Renaldo (6 page)

enthusiastic hug before stepping out of the cab, and made certain that the boy

did not want to be accompanied home.

“If my mother were to lay eyes on you now, she would ban me from

ever playing football again. What’s more, she would do worse to you, Señor

Santos.”

“You are wise beyond your years, my captain. Now, not a word of what

you have seen on this adventure must ever pass your lips, or I will make certain

that it costs you more than just your football career.” The smile on the older

man’s face contradicted his stern tone of voice.

“Adios, coach Santos. Make sure you call The Fat Man!” Renaldo called

after him.

“From this day forth, I will refer to the gentleman as ‘Señor Astor

Gordero, my most benevolent benefactor,’ at least until he refuses to see us. If

that happens, I have names much worse than ‘Gordo’ to call him. I will talk

to you tomorrow.”

Finally the schoolboy was left alone to collect his thoughts. He sank back

into the corner of the cab’s rear seat, closed his eyes, and replayed the events of

the past twenty-four hours in his overworked mind. No one would believe what

he had seen and done, especially his mother. Heaven help him if she ever found

out that he had been in the least bit of danger. But he was safe nonetheless, and

would arrive home in one piece, on schedule.

22

RENALDO

Throughout the haze of his early morning recollections, the face of Astor

Gordero kept coming to mind.

Fate works in strange ways,
he reflected.
Or had Gordero really intended for us

to meet all along, just as he had alluded to on the train?

It really didn’t matter now, the fact was that they had met. But an

unanswered question lingered. Renaldo had the distinct impression that Astor

Gordero, should he choose to acknowledge his debt to the two men that had

saved his life, would ask for something substantial in return. The young player

wasn’t at all certain what that something might be, but The Fat Man just

seemed like the type that never gave anything away for free.

“Head and feet as one,” he mumbled, somewhat amused.
Had Octavio

Suarez really said that about him?
Renaldo looked down at his right hand which

was resting limply on his thigh. He tried several times to braid his fingers the

way the chairman had.

“Head and feet as one.”

“Qué?” the cabby responded.

“Oh, nada. Nothing,” Renaldo shot back.

Finally, out of sheer frustration, he arranged his fingers in the crisscross

pattern with the help of his left hand. Even that took several attempts.

My head and feet might be as one, but my fingers have ten separate minds!

23

Florencia De Seta could see the yellow and black Fiat cab pull up to the

front gate of Casa San Marco from where she sat at her desk in the

second-floor study.

She had barely slept. The news of the soccer riots in Córdoba had

transformed her mildly fretful demeanor into sheer panic. She tore from the

desk and was downstairs and out the front door in mere seconds.

As she flew through the casa, she screamed to her eldest son, “Lonnie, get

up! Get up! Your brother is home.”

Renaldo had just dispatched the taxi when he turned to face his mother,

who was opening the large wrought iron gate. She was fumbling with her

crucifix and reciting her personal thanks to the Almighty as she ran to embrace

him.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among

women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. ”

“Mama, what’s the matter? Is someone ill?”

“Yes, I am sick, sick in the head for letting you go to that godforsaken

place. It has been all over the television and newspapers. People were killed

and injured. They said the train to Buenos Aires had to leave half the Prefect

supporters behind or it wouldn’t have made it out of Córdoba at all. Lonnie and

I haven’t slept all night. That Estes Santos! I will have his head if you were in

the slightest bit of danger. You look tired. Are you all right? Anyway, come

inside and we will talk.” Florencia De Seta hugged her youngest son.

“I am fine, Mama, nothing happened. As a matter of fact, the train ride

back home was quite educational, and I met some very interesting people.”

“Football scum, hoodlums, and no-goods were the only people I saw on

television last night!” Once they were in the front door, Florencia called for hot

coffee and fresh orange juice to be brought to the patio, where they would sit

in the early morning warmth.

It was going to be a hot, humid day, and this would be the best time to

take in the garden’s splendor. The chirping of the birds and the beautiful, full

scent of the fruit trees reassured Renaldo that he was truly home as he sank

into one of the overstuffed patio chairs. Now all he had to do was survive the

Florencia inquisition.

JAMES McCREATH

“Alright, I want to know everything! So start!”

“Well, our team won! It was a good game, very exciting. Gitares scored

three goals and . . . ”

“I don’t care about that rubbish! I want to know about the riots. Did you

see them? How close were you to them? Did anyone you know get hurt?”

It was Florencia De Seta’s nature to get right to the point. When she was

serious, there was no getting around her. She was as tenacious as a pit bull until

she was satisfied that the truth had been spoken.

Renaldo realized that he had better come up with a good story right away

or his mother would pry the truth from him eventually. Heaven forbid!

“Yes, Mama, I saw the riots, but only from the other end of the stadium.

The soldiers were everywhere to protect us. All the people that got hurt were

Córdobans who were mad that their team lost. Our group was escorted out of

the stadium and into special buses by the soldiers. We were on the train when

most of the trouble was still going on, I guess, but I really can’t be certain.

Anyway, here I am, and I am fine! See, no marks or bruises!”

He couldn’t help but think how pretty she looked sitting in the soft

morning sun. The adventurer noticed that his story was working on her, for

she was visibly less tense. Her facial features had become soft and delicate with

the waning of her anxiety, and the return of her color and sparkle convinced

the wayward son that he would pass her test without further provocation. He

focused on her coiffeur as the two sat silently during a pause in their dialogue.

