Renaldo (48 page)

be nonchalant about the Renaldo’s football ambitions. It was imperative for his

future plans that he not aggravate an obviously delicate situation.

The barrister politely informed Florencia that her son had signed a

contractual agreement with A.R. Gordero and Sons that covered only matters

pertaining to his football career. The seemingly sincere lawyer assured the boy’s

mother that he would tear up the document the instant Renaldo was released

from the team. He also assured her that he would persuade the boy to listen

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to his mother’s better judgment and pursue a career in medicine, whatever the

outcome of his present situation.

This seemed to set the lady’s mind at ease, and she warmed to her

dining companion, becoming more relaxed and open. By the time they parted

company, Señora De Seta had actually admitted that she was happy to have a

man of Astor Gordero’s stature looking out for her son’s best interests.

“Should, heaven forbid, my son continue to be a part of this ‘national

sickness,’ I will rest easier knowing that a man of compassion and feeling is by

Renaldo’s side.”

Gordero left it to Wolfgang Stoltz, who had joined their table during

the latter part of the afternoon, to return the lady to her residence. It was, to a

great degree, Herr Stoltz’s warm smile that helped to melt Florencia’s blustery

demeanor. The widow’s attitude changed perceptively once the suave European

arrived on the scene.

Astor Gordero parted company with Señora Florencia De Seta totally

satisfied with his performance that afternoon. He could tell by her eyes that

she trusted him implicitly by the time the dessert course arrived. It was a game

that the obese attorney liked to play while dining with business associates.
How

many courses of a meal will be completed before I convince my prey that the Gordero way

is the only way?

The weak and pandering gave in before the appetizers even hit the linen.

Florencia had been a workout, remaining immovable until well into the main

course before succumbing. As usual, Gordero knew he would eventually win

the day, and by dessert he was confident that he had the lady in the palm of his

hand. Wolfgang Stoltz would simply close the deal, as usual.

The blackness in the great auditorium was suddenly pierced by a battery

of ultraviolet lights emanating from the broadcast scaffolds at the front of the

house. From vents on both sides of the stage and behind the raised, chrome-

plated drum kit wafted clouds of dry ice fog, enshrouding both the silhouetted

musicians and their instruments. As the billowing whiteness traveled into

the first few rows of the audience, the drummer let loose with an up-tempo

backbeat. The riveting rhythm was picked up thirty seconds later by an electric

bass player. Congas, timbales, and other Latin percussion instruments joined

in. The result was a pulsating, finger-snapping, toe-tapping groove that had the

entire hall clapping their hands in unison.

The gala’s master of ceremonies could be heard over the PA system giving

a brief but rousing introduction.

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JAMES McCREATH

“Señoras, Señoritas, and Señors, Musicale Argentina ’8 is proud and

honored to present the number one pop sensation in the entire country! The

beautiful! The amazing! The unbelievable! Sssyyymmmcaaa!”

As the last syllable of her name passed the announcer’s lips, the band

suddenly stopped playing and the ultraviolet lights disappeared, leaving the

stage in total darkness. It was as if someone had pulled the power switch.

All that remained were the cheers and screams for “Symca,” along with the

rhythmic clapping of four thousand pairs of hands.

Then, without warning, a burst from the four banks of powerful Klieg

lights illuminated the star for whom they had all been waiting. Standing center

stage in a silver-sequined minidress, black fishnet stockings, and incredibly

high black pumps, the vocalist literally oozed sexuality.

With her long legs planted astride and her head bent forward resting on

her chest, she stood motionless, drinking in the adulation. Right on cue, using

the musician’s sixth sense, the entire band came to life, and the sultry star

launched into an upbeat version of her current chart topping hit.

The staid Teatro Colon went berserk. People were dancing in the aisles,

gyrating to the beat in their seats, rushing the stage, and hooting and shouting

for more. The sound was unbelievable. The twelve-piece band had been

handpicked by the diva, and the ensemble had a musical cohesiveness that was

without equal. Guitars, keyboards, horns, rhythm section . . . individually and

collectively, they were the best that Argentina had to offer. The results of their

tightness were audibly evident.

From where he was perched on the bass drum’s hard traveling case at stage

right, Renaldo De Seta had a spectacular view of the proceedings. He could

not believe what he was hearing or seeing. To listen to her records or to hear

her outdoors in giant stadiums was one thing, but here in acoustically perfect

Teatro Colon, he was blown away!

Never before had the young man heard a band play with so much force

and clarity. Each instrument could be picked out individually, and yet it melded

perfectly with the overall effect.

The light show was something from outer space, or so it seemed. Special

effects that Renaldo hadn’t even seen at her outdoor spectacles were used here.

But more than anything else, the sound, the lights, the atmosphere, it was the

singer that held the focus of everyone’s attention.

She glided about the stage, using every angle to make the audience feel

that she was singing especially for them. Her dance moves were agile and fluid,

ranging between ballet and gymnastics. Her deep voice was in peek form,

displaying a lusty sensuality and yet capable of hitting all the octaves from

baritone to soprano.

