Renaldo (57 page)

De Seta to the ground. Chacon’s legs and feet were not visible to the camera

because of the falling torsos that blocked the view.

‘Killer’ had gotten away with another one, or so he had bragged to his

club team compatriots. Octavio Suarez had witnessed the blasphemous act with

his own eyes though. He didn’t need movie film. The manager would wait and

pick his opportunity to have a little heart-to-heart with his feared defender.

Maximum effect. That’s the way Octavio Suarez operated. Wait until you can

achieve maximum effect. Then fire away with both barrels!

“I never realized how much I wanted to be a part of all this until it was

taken away from me,” a downcast Renaldo mumbled to himself as he sat alone,

transfixed to the tiny black-and-white images on the screen.

His mother had welcomed her youngest son home with a ‘I told you so!’

attitude. Florencia De Seta was elated that the timely injury had come just as

the university term was getting into full swing.

“A bright boy like you can make up for the work you’ve missed in no

time. I have kept in touch with the registrar, and a small donation to their

scholarship fund has surprisingly kept one placement open, just for you.”

There was no need to argue with her at the moment, for any talk about

returning to the team would seem like nothing but fantasy. Especially as he

was still unable to put any weight at all on the extremity. What he was about

to watch on the television screen that afternoon did nothing to lift his spirits or

make his return to sporting glory more likely.

263

JAMES McCREATH

This was a vastly different Argentine eleven, even though most of the

names were the same. Somehow, they had been transformed. They were now

fluid, poetic, deadly. Gone were the tentative bumblers of Montevideo. In their

place stood men who demonstrated the pace and rhythm at which the game

was meant to be played. Attacking football, beautiful football!

The stadium crowd roared its approval after the first home goal at the six-

minute mark, and the noise never subsided from that point on. It was as if the

fans considered this match to be a dress rehearsal for the big show that was still

a month away. No carnival in Rio could be more raucous than this!

A second goal at thirty-four minutes and a third at sixty-seven made the

final tally 3-0 Argentina. The naysayers would be crawling all over each other

trying to jump back on the bandwagon after this result. What had Suarez said

to them? What rabbits had he magically pulled out of his hat to provoke such

a first-class display? Renaldo wished with all his heart that he could be a part

of it again.

A look at the score sheet was further reason to worry. All three goals had

come off the feet of Miguel Cruz, who, even before the television broadcast went

off the air, was being heralded as “The New Argentine Scoring Machine.” Cruz

had been lucky, if not all that deadly. He was put through on a breakaway by

Jorge Calderone, when a poorly organized offside trap went awry on the visitors.

He then eluded a diving keeper and waltzed home the last ten yards with no

one in pursuit. Two strange bounces off defensive players landed the ball at the

Independiente player’s feet with the gaping goalmouth unobstructed for his

second. But Cruz’s third marker could be attributed directly to the muscle of

his brother-in-law, ‘Killer’ Chacon.

Ramon Vida had played effectively at center forward the entire game.

While he hadn’t figured in the first two goals, he had barely missed several

good chances and was a constant thorn in the Uruguayan defender’s side. With

just over twenty minutes left to play, Vida was set free up the middle, again

by the precise foot of Jorge Calderone. Three strides inside the penalty area,

two visiting defenders converged to foul the Argentine. The referee pointed

immediately to the spot.

Vida was on his feet at once and walking toward the ball to complete the

task when Chacon latched onto his left arm.

“I want my brother-in-law to score a hat trick today, amigo, and if you

really think about it, that is what you want, too,” the ugly defender suggested

to Vida as he led the smaller man away from the penalty spot with an iron

grip.

“Fuck you and your brother-in-law! That is my penalty, and I am going

to take the shot.”

The Boca player tried to wrench his arm free, but the grip was

unflinching.

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RENALDO

“I said, I want Miguel to take that shot! Now shut up, you little shit, or

you’ll end up like your girly friend, Renaldo.”

“You ugly bastard, I’ll fix your . . .”

Their conversation was drowned out in the exultation of Cruz’s third goal.

The center half hadn’t hesitated, simply stepping up to the spot as if it were

his divine right and blasting the ball past a stationary Uruguayan goalkeeper.

Done, hat trick! Welcome the ‘New Argentine Scoring Machine.’

For Renaldo De Seta, it was the bleakest of moments. Cruz did have a lock

on the center half position. Sewn up, no problem, no contest! Everyone would

be singing his praises come the morning, talking about what a team he and

Nico Garcia would be. The invalid’s heart ached as he hobbled up the stairs

to his bed that evening. He had come so close. Now, there was little reason for

hope.

Renaldo took breakfast alone in the garden the next morning. Florencia

had already departed on her day’s agenda by the time the former National

Team member emerged, showered, and dressed. As he sat in the warm solace of

the late fall sun, his thoughts drifting between school and football, there was a

tapping sound on the glass door behind him.

“Señor Renaldo, excuse me for interrupting, but may I have a word with

you?”

“Yes, of course. What’s on your mind, Oli? What is it? Come and sit

down.” He pulled his body upright in the lounge chair as the elderly maid

approached.

“Thank you, Señor Renaldo, but I will stand. I hope that you do not think

me too forward, but Olarti said that I should talk to you.”

“Don’t be shy, Oli. We have known each other too long for that. What is

it?”

“You see, Señor Renaldo, my people, the Querandi Indians . . . my people

grew up on the Pampas. That is where we flourished and multiplied. We were

able to hunt without barbed wire fences and soldiers on horseback with guns.”

