Renaldo (58 page)

however. He delivered an item to the downcast youth that had the desired

effect.

“Before I depart, Renaldo, there is one last thing. This correspondence

crossed my desk the other day, and I thought you might be interested in it.”

He pulled a legal-sized manila envelope from the inside pocket of his flowing

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JAMES McCREATH

white linen suit jacket. “I will stay in touch, my boy. Get that foot in shape, or

no more mail delivery!” he chuckled as he made his way from the parlor.

Inside the envelope were several newspaper clippings that contained

reviews of Symca’s shows in various South American cities. The promotion had

been a phenomenal success, and bookings for World Cup tour packages were

selling out in a hurry. It seemed like each foreign city had more glowing things

to say about the Argentine chanteuse than the previous venue. Renaldo only

glanced at the headlines briefly, for wrapped inside the articles was an envelope

addressed to Renaldo De Seta. The script was her hand.

The missive had been written before his unfortunate gift from Juan

Chacon, so the mood was up-tempo. While Simone had been unable to watch

any of his games on television, she had scoured the local newspapers for details

following each match. She also called Astor Gordero from time to time, for

more detailed inside reports.

The singing sensation revealed that the pace of her tour was exhausting,

but nevertheless exhilarating because of the warm reception that greeted her

at each stop. Renaldo devoured every line of the newsy letter, but it was a final

personal message that caused him to blush;

‘I think constantly of our last embrace in my dressing room at Teatro Colon.

The power of your touch, the feel of you against me . . . it was overwhelming!

Never have I lost my senses as I did that night. I pray for God to keep you

safe and well, and to place me in your arms again soon. I await our reunion,

breathlessly! All my love, Simone.’

He reread her note and the newspaper articles until late in the afternoon,

eschewing lunch, and only rising from his recliner when the physiotherapist

arrived to commence the healing therapy. Renaldo ate supper with his mother

that evening, then retired to his room to play the guitar and pour over Simone’s

words once again. The therapy had been excruciatingly painful, but Tito, the

therapist, had been friendly and as gentle as possible. He told Renaldo that

the two of them had to develop a relationship of trust for the therapy to be

beneficial. There would be pain, but the pain and anger that Renaldo was

about to experience should be focused positively on a quick recuperation, not

negatively, toward Tito, the therapist.

For the next several weeks, Tito would become a daily fixture at Casa San

Marco, a fixture that scheduled his visits around times when the lady of the house

was absent. Any awareness on Florencia’s part of a lingering association with

Argentina’s National Soccer Team was sure to produce an adverse reaction.

Astor Gordero had been the one to suggest that Tito be ‘spirited’ into

the residence when his mother was away tending to her active schedule. That

proved not a hard matter to arrange by simply sneaking a peek at the lady’s

daybook in advance, and so it was to be. On the afternoon of Tito’s first visit

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RENALDO

to his new patient, the pain of the therapy would be dulled by the euphoria

of young love and the dreams that had been delivered in a manila, legal-sized

envelope.

It was now the fourth of May, eight days since Simone’s stirring note, eight

days since Tito’s initial session. Renaldo still could not put pressure on the

inflamed heel, still could not stand without crutches, still could not walk, let

alone run or jump. It was taking too much time. There were only twenty-seven

days before the opening kickoff in River Plate Stadium. “This is too slow, far

too slow,” he lamented.

That evening as he sat alone, staring blankly at the television screen,

Renaldo De Seta came to the conclusion that he had nothing to lose by talking

to Olarti about native medicine. He rang the small, sterling silver bell that

brought Oli from the kitchen.

“What can I do for you, Señor Renaldo?”

“Oli, I’ve reconsidered what you told me about your native healing

methods. I would like very much to talk to Olarti about the medicine man he

knows. The other doctor’s medicine is not working quickly enough to enable me

to play football again. I must do something, anything! But please, Oli, do not

mention a word of this to my mother. If she ever found out that you had helped

me for this purpose, I am afraid that there would be dire consequences.”

“I understand, Señor Renaldo. Would you like me to summon Olarti now,

or in the morning?”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere, Oli, so if he doesn’t mind spending a few

minutes right now, then I would love to see him.”

The two men talked for over an hour, not as employer-employee, but as

old friends would talk. Renaldo was fascinated about the possibility of meeting

a man such as Copiapo, the native holistic healer. No one knew his exact age,

Copiapo having outlived all of his contemporary tribesmen. His reputation as a

miracle worker, according to Olarti, was known throughout the Pampas. Both

natives and whites, primarily gauchos and plains farmers, were counted among

his followers.

The legend was difficult to find, for even as an elderly man, he pursued

his ancestor’s nomadic lifestyle. He was even more difficult to actually see, for

the healer was very selective in choosing on whom he shone his light. Olarti

was certain that he could track Copiapo down through his contacts at Buenos

Recuerdos, and as soon as there was news of the healer’s whereabouts, a visitation

would be requested.

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JAMES McCREATH

As sketchy as the information seemed, it did give Renaldo reason to hope.

