Renaldo (75 page)

distracting several more Frenchmen. All this activity left Renaldo momentarily

alone and unattended.

As Anariba flew past number seventeen on his way toward the right-hand

goal post, he delivered a true pass onto the surprised center half’s right foot.

So strongly was la pelota delivered to Renaldo that it volleyed off his boot to

waist height. He watched it rise in the air and sit spinning almost in slow

motion at the peak of its trip. The Newton’s Prefect Under Twenty-one player

remembered thinking what a great, strong ball Anariba had sent him, how

he hadn’t thought Leopoldo could pass with such authority until that very

moment.

Renaldo then flashed on Astor Gordero’s words,
Head and feet as one, head

and feet as one!
With his peripheral vision, he could pick out the top left corner

of the opposing goal. The French defense seemed frozen in time. No one came

forward to challenge, and as the ball sat suspended at the vertex of its rise,

number seventeen swung a powerful right leg up and made contact.

“There!” the boy shouted as the sphere arched on its journey. His right

hand pointed toward the top left corner of France’s goal, the preordained

destination.

Head and feet as one! Come on, come on!
This shot did not misfire, but

was true to its mark. The French keeper had not expected a shot from such a

distance, especially with powder-blue and white players streaming down the

wings. That distraction and the resultant hesitation were his undoing. By the

time he left his feet the ball was behind him, in the top left corner of the net!

346

RENALDO

Renaldo followed the flight of the ball, coaxing, pleading, urging it on its

true path. He saw the back of the net bulge and Delaroche’s futile dive.

Raising his arms upright was the boy’s initial reaction. It was what he

did instinctively any time he was fortunate enough to be rewarded in such a

manner. He did not take to running wildly about the field, shouting praises to

the heavens or falling to his knees while his teammates piled on top of him.

Such demonstrations were for others. He had, at no time in his young life,

scored a goal of this magnitude, however.

The stadium erupted in delight, and the heavens opened up with snow-

like flakes of paper. Shouts of “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!” rained down

upon the players as they swarmed their newly anointed Wellington.

The goal scorer was finally freed from his human entanglements and

began to make his way back across the center line when he heard it for the first

time. The noise seemed to start low in the field level section of the stadium,

close to where the boy knew that Astor Gordero was seated. It was a strange

sound, somewhat like a low roar followed by a long exclamation. Ramon Vida

was now at Renaldo’s side.

“Do you hear that, man? You have your own cheer! Holy shit, listen to

that, man. They’re saying ‘RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo.’ That’s you, man!

You’re a fucking hero with your own fucking cheer, my friend. Look at the

scoreboard. Look at those giant letters!”

Mesmerized by the growing volume of the refrain, Renaldo cast his eyes

upon the mammoth illuminated board. There, in huge letters, spread the

graphics of his name. Several ‘R’s’ in succession followed by ‘E,’ ‘N,’ several ‘A’s,’

then several ‘L’s,’ a ‘D’ and an ‘O.’ The entire stadium had picked up the chorus,

and it was an extremely embarrassed, yet elated center half that took up his

position for the final minutes of play.

On again came Napoleon’s legions, undaunted by the odds against

them. Fine, inspired football propelled the blue shirts forward in search of the

equalizer. But Wellington’s forces held their ground, and at the end of the day,

left the field victorious.

The French must now retreat to Paris, empty-handed. Two games, two

losses. A skilled, poetic team that just couldn’t find their offensive form.

Renaldo De Seta exchanged jerseys with French captain Christian Thierry, who

expressed best wishes and admiration for his young opponent. The crowd was

still in a state of euphoria as Renaldo De Seta left the playing field, stripped

to the waist and listening. The Gallery Gods were loudly proclaiming him as

Argentina’s new darling of the River Plate.

34

JAMES McCREATH

The occupant of seat 3, row 8, field level section 365 had managed to

contain herself through the first seventy-five minutes of the Argentina-France

encounter. It had been an exceedingly difficult task, but the portly gentleman

accompanying the young lady that evening had urged her to keep a low profile

lest a riot break out.

They had arrived at the stadium early to avoid recognition, and sure

enough, no one had given the girl dressed in the tight jeans, a brown bomber

jacket, and midthigh leather boots more than an approving glance. The fact

that her long, curly hair had been neatly tucked up under a powder-blue and

white tam and her eyes were covered with oversized dark glasses made her

discernible features even more obscure. Two of the five bodyguards occupied

the seats immediately in front of her, two sat directly behind her, and the fifth

beside her to the left. With Astor Gordero wedged into seats 1 & 2 to her

right, Simone Yvonne Montana Carta-Aqua was surrounded by so much prime

Argentine beef that she felt like a lovesick cow that had wandered into the

bull’s barn at mating season.

In the end, Symca’s cover was blown with Renaldo De Seta’s winning

goal. She leapt to her feet along with the rest of the stadium, hugging the large

girth of Gordero and squealing with joy. The Fat Man clutched his huge flag,

and waving it to and fro, trilled a succession of ‘R’s’ and then completed the

expression with an ‘E,’ ‘N,’ several ‘A’s,’ several ‘L’s’ then a ‘D,’ and an ‘O.’

