Renaldo (39 page)

yet, she must be out.

He had sat staring at the phone for over an hour. Looking, but not

touching, as if it were a poisonous serpent.

Believe in yourself, believe in yourself! Come on, do it!
Now it was too late.

There was no hanging up, no turning back. He half wished that the phone

would continue to ring, that she would truly be out. At least he would have the

consolation of knowing that he had been man enough to try and reach her. The

sudden click of the receiver on the other end of the line startled him.

“Ola, darlings, you have reached Simone, but I am not here to talk to

you in person. So please leave me a brief message with your phone number

included, and I will get back to you pronto. Stay cool, and we will chat soon.

Ciao, darlings.”

A damn answering machine! I hadn’t expected something like this. What do I say?

Oh, damn it!
Renaldo was frantic, totally unprepared to talk to an electronic

device. The beeping tone of the machine came and went, and he knew that he

had to say something that instant.

“Hello, Simone . . . this is Renaldo De Seta speaking. We met at Señor

Gordero’s office and had lunch together at the Jockey Club before Christmas.

Señor Gordero delivered your card to me. That is how I received this phone

number. If you remember who I am and would like to talk to me, my number

is 555-2619. Thank you very much. Have a nice evening. Good-bye.”

He replaced the receiver onto the body of the telephone and stood there in

the living room of Casa San Marco shaking.

Good God, how did I sound? I have never spoken to a machine before. I bet I

sounded like a real idiot. What did I say? I bet I’ll never hear from her after that.

Women! How can they make a man feel like a little boy? The whole thing is crazy. I

should be thinking of nothing but football, but here I am, gaga over some woman I have

only spoken to once. A woman that could have any man in Argentina! Why me? I must

stop this. Call some friends, go to a movie, go for a walk. Do something!

But he did nothing. He sat and stared at the phone for another hour. It was

becoming his worst enemy, tormenting him, enslaving him. He finally grew

tired of the game and made his way to his second-floor bedroom, discarding

his clothes en-route to the double bed that would be his sanctuary. Sleep came

with surprising alacrity, for he had risen early that morning after a fitful night.

Too many things on his mind.

After what seemed like only a few moments of sleep, he became aware of

a distant ringing that seemed to persist.
What was it? Why doesn’t it stop?
He

sat up with a start.

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RENALDO

The phone! What time is it?
He glanced at the bedside clock as he leapt

out of bed, then stumbled to the door and out into the hall where the damned

black tormentor continued to beckon.
Three twenty-three a.m. There must have

been an accident. Someone must be hurt. Mama? Lonnie?

“Hello, hello!”

“Could I speak with Renaldo De Seta, please?” There was no mistaking

her husky voice.

“This is Renaldo speaking. Is that you, Señorita Symca?” He was out of

breath, his throat dry, and his voice hoarse.

“Yes, yes it is, Renaldo. Call me Simone. That’s what my friends call me.

Did I wake you? I am sorry to call so late, but I just arrived home from the

television studio, and I have to be back early in the morning. Well, ten o’clock.

I guess that’s not early for people who keep normal hours. Anyway, Renaldo,

can you have dinner with me tomorrow night? Nothing fancy, because I have to

go back to work again. We are taping all the remaining episodes for the season

before I go out on tour. The schedule is hell, but I would love to see you, even

for a short while. What do you think? Can you make it? Do you have other

plans?”

“If I did, Señorita, I would cancel them right away. Where and what

time?”

“Great! Let’s meet at Café Guerrin on Corrientes Avenue. It’s close to the

studio. We break for dinner at nine. Is that OK?”

“Perfect with me. Simone, I can’t believe you called. I am in shock.”

“Well, I will wear something special for you tomorrow night, to shock you

all the more. Good night, Renaldo.”

The receiver went dead, but he didn’t put it down immediately. Instead,

he held his old adversary lovingly, kissed it several times, then screamed at the

top of his lungs, “I am going to have dinner with Symca tomorrow, alone! I

can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!”

The hours passed with a mixture of anticipation and dread for Renaldo

that day. What should he wear? Would he look too much the schoolboy beside

the famous starlet? Would he act mature enough and not embarrass himself?

He spent the entire day at Casa San Marco, going over his evening

wardrobe several times, then sitting down to listen to her recordings while

staring hypnotically at the jacket covers. When time seemed to drag and

impatience got the best of him, he put himself through a rigorous workout

behind the high walls of the casa’s garden. Images of his father and brother

were constantly in his mind. Waddling like ducks, then leaping in the air as

high as they could.
Froggie, froggie, froggie!

How simple life was back then. Not a care in the world. A happy family.

Now what was left? A father that was gone forever, a mother that thought her

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JAMES McCREATH

two sons were on the road to self-destruction, and an older brother that may

never come home again. Some family! Then Lydia flashed into his mind. She was

really the rock of the family, always steady, very constant in her temperament.

Renaldo was hopeful that she would have the strength to calm his mother

down, to make her see that her sons were not going to turn out to be vagrants

or beggars.

He was covered in perspiration when the cleaning lady came to tell him

that there was someone to see him at the front door of the casa. He grabbed a

towel, and with only his sweat shorts on, disappeared into the darkness of the

casa.

