trance. He cared for nothing else at this moment, for the lovesick boy was truly
under Symca’s spell.
Her performance was almost exclusively up-tempo, and there were no
pauses or dialogue in the whirlwind performance. She did pause before her last
number though, and in a heartfelt plea, urged her fellow countrymen to give
their support generously to the World Cup ’78 movement. There was hardly
a dry eye in the audience when she suddenly turned stage right and looked
squarely at Renaldo. Their eyes locked for several seconds before the soulful
siren turned back to the television cameras and her adoring audience.
“Señors and Señoras, I would like to finish my portion of tonight’s show
with a very special new song, a song that was written just for me. It will be
released as a single very shortly, and I am singing it this evening for someone
very special. It is entitled, ‘My Love Will Wait for You.’ I hope you like it.”
She turned again stage right and blew the invisible someone a kiss.
Instantly a haunting melody filled the teatro, and there had never been a more
tender, more passionate love song sung on that revered stage. The standing
ovation that followed the tune’s conclusion lasted over three minutes, and cries
of “Symca!” “Symca!” “Symca!” rose to the rafters.
From his vantage point, Renaldo blew the object of his affection a kiss
as she departed the stage into the opposite wing. Simone paused momentarily,
giving her admirer a fleeting glance before disappearing.
Renaldo was numb, exhilarated, and depressed all at the same time. When
will I see her again? She was so spectacular, so gorgeous, so erotic! Could that last song
honestly be meant for me? How every part of him ached with confused, infatuated
joy!
Reality beckoned, however, and the MC’s announcement that the World
Cup team would take the stage within a very few minutes jolted the dazed
teenager back to his present predicament. It was now time to face a different
kind of music.
“De Seta, where the fuck have you been? What do you think I’m running
here, a church picnic excursion? Do you realize that we are about to appear
in front of a national television audience, and where are the National Team
players? Out chasing pussy! You’ll get all the ass you can handle if you make
this fucking team, Señor Hotshot, but while you are under my direct control,
you had better learn to follow orders and follow them to the letter!”
The manager’s face was no more than an inch away from Renaldo’s as he
vented his fury and heaped scorn on all those assembled.
“This is a team we have here, Señors, not a group of individuals and prima
donnas. I won’t tolerate any of this shit, ever again! Do you understand me? Do
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you, you bunch of self-centered idols? Because if you don’t, I have a whole list of
players that would gladly fill your shoes and heed my bidding!”
The veins were bulging on Octavio Suarez’s neck, and his face was bright
crimson from screaming at the top of his lungs. With all the smoking the
manager did, Renaldo worried that he might keel over from a heart attack
on the spot. The youngest player took solace in the fact that while the initial
reprimand had been meant specifically for him, the tirade gradually expanded
to encompass the entire group.
“I am sorry, Señor Suarez, it won’t happen again,” was the meek apology
that Renaldo tendered.
“It damn well better not happen again, or I’ll have you enrolled in
university just like your mother wants before you even set foot on a soccer
pitch. Now find your place in line!”
The sting of the last comment found its mark on Renaldo.
There is no reason to bring my mother into this, or my future plans either. Some of
these players can’t even read, or so I have been told by Gordero. They let their feet do the
talking on the field of play. That is all I want, too. My mother and university . . . shit!
That was a low blow, Renaldo smoldered silently.
Many of these men had grown up in the slums and shanty towns of their
birth places, and football was a way out, a means of escape to a better life.
They didn’t need a high school diploma, they needed to eat and support their
families. Now with Suarez’s biting remark, they would think of him as some
scholastic mama’s boy. He hung his head forlornly as he stepped in front of
Ramon Vida in the line.
“Hey, don’t worry, man, I snuck out, too. Sure was some grade A pussy
on that stage. The bitch was so hot, I thought this old place was going to burn
down. Bet those longhairs have never experienced anything like her before.”
The blood started to boil in Renaldo’s temples when Vida made his off-
color remarks about Simone. Luckily, he was able to keep himself in check
by biting his lip and keeping his back to the Boca center forward without
speaking.
To say anything in her defense or to act personally offended by Vida’s
remarks would tip his hand. He did not want anyone to know of his relationship
with Simone. Besides, he felt certain that he was going to take enough ribbing
from his teammates as it was. There would be time later to defend Simone’s
honor if necessary. Right now, it was better to simply hold his tongue.
Within a few seconds they were being escorted through the winding
corridors to stage right. There was the familiar drum case that had been Renaldo’s
orchestra seat. The lights had dimmed and a great fanfare accompanied each
player’s introduction as they walked individually into the floodlights. A brief
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RENALDO
biography was given as the athlete stood alone in the national spotlight, being
scrutinized by millions of people.
