typical Indian nod, the one in which the head doesn’t move up and down as in the West, but bobs about in a general sort of way which only a person whose parents are both Indian can ever hope to decipher. Pedro, not having this advantage, misunderstood.

‘Correct again!’ he shouted excitedly. ‘You are shaking your head! So you know that Soccer City is in Johannesburg, not in Durban! Here it is called Moses Mabhida Stadium!’

I laughed happily, if a little nervously. This, I was beginning to realize, was one of those days when everything went right, even wrong things.

He pointed to another picture – a middle-aged face that conveyed nothing to me. ‘What did you think of his performance in the last match?’

‘Brilliant,’ I said, taking a chance.

‘That one, close to the interval…’ Again he closed his eyes as if in reverence.

‘What a goal!’ I said. I was feeling confident now. This football interview was actually working in my favour. If my luck held out, in another minute I would have this fellow eating out of my hand.

He turned to me sharply. ‘What goal?’ he asked, returning to that nasty rasping tone with which he had begun this conversation.

I turned cold. There was a 10 million dollar account at stake.

‘The goal he scored,’ I mumbled.

Pedro Pindoria looked at me with contempt. ‘Iker Casillas does not
score
goals!’ he sneered. ‘He
saves
them. He is Spain’s captain and goalkeeper and, in my opinion, the best goalkeeper in the world.’

Pedro was eyeing me keenly. His gaze seemed to go right through me, making me sweat profusely.

‘Let me ask you one last question. If you get this right, you get my account. If you don’t, you don’t.’ He had now picked up a football and was spinning it around on his index finger. To my inflamed senses, he resembled Lord Vishnu with his chakra, all set to aim it in the direction of my neck. ‘We have seen a lot of Jabulani in this tournament,’ he said. ‘Who is he? Is he a goalkeeper, scorer or defender?’

I looked him in the eye, hoping the correct answer would, in some miraculous way, be mirrored in them. But his eyes held no clue. My heart was beating fast. I was thinking hard. This seemed to be a trick question. Could it be somebody other than these? Who else was involved with the game? Could it be some minister? An official? No. A referee maybe? Possible. Or say, a coach.
A coach!
That was it. A coach. Not a goalkeeper, defender or any star scorer. It was some celebrity coach.

‘None of them,’ I said.