Renaldo (62 page)

Assassin.’ Lonnie encountered no problems on his clandestine journey to a

secluded pay telephone. He was buoyed by his younger brother’s spirit, despite

a possible career-threatening injury. The assassin wished that he could have

told Renaldo the truth . . . that he was in huge trouble and just wanted to come

home. What on earth had he done with his life? What on earth had he turned

into? The older brother’s eyes were filled with tears as he skulked back into

room number thirty-two.

Celeste was late returning from her excursion, but it wasn’t her tardiness

that upset Lonnie when she finally arrived. It was her state of mind. She was

nearly hysterical, so much so that he had trouble understanding exactly what

she was trying to say between the gasping sobs that raked her body.

“Je . . . Jean . . . Pi . . . Jean Pierre, is . . . dead! Oh my God, he’s dead! I

went to their rooming house . . .” She paused to catch her breath, then in one

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RENALDO

heartrending outburst from the depths of her soul, she cried out the tale in

sheer anguish.

“There were police and people everywhere. I overheard two policemen

talking. They said that there had been a killing, but that the police were not

involved with the actual murder. That it seemed from some of the posters and

notes found in the dead man’s room that this was an act of terrorist revenge . .

. a settling of accounts. The landlady had said that there were two men sharing

the room, and that the other man was unaccounted for at this, oohhhhh . . .

time. Serge, I . . . I . . . don’t know what happened to Serge!” she gasped for

breath, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I managed to shove my way to the back of the ambulance, just as they

were carrying Jean Pierre out on a stretcher. They hadn’t covered him up with

a blanket or anything. I saw his face. It was horrible! The medic told the driver

not to hurry, that it was only a, ohhhh . . . a . . . ‘stiff!’ He was dead, Lonnie!

Jean Pierre, oh God . . . my baby brother is dead!”

28

Two days after Jean Pierre’s assassination, Renaldo De Seta was seated

in the parlor of Buenos Recuerdos sipping tea with his English

grandmother, Lydia. The family matriarch had been thrilled that her

grandson was paying a visit so soon after his birthday. This enabled her to

present the young man with her own gift, a beautiful, native leather briefcase.

The visit also enabled the lady to give her grandson some old-fashioned doting

and tender loving care.

“Renaldo, I know that if things work out the way you hope, there will be

no need for an attaché case for a while. At least not for medical texts. But even

football players need something to carry their team documents in, don’t they?”

Lydia had joked.

The lady looked fantastic. The Pampas air and open spaces certainly

agreed with her. She was still very active in the management of the estancia

and had slowed down very little considering that she was now in her seventy-

ninth year.

Grandmother and grandson talked at length of many things, both old and

new. Stories from the past and hopes for the future. Renaldo touched briefly on

the subject of his mother’s new beau, but gave no concrete details. He knew that

Peter De Seta was the only man that Lydia cared to hear about in connection

with the former Florencia Robillar.

Renaldo did relate that the new man was very pleasant and also polite and

attentive to his mother. He went on to describe the unusual birthday gift that

the nameless gentleman had presented to him.

The three of them had dined together at Casa San Marco on the evening of

Renaldo’s birthday, at which time Herr Stoltz had unveiled an engraved sterling

wine bucket with a bottle of Dom Pérignon resting inside. Four matching

crystal flutes completed the gift. The card that hung around the neck of the

bottle read, ‘Do not open until the World Cup is ours!’

“I hope that I do not have to wait another four years, or longer, before

opening this bottle, Herr Stoltz.”

“I am counting on it being opened in just over a month’s time, Renaldo. I

am also hoping that you will be partly responsible for that happening.”

Florencia’s icy stare curtailed the prospect of further discussion on the

subject. It was known to all parties that Herr Stoltz had a conflict of interest

JAMES McCREATH

as far as Renaldo’s future was concerned. Loyalty to his employer would dictate

hopes for a speedy return to the lucrative world of international soccer. Loyalty

to Florencia would dictate a return to university and a medical career.

In Florencia’s mind, the matter had been settled by divine intervention in

the guise of her son’s injury. It was a sign, a beacon showing him the true course

of his future. The Senora would allow no talk of football in her household!

She had given Renaldo an engraved Mount Blanc pen and pencil set

with his name and the date inscribed. To rub salt into his wound further, the

words ‘Good luck at university’ were written prominently on the card that

accompanied the gift. The evening was cordial, but not overly cheery.

Renaldo told his mother nothing of the phone call from Lonnie that

morning. He did inform her of his wish to go to Pergamino to see his

grandmother and ‘clear his head,’ before the school term commenced. Florencia

thought that it was a good idea for her son to get away for a few days and

readily offered Olarti’s services to act as chauffeur and attendant. The plan had

worked exactly as Renaldo had hoped.

It was arranged with Lydia that Renaldo and Olarti would spend their

second day on the Pampas touring the operations. Lydia declined to accompany

the two men, much to her grandson’s relief, stating that she had just completed

a similar tour herself the previous week and thought her time best spent

attending to other matters. The two men departed on their scheduled rounds,

but deviated from the stated course and ended up in the small village of Tuerto,

two hours’ drive from Buenos Recuerdos.

