Renaldo (25 page)

As it turned out, her prayers were answered with a one to nil English

victory. Argentina was eliminated from the competition, and Peter would be

coming home. Now she would deal with Lonfranco!

Florencia waited anxiously for word from England that Peter was safe and

exactly when he would be returning to Buenos Aires. The telephone never rang

that entire evening.

She tried to remain calm, resisting the temptation to call his hotel in

London, perhaps because she dreaded the thought of not being able to reach

him. Señora Florencia De Seta passed yet another sleepless night, with the now

familiar knot ever-present in her stomach.

July twenty-fourth dawned clear and unusually humid for the time of

year, and Florencia had Oli serve breakfast on the patio for her and the two

boys. She hardly touched her coffee or toast, and as the boys kicked a soccer ball

around the garden, she sat contemplating her course of action if there continued

to be no word from Peter.

The persistent ring of the doorbell brought Oli running from the kitchen.

She opened the large, steel-plated door and was about to scold the person on

the opposite side for being so impatient. Bue she stopped after her first word,

inhaling deeply and standing with her mouth agape.

The elder of the two men, an aristocratic-looking man dressed in a finely

cut business suit, spoke immediately.

“I am Dr. Renaldo Las Heras, and this is his Holiness Monsignor Robitaille.

Where is Señora De Seta? We must see her at once!”

Oli was barely able to mumble the word ‘garden’ as she pointed to the rear

of the house. A fervent Catholic, the sight of the Monsignor at the door had

left her breathless. She crossed herself as the two men brushed passed her and

strode purposefully toward the rear of Casa San Marco.

114

RENALDO

Florencia had put on her sunglasses to shield her sleepless eyes from the

bright rays. She couldn’t help but think that she might need them for another

reason today. The sight of the two men entering the patio confused her at first.

She suddenly became lightheaded, as if she were watching the scene unfold

from outside her own body. Her palms became covered in perspiration, and

she was unable to rise from her chair to greet them. The knot tightened in her

stomach.

Monsignor Robitaille was at her side before she could move, and as he

grasped her hand, looked down at her with large, sorrowful eyes. Once again,

it was Dr. Las Heras that spoke.

“Señora, please pardon this untimely interruption, but we have tragic news

from England. There has been an accident. Your husband, Peter, Señora. Oh,

sweet Jesus! Señora, I am afraid your husband is dead! It was a traffic accident,

but further details are still unclear. I have been in touch with the authorities

in London, and I have taken the liberty of making the arrangements to return

Peter to you in Buenos Aires. I loved that boy as if he were my own son, Señora.

It is such a tragedy, such a waste! Please accept my heartfelt condolences. The

Monsignor will remain with you as long as you need him, and please, please

Señora, let me assist you in any way I can.”

Florencia had sat in silence as Dr. Las Heras spoke. She wasn’t taking in

his words, for she already knew what he had come to tell her. She had become

fixated on his appearance. So dapper and well turned out.
He must be close to

eighty years old
, she thought to herself.
How good he looks for his age
. It wasn’t until

he had finished talking and stood waiting for several seconds for a response that

she finally found the strength to reply.

“Peter? My Peter? Is dead? I, I knew something . . . Peter! Oh, my Peter!

No . . . not . . . Peter!”

Her voice rose audibly each time she pronounced his name, to the point

where she was literally shouting. Then suddenly, a deadly silence hung over the

beautiful garden, Florencia having collapsed back into her chair.

The boys, who had stopped their play to stare at the two strangers talking

to their mother, ran to her side.

“Mama, Mama, what’s wrong? What’s wrong? Where is father? What’s

the matter with my father?” Lonnie pleaded.

Lydia appeared on the patio at that moment, Florencia’s screams of Peter’s

name bringing her in full flight from the far end of Casa San Marco. She had

remained in her suite late that morning before venturing downstairs for a light

breakfast, preferring to write a few lines to her relatives in England, thanking

them for being so hospitable to her son during his trip.

“Florencia, what on earth has happened? Why were you calling Peter’s

name like that?” She ran to her daughter-in-law’s side. This time it was the

Monsignor who spoke.

115

JAMES McCREATH

“Your son, Señora. I am terribly sorry. It seems that he was hit by a lorry

while leaving Wembly Stadium after the football match. Dr. Las Heras has

spoken directly to England. He was told that your son died instantly, painlessly!

I am at your disposal for as long as you need me, Señora.”

Lydia couldn’t help but notice the Monsignor’s large, sad eyes. She had

prayed at his masses many, many times. Both these men were longtime trusted

friends of the family. It was only fitting that news such as this be delivered by

men that shared the family’s grief and sorrow.

Dr. Las Heras drew a chair to Lydia’s side. She refused to sit. Instead, she

gathered the two scared, weeping boys in her arms and knelt down so she could

look directly into their confused, anxious eyes.

“My special boys, you will have to be strong now. Your father has had a

very bad accident in England. He will never be coming home again, but I am

certain the Monsignor here will tell you that he is sitting with Jesus right this

minute up in heaven. He is not alone. God and Jesus will look after your father

forever now! I bet he is looking down at us right this minute, and hoping that

we will all help each other to keep on going. We must all be strong, that is the

way your father would have wanted us to be!”

Lonnie pried himself free of his grandmother’s grasp and throwing the

soccer ball as hard as he could against the stucco garden wall, screamed at the

top of his lungs,

“I don’t want to be strong! I want my father back here now! It’s those

goddamned English. They did this to him! Your people, Gramma! Your people.

