Precisely, the stickers. What were you thinking of? Your dear friend is enjoying himself making fools out of us. Oh well! He will soon get what he deserves!
Ah then was it not yourself, that came to tell me about his boasting of Dirceu, of Brasil and of the sticker that he gave you? After all, you don’t like the stickers, didn’t you tell him so? Then, why do you care!
But Alfredo was already staring at the main gate, in hope that Javier, the caretaker, would come out, and he’d call everyone into class. But this didn’t happen, and the only soul seen passing from the main entrance was that of the chubby Hugo, with a wicked smile on his face.
Hugo came with sticker in hand, just like an obedient dog returning back with the fetched stick in his mouth.
Walter saw with utmost pleasure, that it was the sticker of the player Dirceu, whilst at the same instant Alfredo was looking absently at the long shadow of the lamppost.
-Your name is Guglielmo, right? – asked Patricia when they were coming out of class.
-Yes. And you? Patricia right?
She smiled at him in agreement:
-I liked you today.
-Me? Why?
- Because it’s not easy to have it your way with that bragging Walter.
-And what can I say about you? You are but, a girl – and whilst he was telling her this, Guglielmo remembered of the many occasions he’d heard his mother complain with his poor grandad. He would start with the same annoying litany of words: ‘Maria Laura, you wear a skirt not a pair of trousers, so stop it’.
How many times she’d become furious and yell at him, trying to explain, and make him realise he was wrong, but it was all to no avail. In the end her father would just tell her ‘some things are not made out for a woman’. So now, Guglielmo didn’t want to be like his grandfather so he hurriedly corrected himself by saying:
-I meant to say, that even though you’re older than Walter, you’re always a gi....- and the words just died in his mouth, as perhaps he was better off in keeping his mouth shut anyway.
-Ok, I understand. Anyway, I have something for you – and from her jacket’s pocket she took out a bundle of papers, mostly rough paper, which she was leafing through attentively....... Then after sometime she stopped:
-Here it is. I thought I’d seen it.
And just like magic, the orange sweatshirt of Rob Rensenbrik had made its triumphant entrance into Guglielmo’s collection, who in return was repeating like a broken record:
-Thank you! Thank you, thank you....
- Don’t you have anything different to say?
- Yes, well, errr...... I wasn’t expecting this, that’s all, so thank you.
-You’re welcome – and those where the last words exchanged between the two, as just then, a long dark coloured car pulled along the kerb to pick her up. A man in uniform let her inside the car to take her to the barracks where she lived with her mum and dad. Or so, she said.
The kite, a bit lopsided, still flew. Struggling for sure, but drifting.
Underneath it, Alfredo & Co. had to make do with what was available: this time, Miguel, who was usually the engineer behind the kite-making, had deserted them to go home help his father with something inexplicable. They made the most out of the short lesson they had the time before and managed to do the kite unaided, with what they had.
-What do we care if it’s ugly, in the end it’s still going to end up drowning in the sea with its beaten up load.
-Well said Hughito. Alfredo, you have the honour to draw a chunky Mexican moustache on this one, what’s his name, .... Jose Guimaraes Dirceu. And wasn’t it a Mexican player’s sticker, the one that Guglielmo had given you? Oh well, it’s about time that he got it back – and like magic, a black pen had appeared in Walter’s hands.
Dirceu drowned almost immediately, there was not even enough time for him to taste the salty waters. It didn’t take long for him to come crushing down into the sea, all scarred and beaten.
In the meantime, Guglielmo, not for the first time, was discovering that tears had the same taste as sea water, and also that a Brazil without Dirceau would ironically feel like a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea when facing Holland’s Rensenbrik.
Rossi
Ernesto, who was a beach guard at Playas de Noche, would have made a perfect prophet:
-Italy will kill us, they are stronger – he was heard saying.
