Renaldo (99 page)

requests to perform worldwide.”

There was now a strange look of admiration and unexploited lust about

the younger man. The girl’s name had struck a nerve.

“Simone must capitalize on this moment, Renaldo, just as you must. I

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have tentatively scheduled a world tour and several command performances in

Europe for our mutual friend commencing immediately after the tournament

ends. If you had been planning to fall in love, get married, settle down, and

have babies . . . well, those plans will just have to be put on the shelf until my

singing superstar is available. I guarantee you that such a thing will not happen

during the next two years at least, and during those two years, you can be

making a fortune and getting a start on your medical degree in England.”

There was a flash of disappointment in the younger man’s eyes as this

latest theory sank in, but in truth, Renaldo had thought no further of his

future with Simone than the eventual consummation of their relationship. She

was still an unattainable commodity in his eyes, a fantasy that he considered

beyond his grasp. Gordero kept up the one-sided dialogue, for he could see that

his client did not fully accept his words of wisdom as gospel.

“You are both so young, the world is your oyster. Take the half-shell with

both hands and drink down its succulent treasures. Life can too easily be full

of regrets and missed opportunities. I can book the young lady into London

venues during both of the years that you are contracted to the English. We

can use London as a home base for her excursions to the continent. Believe me,

Renaldo, I can arrange things so that you see much more of Simone in London

than you ever would if you stayed here in Buenos Aires.”

A large, chubby hand patted the boy tenderly on his thigh. Renaldo knew

that his mentor spoke the truth, for as a longtime fan of the talented singer, he

always thought that she had the potential to exploit her charms and talent on

the global stage. She had outgrown the Argentine market. Her recent World

Cup promotional successes were proof of that. Yes, Simone must drink from the

half-shell with both hands, and if he believed his agent’s musings to be true,

so must he!

“So, there it is! That is all I can tell you about the future right now, my dear

boy. Ahhhhh, I almost forgot. There are two more matters of relevance. Firstly,

win or lose, you are aware that the entire team has a command performance at

the FIFA closing ball tomorrow evening. All of you will be billeted at the Hotel

Presidente, where the gala takes place. Simone has asked me to tell you that

she will be there and is ‘breathlessly’ looking forward to seeing you.” A fatherly

smile adorned the facilitator’s ample face.

“Secondly, the English have asked me to extend an invitation to lunch

with them on Monday next. Vida is invited as well. Your decision must be

made by then. I realize that all this is a lot to place on your shoulders on the

eve of the most important football game of your life, but time waits for no

man! You have been flung into the swirl of the tornado called fame. One look

at the mountains of fan mail stacked away will attest to that fact. The time has

come to deal with all these matters as an adult Renaldo, for you are no longer

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a schoolboy. So, I have talked too much! Do you have any questions for me, or

should I just leave you the English contract to read and we can talk after the

championship final?”

There was a pained expression on the center half’s face as he spoke for the

first time.

“My father was killed in England, Señor Gordero. After attending a

football match. I really don’t know if I can go there. What if there are too many

ghosts in England for me to deal with? How will I cope?”

The boy’s misgivings fell into the one area that the lawyer had overlooked.

He had to think quickly.

“Renaldo, you have English blood in you. Your paternal grandmother Lydia

is as English as the Union Jack. Your father’s tragic death was an accident, an

occurrence that could have as easily happened right here in Buenos Aires. You

have a heritage in England, and I daresay, relatives as well. I can work with your

grandmother to get you connected with these people. You will not be alone!

You will have Vida, your extended family, and at times, Simone and me. There

is also Lady Mallory Russell, the owner of the Canary Wharf Football Club.

I think that you will be very impressed with her when you meet on Monday.

Not only is she strikingly beautiful, but she is knowledgeable, down-to-earth,

and extremely bright, for a woman. She has promised me that the club will

look after your every need, and I believe the lady. Her father, Sir Reginald, is

an eccentric old fop, but it is Mallory that really runs the show. You will see for

yourself. So, do we have a luncheon date on Monday?”

Renaldo pondered the scope of all that he had been told. Slowly, almost

cautiously, he nodded his head in the affirmative.

“I suppose that I have nothing to lose by going to lunch. Of all the

things that you have told me, Señor Gordero, I find my mother’s attitude the

hardest thing to grasp. She has hated the English, even to some extent my own

grandmother, ever since my father’s death. For her to allow me to set foot on

English soil is something that boggles my mind. But I will play this thing out,

if that is what you wish, Señor.”

“It is what I wish, Renaldo, because it is the best thing for you. Your

mother is a changed woman, my son, because for the first time since your father

died, she is in love again. Herr Stoltz has convinced her to cut the apron strings

and let you soar to your own new heights. It is your life, and for the first time,

she is aware of that fact.”

Astor Gordero fumbled with his inside suit-jacket pocket as he attempted

to rise from the bed.

“Oh, here, take this. I thought this little item might soothe and motivate

you after I leave.”

