only her look of mock annoyance that transformed him from his mute state.
“Yes, yes, most certainly. I slipped it into my jacket pocket just before I
left home tonight. I didn’t know if I would find you before the show, and there
was no way that I was going to be locked up in a room full of men while you
were on stage, World Cup Team or not! We went through our whole stage
ceremony this afternoon at the rehearsal. There is nothing to it, just line up in
order and walk out into the lights when they call our names. I’ll risk a tongue
lashing for being late to see you perform live any day.”
“I will sing just for you then. When you leave this room, display the pass
right away, for the area next to the stage is swarming with security. You won’t
be able to get close to it unless they see the pass. Can you come back here after
the show?”
The look of exhilaration suddenly left his face, replaced by almost painful
disappointment.
“Simone, I’m sorry. I know that you had hoped that we could go out
dancing, and I would love nothing more in the whole world than to spend the
evening with you. But Octavio Suarez, the team manager, is fanatical about
security and secrecy when the whole team is together. The only reason I was able
to escape to visit you now is that he was off inspecting the security precautions
throughout the teatro before we go on stage. In any event, he has informed us
that we are being loaded on a bus immediately following our presentation, and
then taken to an unknown hotel to spend the night. It is as though we are a
bunch of boy scouts. The man is obsessed! But we don’t leave for Mar del Plata
until the day after tomorrow. Do you have any time at all before then?”
He could see a similar disappointment in her eyes.
“No, my darling, I fly directly to Rio tomorrow to start a two-month
promotional tour for the World Cup. This was our only opportunity, and it is
lost. I suppose by the time I get back to Buenos Aires, you will be locked away
with your teammates. All we can do is wait for another chance to be together.
But know that you will always be in my thoughts, my Renaldo!”
She pressed tight to him again, her tongue flicking quickly over his hot
lips.
“Go now, my love. Find a place stage right, as close to the front as you
can. I will try to find you. There is one song that I will sing especially for you.
Now, you must be off.”
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She turned from him and crossed the room to her makeup table. Without
looking at him again, she proceeded to rectify the damage their hot embrace
had done. Renaldo stood and took one last lingering look, then without saying
a word, disappeared into depths.
As he sat in his private box just off stage left, Astor Gordero could not
help but feel proud of his latest accomplishment. The gala had been his idea,
an idea which he had nurtured and coddled through to fruition.
His assurance that he could deliver the nation’s hottest star in Symca,
convinced the local World Cup organizing committee that the event could be
both a financial and artistic success. Some of the older members of the committee
objected to the playing of rock music on the hallowed stage of Teatro Colon,
but Gordero insisted that the evening would be a cultural bonanza showcasing
all forms of Argentine music. To further persuade the dissenters, the cunning
lawyer showed them the latest projected loss figures on the staging of the
World Cup.
Those figures still ran into the hundreds of millions of dollars. That was
the deciding factor. The vote was unanimous to present ‘Musicale Argentina
’8,’ with Astor Gordero as its artistic director.
If the truth be known, it was Wolfgang Stoltz that had spent the last
month pulling things together. His job was made easier by the fact that
nationalistic pride and enthusiasm had never been more evident. It took very
little persuading to secure all the entertainers that Gordero had placed on his
‘A’ list. For after all, what entertainer could refuse a national radio and television
audience, as well as an association with World Cup ’78?
In the end, Stoltz was inundated with offers to perform in the gala.
Advertising and sponsorship by major corporations had covered all the broadcast
and staging expenses. The revenue pledged by this soccer mad nation, a nation
which was about to be whipped into a frenzy by the country’s most stimulating
personalities, would surely exceed all expectations. So now, with the evening
unfolding without a hitch, Gordero was ready to sit back and watch as his well
laid plans became reality.
The lawyer had talked to his newest client at the afternoon rehearsal. The
boy seemed remarkably calm and self-assured, if not just a little bit distracted
by the whereabouts of the evening’s headlining act. Renaldo had mentioned
how disappointed he was that the team would be spirited away right after
the show, revealing that he had hoped to spend some time with Simone that
evening.
“Now is the time to think about football, my young friend, not matters
of the heart. There will be plenty of time for romance once you have made the
team and secured the World Cup trophy for Argentina.”
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Renaldo knew that The Fat Man was right, but it didn’t diminish his
longing for the stunning female vocalist.