A thin thread of hope, but still hope. There were several logistical problems to

work out if he was able to obtain an interview with Copiapo. Not the least of

these was the fact that Renaldo was, at the moment, an invalid in Buenos Aires,

not riding the Pampas in Pergamino.

For some reason, his grandmother, Lydia, came to mind. He had not seen

her since departing Buenos Recuerdos shortly after the new year, although she

had written him two encouraging and supportive letters urging him to ‘live

his dreams.’ A weekend trip to visit her, with Olarti driving because of his

injury, would be just the diversion that his mother would never suspect. To

cover himself and reduce Florencia’s suspicions, Renaldo turned his attention

to the university forms that had been left for him. He completed all the

documentation necessary and placed them on her bed with a note inscribed

“Mother knows best. Your loving son, Renaldo.”

He could play her game! Show an interest in returning to his studies,

then just before plunging into the textbooks, request a weekend visit with his

grandmother to clear his head. He knew the ruse would work. Now it was up

to Olarti to find Copiapo.

An unexpected phone call summoned Renaldo from his bed the next

morning. It was the morning of his nineteenth birthday.

“Señor Renaldo, your brother, Lonnie, is on the telephone. He was

wondering if you could talk to him,” Oli stated from the half open bedroom

door.

“Tell him I will be right there, as fast as I can hobble to the phone.”

There had been no word from his older brother since the beginning of

March, when Lonnie had informed their mother that he was not returning to

university. He was taking the semester off to continue his travels with Celeste

and would decide about school at a later time. Florencia, needless to say, was

incensed with her eldest, and had told Lonnie that he and that ‘communist slut’

he had taken up with were not welcome at Casa San Marco until he came to

his senses and decided to get his life in order. In other words, get rid of the girl

and go back to school.

Lonfranco’s name was forbidden to be mentioned in the casa, and for all

intents and purposes, he ceased to exist in the mind of Florencia De Seta. Her

new, self-fulfilling attitude, as well as the attentions of Herr Stoltz, made it easy

for her to put the wandering vagabond out of her mind.

“Hello, Lonnie, are you alright? Where are you?”

“I’m in better shape than you are, little brother, if what I read in these

week-old newspapers is true. Happy birthday, by the way. Now that you are an

old man, is your body giving out on you? What happened? I saw one of your

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RENALDO

games on television, the one against Peru in Buenos Aires. You looked terrific!

How badly are you hurt?”

“Well, I still can’t stand on my foot, but I haven’t lost hope. Where on

earth are you?”

“We are in Bariloche, in the lake district. I have never been down here,

so we are going to explore the National Park. You know, mountain climbing,

hiking, the works. You should see the glaciers. They are breathtaking! How is

Mama? Oli told me that she was out at the moment, so I figured that I could

spend a few minutes talking to you. What are your plans?”

“You know what Mama wants me to do. She already has me registered in

medical school. But to be a part of the National Team, that was the experience

of a lifetime! I want to make it back there, to play in the World Cup. It will

be a struggle though, both physically and mentally, with Mama overseeing

my every move. Oh, by the way, she has a new suitor, a man by the name of

Wolfgang Stoltz. He’s a lawyer who works for Astor Gordero. Seems like a

decent man. Anyway, Mama is on cloud nine these days. But what about you?

When are you coming back to town?”

“No plans, little brother. I’ll tell you one thing, though. If you make it

back to the World Cup Team, I will be in Buenos Aires expecting to get really

prime seats from you. So don’t let me down. Get back there with the team.

Medical school can wait, just like law school. I better go now, these phones are

expensive. Good luck, kid, I miss you. I will bring back your present from my

travels. Happy birthday and get back on that team!”

“Thanks, Lonnie, I miss you, too. It was a big help to have you to talk to

over Christmas. Give my regards to Celeste. Please call again, when you get the

chance. Good-bye for now.”

As the receiver went dead Renaldo felt a pang of remorse shoot through

him. There he stood, alone in the second-floor corridor of his ancestral home,

memories of the happy times flooding his brain. Childhood memories of the

perfect family life. A loving, respected father, a devoted mother, a rough and

tumble older brother. Lavish birthday parties and expensive gifts from years

gone by. A perfect childhood, a perfect family.

Those times were history now, alive only in his fond recollections. They

had been a complete family for only seven years, from his own birth to his

father’s death. Seven years! Not long enough to savor the joys of family, not

long enough at all!

21

It was fortunate for Lonnie De Seta that the national telephone service,

Entel, was performing to its usual poor standards during the call to Casa

San Marco. The truth was that Lonnie was not in Bariloche, but in Barracas,

a working-class barrio on the south side of Buenos Aires. The poor connection

had made him seem hundreds of miles away, which is where he wished he was

at that particular moment.

He moved quickly out of the pay telephone kiosk and disappeared into

the dark, narrow alleys of the local marketplace. He would pick up the staples

of his existence, then return to the room that he had shared with Celeste for

almost a month. It had been a month of living in hell.

Lonnie De Seta was a changed man. He had stepped over the line and

there was no going back now. No second-guessing. The revolution was all that

mattered. The revolution and Celeste, of course.