Renaldo

by James McCreath

  likeness will be on the front cover of every newspaper in the country tomorrow

  morning. Start to grow a beard, right away. Let your hair grow as well. Above

  all, take care, my friend. Power to the people!”

  With those words, he handed Lonnie an old slouch hat and a pair of dark

  glasses, then sped off as soon as his rider had stepped onto the curb. The new

  guest made it to room number thirty-two without being noticed by anyone, as

  even the desk clerk was having an impromptu siesta.

  Celeste had outfitted their room for a considerable stay, stockpiling staples

  and necessities that would enable them to be exposed to the public as little as

  possible. They would cook their food by means of Coleman stoves, and keep

  those items that should be refrigerated cool by using ice inside portable coolers.

  Only Celeste would venture out to the market and newsstand on infrequent

  occasions as needed. The only items that Lonnie had at his disposal for

  entertainment were an old television set with uncertain reception and a small

  portable radio.

  Serge had been correct. Lonnie’s likeness was pasted on the front page of

  the Clarín, as well as every other newspaper and television news report the next

  morning. The police artist must have worked all night with Señora Panzinos to

  capture the traits of her husband’s murderer while they were still vivid in her

  mind. It was a vaguely accurate representation, but it could have been almost

  anyone. The widow had used the phrase ‘attractive, with a rugged, manly

  appearance’ several times in describing the assailant, and the press picked it up

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  and ran with it. The ‘Attractive Assassin’ became a media sensation overnight,

  and again Serge was correct, the heat was intense.

  Hundreds of innocent people were rounded up and interrogated. Many

  were never seen or heard from again, but the ‘Attractive Assassin’ remained at

  large. He was confined to his own small world, but he was still a free man.

  Celeste was the only one in contact with her brothers, and the news that

  she brought back to Lonnie after seeing them was always the same. “Sit tight,

  it is still too hot to make a move to another hideout, let alone plan another

  operation.”

  For almost a month he had ‘sat tight,’ but even Celeste’s womanly charms

  were starting to wear thin. He was beginning to act like the caged animal that

  he felt he was becoming. Several times, his volatile temper got the best of him,

  often over insignificant matters. It was only Celeste’s warning that the desk

  clerk might call the police that settled him down.

  He was also starting to feel that he was all alone in his troubles. Celeste

  had been reassuring enough, but she and her brothers were, after all, family.

  They would stick together, no matter what happened. Blood was thicker than

  water. Likewise, it was his own sense of family duty that compelled him to take

  to the streets for the first time on the morning of May fifth.

  Celeste had gone to the market and then to see her brothers, so if he was

  both swift and lucky, she would never be the wiser to his temporary absence.

  If his mother had truly disowned him, then he only had one relative left that

  really mattered. It was that relative’s nineteenth birthday on May the fifth,

  nineteen hundred and seventy-eight, and Lonnie desperately wanted to hear

  Renaldo’s voice again.

  He had taken Serge’s advice and grown a lush, full beard. Combined with

  his straggly long hair, he bore absolutely no resemblance to the ‘Attractive

  Assassin.’ Lonnie encountered no problems on his clandestine journey to a

  secluded pay telephone. He was buoyed by his younger brother’s spirit, despite

  a possible career-threatening injury. The assassin wished that he could have

  told Renaldo the truth . . . that he was in huge trouble and just wanted to come

  home. What on earth had he done with his life? What on earth had he turned

  into? The older brother’s eyes were filled with tears as he skulked back into

  room number thirty-two.

  Celeste was late returning from her excursion, but it wasn’t her tardiness

  that upset Lonnie when she finally arrived. It was her state of mind. She was

  nearly hysterical, so much so that he had trouble understanding exactly what

  she was trying to say between the gasping sobs that raked her body.

  “Je . . . Jean . . . Pi . . . Jean Pierre, is . . . dead! Oh my God, he’s dead! I

  went to their rooming house . . .” She paused to catch her breath, then in one

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  heartrending outburst from the depths of her soul, she cried out the tale in

  sheer anguish.

  “There were police and people everywhere. I overheard two policemen

  talking. They said that there had been a killing, but that the police were not

  involved with the actual murder. That it seemed from some of the posters and

  notes found in the dead man’s room that this was an act of terrorist revenge . .

  . a settling of accounts. The landlady had said that there were two men sharing

  the room, and that the other man was unaccounted for at this, oohhhhh . . .

  time. Serge, I . . . I . . . don’t know what happened to Serge!” she gasped for

  breath, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I managed to shove my way to the back of the ambulance, just as they

  were carrying Jean Pierre out on a stretcher. They hadn’t covered him up with

  a blanket or anything. I saw his face. It was horrible! The medic told the driver

  not to hurry, that it was only a, ohhhh . . . a . . . ‘stiff!’ He was dead, Lonnie!

