Renaldo

by James McCreath

  Córdoba stadium, surrounded by dignitaries and other officials of similar

  status. To see his unmistakable form on the terraces with the Barras Bravas,

  the ‘Brave Bold Ones,’ was truly a puzzling sight.

  “He prefers to rub shoulders with the real followers of the sport at

  important games such as this,” Santos had explained. The power and passion of

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  JAMES McCREATH

  football could cut across all social and economic barriers. There on the terraces,

  wealth and social status meant nothing. A loud voice and a fearless constitution

  meant everything!

  But Renaldo was not as presumptuous as Estes Santos. He felt certain

  that The Fat Man’s gratitude would not extend a minute beyond the end of

  this entertaining train ride. They would be two forgotten heroes once they

  disembarked in Buenos Aires. That assumption was discarded forever when

  Astor Gordero waddled over to the couch were Renaldo continued to sit in the

  early morning hours.

  “So, my newfound friend, are you enjoying yourself?” the chairman

  inquired. The boy nodded politely.

  “Very much so, Señor Gordero. Especially the food and the floor show.”

  “I am glad that you decided to remain a spectator to all of this. I would

  have thought less of you, quite frankly, if you had joined in. A fine young

  man like you should always hold yourself above such public displays. It is all

  very amusing, of course, but I find it somewhat degrading in the end, very

  animalistic and messy. I guess that I will have to replace the carpet after all,”

  he chuckled surveying the predawn dénouement.

  “Our meeting is not by chance, Renaldo,” The Fat Man continued. “As a

  matter of fact, I was the one who arranged for you and Santos to be here today. I

  had hoped to meet you personally and congratulate you on your fine season, but

  I hadn’t anticipated the rather trying circumstances under which we became

  intimately acquainted.”

  Gordero spoke in a soft fatherly tone, a look of real concern planted on his

  moon-shaped face. He didn’t wait for the boy to respond. Pointing his right index

  finger at his audience, he smiled warmly. “I know your family background. An

  illustrious history that helped shape modern-day Argentina. The general and

  your grandfather, what men of vision they were! I knew your father personally.

  He was a great surgeon.” The tone of voice was suddenly remorseful, with just

  the right amount of profound respect thrown in. There was a pregnant moment

  of silence. “I have met your mother on several occasions. She is a cultured,

  beautiful lady! As for you, my sources tell me that you want to enter university

  next semester, that you stood at the top of your graduating class academically

  at Sir Isaac Newton. Well done!” Gordero clapped his hands in approval.

  The two men sat silently for a brief moment as the chairman adjusted his

  position to lean closer to the young scholar.

  “Of greater interest to me, however, is the fact that while you could still

  be playing schoolboy soccer, your level of proficiency in the sport has earned

  you the captain’s band of our semiprofessional, under twenty-one team. Both

  your coaches and your fellow players have nothing but good things to say about

  you . . . unusual, for someone so young and wet behind the ears to achieve such

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  positive accolades. On the whole, you’ve achieved quite a well-rounded list of

  accomplishments to date. Your mother must be very proud of you.” The patron

  paused to let the compliments sink in.

  “I am told that you have achieved all of this while still retaining your

  humility and your levelheadedness. That is a great asset! Men respect that, they

  will follow a man like you. I have seen today with my own eyes that you have a

  special ability to handle men in difficult situations. Keep your head about you

  and you should expect great things, my boy.”

  The chubby index finger jabbed the air in front of Renaldo’s chest.

  He felt uncomfortable listening to The Fat Man’s praises and tried to tell

  his host several times that his actions did not deserve such attention. Astor

  Gordero would have none of it.

  “I have watched you play the sport, Renaldo. That game against Racing

  Club in which you scored two goals and set up a third? A stunning performance!

  It was a shame so few people got to see it. But I did, and I haven’t forgotten it

  either.”

  The rotund barrister turned his attention momentarily to the empty

  champagne glass in his left hand. The ever-present steward needed only a

  raised eyebrow as instruction to top the vessel up. When Gordero started to

  speak once again, his face was masked in a tight, serious expression.

  “You are, no doubt, aware that the greatest sporting event the world has

  ever seen will take place in Argentina in six months’ time. The generals and

  politicians that run this magnificent land want the World Cup to be Argentina’s

  when it is over. Frankly, they will stop at nothing to appease their egos. In this

  case, that means a world soccer championship. To achieve that result, no stone

  will be left unturned to find the right players for our National Team. But in

  spite of the positive lip service the men at the top espouse, at the moment,

  things could hardly be in worse shape. Scandal, dissension, corruption . . . the

  men that are running the program are nothing but braggarts and blowhards!

