Renaldo

by James McCreath

  own unbridled enthusiasm was another shock to Renaldo. His mother had been

  the classic grieving widow following her husband’s death. While her youngest

  son was pleased with the lady’s uplifted spirits and joie de vivre, he also found

  the association between his mother, Wolfgang Stoltz, and Astor Gordero to be

  an amazing coincidence. Over all though, he was pleased for his mother and he

  admired the efficient Herr Stoltz.

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  RENALDO

  Astor Gordero had dropped by Casa San Marco on the boy’s first morning

  home to cheer him up and give him some encouragement. He started their

  conversation, however, with the topic of Herr Stoltz and his mother.

  The attorney offered his apologies and humbly stated that he preferred to

  “bring any doubts or ill feelings about this development to light immediately,

  so that the proper measures could be taken.” The inference was that Gordero

  would allow nothing to interfere with their attorney-client relationship, not

  even his association with Wolfgang Stoltz. Renaldo assured The Fat Man that

  as far as he could tell, his mother was in the best frame of mind that he had

  seen her in for ages, and that he had no problem with Herr Stoltz ‘paying a call’

  to Casa San Marco. He did confide in his attorney that her attitude about his

  returning to school was a major source of discomfort. Gordero suggested that

  perhaps Herr Stoltz could be of subtle assistance in that matter, but first the

  boy had to get back on his feet and start building up the strength in his foot.

  Ubaldo Luque had sent along a list and descriptions of certain exercises that

  Renaldo could perform while convalescing to keep his overall body condition

  close to top form. The physio trainer that would be visiting Casa San Marco

  daily would instruct him in their proper execution.

  “Octavio Suarez wants . . . no, needs you back on the team, young man.

  You must devote all your energies to strengthening your limb. You will be

  attended to each day. Suarez will be apprised of your progress. Things with

  the team are still extremely unsettled. The Nicodemo Garcia situation is by no

  means resolved. We have faith in your resiliency, Renaldo. We know that you

  will come back to us!”

  The truth of the matter centered around the potential loss of millions

  of dollars in the coffers of A.R. Gordero and Sons should their recent star

  acquisition became ‘yesterday’s has-been’ before the World Cup Tournament

  even commenced. It was Gordero that had insisted on the intensive recuperative

  program that the boy would receive at home. He was not about to let this

  Roman candle become a dud without first experiencing its skyrocketing glow!

  The imperative thing was to keep the boy in shape, keep his spirits up,

  and give him the best medical attention. Even with all that, the prognosis was

  grim. If Renaldo attempted too much too soon, he stood the possibility of

  rupturing the weak tendon completely. Rest and small doses of massage and

  physio were the only safe solution. An agonizingly slow solution.

  Astor Gordero could be of personal assistance on the spiritual level,

  however. He delivered an item to the downcast youth that had the desired

  effect.

  “Before I depart, Renaldo, there is one last thing. This correspondence

  crossed my desk the other day, and I thought you might be interested in it.”

  He pulled a legal-sized manila envelope from the inside pocket of his flowing

  26

  JAMES McCREATH

  white linen suit jacket. “I will stay in touch, my boy. Get that foot in shape, or

  no more mail delivery!” he chuckled as he made his way from the parlor.

  Inside the envelope were several newspaper clippings that contained

  reviews of Symca’s shows in various South American cities. The promotion had

  been a phenomenal success, and bookings for World Cup tour packages were

  selling out in a hurry. It seemed like each foreign city had more glowing things

  to say about the Argentine chanteuse than the previous venue. Renaldo only

  glanced at the headlines briefly, for wrapped inside the articles was an envelope

  addressed to Renaldo De Seta. The script was her hand.

  The missive had been written before his unfortunate gift from Juan

  Chacon, so the mood was up-tempo. While Simone had been unable to watch

  any of his games on television, she had scoured the local newspapers for details

  following each match. She also called Astor Gordero from time to time, for

  more detailed inside reports.

  The singing sensation revealed that the pace of her tour was exhausting,

  but nevertheless exhilarating because of the warm reception that greeted her

  at each stop. Renaldo devoured every line of the newsy letter, but it was a final

  personal message that caused him to blush;

  ‘I think constantly of our last embrace in my dressing room at Teatro Colon.

  The power of your touch, the feel of you against me . . . it was overwhelming!

  Never have I lost my senses as I did that night. I pray for God to keep you

  safe and well, and to place me in your arms again soon. I await our reunion,

  breathlessly! All my love, Simone.’

  He reread her note and the newspaper articles until late in the afternoon,

  eschewing lunch, and only rising from his recliner when the physiotherapist

  arrived to commence the healing therapy. Renaldo ate supper with his mother

  that evening, then retired to his room to play the guitar and pour over Simone’s

  words once again. The therapy had been excruciatingly painful, but Tito, the

  therapist, had been friendly and as gentle as possible. He told Renaldo that

  the two of them had to develop a relationship of trust for the therapy to be

  beneficial. There would be pain, but the pain and anger that Renaldo was

  about to experience should be focused positively on a quick recuperation, not

  negatively, toward Tito, the therapist.

