Kaiser

by Rob Smyth

  And the whole thing kept on perpetuating itself.

  It was quite a juggling act. Journalists, players, managers, directors, women, restaurateurs, nightclub owners: Kaiser had to make sure his story was consistent with all of them. ‘I’d need a completely annotated chronogram in order to not trip over my own lies,’ says Roger Flores, the former Brazil international who became friends with Kaiser in the 1990s. ‘I’d never manage to live a lie for so long. Look, there are people like Kaiser in Rio, who tell stories on a night out: “I’m on holiday in Brazil. I play in China. I play in Indonesia.” But they do it once or twice. Kaiser did it every day for decades.’

  He managed not only to do that but also to create a web of lies so elaborate that nobody could remember who vouched for him in the first place. ‘His greatest quality,’ says Ricardo Rocha, ‘is that he’s friends with your friend.’

  Edgar Pereira compares Kaiser to one of the world’s most famous con men: Frank Abagnale, who was played in the Steven Spielberg film Catch Me If You Can by Leonardo DiCaprio. ‘There’s a scene where DiCaprio is about to be caught and he hides himself in a big group of women. Every time I see that I think of Kaiser.’ When he is asked whether there were any pretenders to Kaiser’s throne, Edgar’s face lights up. ‘Impossivo. Impossivo. Impossivo. Impossivo!’

  Everyone who speaks about Kaiser stresses his generosity of spirit, even if that sometimes strayed into calculated generosity. He was adept at subtly pressuring people to return a favour he had imposed upon them. ‘I would often bump into Kaiser on nights out,’ says the radio reporter Sergio Américo. ‘I’d come in with my friends and he’d say, “Serginho, I’ve got a VIP area over there. Hang on, I’ll get you a bracelet.” He’d take you to the VIP section. Then he’d hug you and say, “Don’t forget to mention on the radio tomorrow that Carlos Kaiser is going to be signing a contract with Botafogo.”’

  ***

  Kaiser loved to be the middleman, as it usually meant he would receive a thank-you from both sides. And while his name probably won’t be found on the Fifa list of officially accredited player agents, he did tout some players around. He secured a trial at Botafogo for three beach soccer superstars, and another at the French club Montpellier for a striker called Paulo Dias. When his friend Luiz Maerovitch was looking for talented young players for a team that was affiliated to Fluminense, Kaiser made a number of recommendations. Most of them were not up to standard, and one day Maerovitch twigged what was going on. ‘He was only recommending players whose mums were hot. I said to him, ‘Is it the mum or her son who’s going to play?”

  ***

  Dror Niv, the owner of the acclaimed sushi restaurant I Piatti, has served Kaiser many a free meal over the last thirty years. He has slowly learned how to read between the lies. ‘Kaiser always tells a story with one objective: getting one over in some way,’ he says. ‘It’s always for some reward. But what kind of reward depends on the circumstance.’

  The reward was often food. Kaiser may have signed autographs as Renato Gaúcho but his signature was never seen on a restaurant cheque. There was a permanent hole in his pocket; he spent his money on everything from prostitutes to escorts. There were many days when he woke up with no money and no food, yet he hardly ever went hungry. ‘I could be penniless,’ he says, ‘but if I had to take a girl out to dinner in the best place in Rio, I could.’ There was always a little Brazilian way. The only question was how much dignity he would have to sacrifice.

  Maerovitch remembers arriving at Porcão one evening when he saw Kaiser creating a scene at a corner table.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ shouted Kaiser to his female companion. ‘Do you have a phone? Can you please lend me your phone?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Kaiser?’

  ‘Please, can you lend me your phone?’

  ‘But what’s the problem?’

  ‘What I did for America, the president is going to have to come here now.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘With what I did for America, the president will have to come here and pay my bill.’

  ‘Kaiser, I don’t understand.’

  ‘They gave me this credit card to use and there is no money on it! After all I have done for that bloody club!’

  ‘Kaiser, it’s okay, I’ll pay. You can pay me back later.’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s humiliating. And I do not deserve to be treated like this. I score over thirty goals three seasons in a row and this is how they thank me.’

  ‘Just let me pay.’

  ‘Okay, you can pay for it but I’ll pay you back tonight. This is unbelievable. This will never happen again.’

