Renaldo (35 page)

visible in the distance. Renaldo had always likened his first glimpse of the

herds to the experience of the American Indians of the last century as they rode

over the crest of a hill and confronted the immense herds of wild buffalo that

roamed the plains. The brothers stopped to drink maté, the native herbal tea,

with a few of the gauchos who were tending the herd. Then it was on to their

favorite destination of years gone by, ‘Lake Lonfranco.’

In reality, the ‘lake’ was little more than a large pond shaded by mature

jacaranda and tipa trees, but their grandfather had brought their father to the

very same location years before. He had told a very young, very gullible Peter

De Seta that the pond was really just a small part of a huge underground

lake that he had discovered while mapping the area for settlement years before

any other civilized human had ever been to this particular part of Argentina.

Lonfranco had subsequently named the lake after a famous plainsman and great

explorer . . . himself! But what he hadn’t told Peter was that the lake was also

the scene of some of the most romantic liaisons he and Lydia had engaged in

during her first visit to Argentina years before. It was only the sanitized version

of the family folklore that had been passed down to the two brothers who now

swam in the invitingly cool water. For several precious moments that beautiful

summer day, all the world’s problems and turmoils disintegrated into a fond

remembrance of their youth.

Over the sandwiches and roast chicken that Oli had prepared for them,

accompanied by two bottles of a local white wine called ‘Torrontes,’ Renaldo

broke the first piece of news to his brother.

“I have been asked to join the preliminary lineup for our World Cup

team. Isn’t that crazy? I am still in shock! The day I arrived here, that morning,

I met with Octavio Suarez, the newly appointed manager. He talked about how

he is looking for some new faces, because of all the trouble with the veterans,

and . . .”

Lonnie almost choked on his drumstick as he listened to his brother’s

news. He was quick to taunt his younger sibling, cutting him off in mid-

sentence.

“You? On our National Team? A skinny little kid like you on Argentina’s

World Cup team? What have you been smoking, brother? Give me some, too,

so I can make the team with you! It must be primo shit! God help you, the

Brazilians and Germans will eat you alive!”

The older brother was writhing on his back, holding his head in disbelief

when he suddenly sat up, threw the half eaten chicken bone at his hurt-looking

companion, then pounced on top of him.

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RENALDO

“You little son of a gun, I always knew you were good! Right from those

first days when you could keep the ball away from me in the garden at home.

The only way I could get that damned thing back was to beat the crap out of

you. Congratulations, little brother! Now, you had better get me some damn

good tickets to your games.”

He rumpled Renaldo’s long, curly hair, then pulled him upright into a

sitting position and embraced him with sudden tenderness.

“What about Mama? Have you told her yet? She will shit! Don’t let her

talk you out of this one. I want those tickets! This is great news. I can’t believe

it. . . my little brother playing for Argentina in the World Cup. Amazing!”

“I have to make the team first, Lonnie, so your tickets are still in doubt at

the moment. And no, I haven’t told Mama yet. I thought you might have some

pointers for me, you being the one that is always in trouble, always giving her

bad news.”

He threw the chicken bone back at his brother, then reached for the open

wine bottle and took a healthy swig.

“I have some other news that you might find just as interesting. I had lunch

the other day with Symca, the rock star and television actress,” he commented

nonchalantly, a large smile planted on his face.

“Now I know you’ve been toking up. Who helped you make up these

fantasies? Maybe it’s LSD that you’ve been experimenting with. No grass is

powerful enough to give you these hallucinations.” Again the doubting tone of

voice and mock disbelief shrouded Lonnie’s face.

“Believe me, it’s true, all of it. The whole thing started in Córdoba. I tried

to tell you about it that Sunday that Mama made us go to mass together, but I

was so tired that I crashed when we got home. The next morning, you took off

to Celeste’s before I woke up. Anyway, I helped save a man, a very influential

man it turns out, from being hung, drawn, and quartered by a mob of pissed off

locals. So once we were safely in the hands of our military escort and on our way

to the train station, this bigwig says to Estes Santos and I that we have saved his

life, that he is indebted to us, and please would we ride back to Buenos Aires

in his private rail coach. That’s what started this whole thing.”

The storyteller stopped long enough to soothe his parched throat with the

local vintage, then continued to illuminate his spellbound listener.

“So Estes and I get a phone call to meet this guy for lunch ten days later.

No big deal we think. A free lunch, then the permanent kiss-off. But no, we

walk into this guy’s office, and who should be sitting there but Symca in the

flesh! She goes to powder her nose and The Fat Man, the guy we saved, says to

Estes that Octavio Suarez has asked for him to be the goalkeeper coach of the

World Cup team. And Suarez also wants me to try out for a spot in the lineup.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather!”

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JAMES McCREATH

Renaldo brushed his right hand past his face and fell languidly backward

to emphasize his point. The wine and sun were making him feel very good. He

raised himself up on one elbow and continued.

“Then it’s off to lunch at the Jockey Club no less, and for three hours I just

sit there, staring at the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. It was like I had

died and gone to heaven. She is an absolute angel, a very sexy angel.”

He was talking so quickly that Lonnie had to have him repeat several

details, especially about Symca’s short minidress.

“Man, oh man, for a schoolboy you sure have had an exciting few days.

