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accorded to Lonfranco, both locally and in the international press.
The once penniless Italian ‘pick and shovel’ man had been heralded widely
as one of the forebearers of the modern industrial revolution in Argentina.
Telegrams from old friends and acquaintances in many parts of the globe
attested to his vision and achievements. Even the new president of Argentina,
Arturo Frondizi, stated that he wished that he had someone with Lonfranco
De Seta’s international business contacts to help him spearhead a new push for
increased foreign investment in his country.
On a personal level, there was little remorse or regret in Lydia’s heart
when it came to losing her mate of almost forty years. Their time together had
been pure magic, the stuff that dreams were made of, but seeing him in his
weakened condition broke her heart. She knew that he was at peace, and that
she would be with him again one day. It was now her duty to look after the
well-being of the De Seta family.
Lawyers and accountants became constant fixtures at Casa San Marco.
Lonfranco had been wise enough to use the same legal and accounting firms
for all his ventures, but even so, the complicated web of share stakes and minor
interests in smaller companies took weeks to untangle. Lydia never complained
though, for she found that she was fascinated by the way her husband’s business
mind had worked.
The cattle business, for example, began with the breeding of livestock.
Simple enough. To get that livestock to the slaughterhouses and tanneries
required railways, which were British-owned and controlled. But the rail cars
that actually transported the cattle were manufactured in Argentina by a
company in which Lonfranco had a seventy percent stake in.
He also had major units of the slaughtering and tanning segments, as
well as a shipping company and a small airline. When everything was finally
tallied, the estate of Lonfranco De Seta held assets totaling nearly one hundred
million U.S. dollars.
Lydia was astounded when the totals became apparent to her. She had
known that the family was well off, but Lonfranco rarely discussed the financial
JAMES McCREATH
details of the businesses with her. Even during his extended convalescence
the past year or so while she was working in concert with his advisors, the
magnitude of the investments had never really become evident.
Many of Lonfranco’s corporate interests had been shielded from scrutiny
by an elaborate scheme of shell holding companies, to prevent them from
becoming targets of a populist nationalization plan. With the political climate
still very tenuous, such precautions were deemed necessary, even critical, to the
survival of the family fortune.
The problem that Lydia faced was unsettling. With two young
grandchildren on the scene, she much preferred their company to that of the
cigar-smoking “suits.” After consulting with Hector Brown and receiving his
assurance that he would remain at Buenos Recuerdos for an indefinite but
lengthy time, Lydia summoned the estate’s executors and, as the sole beneficiary,
instructed them to liquidate all the interests in each and every company.
The family would remain in the cattle breeding business in a somewhat
scaled down version. The capitol raised by the sale of assets would be reinvested
in separate trusts for Peter, Florencia, Lonfranco, and Renaldo. Lydia, herself,
would hold a certain portion of the proceeds for her own personal use. This plan
was not questioned by the executors, for President Frondizi had, once again,
opened the doors to foreign investors, and the plums of the De Seta empire
would fetch a healthy price for Lydia and her family.
Meanwhile, Lydia urged Peter and Florencia to gather up the children
and join her permanently at Casa San Marco. The house was far too large for
one person. It also contained too many memories of the happy times when the
rooms were alive with the sounds of parties and children, and most of all, of
him!
With two growing boys to raise, Peter’s once spacious, convenient flat was
now, by his own admission, cramped and somewhat constricting. Florencia was
all for the move, and so it came to pass that the De Seta family closed ranks
inside the high stucco walls of Casa San Marco. They enjoyed the next seven
years developing a bond that made them as close as a family could be.
The eldest son, Lonfranco, came to be known by the nickname ‘Lonnie,’
primarily to avoid confusion with his late grandfather. His proper name seemed
to be used only when he was in trouble, as he frequently was.
Lonnie was a bruising, active, vocal child who liked the sport of pushing
adults to the brink of frustration. By contrast, his younger brother, Renaldo,
was a quiet, studious youngster who was always seeking the approval of his
elders. The boys got along together in a typical brother-to-brother relationship,
sometimes the best of friends, but more often than not, full of the petty
squabbles that make a home with children such a challenging place.
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Lydia adored both her grandsons and spent hours reading them stories
and telling them tales of their grandfathers. Liam Peters had died shortly after
the end of World War II, some said of a broken heart caused by the loss of his
two sons in the conflict. Lydia knew the cause of death to be cirrhosis of the
liver, brought on by a far too intimate relationship with Mr. Glenlivet.