  They have achieved nothing positive at all. They mouth optimism, but look

  at the record. Far too many losses on the field in warm-up games. The press is

  all over the team and its managers. Many of our best players don’t even want

  to play for fear of getting caught up in this mess.” A look of disgust shrouded

  Gordero’s meaty face. He shook his head silently for several moments before his

  eyes once again brightened and he proceeded.

  “There is, however, a movement afoot to straighten out the problems by

  bringing in Octavio Suarez as supreme manager in charge. It would be his job

  to clean house and start anew. I believe that you know Suarez, is that not so?”

  Gordero had certainly caught Renaldo’s attention once the topic had

  changed to the World Cup and Argentina’s National Team. The whole nation

  was obsessed with the daily soap opera that was unfolding in the newspapers

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  JAMES McCREATH

  and on television. Even more urgent than the team itself was the infrastructure

  debacle. Would FIFA, the governing body of world soccer, even allow Argentina

  to stage the event? Construction of the major stadiums to be used was months

  behind schedule. The same could be said for the modern telecommunications

  facilities that would beam the games around the world. Adding salt to these

  internal wounds was the fact that Brazil had offered to stage the tournament

  should Argentina fail to meet its commitments by the appointed time. This

  was considered a slap in the face from a South American neighbor, and hostility

  toward the country to the north saw many effigies clad in the yellow jerseys of

  the Brazilian National Team burned in the streets. FIFA representatives were

/>   to arrive in Buenos Aires the following week to hand down their decision after

  a final inspection tour. The resulting chaos would be too horrible to imagine if

  the games were taken away from Argentina.

  “Yes, I have taken clinics and trained under Señor Suarez. He has an

  excellent tactical knowledge of the game. I found him very inspiring,” Renaldo

  recalled.

  “He would not take the position of National Team manager when it was

  initially offered to him because of the interference he anticipated from the

  bureaucrats,” Gordero continued. “I always thought that he was the only man

  who could do the job. Señor Suarez remembers you as well, Renaldo. He told

  me once that you play the game as if your head and your feet are connected as

  one.”

  The Fat Man held up his left index finger at the same time he said the

  word ‘one.’ Renaldo noticed the size of his entire hand for the first time. It

  was massive! The speaker then gently rested his palm flat on the boy’s right

  thigh, placed his index finger on top of his middle finger, and then crossed his

  forth finger over top of the other two. He removed his hand from the boy’s

  leg holding up three perfectly entwined fingers, his thumb holding down his

  crooked little finger.

  “Head and feet perfectly connected as if one entity, perfectly connected!”

  The ham hock appendage continued to be displayed for the prolonged viewing

  of Gordo’s captive audience.

  “Renaldo, I want you to come and see me at my office. We can talk in

  private there about how I may be able to help you. These are dangerous times for

  timid men, my young friend. But danger brings opportunity to the courageous,

  the risk takers. I have seen how courageously you behaved today, and if you

  have the strength and the desire to be even more courageous, I can make great

  things happen for you! Do you have that strength and desire, Renaldo?”

  An emotional wave swept over the boy, bringing tears to his eyes. It

  had been a long time since he had let his inner feelings come to the surface,

  but Gordero’s fatherly demeanor had instilled in him such a sense of trust

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  RENALDO

  and security that Renaldo blurted out his deepest secret with gut-wrenching

  introspection.

  “I have a mission, Señor Gordero, a mission that has never been revealed

  to anyone. It concerns my late father and something that I would like to achieve

  on his behalf, something that would bring pride to our family name. It is the

  reason I continue to play the game of football instead of concentrating one

  hundred percent on my studies. My mother has difficulty understanding my

  desire to play. I simply tell her that it’s to stay in top physical condition, that

  it stimulates my mind as well, and she leaves me alone for a while. But it

  goes much deeper than that. It is for my father’s memory, for his unfulfilled

  dreams.”

  Renaldo was trying desperately to regain his composure as the tears rolled

  slowly down his cheeks. He choked out his final few words as the older man

  held out a napkin to stem the saline flow.

  “It is my dream to play for the National Team of Argentina in the World

  Cup one day, and yes, Señor Gordero, I can find the strength and desire to be

  courageous. If you can help me, I will not let you down!”

  Astor Gordero held Renaldo’s brimming eyes intently with his own. He

  was touched by the show of emotion. The lawyer felt as if he could have gone

  on talking to this fine young man for hours, but alas, Estes Santos staggered

  over to the couch and announced their imminent arrival in Buenos Aires. The

  patron was at first put off by this intrusion, but he was quick to remember that

  it was as much the actions of Estes Santos as those of young De Seta that were

  responsible for his still being among the living.

  “Estes, I want you to bring Renaldo to see me this week, and we can

  discuss the future . . . a future that I hope will unfold to our mutual benefit.