What about Symca? Are you going to tell mother about her? She will really

freak out about that one! Well, look at it this way. If you become a doctor, you

can be a celebrity doctor that handles only football stars and entertainment

personalities. Renaldo De Seta, doctor to the stars.” He fell back on the cool

grass, laughing with great gusto.

“The best part is that Symca wants to see me again. She wrote me this note

before I came here.” Renaldo pulled the photocard from the inside pocket of his

blue jean jacket and handed it to his now thoroughly incredulous brother.

“Oooooh la la, this picture! What are you, some super stud or something?

I thought that I was the one that was good with the señoritas, but nothing

close to this has ever happened to me. Are you going to call her?” The leer on

Lonnie’s face left little doubt about the real meaning of his question.

“I don’t know. She must be just toying with me. I don’t understand girls

at all. You know me. I’ve only had a handful of dates all through high school.

Those were ones that Mama arranged so that I could go to the social functions

that she thought would be good for our family image. I’ll admit it, I’m lost!”

The anguished look on his face left little doubt that he was telling the truth.

“I have this feeling, one I’ve never had before. It is so weird. I can’t stop

thinking about her, yet I know that she will break my heart if I give her the

chance. What should I do, my wise and sexually experienced brother?”

They talked for over an hour, and through it all, Renaldo could feel that

Lonnie had something of great urgency that he wanted to get off his chest.

The younger brother had confided his innermost secrets to his older, more

worldly sibling, but now it was time to turn the tables and search the depths of

Lonnie’s soul. When a break came in their fluid discourse, Renaldo seized the

opportunity and struck with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“You have changed, Lonnie, I’ve noticed it ever since you arrived at the

estancia. Something is going on with you. Feel like opening up to your little

brother? I am a good listener, and I can keep a secret. What do you say? Is it

something to do with Celeste?”

Lonnie sat silently, deep in thought, all the while staring at his brother.
He

is a good kid, kind, and honest. None of this mess is his fault. How can I tell him that I

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am about to try to change the only values he has ever known? The values that have made

this family part of the ruling oligarchy, part of the wealthy bourgeoisie that I despise so

much. How can I tell him that I will stop at nothing, even the most violent acts, to bring

social change to Argentina?

Celeste had done her job well. In the almost two weeks that they had

spent together since his interrogation by her brothers, the tutor and student had

worked an exhaustive schedule of eighteen-hour days. They only left the flat to

shop for food and other necessities. A strict regimen prohibited the consumption

of alcohol and drugs, as well as abstinence from all physical contact.

Lonnie slept on the couch in the living room, the same couch where she

had first seduced him. This fact did not go unnoticed by its occupant during

the solitary, sexually repressed nights that he spent on it.

During their working time, Celeste gave him documents and excerpts

from textbooks and newspapers to read and memorize. She would then test him

on the material. If she was not happy with his progress, he was forced to address

the subject in question over again.

Lonnie, never a great scholar, took to this quest for knowledge with

newfound enthusiasm. He asked many insightful questions of his tutor, and

with each answer, learned a little more about the woman with whom he was

so deeply in love.

He had learned that her family had not joined the E.R.P., a militant

organization that was actually founded in their hometown of Tucumán, because

of its Marxist philosophy of class struggle and antinationalist leanings. They,

instead, threw their lot with the Perón-inspired Montoneros, who espoused a

fairer redistribution of the nation’s wealth.

The central policy was dubbed ‘Justicalism,’ the giving of social justice to

the long oppressed workers by redistributing the reserves and assets of the state

to the workers, all within a nationalistic framework.

Celeste’s eldest brother, Yannick, had attended university in Buenos Aires

with Mario Firmenich, the current Montonero leader, who was at that very

moment, either in exile or dead. Not even Firmenich’s most ardent followers

knew of their leader’s fate.

Yannick had participated in the kidnapping and assassination of ex-

president Pedro Eugenio Aramburu in May of 1970. Aramburu was the man

that had forced Juan Perón into exile in 1955, and as such, was the target of a

blood vendetta by the Montoneros. It took the rebels fifteen years to attain their

retribution, but when they did, Yannick Lavalle was there to see it happen in

person.

The violence did not end there, however, and in the end, those responsible

for Aramburu’s murder were hunted down and eradicated. Yannick and another

brother, Patrice, were blown to pieces right inside the family home in Tucumán.

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JAMES McCREATH

This personal tragedy for the Lavalle family only strengthened the resolve of

the remaining members to attain their goals of social justice through the most

violent means possible. The blood of their martyred brothers had not turned

cold before revenge had been exacted. And so it continued, right up to the

present.

The problem was that the government forces were winning the war, if not

all the battles. Not only were known members of the antigovernment forces

being systematically hunted down and incarcerated or executed, but their family

members, friends, and even their acquaintances were being dragged from their

homes and tortured until they surrendered at least some form of information.

The right-wing terror group, the A.A.A., declared outright war on any

individual or group that entertained leftist leaning. Community centers in

communist neighborhoods, upper-echelon trade unionists, and even members

of congress were targeted. The E.R.P. and Montoneros struck back by robbing

banks and food depots, in addition to assassinating police and military officers

that they believed were responsible for the deaths of their comrades.

Whether in the provinces or in the heart of Buenos Aires itself, the terror

squads from both left and right plied their deadly trade with cool efficiency and

little or no regard for human rights. Many an innocent victim was sacrificed in