Then the lights would dim again, followed by the fanfare and the next
name. Down the list, closer and closer the MC narrated. Soon enough it was
the youngest hopeful’s turn, and the blinding glare temporarily disoriented the
terrified rookie as he stepped out onto the vast expanse. The routine had been
exactly the same at rehearsal earlier that afternoon, but so much had happened
to him in the last hour. He found himself lost in a haze of overpowering sexual
tension augmented by pure and utter panic.
The master of ceremonies smoothly ushered the stage-struck novice to the
appropriate spot as the fanfare ended and Renaldo De Seta’s biographical notes
were read to an enthusiastic yet curious audience. Who was this unknown boy
among the greatest football names in the country? What had he accomplished
to be worthy of sharing the stage or the soccer field with the national heroes
from River Plate, Boca Juniors, and the rest?
As his eyes grew accustomed to the bright lights and to the intense scrutiny,
Renaldo seemed to become visibly more relaxed and confident. Hearing the list
of his athletic accomplishments being transmitted across the nation brought a
warm smile to his initially nervous countenance. He raised his right hand and
waved to the people in the front rows. The smile grew broader. A particularly
vocal respons
e was floating down from a private box on Renaldo’s right. The
boy glanced up, and there, just beyond the footlights, was Astor Gordero’s
mammoth silhouette.
The handsome teenager’s smile, combined with his mentor’s vociferous
ovation, melted away much of the skepticism that lingered in the minds of
the watching millions. Like the tide rolling over the beaches of Mar del Plata,
he could hear a buzz of curious excitement and acceptance sweep over the
audience.
“He is very cute. What is his name again?”
“He should be a fashion model, not a football player!”
“That smile could launch a thousand ships, all overflowing with lusting
Porteña women.”
These were only a few of the whispered comments that could be heard
rippling through the once staid hall. The reaction was much more blatant and
forceful when it came to the national television audience. Before the boy with
the long curls and the radiant smile had even left the stage, the telephone lines
at the National State Network switchboard were lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Who was that player, number seventeen on stage, the young one? How
do you spell his name? How can we contact his fan club? Where do we get
posters and information about him?”
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JAMES McCREATH
Of the twenty-two players that were introduced that evening, it was the
unknown and untested rookie who captured the hearts of the public. If only
his athletic prowess could come close to matching his startling good looks,
Argentina would have a new matinee idol!
That test was imminent, for within forty-eight hours, all the talking and
posturing would cease. The game was the thing, and these twenty-two were
about to learn how to play it all over again, from the beginning. It would be
the Octavio Suarez way or the highway!
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Chapter Seventeen
Their elation lasted until they read the headlines of the Clarín morning
paper. La Nacional, La Prenza and the Buenos Aires Herald screamed
similar reactions.
“Montonero Bloodbath!” “Damn the Terrorist Assassins!” “Six Die in
Vicious Terrorist Attack!”
“Six people dead? Those fools must have tried to follow us. Idiots! We told
them that there were explosives outside the bank. They wanted to be fucking
heroes. Well, look where it got them! Look, this fat little colonel that bought
it tried to give me a hard time when I went to the teller’s window. Look, here
is his picture. I’m sure it’s him. Fat little shit. I should have wasted him right
there as he stood in line!”
Celeste’s initial shock that people had actually been killed during the
bank robbery had given way to an aloof fascination. There was no remorse
in her voice. Instead, a morbid exhilaration swept over her as she read and
re-read the names and occupations of the men who had died. Four were army
personnel, the other two, off-duty policemen.
Lonnie De Seta felt extremely nauseous as he poured over every reported
detail in the papers Celeste was not reading aloud. What am I afraid of? Why
have I started to shake? His stomach soured even more as he absorbed the morbid
results of his first act of terror. He had been trained to expect bloodshed, even
desire it. But his role had been so removed from the action that he never got a
chance to look a stranger in the eye from the business end of an Uzzi. Not like
Celeste.
Paper after paper called for the death penalty for these cowards. People
from every sector of society, government, clergy, even unionists, condemned
their scurrilous deed. Army and police forces were on total mobilization to
assure that the killers would be apprehended quickly.
Killers? He had hoped to be referred to as ‘revolutionaries,’ or ‘the people’s
army.’ At worst, they would be described as ‘terrorist bank robbers,’ but ‘killers’?
The dogma of the Andes training camp seemed very hazy to him at this moment.