It was there that one of Olarti’s local contacts had found Copiapo. It was

there that Copiapo had agreed to see Renaldo De Seta.

The native healer was everything Renaldo had expected: weathered skin

the texture of leather from years in the broiling sun, long grey hair tied in a

pony tail, with the ends braided into decorated ringlets, a toothless grin below

eyes that were feeble in vision but all-seeing in knowledge.

He was seated cross-legged on the floor of the shanty that served as

his temporary home when the two men were shown in to the single-room

structure. The ancient one seemed to have several followers attending to his

needs, but they were all congregated on the outside of the dwelling. Copiapo sat

meditating in solitude as his guests waited patiently for him to acknowledge

their presence.

It was necessary for Olarti to translate the proceedings, for the healer

spoke only in his native tongue. His first interaction was little more than a two-

syllable grunt. Renaldo looked to his attendant for enlightenment.

“Take off all your clothes, including the brace,” Olarti commanded.

“Everything? Even my shorts?” was the boy’s stunned reply.

“Everything!” Olarti responded firmly.

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RENALDO

With that, he unbound the leather ankle brace that Tito had fashioned

especially for support of the heel area. The swelling and inflammation had

subsided in time, allowing for the application of the brace. Pressure was kept on

the tendon to provide for support and promote healing. Daily therapy in Tito’s

capable hands had provided some strengthening, but progress had been slow.

The old man pointed to the brace that lay on the ground in front of

its owner. Olarti, who was supporting his employer so that the younger man

could undress without using his crutches, knelt and handed the device to the

medicine man. Copiapo inspected the object with great interest, turning it

in every direction. When he finally looked up, Renaldo stood before him,

supported by Olarti, naked as the day he was born.

The healer gazed at the boy’s physique silently for several minutes, then

motioned with his arm for him to turn around. Again, several minutes of

silence followed. A second mumbled series of grunts was translated to mean

that the patient was to lie on his back, resting his damaged limb in front of

the aged healer.

Searching hands fondled the entire foot, caressing, probing, but never

causing pain, even when exploring the tenderest areas. At the conclusion of his

examination, the healer locked eyes with his young patient. Time seemed to

stand still, but Renaldo did not feel uncomfortable and never broke the contact.

Another grunt ended the intimate exchange.

From a leather medicine kit, Copiapo retrieved several pouches and a vial

of amber-colored liquid. He then rang a small bell that had sat unnoticed by

his side. Instantly, an attractive native woman entered the shanty and proceeded

directly to squat by his side. Renaldo reacted to his vulnerability in the presence

of a female by groping for his shirt and covering his privates. The natives were

amused by the Porteño
’
s discomfort, exchanging broad grins before conversing.

Their dialogue was totally one-sided, with the old man mumbling instructions,

the woman nodding affirmation, and Olarti a mute witness. When Copiapo

stopped talking, the woman picked up the articles that he had pulled from

his kit, rose to the upright position, then announced in perfect Spanish that

the session was over and that they should follow her out as soon as Renaldo

was dressed. Both men mumbled their appreciation in their native tongues.

It was as if they had been afflicted with the old man’s voice, so hoarse and

unintelligible were the croaked thank-yous.

Quinta was the native woman’s name, and she ran through Copiapo’s

instructions in a soft, patient manner. Renaldo was to continue to use the brace,

as well as all his current treatments. He was to make a compress of the plants

and powders contained in the pouches, combining them with the oil in the vial.

He was then to apply the mixture and bind it tightly to the damaged area by

means of a lambskin cloth. That was all that was necessary according to the

holistic guru.

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JAMES McCREATH

“Copiapo says that your wound will heal,” Quinta whispered gently,

touching the boy’s forearm. “He says that you have fine structure, as well as an

intense will. You can go now. I wish you both good spirit.”

“Something strange on the telephone report sheet from Casa San Marco

this morning, Astor. It might bear checking out,” Wolfgang Stoltz announced

as he entered his employer’s inner sanctum on the morning of May sixth.

“There was a call to the casa yesterday morning from Lonfranco De Seta,

the eldest son. From my privileged position, I am aware that Lonfranco has

been in his mother’s disfavor since he refused to return to school in March.

The boy claims to be traveling the country with his girlfriend, Celeste Lavalle.

The call was a routine exchange of birthday greetings between the brothers.

Nothing controversial was discussed. The incongruous part is that Lonfranco

told his brother that he was calling from Bariloche, in the Lake District, but

the call was actually placed from a pay phone in Barracas, only a few miles from

the casa. Why, if he were so close, would he not just get in his car and wish his

brother happy birthday in person?”

Astor Gordero looked up from the plate of eggs and peppers that he was

devouring.

“That does seem strange, quite out of character. The brothers are very

close. I know that for a fact. Only some kind of disagreeable circumstance

would keep Lonnie away from the casa on his brother’s birthday. And why

would he lie about his location?”

“Perhaps it was fear of his mother’s attitude that kept him away, fear of