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JAMES McCREATH

The agent handed his client a small manila envelope. Its contents felt hard

and bulky in Renaldo’s hand.

“You are a lover of classical music, I believe. Have you ever been to the

opera?”

“Yes, Señor, many times.”

“Good, I would have thought so. Then you might find this stimulating on

two levels. It deals with tomorrow. The piece is ‘Nessun Dorma,’ from Puccini’s

Turandot. It has brought me to tears many, many times. I have translated

the lyrics into Spanish on a piece of paper inside the envelope. Listen to them

carefully. Allow the melody to carry you away. Allow the lyrics to give you

focus on your true purpose. The song tells you what that ‘purpose’ is very

clearly. Give your soul to this music, Renaldo, and it will reward you with true

inspiration!”

It seemed that the pompous lawyer was near tears as he made his closing

remarks to his puzzled audience.

“Now, remember tomorrow, head and feet as one! You have accomplished

so much my boy, don’t stop now. Viva Argentina!”

The agent turned to leave when his client’s final question sent a chill

down his spine.

“I don’t suppose that you have heard from my brother, Lonnie, by any

chance, Señor? I was really hoping that he would contact one of us to secure a

ticket to the final game. Have you received any word at all?” Gordero turned

slowly, allowing time to form the proper sad expression.

“Regrettably, I have received no word from Lonnie. But do not be

disappointed. I am certain that he will be watching you, wherever he is. I know

that you will make him a very proud older brother. Good luck, Renaldo. I want

to see you on the victory podium tomorrow!” He held up one large hand, its

fingers already meshed in the familiar pattern.

“Head and feet as one, my boy, head and feet as one!”

Finally alone in his room, the confused, lovesick player slowly opened the

offering from Astor Gordero. Enclosed was an original, sealed cassette tape and

the translation.

Renaldo unwrapped the cellophane covering, then slipped the black

cassette into his tape machine. The usual hiss of a prerecorded tape sizzled on

the speakers until the roll of a kettle drum and a sweeping flourish of strings

sent the listener hypnotically backwards into the wooden chair. The tenor’s

plaintive voice fell across the stirring backdrop:

‘Nessun Dorma! Nessun Dorma!’

The listener mouthed the translated lyrics as the symphonic sounds filled

the room.

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RENALDO

‘None must sleep! None must sleep!

And you, too, princess,

In your virginal room,

Watch the stars

Trembling with love and hope!

But my secret lies hidden within me,

No one shall ever discover my name!

No, no, I shall say it as my mouth meets yours

When the dawn is breaking!

And my kiss will dissolve the silence

Which makes you mine!

Depart oh night! Set you stars!

Set you stars! At dawn I shall win!

I shall win! I shall win!’

Renaldo felt totally drained by the time the last riveting notes had

subsided. He had given himself totally to the soporific combination of voice

and instruments. The lyrics had made a profound statement, reinforced by

that incredible melody. For the first time in his young life, he understood his

destiny.

“At dawn I shall win, I shall win . . . the World Cup trophy and

Simone!”

455

Millions of Porteños watched the sunrise that Sunday the twenty-

fifth of June. The party had lasted all night, never stopping, never

standing still. The central business district of Buenos Aires was

clogged with traffic of every description. Movement, whether on foot or by

some mechanized means, was next to impossible. The persistent staccato

honking of car horns blended comfortably with the nonstop screaming of the

word “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!”

Powder-blue and white were the only acceptable colors to sport, and even

many household pets, dressed appropriately, of course, joined the bubbling,

throbbing masses on the avenues. There was no fear of the Dutch in these

quarters. The final result was a forgone conclusion. No one would dare put a

damper on the greatest party ever seen in South America. Not if they expected

to leave Argentina alive!

Only as the witching hour approached did the streets start to empty.

Those lucky enough to be the proud owner of a ticket snaked their way north

to the towering River Plate. Those less fortunate, and they were the vast, vast

majority, sought refuge under the bright beams of the nearest television set. By

two forty-five p.m., fifteen minutes before kickoff, the once-infested streets of

the capital were totally deserted. An atomic bomb could not have evaporated

every human soul from those streets with such finality.

The morning had dawned brightly, but within a few hours, wispy clouds

were often greying out the sun. Nevertheless, the mid-fifties temperature felt

much warmer in the glow of euphoria that enveloped Buenos Aires that fateful

day. The Argentine people, rich and poor, powerful and meek, old and young,

sick and healthy, corrupt and pure . . . were ready for the Gods to deliver their

just reward as faithful followers and devout disciples.

They would all spread the word of Argentina’s greatness. They would

shout it from the rooftops, the mountaintops, across the Pampas, through the

rain forest, the length and breadth of their great nation. All that was needed

was ninety minutes of total dedication to the ultimate goal. Victory!

JAMES McCREATH

“Oswaldo?”

“Ya! You must be Lonfranco De Seta. It’s great to meet you. I am a big fan

of your brother’s. He has done some amazing things with that football during

the tournament. I sure hope he has another big game today. How about you?

Are you ready for a big day?”