  The woman paid the bill and left with Kaiser. That was one of many regular scams to ensure he didn’t have to pay for anything. He hoofed ATMs in frustration as if they had swallowed his card, then sulked in the car until he was persuaded to allow his companion to pay for him. He also carried a chequebook with only one cheque left, which he would accidentally tear or sign incorrectly. That was a particular favourite at love motels. ‘Can I settle up tomorrow? I’m a professional footballer, it’s not like I’m going to do a runner. If I did you could just find me at the Maracanã!’

  At one love motel he convinced the Portuguese owner that he had played for Braga in Portugal’s Primeira Divisão, thus ensuring free rooms indefinitely. The owner was a Braga fan who was wowed by Kaiser’s stories of playing alongside the Croatian hotshot Mladen Karoglan.

  Maurício, the Botafogo star, noticed that whenever Kaiser accidentally bumped into him at the gym, it was just before lunchtime. Kaiser knew Maurício ate free at a nearby restaurant that was run by his father-in-law. ‘We’d have lunch together,’ laughs Maurício. ‘He would eat up all his cheese and chicken. Good memories. Loads of cheese.’

  The players liked having Kaiser around for lunch, even if they were paying, because they knew he would make them laugh until it hurt. Kaiser held court imperiously. It was not so much the after-dinner circuit as the dinner circuit.

  ***

  Kaiser didn’t jump queues; he ignored them. ‘He never, ever paid to get into nightclubs,’ says Fabinho. He was a self-made VIP who could gain access to anywhere in Rio. If Kaiser was not familiar with the bouncers he would show his ID card to ensure free entry. ‘He was always flashing a card from a team in France,’ says Tato. ‘I can’t remember if it was Bordeaux or Monaco. You’d look at the card and think, “It’s possible that he played there.” And he’s pretty stylish too, so he looked the part.’

  Kaiser had a card for every club, and therefore for every occasion. ‘If it was an event only Fluminense players could get into, he would bring his Fluminense card,’ says Maurício. ‘Botafogo card, Vasco card, America card. He had cards from France, Italy and England. He had more cards than I did, and I was a Brazil international! There were places I couldn’t get into but he would just walk in. He’d bring you straight to the VIP area where there were free drinks and free food. He would get you tickets for a Rolling Stones gig. And he would do so much promotion that when you got there everything would be at your fingertips.’

  And you would be in his debt.

  One day, Kaiser asked if he could borrow Maurício’s car to take somebody out. As Kaiser did not have a driving licence and had spent the last week moaning about his declining eyesight, Maurício politely declined. Kaiser hatched another plan instead. He waited until it rained and turned up at the girl’s house holding an umbrella. Kaiser was all apologies, explaining that his car was being repaired and that he didn’t like driving his Honda CBR 1000 motorbike in the rain because he had nearly died in an accident a few years earlier. Then, as the taxi that had taken him there departed, Kaiser made a big song and dance about leaving his wallet in the back seat.

  ‘That girl was drop-dead gorgeous and he went out with her as if nothing had happened,’ says Maurício. ‘She paid for everything – drinks, the taxis, the love motel, the lot. They had fun and danced the whole night. Only Kaiser would have those
kinds of adventures. I wouldn’t have the cheek but he’s Kaiser. He’s the man.’

  ***

  Carlos Alberto Torres decided it was time to find out if Kaiser really was the man. Kaiser was at his house, offering to get him a short-notice reservation in the blissful resort of Búzios for New Year’s Eve. Carlos Alberto knew this was impossible even for him, the captain of the greatest team in football history. He was with his son Alexandre at the time and they decided to call Kaiser’s bluff.

  ‘Actually, I want to go! Sort it out because I want to come.’

  ‘Oh, you want to go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘I want to spend New Year there. Let’s say 30 December to 3 January.’

  ‘Okay, can I use your phone? I just need to make a couple of calls.’

  When Kaiser left the room, Carlos Alberto and his son laughed their heads off and started betting on the excuse he would come up with. Ten minutes later, there was still no sign of Kaiser. ‘He’s done a runner!’ said Alexandre.

  Soon after Kaiser came back in the room with details of Carlos Alberto’s reservation. ‘Just tell the manager I sent you, you’ll be in the main suite.’