Why are we doing this, killing people? The answer had temporarily escaped him.
Celeste will tell me why again, when she is finished reading, he rationalized.
“All of this drivel is controlled by the junta. We will not be lauded as
heroes until the underground and student papers hit the streets. Do not let this
JAMES McCREATH
garbage sway your mind, Lonnie. Our cause is just, and thousands of people
will have food and clothing because of the money that we liberated yesterday.”
She could tell that he was upset the moment that she put down the final
paper. He looked pale and confused.
“It is the people, Lonnie, the people in the streets who will sing our praises.
And when they rise up and shake loose the yoke of military oppression, they
will remember what the Montoneros did for them! Do not worry about those
six. Many more will die before this is over. The people will not be lied to and
cheated anymore!”
Her words were meant to reassure him, and while they provided some
comfort, he knew that he had truly stepped over the brink. Killers! It was time
for Marco Figueroa to go underground immediately. Lonfranco De Seta would
be reincarnated that morning. He called the dealership to have his Mercedes
serviced and awaiting pick up later that afternoon.
One of the newspapers had promised composite sketches of three of the
terrorists in a special late edition dealing entirely with the Banco Nacional
attack. Lonnie was certain that absolutely no one had gotten a look at him
driving the Corvair that afternoon, and there was no description of the getaway
car, or its driver, in any of the papers.
“All I have to do is shave and scrub up a bit, then it shouldn’t be hard to
make it by taxi to my bank,” he told Celeste. The cab ride would be the only
time that Lonnie would be carrying Marco Figueroa’s identification. Once he
was safely inside the bank, he could exchange it for his real documents from
the safety deposit box. Cabs were a much safer means of transport than buses
as far as police spot checks were concerned. Cabbies were experts at avoiding
road blocks, and no one thought it too suspicious if a short-fused, impatient cab
driver pulled a U-turn to find an alternate route rather than sit in line waiting
to be interrogated. Time was money! All Lonnie had to do was find a good
cabbie and make it to his bank.
The sun shone brightly as Lonfranco De Seta emerged from the Banco Rio
de la Plata on San Martin Avenue. Everything had gone off without a hitch, the
cab driver skirting the one road block that they had the potential to encounter.
My first purchase is going to be a pair of new sunglasses, he thought. A short walk
to his favorite men’s store, Gino Bogani, to pick up some new threads, then
he would head directly to the dealership. He felt totally relieved at having his
old persona back again. He felt invincible. How dare anyone accuse Lonnie De
Seta of being involved in a terrorist bloodbath! He was a man of privilege, of
breeding, a true Porteño!
The society playboy liked the fact that he could have a dual identity. It
was his alter ego, Marco Figueroa, who
was the terrorist, the murderer, the
wanted man. Lonnie De Seta was going shopping, not to jail!
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It was necessary to make one last trip to Versailles to pick up Celeste and
their possessions before heading to Tigre. While Lonnie was away, she had cut
her hair into a short bob, then dyed it blonde.
It doesn’t look half bad, the former brunette assessed. She had been unable
to leave his shabby little room since walking there after dark the night before.
Lonnie had been the one to go for food and newspapers that morning, as Celeste
was concerned about being recognized. Now all she had to do was make it into
his Mercedes and she was virtually guaranteed a safe escape to Tigre.
The rumble of military vehicles outside her window jolted her sense of
security. She pulled back the tattered curtain and looked down upon a sea of
drab grey trucks disgorging a steady stream of olive-clad national guardsmen.
People on the street were being lined up against the buildings, or, if they
showed the least bit of resistance, made to lay prostrate in the middle of the
gutter. Celeste brought her left hand to her throat, as if she could feel the noose
tightening.
The buildings were being systematically searched, with certain tenants
being brought down to street level for further interrogation. She had only her
real identification in her knapsack, the one saying that she was a visiting associate
professor from Tucumán University. The word Tucumán would be enough for
the police to interrogate her for certain. She had given her false identification
to Lonnie for storage in the bank vault. It would have been perfect. Sandra
Necochea, café waitress from Buenos Aires. A full set of working permits and a
letter from her supposed employer made the documents nearly foolproof. Now
they were locked away, of no use to her whatsoever.
The intruders were on the floor below her now. She could hear their loud
pounding on the doors, their feet on the stairs, their shouts for everyone to
come out of their dwellings. For Celeste, there was no way out. She must act
now!
Suddenly there were three loud thuds on her door, the call to open up and
make yourself seen, then the crash of a jackboot smashing through the flimsy
locking devise. Three guardsmen fell into the room, carbines at the ready. One
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