-What’s that thing over there, at the pier? – asked Daniel to his friend Francisco whilst they were seated at the bar.
- It looks like a bird – his friend replied whilst putting his glasses on for a better look.
- What bird! That’s not a bird, that’s a plane!
But should it have been a plane, there would have been an explosion, because at the same time that the two were trying to figure out what on earth that flying object could be, the object descended into the sea, without ever resurfacing again.
-I told you that it’s a bird!
-You were right! That’s what it was because it looks like it’s drowned.
A few meters away from the pier, whilst the real Rensenbrik was busy getting Argentina’s first goal, a sticker image of Rensenbrik was pulling down three others with him. Together with him, they were reserving the first four places of the top scorers in the Argentinian World Cup of 1978.
Guglielmo didn’t even swear or shout out in despair, he had only stared in disbelief at that empty space, that white box, and with his fingers straightened out the torn pieces of what remained of Kempes sticker. This was too much for him.
Whilst the broadcaster sounded more agitated and his voice raised every time that Argentina was nearing the penalty areas, Guglielmo walked torn between a rebellion towards this unfair situation and a muted resignation. Like he’d given up hope, feeling empty and there was nothing that he could do. He felt totally worn out, helpless and without any enthusiasm, alone, by himself. But at the same time, he wanted everyone to hear his condemnation, every house in his town, every single habitant of Argentina, to listen to his cry of pain and his betrayal. The radio inside the kitchen was blaring louder and louder, and so his wish to yell this unfairness at the top of this lungs, was quickly diminishing and definitely squashed at the 37th minute when the left leg of the matador of Argentina’s team, got the ball with full force inside the goal post of the opponents.
-Where are you going now? – asked Raul when he saw Guglielmo on his way out the door, leaving the house.
-I’m off to meet the others down at the beach- promptly replied Guglielmo.
-Meeting at the beach to do what? Aren’t you going to stay and listen to the football match?
-We have to prepare for the celebrations.
-But if there’s more than fifty minutes left till the game finishes- gushed his father incredulously.
- This is a big thing, and we need time- he replied, finding this as his means of escape.
But waiting for him at the door, was Maria Laura:
-Guglielmo, are you saying the truth?
And a wall of shame fell on the boy’s face, as his mother was seeing right through him. He had a change of fate when his little sister showed up:
-Do you like how I’ve drawn this?
Dirceu’s face that had been meticulously cut out from the black and white magazine Clarin, was now covered in red spots. It looked like the Brazilian player had contracted the chicken pox during the World Cup. Not to say anything of his hair: a dazzling purple, and as bright as a button.
Maria Laura chuckled and so did Guglielmo, when suddenly Luz remarked that:
-Actually it needs a bit of orange, but I think I’ve lost it down at the beach, because I can’t seem to find it in my colouring box. Can I go with Guglielmo to look for it?
Maria Laura had already begun shaking her head to the left and right and the words were at the tip of her tongue ready to be spoken, a negative reply, a no. She was ready to show her disapproval by wagging her index finger as an absolute no.
-Please let her come along with me mum. I will take care of her. She won’t bother me. You can listen to the football match in peace and quiet.
And what could a mother say to such affection between siblings?
-You can totally forget it! She is way too little!
For Guglielmo, when confronted with such opposition, there was nothing to say other than:
-Please, I wish to make up for the times I’ve been horrible to her lately.
And for Luz, facing a stubborn mum and a kind brother both in the same instant?
For Luz it didn’t make any difference. She remained silent, her head tilted to one side, her finger wrapped around a strand of hair, and a smile that stretched from one ear to the other.
-Oh well! Ok then! But do be careful! – finally gave in Maria Laura.
-Yay!!!- Raul dashed into the kitchen out of breath, and shouting triumphantly.
-What? Have they scored or what? – all of them looked at him intently in hope of some information about the match.
-Relax, the players are still in their changing rooms. Go back and finish your meal – coaxed Maria Laura. At that telling off, Raul, slightly ashamed, hurried off to finish his canned tuna, that never before, was swallowed with such an ease.
-Luz, please tell me the truth: it wasn’t you that peeled off the stickers from my album, right?
- Look at that ship. It’s nice.
-Luz, answer me: was it you?
-Who knows where its coming from?
-Luz, I’m begging you, please tell me.
A load whistle resonated throughout the harbour, breaking the silence. The ship’s hull splashed the water, creating a chain of waves that crashed at the harbour’s edge. The ship was the only thing that dominated the harbour.
On a day like this, when the whole country of Argentina was glued to the radios, listening attentively to the most important ninety minutes of the century, it seemed like the only living souls strolling on the beach of the entire Eastern part of south America, were those of the two small children. The tiny defenceless figures of the two children walking by the sea, were oblivious to the thunderous roar of disappointment at the news that Holland had just acquired a draw at eight minutes from the game’s end. It was as if everything came to an abrupt halt and the enchantment of the game was about to vanish from one moment to the next. But life carried on anyway, as though unaware of the buzz in the whole country. Somebody with his hands at the helm of a ship was looking for a place of berth at the harbour, in need of a safe place for the night. An enquiry, that was sounded by a whistle.
-Look, over there on the ground, there’s your orange colour – said Guglielmo excitedly. Luz however, was staring fixedly at the agitated sea.
-You don’t want it anymore? - insisted Guglielmo when she didn’t reply.
But Luz kept on staring without blinking, towards the horizon.