  Carlos Alberto went to Búzios, half expecting to make the return journey a couple of hours later, but Kaiser’s reservations held up. ‘He stayed for five days,’ says Alexandre. ‘Anybody from Brazil knows that to get a hotel room in Búzios for five days over New Year’s Eve is almost impossible. My dad, for example, would never think of asking somebody for something that he thought was out of reach. Kaiser was different. He goes and asks. He doesn’t even ask, he demands it. And he gets it.’

  ***

  Kaiser was a pioneer of many things: player liaison, marketing, PR. And selling retro football shirts. It was one of his most reliable sources of income, or at least securing favours. He sold all kinds of shirts, many of them classics from the 1960s and 1970s, all of them fake. He also gave away replica shirts to restaurant owners. Leri Da Rosa, who owned Kaiser’s favourite pizzeria, was thrilled to receive an original signed shirt from his hero, the former Paraguay and Grêmio defender Catalino Rivarola. Kaiser said he had played with Rivarola at Palmeiras. Da Rosa framed it in his lounge and cherished it until the day his son came to visit and pointed out it was a fake from a flea market.

  Dror Niv, the owner of I Piatti, was given a signed shirt worn by Zico from the 1982 World Cup. ‘Kaiser signed it himself!’ he laughs. ‘He would counterfeit everything and sell everything counterfeit.’

  Sometimes, however, Kaiser did have authentic club shirts; it was just the backstory that came from a flea market. ‘He asked those who played abroad to give him their team shirts, because he would take the shirt and claim he’d played there,’ says Adriano Dias Oliveira. ‘He had one from Nice in France. He also had a photo of him in a Paris Saint-Germain shirt, which meant he’d played there.’

  The internet and globalisation have made it easy to buy almost any club shirt in the world, but in the twentieth century it was extremely difficult to find the kit of an overseas team. Kaiser’s claims thus had a ring of truth.

  Gil, the Botafogo manager, even gave him Kevin Keegan’s shirt, which they swapped after Brazil’s 1-1 draw at Wembley in 1978. Gil scored Brazil’s goal in that game. As Kaiser was fourteen years old at the time, even he could not claim to have scored at Wembley.

  ***

  Renato Mendes Mota knew Kaiser was up to something; he just didn’t know what it was. Why was Kaiser offering to pay for breakfast? And why, if Kaiser was paying, was he insisting they eat at the upmarket Spanish motel Viña del Mar? Mota was wearing a retro Barcelona training top, given to him by a friend who’d been there on holiday, and Kaiser said it was appropriate they should eat somewhere Spanish. ‘But you should take the top off,’ said Kaiser. ‘It’s a bit cheesy to walk in wearing that. Come on, man, show a bit of class.’

  When they arrived, Kaiser walked confidently towards the reception.

  ‘I’d like to speak with Mr Manolo, please.’

  ‘Just a moment. Who should I say is here?’

  ‘Carlos Henrique, the Botafogo footballer.’

  After a couple of minutes, a short, rotund man arrived.

  ‘Can I help you? I’m Manolo.’

  ‘I’m Carlos Henrique, from Botafogo. You probably recognise me. This is my cousin Renato who plays for Flamengo and we’d like to have breakfast here. I wondered if I might also discuss something with you while we’re here.’

  Kaiser, Manolo and Mota started chatting over breakfast about their mutual love of Barcelona. After a couple of minutes, Kaiser looked at Mota and said, ‘Renato, could you pass me my Barcelona top?’

  Mota was nonplussed for a couple of seconds. Whose Barcelona top?

  Those two seconds were all Kaiser needed.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, turning to Manolo, ‘because you’re a Barça fan I’m going to give you this Barcelona training top that I was given by Ricardo Bochini when I played for Independiente de la Plata in Argentina. It was given to him by Diego Maradona. Bochini was his idol. As a football connoisseur, I’m sure you know that.’

  Manolo was still in a state of giddy gratitude when Kaiser got down to brass tacks. He said he and some of the other Botafogo players were looking for restaurant sponsorship. Manolo got one of the staff to bring a packet of cards that allowed a fifty per cent discount in the restaurant with the fourth guest eating for free.