She always wore her jet black hair tucked up in a neat braid with a colorful hair

piece if she were receiving guests or venturing beyond the walls of the casa. It

was long and naturally straight, without a hint of grey these forty-seven years,

and when she wore it down, as it was at this moment, to Renaldo, she was,

without doubt, the most beautiful woman in the world.

His thoughts of beauty and tranquility ended abruptly when Lonnie De

Seta strolled wearily through the patio door.

“So, little brother, did you beat up any Córdobans for me? It looked like a

lot of fun!” A well-placed jab to Renaldo’s upper arm prompted mock fisticuffs

between the two brothers until Florencia had had enough and called for quiet.

“You will both accompany me to mass this morning to help me pray for

your misguided souls. I want you ready in one hour.”

Disbelief and despair filled the siblings’ faces.

“Mama, I have hardly slept all night, and after what I just went through

I thought that . . . ” Renaldo wasn’t allowed to finish.

“You just told me everything was fine. ‘Educational,’ didn’t you say? One

hour!” With that she was gone, and in her wake she left two dumbfounded

sons.

26

RENALDO

“Thanks a lot, hotshot! First she keeps me up all night, thinking you had

been killed, and now I have to give up the better part of my Sunday to pray for

your misguided soul?” Lonnie chided.

“I think your soul is more misguided than mine, big brother. What were

you doing at home on a Saturday night in the first place?”

“Celeste has her final term papers to mark by Monday, so I was a gentleman

and left her alone. I was at a movie with some of the guys for awhile, but when

I saw the papers on the street about the riots in Córdoba, I begged off home.

I knew Mama would be frantic if she was watching the news. So, what really

happened up there? Did you take any scalps?”

“Like I told Mama, it was all very calm. But I did meet an interesting

man on the train ride home. Have you ever heard of Astor Gordero?”

“Who hasn’t heard of Gordero? How on earth did you get hooked up with

the likes of him?”

“He is a one-man spectacle. I guess I just helped ensure that the spectacle

would be around for awhile longer. Estes and I were in the right place at the

right time. We got to ride home from Córdoba in his private rail coach. It was

quite the ride! Anyway, I need to shower and change for mass. I will tell you

the whole story later.”

As Renaldo started to make his way toward the patio door, he was met by

Oli, Casa San Marco’s native Indian housekeeper. She was carrying a silver tray

loaded with a pitcher of fresh orange juice, a carafe of steaming coffee, and a

basket of pastries. Her face lit up when she saw the younger brother.

“Señor Renaldo, thank heaven you are home safe. Your mother, she worry

so much last night.”

“I’m fine, Oli, just fine. But I could use some of your coffee right now.

Didn’t sleep much last night . . . I guess none of us did.”

Oli placed the breakfast tray on the table and poured both brothers large

cups of coffee, Renaldo’s black, Lonnie’s with milk. “Café con leche,” the elderly

lady proclaimed handing Lonnie his cup. She had worked for the De Seta family

for over thirty years, like her mother before her. Oli’s husband, Olarti, was

the resident houseman, chauffeur, and gardener. The housekeeper knew every

whim and fancy of the De Seta brothers and understood the boys’ innermost

desires even better than their mother.

“Thank you, Oli. Would you please take the tray up to Mama’s bedroom?

She may want something. We are all going to mass in an hour.” Renaldo

grabbed a warm croissant and juggling his coffee, slid through the door into

the house.

“Anything else for you, Señor Lonnie?”

“No, thank you, Oli, I am fine.” With that, she picked up the tray and

disappeared into the dark depths of the casa. Lonnie sat alone in silence, his

head back, catching the rays of sun on his unshaven face.

2

JAMES McCREATH

At twenty-two, Lonnie De Seta cast a formidable shadow over the garden

where he sat. He was six foot three inches tall, weighing two hundred and thirty-

five pounds. His torso was solid muscle, built up by years of lifting weights

and training for his passion, rugby football. He was ruggedly handsome, with

strong features and straight black hair worn much shorter than his brother’s.

He was now in his third year of political science studies at the University

of Buenos Aires and had been a great success for the university rugby team. He

had an aggressive, almost mean streak in him, and he preferred to mix things

up in the scrum trenches, as opposed to playing the back positions that his

coaches wanted him to play.

Lonnie would more likely than not face opponents much larger than

himself, but he rarely surrendered an inch of turf. His strength was amazing.

His first two seasons at university, he played every position on the field. He

became somewhat of a legend on campus, his athletic prowess matched equally

by his amorous adventures. Lonnie’s tall, muscular physique coupled with

his dark good looks meant that this De Seta brother was seldom without an

entourage of admiring señoritas nearby.

His coaches noticed the changes in Lonnie before anyone. By the start of

his third season, he didn’t seem to have the same drive or spirit for the game.

He was giving up so much ground in the scrums that they moved him to fly

half permanently. Even there, he seemed uninspired, passing off the ball more

and more frequently. He started being late for practice, and whenever there was

a break in their training, Lonnie was always involved in some heated political

discussion. The coaches tried to tell him that he was taking his political

science courses too seriously, that he should leave politics to the politicians and

concentrate on his rugby game, but it was no use.

The end of the season came early for Lonnie when he was thrown off the

team for starting a fist fight with one of his own teammates after practice one

day. Unfortunately, the player that he beat up was the son of one of the junta’s

more prominent generals. It was in the best interest of the university that the

incident be resolved to the satisfaction of the general and his son, thus, Lonnie

De Seta’s rugby career came to an abrupt end.

The strange thing was that none of this embarrassment mattered anymore