What Astor Gordero did not tell his protégé was that he had secretly met
with the boy’s mother a few days earlier. Wolfgang Stoltz had been sent to Casa
San Marco for the express purpose of personally delivering Gordero’s letter of
introduction. This was how proper society people made contact, and Florencia
was duly impressed. The salutation was suitably humble and flowery, yet it
contained the notion that the weighty lawyer wished to enlighten her about
some serious matters of business concerning her son, Renaldo.
Florencia De Seta accepted Señor Gordero’s invitation to discuss her son’s
future, primarily due to the persuasive charm of Herr Wolfgang Stoltz. She was
quite taken with the handsome German from the minute she laid eyes on him,
and eventually the lady found courage enough to ask if he would be attending
the planned meeting. Stoltz did not miss the smile on her face after answering
in the affirmative.
The meeting took place at the ‘Hippodrome Argentino,’ the posh race track
in Palermo. Gordero had a thick file on Señora De Seta, and he slyly deduced
that she would welcome a chance to ‘strut her stuff.’ His front row table in the
exclusive Turf Club section of the track was a perfect venue for the reclusive,
yet extremely attractive widow to do just that. He was not disappointed. Even
though Florencia ventured out in public infrequently, she considered the races
just the sort of opportunity that would give her both entertainment and some
escorted exposure.
Gordero had learned that the wealthy widow had not completely given up
hope of remarrying, or at least finding a gentleman companion. Florencia was
very old-fashioned, however, about b
eing seen at social functions unescorted.
An acceptable male consort had been hard to come by of late, for the society
matchmakers had given up on her long ago, after she had rebuffed all their
handpicked suitors. The story now being spread by the Palermo gossipmongers
was that Florencia De Seta had become so disenchanted with her two sons that
she had thrown up her arms in disgust and said “to hell with them!”
Those two sons had strayed from Florencia’s deemed course, and the society
tongues were wagging. One had supposedly left home in a rage a few days after
Christmas to wander mindlessly around the countryside with his communist
girlfriend. The other had dropped out of school with the ridiculous perception
that he could pursue a professional football career. These actions had shattered
Florencia’s motherly aspirations to such a degree that she had returned to the
capital, intent on living her life for herself.
This meant kicking up her heels and exploring a lifestyle that she had
previously never considered. She had done away with her staid wardrobe and
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ultra-conservative attitudes and quietly leaked the word to the ‘hotline’ that
she was interested in enjoying some male companionship.
While Florencia considered Astor Gordero far too obese and grotesque
to be of romantic interest, she was certainly aware of his power and influence.
Perhaps his connections could be as beneficial to me in the long run as they might prove
to be for Renaldo, she mused.
The appointment had started on a congenial note, with an impeccably
prepared meal and a few winning horses. Astor Gordero was a warm and
compassionate host, relating his great respect for the De Seta family and
conveying his sympathies for the tragic death of her talented and caring
husband.
He followed by complimenting her on what a fine job she had done raising
her two sons, at the same time dealing with the pressures of running the family
business. Gordero described his relationship with Renaldo, and exactly what it
would mean to the boy if he actually qualified for the final team.
It was at this point that Florencia turned icy. She had bluntly refused an
offer of gala tickets, turning down a chance to see her own flesh and blood in
the national spotlight. Instead, she gave the lawyer a long tirade on the evils of
football. The lady informed her host of how upset she was with her youngest
son for wasting his time with such foolishness. The lonely widow had gone so
far as to express her hope that Renaldo would be among the first players to be
dropped from the team.
“That would enable him to enroll in university at the start of the
next semester and get on with his medical career,” Florencia had stated
emphatically.
Again, Renaldo’s agent tried to enlighten Señora De Seta as to the material
benefits that could accrue, should her son be successful in his quest to make the
National Team. But she would have none of it.
“The boy does not need material benefits derived from that ‘filthy
occupation.’ My son was meant to be a doctor, just like his father. After he gets
this distracting malady out of his system, I am certain that he will repent and
proceed on the true course his life was destined to follow!”
Gordero was forced to turn the charm level to maximum while trying to
be nonchalant about the Renaldo’s football ambitions. It was imperative for his
future plans that he not aggravate an obviously delicate situation.
The barrister politely informed Florencia that her son had signed a
contractual agreement with A.R. Gordero and Sons that covered only matters
pertaining to his football career. The seemingly sincere lawyer assured the boy’s
mother that he would tear up the document the instant Renaldo was released
from the team. He also assured her that he would persuade the boy to listen
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to his mother’s better judgment and pursue a career in medicine, whatever the
outcome of his present situation.