So, on the night in which Buenos Aires was prepared to welcome its triumphant team of Passarella and his team, in one of the two qualifying rounds, out of which a finalist was to succeed, a guy with white hair, strangely young and with a surname of Bettega, had ruined everything for Argentina and it’s white and azure sweatshirts, by sending them a few hundred kilometers more to the north, at the Caldera del diablo, nickname for the stadium of Rosario, the city where Alfredo was originally coming from.
It was right there that his father, Signor Ariel Ortega, was transferred to. He had to supervise a shipyard, one of the many that up till a while before the World Cup had been sprouting here and there, like mushrooms. His job was quite straightforward: he had to take care that the workmen spent more time working and less time drinking beer.
What proved to be difficult to Signor Ariel, was keeping his one and only son Alberto out of mischief. It happened on more than occasion, that on his return from work, he’d find his wife Carmela, seated outside on one of the three doorsteps, in tears, head in hands, waiting for him. Mr and Mrs Ortega had debated and seriously considered, transferring their only son to a good boarding school, perhaps to a strict one, one that the military people were sending their own kids to. But the idea was soon to be discarded because the fees were outrageously high, even for the decent wages of Signor Ortega.
At that time, Alfredo used to enjoy himself by tormenting a boy named Pablo, a little boy whose only fault was of being as light as a feather and as sweet as a lamb, hence no blame at all! Pablo was sometimes tied up with ropes and made to run like a dogsled, pulling Alfredo who would be behind him, on his roller skates. On other occasions he was forced to hide some snacks under his oversized white shirt, that, as always, Alfredo would nick from the school canteen. There was one time, when Pablo was left chained to a cherry tree for a whole night. This he did in order to keep guard and prevent others from coming to collect the fruit themselves, so that Alfredo would come the following morning and collect the cherries himself. This was the last straw for the Ortegas. They agreed that it was better to leave, change school, change district and run away from Rosario and start fresh in a new town.
And that’s how Alfredo and his family moved further South –
- ......preferably in an area close to the sea, because the sea relaxes and soothes, and this would do well to your little Alfredo – this was the advice they’d received from the doctor to whom they referred to.
Faith had really been unkind in placing him precisely in the same district as that of Guglielmo.
- My dear, I don’t think that Luz was the one that ripped off the sticker from your album. How could she?
Mrs. Maria Laura was trying her utmost to prove to her son, of Luz’s innocence, however, he had always been as obstinate as a mule and this time, even more so.
-So go on, tell me why is it, that when I came back to put the album back in its place, I’ve found things in the drawer that have been placed differently to how I had left them earlier? – Guglielmo persisted frustrated more than ever.
That was a good observation, that of Guglielmo, but everyone knows that harmony and peace in the family come first and foremost, and Maria Laura wanted to precisely do just that:
-It was your father that rummaged in the drawer amongst your things. He only wanted to look at the national flags and see them change their colours and look like the rainbow – she said soothingly.
-Stop making a fool out of me! My father doesn’t do these things; he is a grown up! You are only trying to protect that little witch!
-I am sorry Guglielmo, but
you’re wrong: Luz is really innocent.
For Maria Laura, and as well as for Guglielmo, all that was needed was proof, just one proof, and then everybody could see who was saying the truth.
So, with an unspoken agreement, a kind of hunt had begun, a hunt for a clue, any kind of clue, that would either accuse or exonerate little Luz.
In all this, without a doubt, Guglielmo had found himself at an unexpected advantage. All because of the support he got from Alfredo, his true forever friend, the one he could tell all his secrets to, a good friend so to speak.
In the meantime, Maria Laura was by herself, a bit anxious for her ‘Rosas y Amor’ that was taking ages to start.
-Why don’t you try coming home at a different time, perhaps after you’ve left the album intentionally well in sight? – suggested Alfredo.
- Good idea! Like that, I can catch her red handed; that little pest. Listen, do you want to have a look together, just a quick one? – proposed Guglielmo.