  For the next several weeks, Tito would become a daily fixture at Casa San

  Marco, a fixture that scheduled his visits around times when the lady of the house

  was absent. Any awareness on Florencia’s part of a lingering association with

  Argentina’s National Soccer Team was sure to produce an adverse reaction.

  Astor Gordero had been the one to suggest that Tito be ‘spirited’ into

  the residence when his mother was away tending to her active schedule. That

  proved not a hard matter to arrange by simply sneaking a peek at the lady’s

  daybook in advance, and so it was to be. On the afternoon of Tito’s first visit

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  RENALDO

  to his new patient, the pain of the therapy would be dulled by the euphoria

  of young love and the dreams that had been delivered in a manila, legal-sized

  envelope.

  It was now the fourth of May, eight days since Simone’s stirring note, eight

  days since Tito’s initial session. Renaldo still could not put pressure on the

  inflamed heel, still could not stand without crutches, still could not walk, let

  alone run or jump. It was taking too much time. There were only twenty-seven

  days before the opening kickoff in River Plate Stadium. “This is too slow, far

  too slow,” he lamented.

  That evening as he sa
t alone, staring blankly at the television screen,

  Renaldo De Seta came to the conclusion that he had nothing to lose by talking

  to Olarti about native medicine. He rang the small, sterling silver bell that

  brought Oli from the kitchen.

  “What can I do for you, Señor Renaldo?”

  “Oli, I’ve reconsidered what you told me about your native healing

  methods. I would like very much to talk to Olarti about the medicine man he

  knows. The other doctor’s medicine is not working quickly enough to enable me

  to play football again. I must do something, anything! But please, Oli, do not

  mention a word of this to my mother. If she ever found out that you had helped

  me for this purpose, I am afraid that there would be dire consequences.”

  “I understand, Señor Renaldo. Would you like me to summon Olarti now,

  or in the morning?”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere, Oli, so if he doesn’t mind spending a few

  minutes right now, then I would love to see him.”

  The two men talked for over an hour, not as employer-employee, but as

  old friends would talk. Renaldo was fascinated about the possibility of meeting

  a man such as Copiapo, the native holistic healer. No one knew his exact age,

  Copiapo having outlived all of his contemporary tribesmen. His reputation as a

  miracle worker, according to Olarti, was known throughout the Pampas. Both

  natives and whites, primarily gauchos and plains farmers, were counted among

  his followers.

  The legend was difficult to find, for even as an elderly man, he pursued

  his ancestor’s nomadic lifestyle. He was even more difficult to actually see, for

  the healer was very selective in choosing on whom he shone his light. Olarti

  was certain that he could track Copiapo down through his contacts at Buenos

  Recuerdos, and as soon as there was news of the healer’s whereabouts, a visitation

  would be requested.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  As sketchy as the information seemed, it did give Renaldo reason to hope.

  A thin thread of hope, but still hope. There were several logistical problems to

  work out if he was able to obtain an interview with Copiapo. Not the least of

  these was the fact that Renaldo was, at the moment, an invalid in Buenos Aires,

  not riding the Pampas in Pergamino.

  For some reason, his grandmother, Lydia, came to mind. He had not seen

  her since departing Buenos Recuerdos shortly after the new year, although she

  had written him two encouraging and supportive letters urging him to ‘live

  his dreams.’ A weekend trip to visit her, with Olarti driving because of his

  injury, would be just the diversion that his mother would never suspect. To

  cover himself and reduce Florencia’s suspicions, Renaldo turned his attention

  to the university forms that had been left for him. He completed all the

  documentation necessary and placed them on her bed with a note inscribed

  “Mother knows best. Your loving son, Renaldo.”

  He could play her game! Show an interest in returning to his studies,

  then just before plunging into the textbooks, request a weekend visit with his

  grandmother to clear his head. He knew the ruse would work. Now it was up

  to Olarti to find Copiapo.

  An unexpected phone call summoned Renaldo from his bed the next

  morning. It was the morning of his nineteenth birthday.

  “Señor Renaldo, your brother, Lonnie, is on the telephone. He was

  wondering if you could talk to him,” Oli stated from the half open bedroom

  door.

  “Tell him I will be right there, as fast as I can hobble to the phone.”

  There had been no word from his older brother since the beginning of

  March, when Lonnie had informed their mother that he was not returning to

  university. He was taking the semester off to continue his travels with Celeste

  and would decide about school at a later time. Florencia, needless to say, was

  incensed with her eldest, and had told Lonnie that he and that ‘communist slut’

  he had taken up with were not welcome at Casa San Marco until he came to

  his senses and decided to get his life in order. In other words, get rid of the girl

  and go back to school.