“Simone, he scored, the boy scored! Did you see that shot? It was fantastic!

Come, help me salute him. I’ve made up a cheer. You men there, all of you, help

out. It goes like this . . .”

Gordero then led the faithful in a series of loud punctuated exclamations,

each one gaining in length and volume. Others in the section followed suit,

but when the young lady in seat 3 stepped into the aisle and doffed her tam,

it seemed like that entire side of River Plate Stadium picked up the refrain.

There was no mistaking the beautiful Symca as she urged the throng to join

in with a spirited and sensual outburst of euphoria. Astor Gordero had been

so pleased at his innovative cheer that he had paid the scoreboard operator one

thousand U.S. dollars to visually display the boy’s name should the definitive

occasion occur.

True to the agreement, after the clincher had been netted, the giant

blackboard spelt out ‘RRRRRRR-e-n-aaaaaaaa-llll-d-o.’ Now the entire

gathering joined the chorus, and as the patrons close to field level section 365

gawked and craned their necks to get a glimpse of the nation’s premier pop

sensation, the entire stadium rocked to the haunting sound of the vocalized

refrain saluting their new idol’s name.

348

Lonnie De Seta held the small, portable radio tightly to his left ear. The

reception in the basement room he and Celeste called home was terrible.

Static cracked constantly, giving the hyperactive football announcer the

effect of barking over the airwaves. Names were a blur, and the flow of the

match impeded by noise pollution. Lonnie swore at the black rectangle in his

hand.

“Goddamn piece of shit radio, smarten up and work, for Christ’s sake!”

He smacked the side of the object and was about to put it down when

he thought that he could make out the name ‘De Seta’ through the inaudible

jumble. He put the box to his ear again. “De Seta scores!!! Renaldo De

Seta scores to give Argentina a 2-1 lead with fourteen minutes to play!!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRenaaaldo . . . De . . . Seta!!!!”

The goal scorer’s older brother wanted to shout the boy’s name at the top

of his lungs. He wanted to dance around the room, embracing Celeste while

whooping for joy. He could hear the commotion from the parlor above him in

this moderately priced, moderately decent boarding house in the Boca area of

the capital. But there would be no spontaneous outburst of any kind from the

occupants of lower room number three.

They had resided in the small efficiency flat exactly one month to the day,

when Argentina took the field against France. Outside their basement window,

the football-mad residents of Boca were going crazy, and on the inside of that

same window, so was Lonnie De Seta. Only it was a different kind of crazy.

Lonnie was well on his travels down the road to a complete mental

breakdown. He was convinced that Celeste had already reached that

destination.

So much had changed since Celeste’s return to their room in Barracas on

May the fifth, yet in many ways, so much had stayed the same. It seemed to

Lonnie that he was making a lifetime commitment to living in flee-bitten rooms

and scurrying about the outer world incognito, like some detested rodent. His

roommate had been beside herself with grief since her younger brother’s death,

and at times, had remained in bed sobbing for days on end.

With a price on the ‘Attractive Assassin’s’ head, Celeste should have

been the one to venture out into the real world to buy staples and retrieve

the newspapers, but in her state of mourning, she seemed either unwilling or

JAMES McCREATH

unable to make that effort. The task fell to Lonnie to keep the pair alive, and

when absolutely necessary, he would put on one of several disguises and slip out

the basement window after dark to the late-night market nearby.

There had been no contact from Serge Lavalle whatsoever, and adding to

Celeste’s grief was the intuition that her eldest brother was no longer among

the living. Lonnie could do little to search for the missing man, for he was ‘the

hunted one,’ and his clean-shaven likeness still was pasted on the walls of many

a building. The crazed, shaggy animal that Lonnie De Seta had become bore

not a thread of resemblance to the word ‘attractive’ at all.

Nevertheless, extreme caution was the operative word. What little street

talk Lonnie could acquire confirmed that certain unknown people were asking

for information about any of the remaining cadre members from the Barracas

terrorist assassination. The local newspaper vendor had been the most reliable

source of information, but like most members of the Boca population, he

wanted to discuss football-related matters only. The fugitive had to be careful

not to seem overly interested in the terrorist roundup, so he would always open

their dialogue with the topic that appeased the information vendor. Just as he

was about to depart, Lonnie would ask his new friend if there was any late news

on the terrorist killings.

The fear was real throughout the capital that the Montoneros or some

similar dissident organization would disrupt the World Cup Tournament,

so it was easy enough to steer the newsy onto the topic without raising an

eyebrow. On the night of June seventh, as the terrorist ventured out to buy

every printed word relating to Argentina’s latest soccer victory, he was told that

several different men had come by the kiosk inquiring after one specific person.

The merchant showed Lonnie a poster that had been left with him. It bore the

image of the ‘Attractive Assassin.’

This news turned Lonnie’s blood cold and caused his forehead to break

out into a heavy sweat under his brown slouch hat. He felt weak at the knees as

he made his way back to his semi-incarcerated existence. The questions raced

through his mind.

Should they try to reach the bank, get some money, and make a run for it? Should

they make a better effort to find Serge? Was it safe to move Celeste in her unstable state?