  Kaiser used some of the cards for himself and sold the rest. ‘He started to go to that hotel the whole time,’ says Mota. ‘They even allowed him to park in the hotel. This went on for a year until the cards ran out. Mr Manolo didn’t renew the package.’

  There were plenty of other packages. Valtinho, a midfielder who was with Kaiser at America, remembers him ostentatiously arriving at Toro, a BBQ restaurant, brandishing a footvolley trophy that Maurício had won, claiming it as his own and getting free lunches for a few months. He had an endless supply of free meals at steakhouses, pizzerias, fish restaurants, the lot. ‘I remember one night in Leblon when we all ate for free and Kaiser signed as a famous Bangu player,’ says Adriano. ‘He would bark, “Put it on my tab.” We ate, we drank and even went to a party afterwards, all thanks to Kaiser, who had no money in his pocket.’

  Gustavo thought he and Kaiser were in trouble one day when, after another free lunch, a group of waiters and the manager awkwardly approached the table. They wanted Kaiser’s autograph.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE ANIMAL

  For most of his career Kaiser looked the part: slim, muscular, with barely an ounce of fat on him. But he had to work hard on his appearance. ‘Kaiser was fucking fat when I met him,’ says Alexandre Couto, his friend from Ajaccio. ‘He weighed between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and forty kilos. He started dieting and working out, because for the character of Kaiser he needed to look like a footballer. I take my hat off to him.’

  Kaiser’s friends recall many extremes of dieting and eating down the years. ‘He was like an animal,’ says Fábio Braz, a Vasco defender who got to know Kaiser in the 2000s. ‘I was shocked. I swear I’ve never seen somebody eat so much. He wasn’t fat but he ate so much. Sometimes I’d get embarrassed and say, “Calm down. Slow down.” I don’t know if he was taking some pill or something. He didn’t mess around.’

  Dror Niv has been serving Kaiser since the late 1980s and remembers everything from the days when Kaiser would only eat salad, through to his substantial Diet Coke addiction. ‘There was a spell where he would only order this salad of chopped lettuce, tomato, cream cheese, parmesan and shredded chicken. He would order two of them. If the waiter only brought one and waited for him to finish until he started to make the second one, Kaiser would get really annoyed. He had to see both plates arrive in front of him at the same time.

  ‘That was the same period as his Diet Coke phase. There’s an all-night supermarket near where he lived. I’ve given him a lift home hundreds of times. He
would buy a two-litre bottle of Diet Coke and a packet of biscuits. The bottle would go up, and it would not come down until it was empty. You wondered how it fit in his stomach.’

  By befriending so many restaurant owners, Kaiser introduced the concept of the free all-you-can-eat meal – whether it was at Dror’s seafood restaurant (‘The Harumaki period’) or Leri Da Rosa’s pizzeria. On one occasion, Da Rosa and his colleagues decided to quantify Kaiser’s appetite. He ate seventy miniature slices of pizza. ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ sniffs Kaiser. ‘I don’t eat pizza anymore, though. It’s not good for you.’

  ***

  The lack of family meant Kaiser usually spent Christmas with friends. One year he was invited to eat with his friend Cão and his family.

  Cão’s wife Fabiula lovingly laid the plates on the table and asked everyone to say grace. She put her hands together in prayer and was about to close her eyes when she noticed Kaiser’s hand reaching tentatively for a plate of cheese.

  ‘Kaiser, what are you doing?’

  ‘Can I eat, Fabiula? I’m starving.’

  ‘You’re not a child. You have to say traditional graces. There’s the shepherd’s mass. You have to wait.’

  ‘Just a little, Fabiula!’

  ‘Bloody wait!’

  ‘I just want one bit, I haven’t eaten since yesterday!’

  Kaiser had his cheese and then said grace with everyone else. For the next thirty minutes, while everyone savoured a beautiful, varied lunch, Kaiser systematically demolished a supply of cheese that was supposed to last Cão and Fabiula – and their children – until the new year.

  Kaiser was banished, never to return; the Grinch who ate Christmas. The same happened another year at Alexandre Couto’s house. ‘My mum made a big turkey,’ he laughs. ‘Everyone finished eating, and then Kaiser cleaned up all the leftovers. My mum was in shock. She liked him but after that she said, “That’s it, he’s not coming again. That was supposed to be going in the Tupperware.”’