  Lonfranco’s name was forbidden to be mentioned in the casa, and for all

  intents and purposes, he ceased to exist in the mind of Florencia De Seta. Her

  new, self-fulfilling attitude, as well as the attentions of Herr Stoltz, made it easy

  for her to put the wandering vagabond out of her mind.

  “Hello, Lonnie, are you alright? Where are you?”

  “I’m in better shape than you are, little brother, if what I read in these

  week-old newspapers is true. Happy birthday, by the way. Now that you are an

  old man, is your body giving out on you? What happened? I saw one of your

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  RENALDO

  games on television, the one against Peru in Buenos Aires. You looked terrific!

  How badly are you hurt?”

  “Well, I still can’t stand on my foot, but I haven’t lost hope. Where on

  earth are you?”

  “We are in Bariloche, in the lake district. I have never been down here,

  so we are going to explore the National Park. You know, mountain climbing,

  hiking, the works. You should see the glaciers. They are breathtaking! How is

  Mama? Oli told me that she was out at the moment, so I figured that I could

  spend a few minutes talking to you. What are your plans?”

  “You know what Mama wants me to do. She already has me registered in

  medical school. But to be a part of the National Team, that was the experience

  of a lifetime! I want to make it back there, to play in the World Cup. It will

  be a struggle though, both physically and mentally, with Mama overseeing

  my every move. Oh, by the way, she has a new suitor, a man by the name of

  Wolfgang Stoltz. He’s a lawyer who works for Astor Gordero. Seems like a

  decent man. Anyway, Mama is on cloud nine these days. But what about you?

  When are you coming back to town?”

  “No plans, little brother. I’ll tell you one thing, though. If you make it

  back to the World Cup Team, I will be in Buenos Aires expecting to get really

  prime seats from you. So don’t let me down. Get back there with the team.

  Medical school can wait, just like law school. I better go now, these phones are

  expensive. Good luck, kid, I miss you. I will bring back your present from my

  travels. Happy birthday and get back on that team!”

  “Thanks, Lonnie, I miss you, too. It was a big help to have you to talk to

  over Christmas. Give my regards to Celeste. Please call again, when you get the

  chance. Good-bye for now.”

  As the receiver went dead Renaldo felt a pang of remorse shoot through

  him. There he stood, alone in the second-floor corridor of his ancestral home,

  memories of the happy times flooding his brain. Childhood memories of the

  perfect family life. A loving, respected father, a devoted mother, a rough and

  tumble older brother. Lavish birthday parties and expensive gifts from years

  gone by. A perfect childhood, a perfect family.

  Those times were history now, alive only in his fond recollections. They

  had been a complete family for only seven years, from his own birth to his

  father’s d
eath. Seven years! Not long enough to savor the joys of family, not

  long enough at all!

  21

  Chapter nineteen

  It was fortunate for Lonnie De Seta that the national telephone service,

  Entel, was performing to its usual poor standards during the call to Casa

  San Marco. The truth was that Lonnie was not in Bariloche, but in Barracas,

  a working-class barrio on the south side of Buenos Aires. The poor connection

  had made him seem hundreds of miles away, which is where he wished he was

  at that particular moment.

  He moved quickly out of the pay telephone kiosk and disappeared into

  the dark, narrow alleys of the local marketplace. He would pick up the staples

  of his existence, then return to the room that he had shared with Celeste for

  almost a month. It had been a month of living in hell.

  Lonnie De Seta was a changed man. He had stepped over the line and

  there was no going back now. No second-guessing. The revolution was all that

  mattered. The revolution and Celeste, of course.

  He was now a true soldier, for he had struck a coup alone and earned his

  warrior’s feather. Three words told the whole story. Three words that affirmed

  that he would be a fugitive until the end of his days. Three words . . . Miguel

  Tobias Panizo.

  It was Señor Panizo’s unfortunate fate to be the under secretary for

  economic coordination and a labor specialist at the beginning of April, 1978.

  It was also his unfortunate fate to be targeted for assassination by a dissident

  cadre of the Montonero movement. The evolution of this terrorist splinter group

  threatened to disrupt the plans of the junta for a peaceful and bloodless World

  Cup Tournament. The same evolution also disrupted the plans of Lonnie De

  Seta.

  The splinter group was formed the instant that the three grenades exploded

  outside the Banco Nacional in February. That six people would die had been

  unexpected, but the public outrage and condemnation of the ‘barbarous act’

  had exceeded anything seen in modern Argentina.

  An official day of mourning was proclaimed by the junta, and all the

  dead were given full military honors. The press uniformly called for stepped-

  up antisubversive action on the part of the military, and Lonnie knew that he

  had been lucky to escape the sweeping police dragnet. That was not the worst