by Rob Smyth
‘History is not fair with him. There was a lot of prejudice – he was good-looking, flamboyant, a rebel, and people frowned upon that. Some people envied him, some people hated him. His rebel fame didn’t work out well for him. If he was a nice boy like Bebeto he would be remembered in a different way.’
These days Renato is in his mid-fifties and a respected manager. In 2017 he led Grêmio to the Copa Libertadores, becoming the first Brazilian to win the tournament as player and manager. The victory in 1983 is one of the few old stories Renato is happy to revisit. ‘When he became a father he started to change,’ says Esteves. ‘He had a girl. I joked with him and said, “You’re going to pay for all your sins, Renato.” He would say, “Don’t talk about that. I’m sending her to a convent.” I think it made him see the past differently. He has really softened. If you ask him about his womanising days he cuts you off. “No, I don’t talk about that, I’m a different person.” And he really is. He doesn’t want to be stuck with that image of a twentysomething womaniser.’
***
Kaiser’s decision to befriend Renato, the dude-in-chief of Rio, was a political masterstroke. Those who were irritated by Kaiser’s unearned swagger were not going to do much about it when Renato and his entourage were around. It was a template that served Kaiser well throughout his career – by making the right friends, he had unspoken immunity. ‘Brazil is very violent but I’ve never been affected by that,’ says Kaiser. ‘I’m hated by a lot of people but they think twice about crossing me because I have all kinds of friendships. Good ones, bad ones. I respect everybody.’
As well as immunity, Kaiser’s social circle gave him credibility and opportunity. ‘I was friends with the greatest of the greatest,’ he says. ‘My friends were the greatest of my generation and the one before it.’ This is not an idle boast. Kaiser’s most famous friend was the man who captained Brazil’s immortal 1970 side. Everyone in football knows the name of Carlos Alberto Torres. And the voice: he was an avuncular character with the rich, deep twang of a voiceover artist.
‘I’m very surprised they were friends,’ says Martha Esteves. ‘I don’t understand what kind of connection they could have had. I think Kaiser probably conquered his heart. He warmed to him, looked at him as a son. Carlos Alberto was so well regarded. Being friends with him would open so many doors.’
As Kaiser’s network widened, doors started opening everywhere. The next allowed him to copy Renato in another way: by becoming world champion.
CHAPTER 7
THE WORLD CHAMPION
Kaiser won the Brazilian championship for the first time in 1984. He marginally missed out on qualification for a medal, having played no games, but he wasn’t about to let this mundane detail get in the way of a good yarn. Especially as it involved him being at Fluminense, the aristocrats of Brazilian football.
He was spotted by the coach Carlos Alberto Parreira – who later coached Brazil to the World Cup in 1994 – during a kickabout near the Rodrigo de Freitas lagoon. Kaiser’s network of contacts enabled him to find out when some kickabouts were being scouted, and he would perform accordingly. Parreira was sufficiently impressed to suggest that Kaiser come and train with the club.
For a few days, as he prepared for his first session at Fluminense, Kaiser worried that somebody might have heard about his injury problems at America. He even considered the nuclear option of playing football. The more he thought about it, the more he reasoned that nobody would know. Fluminense barely acknowledged the existence of a little club like America, and when they did it was only to look down their nose. The chances of them knowing about his spell there were almost non-existent. And he knew he could say what he liked about his time at Puebla. The last time he checked, there was no Mexican Football Yearbook on sale in Rio.
As he lined up for his first training session, Kaiser looked around at the great and good of Brazilian football. The squad included Romerito, the Paraguayan magician, and some of Brazil’s best young players – in particular the dynamic left-sided pair of Branco and Tato. Even Kaiser accepted he was out of his depth, and after a few minutes of playing simple, low-risk passes, he performed his skit. Kaiser exploded into a sprint and instantly pulled up clutching his hamstring. ‘My first injury since I was fifteen!’ he pleaded to anyone who would listen. ‘I’ve supported Fluminense all my life and this happens on my first day of training!’