This seemed to set the lady’s mind at ease, and she warmed to her
dining companion, becoming more relaxed and open. By the time they parted
company, Señora De Seta had actually admitted that she was happy to have a
man of Astor Gordero’s stature looking out for her son’s best interests.
“Should, heaven forbid, my son continue to be a part of this ‘national
sickness,’ I will rest easier knowing that a man of compassion and feeling is by
Renaldo’s side.”
Gordero left it to Wolfgang Stoltz, who had joined their table during
the latter part of the afternoon, to return the lady to her residence. It was, to a
great degree, Herr Stoltz’s warm smile that helped to melt Florencia’s blustery
demeanor. The widow’s attitude changed perceptively once the suave European
arrived on the scene.
Astor Gordero parted company with Señora Florencia De Seta totally
satisfied with his performance that afternoon. He could tell by her eyes that
she trusted him implicitly by the time the dessert course arrived. It was a game
that the obese attorney liked to play while dining with business associates. How
many courses of a meal will be completed before I convince my prey that the Gordero way
is the only way?
The weak and pandering gave in before the appetizers even hit the linen.
Florencia had been a workout, remaining immovable until well into the main
course before succumbing. As usual, Gordero knew he would eventually win
the day, and by dessert he was confident that he had the lady in the palm of his
hand. Wolfgang Stoltz would simply close the deal, as usual.
The blackness in the great auditorium was suddenly pierced by a battery
of ultraviolet lights emanating from the broadcast scaffolds at the front of the
house. From vents on both sides of the stage and behind the raised, chrome-
plated drum kit wafted clouds of dry ice fog, enshrouding both the silhouetted
musicians and their instruments. As the billowing whiteness traveled into
the first few rows of the audience, the drummer let loose with an up-tempo
backbeat. The riveting rhythm was picked up thirty seconds later by an electric
bass player. Congas, timbales, and other Latin percussion instruments joined
in. The result was a pulsating, finger-snapping, toe-tapping groove that had the
entire hall clapping their hands in unison.
The gala’s master of ceremonies could be heard over the PA system giving
a brief but rousing introduction.
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“Señoras, Señoritas, and Señors, Musicale Argentina ’8 is proud and
honored to present the number one pop sensation in the entire country! The
beautiful! The amazing! The unbelievable! Sssyyymmmcaaa!”
As the last syllable of her name passed the announcer’s lips, the band
suddenly stopped playing and the ultraviolet lights disappeared, leaving the
stage in total darkness. It was as if someone had pulled the power switch.
All that remained were the cheers and screams for “Symca,” along with the
rhythmic clapping of four thousand pairs of hands.
lights illuminated the star for whom they had all been waiting. Standing center
stage in a silver-sequined minidress, black fishnet stockings, and incredibly
high black pumps, the vocalist literally oozed sexuality.
With her long legs planted astride and her head bent forward resting on
her chest, she stood motionless, drinking in the adulation. Right on cue, using
the musician’s sixth sense, the entire band came to life, and the sultry star
launched into an upbeat version of her current chart topping hit.
The staid Teatro Colon went berserk. People were dancing in the aisles,
gyrating to the beat in their seats, rushing the stage, and hooting and shouting
for more. The sound was unbelievable. The twelve-piece band had been
handpicked by the diva, and the ensemble had a musical cohesiveness that was
without equal. Guitars, keyboards, horns, rhythm section . . . individually and
collectively, they were the best that Argentina had to offer. The results of their
tightness were audibly evident.
From where he was perched on the bass drum’s hard traveling case at stage
right, Renaldo De Seta had a spectacular view of the proceedings. He could
not believe what he was hearing or seeing. To listen to her records or to hear
her outdoors in giant stadiums was one thing, but here in acoustically perfect
Teatro Colon, he was blown away!
Never before had the young man heard a band play with so much force
and clarity. Each instrument could be picked out individually, and yet it melded
perfectly with the overall effect.
The light show was something from outer space, or so it seemed. Special
effects that Renaldo hadn’t even seen at her outdoor spectacles were used here.
But more than anything else, the sound, the lights, the atmosphere, it was the
singer that held the focus of everyone’s attention.
She glided about the stage, using every angle to make the audience feel
that she was singing especially for them. Her dance moves were agile and fluid,
ranging between ballet and gymnastics. Her deep voice was in peek form,
displaying a lusty sensuality and yet capable of hitting all the octaves from
baritone to soprano.
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Mesmerizing was the only word that came to Renaldo’s mind. He was in a
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