Renaldo (40 page)

She took his hand and kissed him on both cheeks as if they had been

friends for years. Simone had been right. Her outfit was amazing. A black

leather miniskirt, black fishnet stockings, black stiletto pumps, and a black,

rhinestone-infested halter top, with clearly no bra underneath.

“Dynamite!” was the only way he could respond. She laughed in her deep,

throaty way. It seemed to set him at ease. By now, the four men that she had

left at the door were at her side.

“Would the Señorita care to change tables to your usual location?” the

maitre d’ inquired.

“I usually call ahead for a table that is out of the way before I come here.

I also need a table for the boys that is close by, in case some fan gets a little too

enthusiastic. The one you selected seems just fine, though. No Ramon, we will

stay right here. The boys can take that table over there. Is that alright?”

“As you please, Señorita. Enjoy your meal.”

They were seated side-by-side on the banquette in an instant. The now-

attentive waiter asked the lady if she desired anything right away.

“I need some cold white wine and a salad. How about you, Renaldo? You

must want something more substantial than a salad. It’s OK. Their steaks are

very good here.”

“Alright then, bring me a vacio jugoso and a glass of domestic red wine.”

“A glass of Pouilly Fusée for me, please, and you can bring the wine right

away,” she smiled at the waiter.

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RENALDO

They were tucked away, out of view from all but two tables, one of which

was occupied by her burly employees. Their unwelcoming stares kept any

would-be autograph seekers at bay. Symca, finally feeling relaxed enough, took

off her dark glasses and let her hair free of the confining black kerchief. The

auburn ringlets fell to the point where her halter top met the bare flesh of her

upper breast. Renaldo was, once again, captivated by her beauty, but he was

determined not to be a mute for the rest of the evening.

“You must be exhausted with the hours you are keeping. Tell me exactly

what is going on in your life right now.” He was proud of himself for starting

off the conversation.

She took his lead and ran with it. The next twenty minutes were taken up

discussing her hectic schedule. By the time her salad and his rare porterhouse

steak arrived, accompanied by a second glass of wine for each of them, Renaldo

felt not only very informed, but very relaxed in her presence.

“Do you like my outfit? I picked it out especially with you in mind. I

would love to wear this out to the clubs, dancing with you, but it can’t be

tonight. Between the studio’s schedule and Astor’s insistence that I become the

goodwill ambassador for World Cup ‘78, it doesn’t look like we will be able to

have much time together. As soon as we finish the last episode of the TV show,

I head to all the venues that are holding World Cup games: Mar Del Plata,

Rosario, Córdoba, and Mendoza. Promotional appearances and concerts in each

city. Then it is back to the capital for rehearsals for the World Cup Gala at

Teatro Colon on the twelfth. Do you still have the backstage pass I sent you?

Now that is one night we might be able to go out dancing!” Simone touched his

hand, stroking it ever so gently as she beamed with optimistic enthusiasm.

“Right after the show, come to my dressing room. Astor usually parades

his special guests in to see me after an event such as this, but with any luck,

I can feign illness and get out of there in a hurry. So you won’t forget, will

you?”

She was being so sweet to him, so attentive. It was as if they had been

lifelong friends or even lovers. What she saw in him, he still could not figure

out, but he was now beyond questioning the whys and the wherefores. The fact

was that he, Renaldo De Seta, was sitting next to the famous Symca, and no

other man in Argentina mattered to her at this moment.

All too soon one of her escorts came to the table to humbly interrupt their

tête-à-tête.

“I am sorry, Señorita, but the director gave us strict orders to have you

back at midnight. It could mean our jobs if we fail to heed his bidding.”

“I understand, Carlo. There is no end to this business. I want you to

meet my friend, Renaldo De Seta. He is going to be on our World Cup soccer

team.”

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JAMES McCREATH

Renaldo took the man’s large hand and noticed the puzzled look on his

face. The protector was obviously a soccer enthusiast, and one that had definitely

never heard of a player named ‘Renaldo De Whatever’ on any team, let alone

the National World Cup team. Carlo was polite enough to wish Renaldo good

luck in front of Symca, then he withdrew so that the two new friends could say

their good-byes.

“Oh, I wish we had more time. I’ve been doing all the talking and there

is so much about you, and what is happening with the team that I really want

know. Can I call you if I get a minute? It might be late at night. Is that

all right?” She smiled sadly at the thought of their forced estrangement, then

gently took his hand in hers.

“Don’t worry, Simone. You can call me anytime. I have been fascinated by

your stories. Nothing at all has happened with the World Cup team yet, and

besides, I have been sworn to secrecy by Octavio Suarez, the team manager.

Are you going to watch the draw on television this Sunday? It will answer a lot

of questions for everyone. Señor Gordero said that we will probably have Italy

in our group for the first round. Oh, yes, there is one piece of news you should

know. I signed on the other day as one of Señor Gordero’s clients. He is willing

to handle the business affairs relating to my football career. What do you think

about that?”

The shadow that fell across the table prompted him to remove his eyes

from hers for an instant. The two bodyguards were now standing directly

opposite them, clearly in a state of agitation.