Guglielmo followed her gaze. Something appeared amidst all that blue, and was coming closer and closer towards them. It was shredded, in bits like a piece of mosaic still clinging together like invisible threads, a stamp, no, more like a football sticker. Dear God! ..... it’s, not, it can’t be possible.
The persistent whistle from the ship entering harbour, was only silenced by a chorus of gooooaaaalllll that was resonated across the country and all over the world. All televisions and radios were tuned to the football match, and so, everybody witnessed the second goal by the matador. The sticker had made its way to an incredulous Guglielmo. He stood staring at the disfigured sticker of Mario Kempes; Kempes in a scarred face. Disbelief written all over him.
-Look at how it’s been ruined! There are black pen marks all over it, black teeth, scars...... - he muttered whilst staring at the destroyed face on the sticker. Guglielmo was wrecking his brains out thinking about those black pen marks, and yes, black, no other colour, but black. Only faint deep black marks made by a black pen, as dark as the night: therefore, the culprit was not Luz.
Kempes, for the third time that night, had managed to avoid the last Dutch defender, and so, already, the first colourful fireworks were starting to fill up the starry sky across the city.
At last, the ship was making its way into harbour. Totally indifferent to what was going on.
Guglielmo hugged his little sister, and she, in return, happily hugged him back.
-Can you draw a tulip? – asked Guglielmo.
- Tuly what? – pondered Luz.
- Tulips – continued Guglielmo whilst pointing at the ship – because I think that that ship is coming from Holland. Give me your orange colouring pencil so I can draw one for you. – And having said that, he began tracing the outline of a round sweet tulip, on the empty space, where Kempes’ sticker had been only moments ago.
THE END
Historcial Events
The story in this book took place in 1978, during a very particular period of time for Argentina and its inhabitants
For the last two years, as a result of the coup d’etat of the 24th March 1976, the country was governed by the Armed Forces with Massera commanding the Marines, Agosti commanding the Aeronautics and Videla commanding the army (who in the meantime was elected President), had overthrown the government of Isabelita Peron.
But during the whole month of June of 1978, Argentina was the host of the World Cup. In that year, the Armed Forces faced a decisive phase called ‘final solution’. After having applied the constitutional rights, suspended political activities, and prohibited the unions and newspapers, a last step was necessary to get the regime perpetual and to tame the publics’ opinion: the World Cup had precisely this scope.
Influencing the public’s sensitivity, making them believe that the allegations of systematic human rights violations attributed to the military junta, were not only anti-Argentina’s fantasy, but concocted by Argentina’s foreign enemies. The glitter of the World Cup served to hide the desparacion (vanished is the term used for the victims of this practice: desaparecidos) of the thousands of people who after having languished in ill-famed prisons, of the mechanical school of the marines, Esma, were later tortured and killed, some even with the ill-famed ‘death flight’ during which the prisoners, after having been drugged, were thrown in the sea (still alive). A whole generation of around 5000 human beings met their end in those years. The stubborn battles of Madri de Plaza de Mayo (labelled in those first years of their manifestation as Las locas – the crazy ones – de Plaza de Mayo) led to the culprits identification but not to their condemnation.
The military abandoned the government in 1983, not because they were forced to, by the mobility of the democratic force, but because they had terminated the atrocity programmed ‘final solution’. When the new government started investigating the fate of the missing people, they didn’t find anything: no prisoners, no bodies, no torturing chambers, no documentation: everything had vanished, dispersed, got rid of.
After an unjust sentence in 1985, the incrimination process was shamefully failed by the alteration in law in 1986 of ‘Punto finale’ (within and not more than 60 days’ time, complaints were supposed to be in effect for the violation of human rights) and for the “Law of obligation rights” (except for the heads of state, the rest of the military had only acted in a state of duress and were therefore non punishable). The whole operation was concluded by president Carlos Menem, who, in October 1989, sanctioned a pardon for the 216 soldiers and civilians that had been involved in the genocide and 64 people that were linked to subversion. The measure excluded any members of the Giunte Militari Videla and Massera that later on the 28th December 1980 enjoyed an indult. After five years of imprisonment in a villa owned by the army where they were allowed visits from friends and comrades, play sports and take advantage of the free allowance to go out on weekends, the convicts were set free.
A lot of time had to pass, until 2003, before an epic change took place, from the sad sequence of indultions and pardons granted: on the 25th March Nestor Kirchner was elected president.
Correspondence and the in-depth collaboration right from the start with the organizations of the Madres, Abuelas, and Familiares dei desaparecidos, had its focus, on the 12th August 2003, when the Argentinian parliament established the nullity of the laws of ‘Punto Finale’ and “Law of obligation rights”.
A while later, with Kirchner’s accession to the UN convention, the non-applicability for the limitation of war crimes, and acts against humanity, the last stronghold of dictatorship was defeated.
At last a new era of justice was in place. Finally, Argentina could breathe normally again.
Your Review and Word-of-Mouth Recommendations Will Make a Difference
Reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations are crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review, even if it is only a line or two, and tell your friends about it. It will help the author bring you new books and allow others to also enjoy the book.
Your support is greatly appreciated!
Are You Looking For Other Great Reads?
Your Books, Your Language
Babelcube Books helps readers find great reads. It plays matchmaker, bringing you and your next book together.
Our collection is powered by books produced at Babelcube, a marketplace that brings independent book authors and translators together and distributes their books in multiple languages globally. The books you will find have been translated so that you can discover terrific reads in your language.
We are proud to bring you the world’s books.
If you want to learn more about our books, browse our catalog and join our newsletter to learn about our latest releases, visit us at our website:
www.babelcubebooks.com
Scarred Face Page 7