The stories of England, in particular, thrilled the boys, and their favorites
seemed to always revolve around the monarchy, in particular, the recently
crowned young Queen Elizabeth the Second. Lydia promised that when they
were a little older, the family would book passage to the British Isles on one
of the modern ocean liners. They would spend a month or so visiting their
great-aunts and great-uncles whom they had never seen, and work in a visit
Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and Big Ben.
Peter continued to work long hours at the hospital and his camp, but
he always made time for his sons. He tried to instill in them his two great
passions: the guitar and football. Lonnie had little success with the former,
being far too impatient and rambunctious to sit still long enough to make
his fingers cooperate. The latter endeavor, football, turned out to be the boy’s
saving grace.
Finally he had a focus and an outlet for all his pent-up energy. He
accompanied Peter to every home game that the Boca Juniors played in the
capital, and he was in awe, like his father before him, of the color, the noise,
and the passion. To encourage his sons’ interest, Peter set up a goal net on the
sodded portion of the inner garden at Casa San Marco and spent hours with his
boys practicing dribbling, passing, and shooting.
The ladies of the household found it hilarious that he made his sons
waddle like ducks around and around the perimeter of the enclosure, then
upon his command, leap as high in the air as they could. He told the boys not
to worry about the women’s silly comments, and that this game of ‘ducks and
&nb
sp; frogs,’ as he called it, would give their legs the strength they needed to score
many goals.
The younger son, Renaldo, seemed to be the exact opposite of his older
brother. He took to the guitar right away, spending hours plucking at the
strings, for his tiny hands were still too small to make all the proper cord
maneuvers. The first professional football game he attended with his father
turned out to be a disaster.
Playing against local rival River Plate, the Juniors fell behind two goals
to nil, and this prompted several fights to break out adjacent to where the De
Setas were sitting. Confused and upset, Renaldo started to cry for his mother.
All the assurances in the world by his father and older brother did nothing to
calm him, nor did they stop the nearby brawling in the stands. Peter finally left
the stadium at halftime, determined not to return with his youngest until the
boy had matured considerably.
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Young Renaldo did have one startling attribute concerning football,
however. When playing in the garden with his brother or father, he seemed to
have the uncanny ability to be able to make the ball do exactly whatever he
wanted it to do. If Peter was in the goal and told Renaldo to shoot for the top
left corner of the net . . . zip, the ball was there.
When the boys played alone with the ball, Renaldo could always dribble
it away from his older brother and keep it in his possession. This usually lasted
until Lonnie became frustrated and tackled his younger sibling, thus gaining
title to the prized sphere. Peter would often watch his offspring play from a
concealed vantage point. The moves that his youngest son displayed filled his
mind with visions of Renaldo De Seta scoring the winning goal for Boca Juniors
in the Argentine National Championship. Such are the dreams of fathers who
have sport for their passion.
This same passion would ultimately be Peter’s undoing. In July of 1966, the
World Cup of soccer, the Holy Grail of the football world, was being contested
in several cities in England. The Argentine National Team had qualified for the
tournament and there was great anticipation and excitement in the streets of
Buenos Aires, and, indeed, throughout the entire country.
Tours to England were being organized, with airfare, hotel accommodations,
and tickets to Argentina’s first three games as part of the package. A group of
Peter’s colleagues from the hospital had secured a number of places on one of
the more deluxe tours, and they didn’t have a great deal of difficulty persuading
Peter to join them.
The subject was broached at dinner the next evening, and Peter was
surprised to find little or no opposition from either Florencia or Lydia. His
wife did not share Peter’s passion for football, and, therefore, had no interest
whatsoever in accompanying him. Lydia was enthused that he might be able
to visit some of her relatives at Lowliam, which had remained in the family all
these years. He would be gone from ten days to two weeks, depending on the
fate of the National Team, but he promised to call home on a regular basis.
The tour was staying in Birmingham, an industrial city several hours by
train northwest of London. It was here that the Argentine National side played
two of their first round fixtures.
So it came to pass that Peter De Seta departed Buenos Aires on July 10,
1966, on the overnight flight to London. He had promised to bring back many
souvenirs and gifts for the whole family as they hugged and kissed him good-
bye at the airport. He was gone with a wave of a hand and a broad smile, and
Florencia caught herself yelling out to him after he had disappeared from view,
“Look out for yourself. Be careful!”
She found these words unsettling and was aware of a knot in her stomach.