“Señorita, please. We must . . . ”

“Yes, boys, yes, right now! I will stay in touch with you, my darling

Renaldo. I like spending time with you. You are so unlike any of the others.”

She tightened her grip on his hand and leaned over to him quickly. Her

lips pressed against his ever so softly at first, then suddenly with more pressure

and explosive passion. He tried to reciprocate by leaning the full force of his

weight against her, but when he felt her tongue dart into the warmth of his

mouth, his mind lost all coherence. It was over too quickly. She was up and

gone, with only her final words as his souvenir of their evening together.

“I will call you, Renaldo! Think of me. Ciao, bello.”

He slumped back against the rear of the banquette, his mind reeling. Had

she really kissed him like that, or was he just imagining it? The stiffness in his

groin convinced him that he was not dreaming. Luckily, no one in the café had

witnessed the kiss, as a result of the two gorillas blocking out the view.

He sat alone now, transfixed by the memory of her beauty, her scent, her

voice, her eroticism. He didn’t hear the waiter ask him if he required anything

further. Renaldo was unable to reply. The waiter stood for a few moments, then

walked away. He was vaguely aware of hearing her name now and again in the

din of conversation that swirled around the café.

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RENALDO

“That was Symca that just left,” or “Symca was dining here tonight with

her producer,” or “Did you see the outfit on Symca? What a stunning woman

she is.” Symca this, Symca that. But she had been with only one man tonight.

She had kissed only one man tonight. He sat silently for almost thirty minutes

before he summoned the waiter, left him an additional tip when he settled his

account, and walked, still mystified, out into the humid night air.

The San Martin Cultural Center in Buenos Aires was overflowing with

officials and press on the afternoon of Sunday, January 14, 1978. Security was

extremely tight, with three different sets of pass gates that anyone entering the

center had to clear.

Military vehicles had blocked all the approaches to the center as well,

preventing any suicide car bombers from gaining access to the immediate

vicinity of the cultural center. The precautions were certainly warranted. Police

and antiterrorist authorities had received several threats of violence aimed

directly at Argentina’s World Cup movement ever since FIFA had given their

final approval.

Communiqués from the Montoneros and the E.R.P. had stated clearly

that the huge sums of money that were being spent on this international

showpiece should be spent on providing food and shelter for the country’s poor

and dispossessed. “The common working man can not afford a single ticket to a

single match, so what good is all this extravagance doing him?” they argued.

The junta responded in the press by saying that “World Cup ‘78 belonged

to all the people of Argentina, and that every citizen should take great pride in

hosting the finest football teams in the world and welcoming the eyes of every

nation that would be watching this spectacular event.”

No matter whose rhetoric one chose to believe, the fact remained that the

threat of violence was very real, and the people inside the cultural center were

very thankful for the military’s strong showing.

Astor Gordero was one of those people inside the cultural center that

Sunday. His job was primarily one of handholding FIFA President João

Havelange and his three-year-old grandson, Ricardo Teixeira, who would

actually perform the drawing of the balls from the urns. To keep the young

boy relaxed and happy until he made his way to the podium to commence the

draw, Gordero had brought along his private secretary, Señora Melendel, who

was the mother of two small children herself and who came supplied with toys

and games.

18

JAMES McCREATH

The seedings and the placement of all the countries had been arranged

to the satisfaction of the organizing committee, if not the other countries

involved. Now the final placement of the teams was in the hands of young

Señor Teixeira.

There was also great concern regarding the new communications equipment.

Would it function on cue without causing international embarrassment to the

host country? This was the first time that a live, worldwide satellite feed had

ever been transmitted from Argentina. It was critical that everything go off

without a hitch.

The expectation and tension were almost unbearable as President

Havelange finally made his way onto the stage. Astor Gordero knew, as did

every other member of the organizing committee, that the international football

community was poised to abandon Argentina and move the tournament

elsewhere if every detail of this day did not proceed without a hitch. Gordero

felt confident that no detail had been left to chance, that no item, however

minuscule it may seem, had been overlooked. The day now rested in the hands

of the Gods and a three-year-old boy.

The Italians had backed off their demands and had allowed Holland to

be seeded fourth, heading up Group Four. This put the Italians in Group One

with Argentina, along with two teams to be determined by the draw. In all,

eleven nations remained to be pulled from the urns.

Total silence greeted young Master Teixeira as he stepped up to urn ‘A,’

dressed in his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit and withdrew a capsule containing

the name of the first team to be placed. He handed the capsule to his grandfather,

who opened it, then stared directly at the television cameras and pronounced,

“The first team selected in the World Cup ‘78 draw is . . . Poland.”

Polite applause filled the theater. The Polish contingent did not join in,

however. There was shock and dismay on their faces. Master Teixeira’s selection

had placed them in Group Two, head-to-head with their perpetual nemesis,

West Germany. No one in the Polish camp had forgotten the bitter defeat that

they had suffered four years earlier on a rain-soaked pitch in Frankfurt. It had