Renaldo

by James McCreath

  desk and was downstairs and out the front door in mere seconds.

  As she flew through the casa, she screamed to her eldest son, “Lonnie, get

  up! Get up! Your brother is home.”

  Renaldo had just dispatched the taxi when he turned to face his mother,

  who was opening the large wrought iron gate. She was fumbling with her

  crucifix and reciting her personal thanks to the Almighty as she ran to embrace

  him.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among

  women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. ”

  “Mama, what’s the matter? Is someone ill?”

  “Yes, I am sick, sick in the head for letting you go to that godforsaken

  place. It has been all over the television and newspapers. People were killed

  and injured. They said the train to Buenos Aires had to leave half the Prefect

  supporters behind or it wouldn’t have made it out of Córdoba at all. Lonnie and

  I haven’t slept all night. That Estes Santos! I will have his head if you were in

  the slightest bit of danger. You look tired. Are you all right? Anyway, come

  inside and we will talk.” Florencia De Seta hugged her youngest son.

  “I am fine, Mama, nothing happened. As a matter of fact, the train ride

  back home was quite educational, and I met some very interesting people.”

  “Football scum, hoodlums, and no-goods were the only people I saw on

  television last night!” Once they were in the front door, Florencia called for hot

  coffee and fresh orange juice to be brought to the patio, where they would sit

  in the early morning warmth.

  It was going to be a hot, humid day, and this would be the best time to

  take in the garden’s splendor. The chirping of the birds and the beautiful, full

  scent of the fruit trees reassured Renaldo that he was truly home as he sank

  into one of the overstuffed patio chairs. Now all he had to do was survive the

  Florencia inquisition.

  JAMES McCREATH

  “Alright, I want to know everything! So start!”

  “Well, our team won! It was a good game, very exciting. Gitares scored

  three goals and . . . ”

  “I don’t care about that rubbish! I want to know about the riots. Did you

  see them? How close were you to them? Did anyone you know get hurt?”

  It was Florencia De Seta’s nature to get right to the point. When she was

  serious, there was no getting around her. She was as tenacious as a pit bull until

  she was satisfied that the truth had been spoken.

  Renaldo realized that he had better come up with a good story right away

  or his mother would pry the truth from him eventually. Heaven forbid!

  “Yes, Mama, I saw the riots, but only from the other end of the stadium.

  The soldiers were everywhere to protect us. All the people that got hurt were

  Córdobans who were mad that their team lost. Our group was escorted out of

  the stadium and into special buses by the soldiers. We were on the train when

  most of the trouble was still going on, I guess, but I really can’t be certain.

  Anyway, here I am, and I am fine! See, no marks or bruises!”

  He couldn’t help but think how pretty she looked sitting in the soft

  morning sun. The adventurer noticed that his story was working on her, for

  she was visibly less tense. Her facial features had become soft and delicate with

  the waning of her anxiety, and the return of her color and sparkle convinced

  the wayward son that he would pass her test without further provocation. He

  focused on her coiffeur as the two sat silently during a pause in their dialogue.

  She always wore her jet black hair tucked up in a neat braid with a colorful hair

  piece if she were receiving guests or venturing beyond the walls of the casa. It

  was long and naturally straight, without a hint of grey these forty-seven years,

  and when she wore it down, as it was at this moment, to Renaldo, she was,

  without doubt, the most beautiful woman in the world.

  His thoughts of beauty and tranquility ended abruptly when Lonnie De

  Seta strolled wearily through the patio door.

  “So, little brother, did you beat up any Córdobans for me? It looked like a

  lot of fun!” A well-placed jab to Renaldo’s upper arm prompted mock fisticuffs

  between the two brothers until Florencia had had enough and called for quiet.

  “You will both accompany me to mass this morning to help me pray for

  your misguided souls. I want you ready in one hour.”

  Disbelief and despair filled the siblings’ faces.

  “Mama, I have hardly slept all night, and after what I just went through

  I thought that . . . ” Renaldo wasn’t allowed to finish.

  “You just told me everything was fine. ‘Educational,’ didn’t you say? One

  hour!” With that she was gone, and in her wake she left two dumbfounded

  sons.

  26

  RENALDO

  “Thanks a lot, hotshot! First she keeps me up all night, thinking you had

  been killed, and now I have to give up the better part of my Sunday to pray for

  your misguided soul?” Lonnie chided.

  “I think your soul is more misguided than mine, big brother. What were

  you doing at home on a Saturday night in the first place?”

  “Celeste has her final term papers to mark by Monday, so I was a gentleman

  and left her alone. I was at a movie with some of the guys for awhile, but when

  I saw the papers on the street about the riots in Córdoba, I begged off home.

  I knew Mama would be frantic if she was watching the news. So, what really

  happened up there? Did you take any scalps?”