Alfredo, falsely continued wearing his mask as though nothing had ever happened:
-You know that I am not really interested in the stickers, but if that makes you happy, then it’s fine by me.
After all, thought Alfredo, this had been quite easy, he’d caught two birds with one stone: he’d shown his innocence and had discovered that the latest addition to Guglielmo’s collection was a guy named Rob and had a complicated surname of Rensenbrik. Walter was wrong in saying that somebody like him deserved a lesson, he deserved at least two: one for his presumptuousness and the other for his ingenuity.
The first colourful umbrellas had started opening on the ‘most beautiful beaches in all of Argentina’, this is what was written on the big publicity poster stuck to the wall of the City Hall.
But it was all the World Cup’s fault that the official opening of the tourist season was delayed.
For the boys, it was better that way: the football matches played on the beach could carry on having enough space for the attacker and the goal keeper, Guglielmo against Miguel or Alfredo against Jorge.
On that day, the name of Rensenbrink, incessantly repeated by the broadcasting voice of Guglielmo, resonated amongst the scarcely populated beach, at least six times, to the bitter annoyance of Alfredo and his team.
-You are not going to win, today’s game is going to be remembered – added Carlos excitedly.
-Speak for yourself – replied Miguel.
- I am speaking for myself, and how! Infact I am considering shooting a goal in your post..... right now – and he hadn’t even finished his sentence, when, with the ball at his feet, he swiftly escaped Hugo’s attacking feet, Walter and his smelly feet and the exaggerated sliding tackle of Alfredo. He had eliminated all these tackles and none of them could escape the worst that was yet to come.
And the worst came, when Miguel, as quick as a flash of lightning had guessed what was about to happen, as it was coming way too fast, so he had to let it go past, just like in cartoons, leaving only a trail of swooshing noise as the ball flew past.
The ball had finally ended its triumphant course, by hiding, God knows where, in the dilapidated carcass of shipwreck that had been trapped on the reefs who knows how many years ago.
- Bravo! Well done! Now you go and fetch the ball yourself. And get some help from your useless friends – shouted Alfredo, whilst spitting out a few grains of sand from his previously failed sliding tackle.
- You also come along and help us. The other time, six of us had to go look for the ball that Hugo from your team had thrown.
A bright idea had struck Alfredo in the nick of time: why not take advantage of this absence?
Sometimes, even he was amazed at himself, at his own genius....
- You go! I’ve hurt my foot, I will catch up with you in a while – he said looking at Walter, who was oblivious to what was going on in his friend’s head. He replied reproachfully:
-Don’t even think about it! You are going to stop whining, pull yourself up from the soft sand, and come give us a hand, or else I’ll show you!
But then, the wicked expression on Alfredo’s face made him understand and silenced him:
- ................ He’s good our Alfredo, all well, - and having said that, he signalled to his team mates to follow him to the shipwreck, and leave the seemingly poor Alfredo all by himself, who was happily concocting his own plans and not injured at all.
Only a few rays of light filtered through, to the bottom of the shipwreck. It was believed, that this was a ghost ship, sunken during the second world war with all the German troops on board. Folk said, that it wasn’t the sound of the waves slamming on the hull, but the pained, lost souls of the German soldiers, that had perished on that day. It was useless to say that all, each and every one of them, were very afraid to get inside the ship.
-That scaredy-cat of Alfredo has pretended foot injury only to avoid coming down here. We’ll make that crying baby pay for this when we get out of here.
- Nicely said Walter! But now let’s speak quietly as it echoes loudly down here – said Miguel trembling.
Outside, in bright daylight, Alfredo was close to the bush where Guglielmo usually hid his sticker album.
All of a sudden a gust of wind had leafed through the album pages and it lay open on the only sheet dedicated to the Italian national team. Only one picture of a smiling, long skinny face made the page look less sad.
In the meantime, inside the ghost ship, things started getting complicated. Hugo couldn’t find the ball, even if as a compensation, he had found two tennis balls, a blue and red slipper and a pair of glasses without lenses.