  Here is my business card. I will inform my executive assistant to make sure

  that you get the first available appointment.”

  Gordero also gave the handsome athlete a card, just in case the obviously

  hungover Santos were to lose his, or fail to remember this conversation

  altogether. The Fat Man had no doubt that Renaldo De Seta would remember

  their conversation, and that the talented, sensitive youngster would pay him a

  visit . . . with or without Estes Santos.

  The men said their good-byes on the station platform and took leave

  of each other just as the first rays of sunlight set the eastern horizon aglow.

  Renaldo then helped his coach to the taxi that would take them both home.

  Estes Santos had celebrated with too much abandon, and now he was paying the

  piper. His gait was an off-balance stagger as he made his way to the curbside

  taxi stand. The two men initially sat without saying a word as the black and

  yellow Fiat sped through the Sunday morning dawn. It was Santos who first

  broke the silence.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “Do you think he is serious about our meeting? I mean, really, why would

  such a powerful man want to talk to us about ‘a future that will unfold to

  our mutual benefit’? There is nothing that we can do for him now. He is just

  leading us on. The clear light of dawn shines reality on my great expectations.

  Oh, well, such is life!” Santos sighed, resting his head against the leather

  upholstery of the cab’s interior.

  “I would not be so certain about that meeting never happening,” the

  younger man responded. “I have a strange feeling about Señor Gordero. There

  was something about the way he talked to me. He sounded so sincere and

  frank. I am confident that we will, at least, be granted an audience with him.”

  “Oh, for youthful optimism!” snorted Santos. “The only audience I

  want now is with my bed. Those putas and that champagne were a lethal

  combination. I feel like shit!”

  Estes looks as terrible as he must have feel, thought Renaldo. He wondered

  how a man could go home to his wife and family in such a state, for the residue

  of Estes’ carousing was all over his face and clothes. But Estes Santos was a

  careful man. He instructed the cabby to let him off at the Newton Academy

  sports dormitory, where he could shower and change into the fresh clothes that

  he kept there for exactly such an occasion as this. The coach gave his captain an

  enthusiastic hug before stepping out of the cab, and made certain that the boy

  did not want to be accompanied home.

  “If my mother were to lay eyes on you now, she would ban me from

  ever playing football again. What’s more, she would do worse to you, Señor

  Santos.”

  “You are wise beyond your years, my captain. Now, not a word of what

  you have seen on this adventure must ever pass your lips, or I will make certain

  that it costs you more than just your football career.” The smile on the older

  man’s face contradicted his stern tone of voice.

  “Adios, coach Santos. Make sure you call The Fat Man!” Renaldo called

  after him.

  “From this
day forth, I will refer to the gentleman as ‘Señor Astor

  Gordero, my most benevolent benefactor,’ at least until he refuses to see us. If

  that happens, I have names much worse than ‘Gordo’ to call him. I will talk

  to you tomorrow.”

  Finally the schoolboy was left alone to collect his thoughts. He sank back

  into the corner of the cab’s rear seat, closed his eyes, and replayed the events of

  the past twenty-four hours in his overworked mind. No one would believe what

  he had seen and done, especially his mother. Heaven help him if she ever found

  out that he had been in the least bit of danger. But he was safe nonetheless, and

  would arrive home in one piece, on schedule.

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  RENALDO

  Throughout the haze of his early morning recollections, the face of Astor

  Gordero kept coming to mind.

  Fate works in strange ways, he reflected. Or had Gordero really intended for us

  to meet all along, just as he had alluded to on the train?

  It really didn’t matter now, the fact was that they had met. But an

  unanswered question lingered. Renaldo had the distinct impression that Astor

  Gordero, should he choose to acknowledge his debt to the two men that had

  saved his life, would ask for something substantial in return. The young player

  wasn’t at all certain what that something might be, but The Fat Man just

  seemed like the type that never gave anything away for free.

  “Head and feet as one,” he mumbled, somewhat amused. Had Octavio

  Suarez really said that about him? Renaldo looked down at his right hand which

  was resting limply on his thigh. He tried several times to braid his fingers the

  way the chairman had.

  “Head and feet as one.”

  “Qué?” the cabby responded.

  “Oh, nada. Nothing,” Renaldo shot back.

  Finally, out of sheer frustration, he arranged his fingers in the crisscross

  pattern with the help of his left hand. Even that took several attempts.

  My head and feet might be as one, but my fingers have ten separate minds!

  23

  Chapter twO

  Florencia De Seta could see the yellow and black Fiat cab pull up to the

  front gate of Casa San Marco from where she sat at her desk in the

  second-floor study.

  She had barely slept. The news of the soccer riots in Córdoba had

  transformed her mildly fretful demeanor into sheer panic. She tore from the