  “Like I told Mama, it was all very calm. But I did meet an interesting

  man on the train ride home. Have you ever heard of Astor Gordero?”

  “Who hasn’t heard of Gordero? How on earth did you get hooked up with

  the likes of him?”

  “He is a one-man spectacle. I guess I just helped ensure that the spectacle

  would be around for awhile longer. Estes and I were in the right place at the

  right time. We got to ride home from Córdoba in his private rail coach. It was

  quite the ride! Anyway, I need to shower and change for mass. I will tell you

  the whole story later.”

  As Renaldo started to make his way toward the patio door, he was met by

  Oli, Casa San Marco’s native Indian housekeeper. She was carrying a silver tray

  loaded with a pitcher of fresh orange juice, a carafe of steaming coffee, and a

  basket of pastries. Her face lit up when she saw the younger brother.

  “Señor Renaldo, thank heaven you are home safe. Your mother, she worry

  so much last night.”

  “I’m fine, Oli, just fine. But I could use some of your coffee right now.

  Didn’t sleep much last night . . . I guess none of us did.”

  Oli placed the breakfast tray on the table and poured both brothers large

  cups of coffee, Renaldo’s black, Lonnie’s with milk. “Café con leche,” the elderly

  lady proclaimed handing Lonnie his cup. She had worked for the De Seta family

  for over thirty years, like her mother before her. Oli’s husband, Olarti, was

  the resident houseman, chauffeur, and gardener. The housekeeper knew every

  whim and fancy of the De Seta brothers and understood the boys’ innermost

  desires even better than their mother.
r />   “Thank you, Oli. Would you please take the tray up to Mama’s bedroom?

  She may want something. We are all going to mass in an hour.” Renaldo

  grabbed a warm croissant and juggling his coffee, slid through the door into

  the house.

  “Anything else for you, Señor Lonnie?”

  “No, thank you, Oli, I am fine.” With that, she picked up the tray and

  disappeared into the dark depths of the casa. Lonnie sat alone in silence, his

  head back, catching the rays of sun on his unshaven face.

  2

  JAMES McCREATH

  At twenty-two, Lonnie De Seta cast a formidable shadow over the garden

  where he sat. He was six foot three inches tall, weighing two hundred and thirty-

  five pounds. His torso was solid muscle, built up by years of lifting weights

  and training for his passion, rugby football. He was ruggedly handsome, with

  strong features and straight black hair worn much shorter than his brother’s.

  He was now in his third year of political science studies at the University

  of Buenos Aires and had been a great success for the university rugby team. He

  had an aggressive, almost mean streak in him, and he preferred to mix things

  up in the scrum trenches, as opposed to playing the back positions that his

  coaches wanted him to play.

  Lonnie would more likely than not face opponents much larger than

  himself, but he rarely surrendered an inch of turf. His strength was amazing.

  His first two seasons at university, he played every position on the field. He

  became somewhat of a legend on campus, his athletic prowess matched equally

  by his amorous adventures. Lonnie’s tall, muscular physique coupled with

  his dark good looks meant that this De Seta brother was seldom without an

  entourage of admiring señoritas nearby.

  His coaches noticed the changes in Lonnie before anyone. By the start of

  his third season, he didn’t seem to have the same drive or spirit for the game.

  He was giving up so much ground in the scrums that they moved him to fly

  half permanently. Even there, he seemed uninspired, passing off the ball more

  and more frequently. He started being late for practice, and whenever there was

  a break in their training, Lonnie was always involved in some heated political

  discussion. The coaches tried to tell him that he was taking his political

  science courses too seriously, that he should leave politics to the politicians and

  concentrate on his rugby game, but it was no use.

  The end of the season came early for Lonnie when he was thrown off the

  team for starting a fist fight with one of his own teammates after practice one

  day. Unfortunately, the player that he beat up was the son of one of the junta’s

  more prominent generals. It was in the best interest of the university that the

  incident be resolved to the satisfaction of the general and his son, thus, Lonnie

  De Seta’s rugby career came to an abrupt end.

  The strange thing was that none of this embarrassment mattered anymore

  to Lonnie. He had found something much more important to him now than

  rugby. That was just a game. Child’s play. There were far more relevant matters

  taking place at the University of Buenos Aires in the spring of 1977.

  One of them was the political awakening of many of the upper-middle-

  class students to the anarchy of successive dictators and military juntas. Another

  was the rape of the Argentine economy in favor of an ever-expanding military.

  A third was the escalated suppression of leftist and liberal expressions. But

  more than anything else, there was Celeste Lavalle.

  28

  RENALDO

  He had met her as his tutorial leader in a course dealing with the Argentine

  foreign trade deficit. She was a graduate student from San Miguel de Tucumán,

  a beautiful city situated in the northern foothills of the Andes Mountains. She

  had completed her preliminary courses at the Tucumán University and had

  come to Buenos Aires to research trade factors for her thesis.