- What are you doing with that rubbish in your hands? - asked him Jorge.
- Don’t talk rubbish! Look here: with the balls, I can play at home, with the slipper I’ll make a raft for my robot, and the glasses are for me to put on. Don’t I look like a TV star?
- You two stop fooling around and come give me a hand. I think I’ve found the ball.
Walter was hanging upside down, his head almost touching the ground, with a lot of effort, trying to pull out something, that, in his imagination, looked like the ball that had been shot earlier by Carlos.
-Even you good for nothing, come and hold me by the ankles.
- Look look: here’s the famous Paolo Rossi with us, rather Pablito Rossi.
Alfredo was scratching with his fingertips at the ruffled hair of Italy’s centre-forward. He kept on scratching at it and reading the name underneath, and again reading the name and scratching at it. It only took a moments’ time to realise what he should have done.
Only in that way could he have gotten rid of Guglielmo in one strike, his mum Carmela and his father Ariel, and above all, of that damnable Pablo, who had forced him, because of his laments, to change town, away from Rosario.
Carlos retrieved the ball by coincidence. He had tripped on something whilst running away from that ghost ship. In fact, when Walter had finally managed to get his hands onto something, he realised that just as Tango was something of the new generation, so could it not have grown tentacles with suction cups at each end. Therefore, an escape, seemed like the best solution for all of them.
- Let’s get away from here, ruuuunnnnn! – shrieked all together at the same time. Only that they had forgotten about Walter, who was still with feet dangling above the ground, and staring face to face at the sea monster.
-Come back here you idiots! – he shouted. But they were already gone. They all ran as fast as their legs could carry them, away from the ship, and as far as possible from the creature lying at the bottom of it.
A stronger wave helped Walter to free himself. It’s howling noise when it hit the hull sounded just like the cries of the German soldiers. Out of desperation and fear, he got the strength and thumped heavily on his behind, on the correct part of the beach, the safest part, away from the sea monster thing which earlier he’d thought that was the ball.
As a peeled banana skin, Rossi’s sticker was stuck to Alfre
do’s fingers.
- Welcome back with us, Pablito.
But he wasn’t there for Rossi, he was there for that annoying Rensenbrik, and now his time had arrived. Going through it in alphabetical order, Alfredo had leafed backwards, until he came on the orange page of the National team of Holland. Once on the page, he thought it would have been nice to rip off, not one, but more like ten, twenty stickers, perhaps even a whole page.... Who knows maybe Austria or France.
But rethinking on Walter’s words, he held back: it was better to make him suffer slowly, that silly Guglielmo. He removed only the sticker of Rensenbrik and left the rest for the next vengeance.
- What on earth happened? – asked Alfredo making them believe during the time they were gone, he’d only spent his time getting in and out of the waves that were lapping at the shore. Nobody however, had bothered to answer him. They were all busy scampering away as fast as they possibly could, to the safety of the shore, putting as much distance from the shipwreck behind them, as was humanly possible.
Later, when all the commotion had died down, they told the whole story to Alfredo, of the sea monster – which was supposed to be the ball, of the moaning sounds in the shipwreck and of Walter.
- And what about you? You must have been bored here, waiting for us – asked Hugo.
- A lot – he said whilst looking at Walter, and continued – if only I’d had a banana: I would have loved to peel it......
Krankl
There was no winner from the ‘south American derby’. So Argentina and Brazil had to play against one another and fight for the final, that was to take place on the 25thof June in Buenos Aires.
In the meantime, in another qualifying round, a young Austrian lad sporting Arabic looks, by the name, Krankl, which when pronounced, the name Krankl sounded precisely like two pieces of metal clanking together; was making himself well heard on the media.
Obviously, trying to obtain the very well-known Austrian attacker’s sticker, was a must for Guglielmo. This was his favourite hobby, to look for the latest new addition to his sticker album.
Scarred Face Page 4