It was a pack of lies – he was a Botafogo fan – but nobody knew that, and there was sufficient sympathy and goodwill towards Kaiser that he was encouraged to continue his rehabilitation at the club. All he wanted was to be associated with Fluminense, a club that was symbol of wealth and privilege. One of the founding members of the club was Arnaldo Guinle, a member of one of Brazil’s richest families. Fluminense has always been a traditional club, with one of the world’s most distinctive kits, an almost psychedelic mix of green and dark red stripes.
Their intense rivalry with Flamengo – the matches between the teams are known as the Fla–Flu derbies – stems from the inherent differences between them. Flamengo are seen as the team of the masses, dismissed by Fluminense fans as ‘the favela team’; Fluminense are the haughty elite. ‘Fuck Flamengo,’ thought Kaiser, ‘this is where I belong.’ The club was based in the glamorous South Zone of Rio, a place where it was compulsory to flaunt status, beauty and much else besides.
Fluminense’s title win in 1984 was only the second in their history, though they were regular winners of the state championship, the Campeonato Carioca. The structure of Brazilian football meant that teams competed for two major prizes every year: the Campeonato Brasileiro, the national championship, and the localised state championship – the Campeonato Carioca in Rio’s case. The state championship was often, paradoxically, the more important to the supporters. The difficulties of travelling across Brazil for away matches diluted the experience of following a team in the Campeonato Brasileiro, and meant that rivalries were nowhere near as intense as those between sides who played each other in Rio or São Paulo. There’s no point having bragging rights over somebody if they are 200 miles away.
The system meant it was possible to have success and failure in the same season. Fluminense won three consecutive Campeonato Cariocas from 1983 to 1985, yet finished eighteenth in the national championship in 1983 and twenty-second in 1985. But in 1984 they won both competitions. The triumph was inspired by the signing of Romerito, who went on to win the South American Player of the Year award in 1985 ahead of Diego Maradona, Enzo Francescoli, Zico and others. He got on well with Kaiser, who was slowly building a dream team of friends who could help his cause around Rio, both in and out of football.
Kaiser ingratiated himself in any way possible, from the everyday to the extraordinary. He would run errands or set players up with women. When one of Fluminense’s star players knocked somebody out in a nightclub, Kaiser took the rap. He was happy to do anything for his team-mates – partly out of simple goodwill, partly because he knew he could call in a favour down the line.
One of the things that made Kaiser so popular in dressing rooms was his effortless ability to lift the mood. ‘He cheered everyone up,’ says Bebeto, the star striker who later had a couple of spells with Kaiser at Vasco da Gama. ‘The vibe, the atmosphere was fun. We liked him so much that we played along with his stories. After two or three months he would just vanish, and when he did everybody missed him. Then after about six months he would come back saying, “I’ve been at this club, I was in France, I was in Portugal.” Nobody believed him, but then he would show us newspaper articles or club ID cards to prove it. After a while, he’d vanish again. Then I’d be watching TV and a club would be presenting a new player: “The new signing, Kaiser!”’
Kaiser usually joined clubs on an informal basis, with no contract, but he didn’t care about that. ‘He wanted to take photos of himself to facilitate his off-the-field activities,’ says Maurício, who took Kaiser to America RJ. ‘He didn’t care about playing. He wanted to get a picture of hi
mself that he could show the girls: “Look, I’m a footballer” or, “Training was really tough yesterday. I need a massage.”’
Most of the time Kaiser disappeared of his own volition, either out of boredom or because he instinctively felt he might soon be exposed. ‘I didn’t complete one contract,’ he says. ‘I’d arrive at a new club and it would be a novelty for me. Novelty is always good. Are you going to tell me that being with a woman for ten years is the same as being with her for ten days? That’s a lie. Hypocrisy.’
Fluminense was the last team to dump Kaiser. He was only training on an unofficial basis, and with no sign of him recovering from injury it was suggested he should leave and try again when he was fit to play. ‘They found me out,’ says Kaiser.
He didn’t care as he already had what he wanted. Fluminense’s name was on his CV, he had official club gear and ID, not to mention photos with some of the best players in Brazil. All could be used in evidence when he approached his next football club. Or his next nightclub.