  Jean Pierre, oh God . . . my baby brother is dead!”

  28

  Chapter twenty

  Two days after Jean Pierre’s assassination, Renaldo De Seta was seated

  in the parlor of Buenos Recuerdos sipping tea with his English

  grandmother, Lydia. The family matriarch had been thrilled that her

  grandson was paying a visit so soon after his birthday. This enabled her to

  present the young man with her own gift, a beautiful, native leather briefcase.

  The visit also enabled the lady to give her grandson some old-fashioned doting

  and tender loving care.

  “Renaldo, I know that if things work out the way you hope, there will be

  no need for an attaché case for a while. At least not for medical texts. But even

  football players need something to carry their team documents in, don’t they?”

  Lydia had joked.

  The lady looked fantastic. The Pampas air and open spaces certainly

  agreed with her. She was still very active in the management of the estancia

  and had slowed down very little considering that she was now in her seventy-

  ninth year.

  Grandmother and grandson talked at length of many things, both old and

  new. Stories from the past and hopes for the future. Renaldo touched briefly on

  the subject of his mother’s new beau, but gave no concrete details. He knew that

  Peter De Seta was the only man that Lydia cared to hear about in connection

  with the former Florencia Robillar.

  Renaldo did relate that the new man was very pleasant and also polite and

  attentive to his mother. He went on to describe the unusu
al birthday gift that

  the nameless gentleman had presented to him.

  The three of them had dined together at Casa San Marco on the evening of

  Renaldo’s birthday, at which time Herr Stoltz had unveiled an engraved sterling

  wine bucket with a bottle of Dom Pérignon resting inside. Four matching

  crystal flutes completed the gift. The card that hung around the neck of the

  bottle read, ‘Do not open until the World Cup is ours!’

  “I hope that I do not have to wait another four years, or longer, before

  opening this bottle, Herr Stoltz.”

  “I am counting on it being opened in just over a month’s time, Renaldo. I

  am also hoping that you will be partly responsible for that happening.”

  Florencia’s icy stare curtailed the prospect of further discussion on the

  subject. It was known to all parties that Herr Stoltz had a conflict of interest

  JAMES McCREATH

  as far as Renaldo’s future was concerned. Loyalty to his employer would dictate

  hopes for a speedy return to the lucrative world of international soccer. Loyalty

  to Florencia would dictate a return to university and a medical career.

  In Florencia’s mind, the matter had been settled by divine intervention in

  the guise of her son’s injury. It was a sign, a beacon showing him the true course

  of his future. The Senora would allow no talk of football in her household!

  She had given Renaldo an engraved Mount Blanc pen and pencil set

  with his name and the date inscribed. To rub salt into his wound further, the

  words ‘Good luck at university’ were written prominently on the card that

  accompanied the gift. The evening was cordial, but not overly cheery.

  Renaldo told his mother nothing of the phone call from Lonnie that

  morning. He did inform her of his wish to go to Pergamino to see his

  grandmother and ‘clear his head,’ before the school term commenced. Florencia

  thought that it was a good idea for her son to get away for a few days and

  readily offered Olarti’s services to act as chauffeur and attendant. The plan had

  worked exactly as Renaldo had hoped.

  It was arranged with Lydia that Renaldo and Olarti would spend their

  second day on the Pampas touring the operations. Lydia declined to accompany

  the two men, much to her grandson’s relief, stating that she had just completed

  a similar tour herself the previous week and thought her time best spent

  attending to other matters. The two men departed on their scheduled rounds,

  but deviated from the stated course and ended up in the small village of Tuerto,

  two hours’ drive from Buenos Recuerdos.

  It was there that one of Olarti’s local contacts had found Copiapo. It was

  there that Copiapo had agreed to see Renaldo De Seta.

  The native healer was everything Renaldo had expected: weathered skin

  the texture of leather from years in the broiling sun, long grey hair tied in a

  pony tail, with the ends braided into decorated ringlets, a toothless grin below

  eyes that were feeble in vision but all-seeing in knowledge.

  He was seated cross-legged on the floor of the shanty that served as

  his temporary home when the two men were shown in to the single-room

  structure. The ancient one seemed to have several followers attending to his

  needs, but they were all congregated on the outside of the dwelling. Copiapo sat

  meditating in solitude as his guests waited patiently for him to acknowledge

  their presence.

  It was necessary for Olarti to translate the proceedings, for the healer

  spoke only in his native tongue. His first interaction was little more than a two-

  syllable grunt. Renaldo looked to his attendant for enlightenment.

  “Take off all your clothes, including the brace,” Olarti commanded.

  “Everything? Even my shorts?” was the boy’s stunned reply.

  “Everything!” Olarti responded firmly.