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RENALDO

Mesmerizing
was the only word that came to Renaldo’s mind. He was in a

trance. He cared for nothing else at this moment, for the lovesick boy was truly

under Symca’s spell.

Her performance was almost exclusively up-tempo, and there were no

pauses or dialogue in the whirlwind performance. She did pause before her last

number though, and in a heartfelt plea, urged her fellow countrymen to give

their support generously to the World Cup ’78 movement. There was hardly

a dry eye in the audience when she suddenly turned stage right and looked

squarely at Renaldo. Their eyes locked for several seconds before the soulful

siren turned back to the television cameras and her adoring audience.

“Señors and Señoras, I would like to finish my portion of tonight’s show

with a very special new song, a song that was written just for me. It will be

released as a single very shortly, and I am singing it this evening for someone

very special. It is entitled, ‘My Love Will Wait for You.’ I hope you like it.”

She turned again stage right and blew the invisible someone a kiss.

Instantly a haunting melody filled the teatro, and there had never been a more

tender, more passionate love song sung on that revered stage. The standing

ovation that followed the tune’s conclusion lasted over three minutes, and cries

of “Symca!” “Symca!” “Symca!” rose to the rafters.

From his vantage point, Renaldo blew the object of his affection a kiss

as she departed the stage into the opposite wing. Simone paused momentarily,

giving her admirer a fleeting glance before disappearing.

Renaldo was numb, exhilarated, and depressed all at the same time.
When

will I see her again? She was so spectacular, so gorgeous, so erotic! Could that last song

honestly be meant for me?
How every part of him ached with confused, infatuated

joy!

Reality beckoned, however, and the MC’s announcement that the World

Cup team would take the stage within a very few minutes jolted the dazed

teenager back to his present predicament. It was now time to face a different

kind of music.

“De Seta, where the fuck have you been? What do you think I’m running

here, a church picnic excursion? Do you realize that we are about to appear

in front of a national television audience, and where are the National Team

players? Out chasing pussy! You’ll get all the ass you can handle if you make

this fucking team, Señor Hotshot, but while you are under my direct control,

you had better learn to follow orders and follow them to the letter!”

The manager’s face was no more than an inch away from Renaldo’s as he

vented his fury and heaped scorn on all those assembled.

“This is a team we have here, Señors, not a group of individuals and prima

donnas. I won’t tolerate any of this shit, ever again! Do you understand me? Do

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JAMES McCREATH

you, you bunch of self-centered idols? Because if you don’t, I have a whole list of

players that would gladly fill your shoes and heed my bidding!”

The veins were bulging on Octavio Suarez’s neck, and his face was bright

crimson from screaming at the top of his lungs. With all the smoking the

manager did, Renaldo worried that he might keel over from a heart attack

on the spot. The youngest player took solace in the fact that while the initial

reprimand had been meant specifically for him, the tirade gradually expanded

to encompass the entire group.

“I am sorry, Señor Suarez, it won’t happen again,” was the meek apology

that Renaldo tendered.

“It damn well better not happen again, or I’ll have you enrolled in

university just like your mother wants before you even set foot on a soccer

pitch. Now find your place in line!”

The sting of the last comment found its mark on Renaldo.

There is no reason to bring my mother into this, or my future plans either. Some of

these players can’t even read, or so I have been told by Gordero. They let their feet do the

talking on the field of play. That is all I want, too. My mother and university . . . shit!

That was a low blow,
Renaldo smoldered silently.

Many of these men had grown up in the slums and shanty towns of their

birth places, and football was a way out, a means of escape to a better life.

They didn’t need a high school diploma, they needed to eat and support their

families. Now with Suarez’s biting remark, they would think of him as some

scholastic mama’s boy. He hung his head forlornly as he stepped in front of

Ramon Vida in the line.

“Hey, don’t worry, man, I snuck out, too. Sure was some grade A pussy

on that stage. The bitch was so hot, I thought this old place was going to burn

down. Bet those longhairs have never experienced anything like her before.”

The blood started to boil in Renaldo’s temples when Vida made his off-

color remarks about Simone. Luckily, he was able to keep himself in check

by biting his lip and keeping his back to the Boca center forward without

speaking.

To say anything in her defense or to act personally offended by Vida’s

remarks would tip his hand. He did not want anyone to know of his relationship

with Simone. Besides, he felt certain that he was going to take enough ribbing

from his teammates as it was. There would be time later to defend Simone’s

honor if necessary. Right now, it was better to simply hold his tongue.

Within a few seconds they were being escorted through the winding

corridors to stage right. There was the familiar drum case that had been Renaldo’s

orchestra seat. The lights had dimmed and a great fanfare accompanied each

player’s introduction as they walked individually into the floodlights. A brief

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biography was given as the athlete stood alone in the national spotlight, being

scrutinized by millions of people.

Then the lights would dim again, followed by the fanfare and the next

name. Down the list, closer and closer the MC narrated. Soon enough it was