  Despite her small stature, standing barely five feet tall, she took control of

  the tutorial group from the first day. Celeste Lavalle placed her cards squarely

  on the table right from her opening address to the tutorial students. Her

  passionate speech on the legacy that future Argentines would inherit if the

  economy was not shifted away from military largess opened many eyes for the

  first time.

  “More butter, many less guns!” she had said that first class.

  Lonnie listened to her in awe. Whether she spoke the truth or not, just

  espousing such views was very risky anywhere in Argentina these days. You

  never knew who your fellow students were, and the police had been known

  to sneak plainclothes officers into any situation that might become a breeding

  ground for dissident opinions. Student informers were frequently paid to provide

  information on individuals, groups, or courses that were not sympathetic to the

  junta’s right-wing doctrine.

  Professors had disappeared from the campus without a trace. Certain vocal

  students would suddenly have to drop out for ‘financial’ or ‘family’ reasons.

  There was an undercurrent of suppression running throughout every facet of

  university life. That made Celeste Lavalle’s opinions even more daring, and

  Lonnie was amazed at the passion that those opinions evoked in this fiery, self-

  assured woman.

  But it was more than words and thoughts that stirred the big athlete. This

  señorita had a beauty that Lonnie had seen in few women. Different, hard to

  describe. Nothing like the multitude of mindless coeds that he had spent so

  much time with over the past two years.

  Celeste’s was more a natural beauty. Lonnie would come to say a ‘provincial

  beauty,’ unlike the made-up girls of Buenos Aires. Her cropped black hair

  and dark complexion were complemented by the saddest brown eyes that he

  had ever seen. The student knew at once that those eyes held secrets, deep

  mysterious secrets.

  Celeste had made much of the fact that she had come from the provinces

  and promised to give the Porteños more than just their usual navel gazing view

  of the problems facing modern-day Argentina. Lonnie was certain after that

  first tutorial that she would endeavor to do so in an outspoken, candid manner

  . . . if she were not stopped by the authorities first!

  Their relationship had started testily, with Lonnie often defending what

  Celeste called the ‘Porteño Bourgeoisie’ attitude toward solving the problems

  29

  JAMES McCREATH

  of the Argentine people. It did not take her long to discover that Lonnie De

  Seta came from a privileged background, and she often used Lonnie as her pet

  example of how the ruling and advantaged classes were responsible for the

  current economic and moral bankruptcy of the nation.

  At first, the verbal sparing infuriated Lonnie, and had the tutor been a

  man, he would have simply throttled him with his fists. After that, he would

  either have sought out another course, or waited for a replacement tutor. But

  these tactics could not be employed with Celeste Lavalle, and the more Lonnie

  was forced to debate and listen, the more his understanding and
admiration for

  this ‘Tigress from Tucumán’ grew. He had never known any woman to have

  such strong feelings about politics, and he would find himself captivated by

  her as she spoke in their tutorials, wondering if she carried her passions as far

  as the boudoir.

  The Porteño would stay after class was over, often engaging in heated

  debate, until one or the other of them would storm off in disgust. He was

  obsessed by her spirit, and she knew it. Finally, in desperation to take their

  relationship to another level, Lonnie asked his tutor if she would accompany

  him to an underground lecture by one of the nation’s leading trade union

  leaders, a man who happened to have a huge student and left-wing following.

  She had refused at first, citing the awkward relationship between teacher

  and pupil, but had finally succumbed from a combination of curiosity and sheer

  frustration over his relentless pleadings.

  The speaker, a thinly disguised Marxist from Rosario named Raphael

  Squeo, had to be spirited in and out of Buenos Aires to avert arrest for a

  number of outstanding warrants. These related to what the junta referred to

  as ‘provocative activities and conspiring to commit insurrection against the

  state.’

  The lecture was held in the basement of one of the undergraduate

  dormitories in University City. Heavily armed security teams were very much

  in evidence, but what seemed incredible to Lonnie was the fact that they were

  comprised of his fellow students. He knew many of these gun-toting scholars

  personally. Had the police or military decided to raid the proceedings, the

  outcome could have been a blood bath. He was also shocked at the passionate

  response from the audience to the rhetoric of Señor Squeo.

  Much of what the man proclaimed to be the only path to an enlightened

  Argentina would have meant the downfall of the upper-middle classes. That

  would include the family and the fortune of Lonfranco ‘Lonnie’ De Seta. He sat

  in silence trying to take the pulse of the gathering. Lonnie knew that he was

  not the only Porteño present that came from an established, well-to-do family.

  He had seen many others, both young men and young women. The former

  rugby player watched their enthusiasm and vocal encouragement peak as Squeo

  skillfully built his ninety-minute speech to a crescendo.