What did all this mean? Why was she shaking? Her sons, age eleven and seven,
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wanted to go for the ice cream that she had promised them once their father
departed, and they quickly brought her focus back to the matters at hand. She
tried to put the strange feeling out of her mind.
Peter called home for the first time on the night of July thirteenth. He
was in high spirits, as that afternoon, Argentina had defeated Spain 2-1 in an
exciting match played in a heavy downpour.
Florencia complained that Peter had been drinking, but his rebuttal was
that he needed the brandy to ward off the chill that he had obtained at the
match.
“Besides,” Peter exclaimed, “it was a great victory that almost certainly
assures us a passage through to the quarter finals. The whole tour is celebrating
enthusiastically, but we are also watching our manners.”
He bid his wife good-night, and told her that he would call again on the
sixteenth, after the next game.
It was a different Peter on the end of the receiver the next time he called
home. His voice had an edge to it that Florencia had never heard before. He
sounded stone-cold sober.
“We had some trouble today at the stadium. Nothing serious, just
unpleasant. We are not a very popular group here in England right now. The
game today against West Germany was very rough. Many yellow cards and one
ejection from the game to our side. The English fans started to taunt us about
the rough play. Luckily, they hate the Germans much more than they hate
us. It must be leftover from the war, but they are crazy, those English! In any
event, we managed a draw with the Germans, which puts us in a good position
to advance. I am fine, don’t worry about a thing. I have been keeping my eyes
open for any trouble. I will call on the nineteenth, after our next game against
Switzerland up in Sheffield. Give the boys a kiss for me. Everything alright
there? I’ll call, must run. Love you.”
The receiver went dead. Florencia had not said one word after “hello.” The
feeling from the airport returned, and this time it stayed long enough to give
her a sleepless night.
The evening of the nineteenth came and went without word from England.
Florencia passed another sleepless night, comforted only by Lydia’s insistence
that the Argentine victory that the ladies had watched on television that day
must have sent Peter and his friends out on a giant bender.
Argentina had beaten the Swiss 2-0 and had advanced to the second
round quarter-finals. Horns, drums, and fireworks could be heard everywhere
in Buenos Aires that evening.
“So just imagine what it must be like to have witnessed the victory in
person,” Lydia said. “Peter was probably too drunk to find a telephone, and even
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if he did, he probably would be too intoxicated to give the dialing instructions
to the overseas operator!”
The call Florencia had agonized over came early on the morning of the
twentieth. Peter was warm and enthusiastic, although somewhat sheepish about
not calling the previous evening. Lydia’s assumption had been correct.
After Argentina’s victory over the Swiss, the South American supporters
had let their collective hair down and partied until dawn in any watering hole
that would have them in Sheffield. It was now afternoon in England, and Peter
had needed that extra time to get his feet back on the ground, in other words,
rid himself of one giant hangover.
The good news was that he would now be able to visit Lowliam on his way
south to London. He and the rest of the tour would be staying on until after
Argentina’s game against England at Wembley Stadium on the twenty-third.
Once they were settled in London, he would seek a means of heading out to
High Wycombe to see his many relatives that still resided in the area.
He was extremely excited about spending some time in and about London,
but Florencia felt that unfamiliar edge creep into his voice when he briefly
discussed the upcoming match with England.
“The British press have been very uncomplimentary to our football team.
We were warned by FIFA, the world body that governs international soccer,
for rough play against the Germans, and the English fans were heavily for
Switzerland in our match against the Swiss. Hopefully, our team will rise to
the occasion and play good, clean, football against the English. Heaven help us
if they don’t! Give my love to mother and the boys. Tell them that I will call
again at the same time, two days from now. I love you very much. Adios.”
The words ‘heaven help us if they don’t,’ stuck in Florencia’s mind. She
cradled the receiver for several moments before putting it down. Well, I shouldn’t
get worked up about some silly soccer game, she thought to herself. After all, Lydia
had been right about the other night’s festivities in Sheffield, hadn’t she?
It was Lydia who picked up the receiver on the first ring two mornings
later. She was overjoyed that her son was going back to visit her birthplace, but
the surprise he had for her was beyond expectation. The call had been placed
from Lowliam itself, and huddled around the receiver were a score of Lydia’s
relatives, ranging in age from seventy years to seventy days.
The transAtlantic connection was surprisingly good, and the conversation
lasted over an hour. Florencia was becoming impatient with her mother-in-
law’s silly questions to an endless list of people she had never heard of before.
She wanted to talk to her husband, to make sure he was alright! Finally, the