***
Kaiser would never forget his first time at Studio C, the exclusive nightclub under Hotel Othon Palace on Copacabana Beach. By entering with Branco and Tato, two of the stars of Fluminense’s title-winning side, Kaiser gained entry, not only to the club, but also the VIP section. As he pulled back the velvet curtains, Kaiser entered his own fantasyland. He prided himself on his poker face and acting ability, but at that moment he was so overwhelmed that he would have told a million truths. All he could see was a collage of flesh, everyone wiggling their hips to the samba and bossa nova of Jorge Ben Jor. He fell in lust eighteen times in the first minute alone. Kaiser regarded himself as a confident, accomplished lover, but this was a different league. The whole place was formidably comfortable with its sexuality.
This was Kaiser’s entry to the inner circle. He didn’t want to live the dream; he wanted to live the depraved fantasy. And he never, ever wanted to go back to real life. The 1980s may have a dubious reputation in some cultures, but in Rio it was a golden age of nightlife. Once he adjusted to his new surroundings, and was sitting comfortably at the huge round table reserved for superstar footballers, Kaiser decided he might as well try to monetise his lust. ‘I’ll bet any of you a hundred cruzeiros I can get a date with any girl in here.’
‘Fuck off, Kaiser!’ scoffed Tato. ‘For a start, you don’t have a hundred cruzeiros, and there is no way you could pull half the people in here.’
After a rapid back and forth it was decided that Kaiser should woo a tall brunette who resembled Raquel Welch. Kaiser walked over, studiously ignoring the jeers of his friends, and announced himself. ‘Hi, do you watch Mesa Redonda?’
‘No, what’s that?’
‘It’s a football show, on every week, where they show the goals from all the matches.’
‘I’m not really a football fan, though my brother is mad about Flamengo. Why do you ask?’
‘He likes Flamengo? Of all the coincidences! That is so weird.’
Kaiser smiled and shook his head wryly.
‘I play for Flamengo! I was going to ask you if I could dedicate my next goal to you as I thought you had a different kind of beauty to everyone else in here. You remind me of Raquel Welch.’
‘You are a footballer, really?’
‘Yes, look, here’s my card. I get a bit tired of people thinking I’m not a footballer – you see, so many people have copied my look and try to pass themselves off as me.’
‘How long have you been at Flamengo?’
‘Three years. I played for the national team at the World Cup in 1982. You must have seen that?’
The girl’s name was Larissa, and she and Kaiser went on a couple of dates, where Kaiser spent his hundred cruzeiro winnings, before she suggested he meet the family. Most people are scared of meeting the mother and father. Kaiser was terrified of meeting the brother, who would know he had never played for Flamengo’s first team. He made his excuses, citing an imminent move to Italian football.
Kaiser’s persuasiveness with everyone from beautiful women to septuagenarian club presidents was legendary among the footballers of Rio. ‘His chat was so good,’ says Bebeto. ‘He had it in spades off the field. He had a silver tongue. If you let him open his mouth, that would be it. He’d charm you. You couldn’t avoid it.’
Kaiser had the gift of the gab, and it kept on giving. But he also knew the value of keeping his mouth shut. Many of his friends noted with surprise how polite and understated his chat-up technique could be. ‘I’d say the right thing at the right time,’ says Kaiser. ‘I’d keep quiet when I needed to. My dad used to say man’s greatest skill is listening.’ He was eloquent, witty and swore so infrequently that, when he did so, it was a tell-tale sign that he was genuinely angry about something, or that he was in danger of being exposed.
There was nobody Kaiser would not approach. He had more front than Copacabana Beach. ‘Even when he wasn’t pretending to be me, he was always with beautiful women,’ says Renato Gaúcho. ‘Famous women, too. He was a sweet talker; upbeat and extrovert. What woman doesn’t like a guy like that? And on top of that, they thought he was a rich footballer.’
***
In a world where almost every Kaiser story is accompanied by a raised eyebrow or an unspoken question mark, every single interviewee talks about his sobriety in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘Never,’ says Fabinho, before switching to pidgin English to stress the point. ‘No alcohol. No drugs. No cigar. Nothing.’ Kaiser was equally monastic when it came to drugs and cigarettes. His only vices were women and Coke – Diet Coke, that is.