I hate them! I hate them! They killed my father. Don’t touch me! You’re one of

them. Those Goddamned English. I hate them all . . . even you!” With that, he

fled the patio, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The staff had gathered on the edge of the covered terrace, keeping a

respectful distance between themselves and their employers. There was not

a dry eye among them. Young Renaldo held his grandmother tightly. He

whispered in her ear after Lonnie had left.

“Don’t worry, Gramma, I know Lonnie didn’t mean those awful things.

He loves you very much, just like I do. Don’t worry. If father is with Jesus, he

will be just fine. Will he write us some letters though?”

“No, my dear boy. You can’t write letters from heaven. But when we say

our prayers at night and when we go to mass, I know that he will hear every

word we say to him.”

The Monsignor helped Florencia upstairs to her room. Doctor Las Heras

then administered a sedative to the new widow and put her to bed. Lydia stayed

with Renaldo and tried her best to make him understand all the things that

would be happening next.

116

RENALDO

They talked about what a funeral was and how his father’s body would

be put inside a large metal box and laid to rest beside Renaldo’s Grandfather

Lonfranco. The boy was full of questions, and yet, seemingly calm and under

control. He was, in truth, Lydia’s strength in this dark hour. The grandmother

understood death well, having been touched by its hand so often in the past.

She would grieve for her only child, but she would do it on her own terms,

behind closed doors. The matriarch must be the pillar of the family! She must

teach the boys, and their mother, life’s cruelest lesson. But above all, she must

show them, by example, that life does go on.

Dealing with Lonnie over the following days was agonizing for everyone.

He locked himself in his room, and when a pass key was used to open the door,

Oli found that it still would not budge. Lydia suggested that her grandson had

probably barricaded all the furniture in the room against it. All entreaties to

either come out or let someone in failed for two days. Finally, in the early hours

of the third morning, Olarti, the long-serving chauffeur-handyman, placed an

extension ladder against Lonnie’s window and was able to force an opening

large enough to gain entry.

The sleeping boy didn’t stir until morning. Olarti had sat calmly in an

easy chair, waiting for him to awaken. The two had been fast friends for years.

Olarti sometimes let Lonnie drive the servant’s old pickup truck on the quiet

side streets when no one was around. Of all the people at Casa San Marco,

Olarti had the best chance of helping Lonnie come to grips with his father’s

death.

The grieving child awoke startled and angry. He ordered Olarti out of

his room, but the sly servant had pushed the ladder away from the building

and down onto the lawn. The only way for him to leave, he told Lonnie, was

through the bedroom door. They spent the entire day alone, talking, and in the

end, a ravenous Lonnie De Seta finally emerged from his sanctuary to confront

the cruel world.

He was a changed youth, however, and no one felt the sting of his bitterness

more than Lydia. He would not be in the same room with her unless it was

absolutely necessary, and at that, he would not look at or talk to her. Lydia, for

her part, was as gracious and understanding of the boy’s feelings as any human

could possibly be. Again it was Olarti that finally got through to Lonnie about

how he was hurting his grandmother for something in which she had no part.

He used a personal example to drive home the message.

“Oli and I have worked for your family for many, many years now, Señor

Lonnie, just as my mother worked for the famous general that built this casa.

You know that we are native Indians from the Pampas region. Well, General

San Marco, your grandfather’s best friend, was a great man. A brilliant soldier!

But it was his job in the army to drive all the Indians from our homelands so

11

JAMES McCREATH

that the railways and cattlemen could use the land. My parents were driven

from our home when I was just your age. It was very hard for them. My father

was a proud man who would not leave what he felt was rightfully his. So he

fought the soldiers, and they killed him! My mother, sister, and I had nowhere

to go.

“By chance, we happened to come across General San Marco as he was

taking possession of Buenos Recuerdos. He was in need of servants and laborers

to work on the estate in his absence. My mother could speak fluent Spanish and

was a hard worker. She was able to get employment not only for herself, but also

for my sister and me. Now, it would have been easy for us to hate the general for

what his soldiers had done to my father, but he was a fair and benevolent man. I

could not hate all the soldiers for the acts of a few who were following orders.

“It is the same with your feelings for your grandmother. Your father’s

death was an accident. There was no English plot to kill him. Only one

Englishman was involved in his death, the one that was driving the truck that

hit him. Your grandmother was not driving that truck. She loved your father

very much, and now you are breaking her heart. You must see that this whole

tragedy has nothing to do with her. Go to her and tell her that you love her,

for there is nothing so pure in this world as the love of a grandmother for her

grandchildren.”

Olarti’s talk had the desired effect on Lonnie. He was able to mend his

relationship with Lydia and carry on with his life. He was, however, prone

to fits of violence that were extremely unpredictable. He became a patient of

one of the leading psychiatrists in Buenos Aires, who recommended sports,

specifically rugby football, as an outlet for his emotional and physical demons.

The Newton Academy happened to have an excellent rugby program, and

the sport became Lonnie’s passion. While he struggled academically, always

in need of private tutoring to make a passing grade, he excelled on the rugby

pitch. He led the academy team to three consecutive city championships in his

final three years there, but his grades were such that he was forced to transfer

into an arts program at the University of Buenos Aires upon graduation. This

did not concern him in the least, for his goal in life was to make the Argentine

National Rugby Side and compete at the international level.

The sport had been a perfect outlet for his explosive temper, and through