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  With that, he unbound the leather ankle brace that Tito had fashioned

  especially for support of the heel area. The swelling and inflammation had

  subsided in time, allowing for the application of the brace. Pressure was kept on

  the tendon to provide for support and promote healing. Daily therapy in Tito’s

  capable hands had provided some strengthening, but progress had been slow.

  The old man pointed to the brace that lay on the ground in front of

  its owner. Olarti, who was supporting his employer so that the younger man

  could undress without using his crutches, knelt and handed the device to the

  medicine man. Copiapo inspected the object with great interest, turning it

  in every direction. When he finally looked up, Renaldo stood before him,

  supported by Olarti, naked as the day he was born.

  The healer gazed at the boy’s physique silently for several minutes, then

  motioned with his arm for him to turn around. Again, several minutes of

  silence followed. A second mumbled series of grunts was translated to mean

  that the patient was to lie on his back, resting his damaged limb in front of

  the aged healer.

  Searching hands fondled the entire foot, caressing, probing, but never

  causing pain, even when exploring the tenderest areas. At the conclusion of his

  examination, the healer locked eyes with his young patient. Time seemed to

  stand still, but Renaldo did not feel uncomfortable and never broke the contact.

  Another grunt ended the intimate exchange.

  From a leather medicine kit, Copiapo retrieved several pouches and a vial

  of amber-colored liquid. He then rang a small bell that had sat unnoticed by

  his side. Instantly, an attractive native woman entered the shanty and proceeded

  directly to squat by his side. Renaldo reacted to his vulnerability in the presence

  of a female by groping for his shirt and covering his privates. The natives were

  amused by the Porteño ’ s discomfort, exchanging broad grins before conversing.

  Their dialogue was totally one-sided, with the old man mumbling instructions,

  the woman nodding affirmation, and Olarti a mute witness. When Copiapo

  stopped talking, the woman picked up the articles that he had pulled from

  his kit, rose to the upright position, then announced in perfect Spanish that

  the session was over and that they should follow her out as soon as Renaldo

  was dressed. Both men mumbled their appreciation in their native tongues.

  It was as if they had been afflicted with the old man’s voice, so hoarse and

  unintelligible were the croaked thank-yous.

  Quinta was the native woman’s name, and she ran through Copiapo’s

  instructions in a soft, patient manner. Renaldo was to continue to use the brace,

  as well as all his current treatments. He was to make a compress of the plants

  and powders contained in the pouches, combining them with the oil in the vial.

  He was then to apply the mixture and bind it tightly to the damaged area by

  means of a lambskin cloth. That was all that was necessary according to the

  holistic guru.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “Copiapo says that your wound will heal,” Quinta whispered gently,

  touching the boy’s forearm. “He says that you have fine structure, as well as an

  intense will. You can go now. I wish you both good spirit.”

  “Something
strange on the telephone report sheet from Casa San Marco

  this morning, Astor. It might bear checking out,” Wolfgang Stoltz announced

  as he entered his employer’s inner sanctum on the morning of May sixth.

  “There was a call to the casa yesterday morning from Lonfranco De Seta,

  the eldest son. From my privileged position, I am aware that Lonfranco has

  been in his mother’s disfavor since he refused to return to school in March.

  The boy claims to be traveling the country with his girlfriend, Celeste Lavalle.

  The call was a routine exchange of birthday greetings between the brothers.

  Nothing controversial was discussed. The incongruous part is that Lonfranco

  told his brother that he was calling from Bariloche, in the Lake District, but

  the call was actually placed from a pay phone in Barracas, only a few miles from

  the casa. Why, if he were so close, would he not just get in his car and wish his

  brother happy birthday in person?”

  Astor Gordero looked up from the plate of eggs and peppers that he was

  devouring.

  “That does seem strange, quite out of character. The brothers are very

  close. I know that for a fact. Only some kind of disagreeable circumstance

  would keep Lonnie away from the casa on his brother’s birthday. And why

  would he lie about his location?”

  “Perhaps it was fear of his mother’s attitude that kept him away, fear of

  confrontation on his brother’s special day. She never utters his name in my

  presence. It would seem as if she has totally disowned him.”

  “The lady is given to uttering no one’s name but yours these days,

  from what I hear. That is because she thinks of nothing other than your big,

  uncircumcised cock, Wolfie!” Astor Gordero chuckled as he shoveled in another

  forkful of food. A sly grin was firmly planted on Wolfgang Stoltz’s face.

  “Wait just one moment. Barracas? Barracas! Look at this.” Gordero held

  out a copy of the morning Clarín to his associate.

  “That terrorist was murdered in Barracas yesterday. This could be mere

  coincidence, but on the other hand, there could be a lot more to it. Look, look

  at this. It says that the act was clearly an assassination, that the dead man was

  tortured before he was killed. There were several revenge notes found at the

  scene from another left-wing group. There were also several sets of identification