Renaldo didn’t recognize the attractive woman standing inside the

entrance foyer. As he approached her, it became evident that his scant attire

was having an unusual effect on the lady. Her eyes widened and a large smile

came to her lips. It was the same lustful leer that he had seen on Estes Santos’

face when he entered the railcar and saw the two putas aboard in Córdoba. Her

expression stopped the sweaty athlete dead in his tracks.

“My, my, you have been keeping yourself in good shape.” She was looking

him over as if he were a prize bull at Buenos Requerdos.

“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure, Señora . . .”

“Oh, believe me, the pleasure is all mine, Señor De Seta. And it is

Señorita, Señorita Adelina Viamonte. I am Octavio Suarez’s private secretary.

Very private, especially to the press. They do not know about me, about the

work I do for Octavio behind the scenes. Now, I have an envelope for you,

the contents of which are absolutely secret. You are not to discuss them with

anyone. That is why he has sent me to hand deliver them to all the prospective

players that are in the capital.”

She paused for a second, the tone of efficient authority fading from her

voice. It had dropped two octaves and was dripping with innuendo when she

spoke again.

“Well, I am sorry that I have to be on my way now. I would love to stay

and watch you work out. You have a fantastic physique.” She stepped close to

him and ran her hand lightly down his chest, stopping just above his navel.

“This job does have fringe benefits, however. I am certain that we will see

each other again. I hope that you do well with the team.” The voice changed

back to its business mode. “Now, do not leave that letter lying around. Read it,

then hide it. We will see you soon. Good-bye, and keep up the good work.”

The leer returned to her pretty face for a second before she turned and

walked through the front door.

Whoa, mammazita! She just about ate me alive.
He temporarily forgot about

the envelope that he was holding as his eyes followed her out past the front

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RENALDO

gate. Her short sundress and spiked heels highlighted a set of shapely legs to

perfection.

Ola! What a set of wheels. It’s time for a cold shower!

Once she was out of sight, his thoughts returned to the contents of the

envelope. He tore it open and stood staring at a sheet of stationary embossed

with the official World Cup ‘78 logo. He read its contents silently.

‘Attention all prospective National Team Members for the World Cup

’78 Argentine squad. Your presence is required at the Velez Sarsfield Stadium

in Buenos Aires at 10:00 a.m., sharp, on Monday January fifteenth, 1978. We

will be meeting in the Governor’s Reception Lounge. Enter through east gate

number seven. Representatives will meet you there to assist with directions.

Bring your official team binder if you already have one in your possession. Be

on time! The gates will be locked at 10:05 a.m. No excuses accepted.

Do not discuss these arrangements with anyone! The press is not invited to

attend this preliminary meeting. It is essential for team security and planning

that they, in particular, know nothing of this.

Viva Argentina!

Signed, Octacio Suarez’

Well, at least Suarez hasn’t forgotten me,
Renaldo mused as he made his way

to the shower. He was aware of Suarez’s distrust of the working press. They

had often vilified him in their papers and television commentaries. Secrecy had

become a well-known obsession with the National Team manager, who operated

with only a few close associates. The aspiring player wondered what Señorita

Viamonte had done to endear herself to him. It wasn’t hard to imagine.

Renaldo was half an hour early for his evening rendezvous. His purpose

was to carefully select a table that afforded the maximum amount of privacy. A

small booth with a banquette and two chairs suited his requirements. He tipped

his waiter in advance to be on the lookout for a specific celebrity who might be

joining him and to keep this information confidential. A look of disdain told

the nervous patron that the server found it hard to believe a national treasure

such as Symca would have nothing better to do on her break than join him. He

ordered a Coca-Cola, sat back in the booth, and tried to relax. Three cokes later

and it was almost ten o’clock. No Symca. Each time the waiter passed he would

flash a sarcastic smile Renaldo’s way.

I shouldn’t have said anything to that bastard. If she doesn’t show, I will ask him

for my money back.

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JAMES McCREATH

At around ten-thirty the noise level in the busy café suddenly diminished

to almost total silence. Wondering what had happened, Renaldo pulled himself

up, out of the banquette, and stood in full view at the front of his booth. She

was standing just inside the front entrance, and even with a scarf over her

hair and dark glasses on, there was no mistaking this lady. There was also no

mistaking the two behemoths that stood on either side of her. Bodyguards!

Oh, God! Were they going to occupy the other two seats at the table? It would be

like having dinner with two gorillas watching!
The disappointed suitor envisioned

the scene.

The maître d’ had started to lead the three new arrivals to a table in the

opposite direction from where Renaldo was standing when he noticed his waiter

run up and whisper something in his superior’s ear. The maître d’ stopped

immediately and looked directly at Renaldo, who was being pointed out by

the now-beaming waiter. A chance to serve the fabulous Symca had made his

aloofness disappear. Her eyes followed the waiter’s arm and she was at Renaldo’s

side before the rest of the group had moved a foot.

“Renaldo, I am so sorry to be this late. The shooting went overtime. I was

afraid that you would leave, thinking that I had stood you up.”