Kaiser may enjoy food but he has never touched alcohol. He attributes his hatred of alcohol to the excessive drinking of his mother. This is not to say alcohol had no use to Kaiser. He reversed the old alcoholic’s trick by drinking water with ice in a nightclub, telling women it was vodka. And he was happy to show a certain moral flexibility when Maurício was asked to promote Dado beer. Kaiser went along for the ride and the freebies.
***
The 1980s probably had more fashion disasters per capita than any decade in history. In the South Zone, extremely low-cut tops were the norm – and that was just among the men. Some of Kaiser’s old photos show him and his friends wearing gaudy, patterned shirts undone almost to the belly button. Then there were the trousers, often so tight that one false move would leave them urgently requiring the services of a tailor.
The men of Rio all subscribed to a fashion philosophy of uniform individuality. ‘Everybody had the same style,’ laughs Martha Esteves. ‘It was ridiculous. Every guy would wear blazers with shoulder pads and really colourful, flowery shirts that looked like wrapping paper. It was all really standardised. Tight trousers with white trainers; sunglasses, always, no matter what time of day it was. It was really kitsch and really tacky. But back then it was cool.’
***
In Kaiser’s heyday, sex and football were inextricably linked. ‘That’s something that’s been going on for a long time, especially with girls from poor neighbourhoods,’ says Gonçalves. ‘It’s very common for the training grounds to be full of girls asking for autographs and trying to strike up a rapport with the players. It’s all in the hope of a better life.’
The age of consent in Brazil is fourteen. ‘We’d get to training and see girls in their uniform skipping school to hang out in the stands,’ says Gonçalves. ‘Either that or they’d come from the beach in their bikinis and towels to watch the training. There were days we couldn’t focus on training because we kept looking over at tanned girls in swimsuits sitting in the stands. When we left there was a gauntlet of mums and daughters on one side and girls in their school uniform on the other.
‘A lot of players actually met their wives at their clubs after training or in the Maracanã. It’s natural. There was also a telephone in the changing room. So the girls would call the club telephone and asked to be transferred to the changing room. And whichever player picked up was like the fish who’d been caught.’
> Gonçalves was catfished on one occasion, when he was seduced by the voice on the other end of the phone and agreed to meet that evening at an apartment in Tijuca. ‘It was a neighbourhood with nice buildings, so I thought, “She must be hot”. She spoke really nicely. I was imagining a beautiful blonde. I went up and when I rang the bell the door opens and it’s the maid! I had a good look and said, “Are you Fulana?”
‘“Yes, hi, Gonçalves. How are you?”
‘“I came here to give you an autograph, sorry I couldn’t bring a shirt. I have to be somewhere now. I didn’t want to mess you around but I didn’t have your number. I just had your address that I wrote down so I couldn’t call you. Forgive me.”’
Gonçalves made a quick exit, vowing never to answer the phone at Flamengo again.
***
When he first started to explore the South Zone, Kaiser was still living with his aunts, which wasn’t exactly conducive to all-night pata-pata. In Rio, there was a simple solution to that: the love motel. There was one on almost every corner, offering a practical, objective room to rent by the hour or by the night. The decor usually registered extremely high on the cheesometer, with round beds, mirrors on the ceiling and huge bath tubs. Kaiser loved them.
An adulterous culture is one of the main reasons for the success of love motels, though they are also very popular among young people who, in a fiercely Christian culture, are not allowed to bring partners home. Infidelity is rarely frowned upon either. ‘You can be a womaniser and a great person in Brazil,’ says Martha Esteves. ‘It’s so normal that we kind of separate the two.’ It was common for footballers to go there from a nightclub, especially if they were married – or living with their aunt.
***
Kaiser was getting sick of spending so much money on love motels and reasoned he might as well rent his own place. He needed extra cash for that, however, and had been unemployed since leaving Fluminense. Things were so desperate that he even took a real job at a solicitor’s firm. He lasted until an infamous incident when staff kicked down the locked door of the communal bathroom to find Kaiser asleep. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. On his first day in the job. ‘There was nothing for me to do,’ says Kaiser by way of clarification, ‘so I went to have a sleep.’