Renaldo sensed a faint tone of bitterness and disgust in the old woman’s

voice that he had never heard before. He nodded for her to continue.

“My people did not have horses, only our bare feet in the beginning, and

our feet had to serve us well. They were our only means of transportation.

I remember my grandmother anointing my grandfather’s feet with oil and

massaging them for hours. Even by the time wild horses became plentiful

on the Pampas, many of my people still relied on their feet to hunt and to

fight. When a warrior had a problem with his feet, the medicine elders of the

tribe would put him on a strict diet of certain herbs and juices, and place a

secret poultice on the painful area. Many times I have seen them do this, Señor

Renaldo, and many times the area of pain is on the back of the heel, the same

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JAMES McCREATH

as you. Olarti knows of a man, a man who still practices his medicine and lives

on the Pampas near Pergamino. Olarti thinks that you should go with him to

see this medicine man. Olarti thinks that he can help you, make you well again

for the football.”

Renaldo was flattered by her concern for his condition, but dismissed the

idea offhand as something associated with black magic or witch doctors. He

thanked her warmly, but stated that he had at his disposal the most up-to-date

technology and research on his injury. His healing would be supervised and

administered by the most knowledgeable doctors Argentina could assemble,

the doctors of its National Soccer Team. Oli did not seem upset at this rebuff

and simply wished him good luck with a caring smile, then cleared away his

breakfast dishes.

The morning talk with his old and trusted servant kept reappearing in

his mind throughout the balance of the day, however. Olarti had brought the

daily newspapers for Renaldo to read, and a front-page picture of Miguel Cruz

with the caption, ‘Señor Goal’ did nothing to raise his spirits. Florencia had

reappeared at siesta time with a list of medical texts and the first-year medicine

course outline. She had obviously paid another visit to the Newton Academy’s

medical registrar, who, once again, had been most helpful, providing her

with the literature to allow Renaldo to commence his studies at home while

convalescing. She instructed her youngest son to complete the marked forms

and check off the list of course options. Olarti would pick up the required texts

at the university bookstore tomorrow.

Florencia once again told her son how happy she was that he was finished

with ‘this football business,’ and informed him that she would be out that

evening at the theater and dinner with Wolfgang Stoltz. In a light, almost

euphoric tone of voice, she suggested that he invite over some of his old school

friends for dinner.

“This will provide you with some company, and also an opportunity for

some scholastically oriented conversation,” she had quipped. The lady didn’t

wait for a response to her suggestion, but simply pecked the boy on his cheek

as he lay on the sofa. Then she was gone, and Renaldo was alone again.

After being with people constantly the past two and a half months, the

solitude of Casa San Marco was unnerving for the ex-National Team player.

His mother was hardly ever home, a development brought about by the sudden

romantic interests of Herr Wolfgang Stoltz. That she had reciprocated with her

own unbridled enthusiasm was another shock to Renaldo. His mother had been

the classic grieving widow following her husband’s death. While her youngest

son was pleased with the lady’s uplifted spirits and joie de vivre, he also found

the association between his mother, Wolfgang Stoltz, and Astor Gordero to be

an amazing coincidence. Over all though, he was pleased for his mother and he

admired the efficient Herr Stoltz.

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RENALDO

Astor Gordero had dropped by Casa San Marco on the boy’s first morning

home to cheer him up and give him some encouragement. He started their

conversation, however, with the topic of Herr Stoltz and his mother.

The attorney offered his apologies and humbly stated that he preferred to

“bring any doubts or ill feelings about this development to light immediately,

so that the proper measures could be taken.” The inference was that Gordero

would allow nothing to interfere with their attorney-client relationship, not

even his association with Wolfgang Stoltz. Renaldo assured The Fat Man that

as far as he could tell, his mother was in the best frame of mind that he had

seen her in for ages, and that he had no problem with Herr Stoltz ‘paying a call’

to Casa San Marco. He did confide in his attorney that her attitude about his

returning to school was a major source of discomfort. Gordero suggested that

perhaps Herr Stoltz could be of subtle assistance in that matter, but first the

boy had to get back on his feet and start building up the strength in his foot.

Ubaldo Luque had sent along a list and descriptions of certain exercises that

Renaldo could perform while convalescing to keep his overall body condition

close to top form. The physio trainer that would be visiting Casa San Marco

daily would instruct him in their proper execution.

“Octavio Suarez wants . . . no,
needs
you back on the team, young man.

You must devote all your energies to strengthening your limb. You will be

attended to each day. Suarez will be apprised of your progress. Things with

the team are still extremely unsettled. The Nicodemo Garcia situation is by no

means resolved. We have faith in your resiliency, Renaldo. We know that you

will come back to us!”

The truth of the matter centered around the potential loss of millions

of dollars in the coffers of A.R. Gordero and Sons should their recent star

acquisition became ‘yesterday’s has-been’ before the World Cup Tournament

even commenced. It was Gordero that had insisted on the intensive recuperative

program that the boy would receive at home. He was not about to let this

Roman candle become a dud without first experiencing its skyrocketing glow!

The imperative thing was to keep the boy in shape, keep his spirits up,

and give him the best medical attention. Even with all that, the prognosis was

grim. If Renaldo attempted too much too soon, he stood the possibility of

rupturing the weak tendon completely. Rest and small doses of massage and

physio were the only safe solution. An agonizingly slow solution.

Astor Gordero could be of personal assistance on the spiritual level,