Renaldo

by James McCreath

  the ride! And no more blackmail or you are gone! Try it, and I will disgrace you

  publicly. You will never play football in Argentina again! Do you understand

  me? Now, how will it be, Señor ‘Killer’ Chacon?”

  363

  Chapter twenty-FOur

  As the first round of World Cup competition drew to a close, the

  Argentine national psyche had been only slightly damaged by their

  heroes’ loss to the Italians. There was still time to make corrections and

  adjustments, and moreover, the weak showing of the pretournament favorites

  was reason for cautious optimism.

  Italy was the only team to advance to the second round of play with a

  perfect record. Three victories in three matches to top group one. Argentina

  also advanced from that group with two victories and one defeat. France flew

  home with a single victory over the hapless Hungarians to complete its South

  American visit with some semblance of respectability.

  Group Two, consisting of Poland, West Germany, Mexico, and Tunisia,

  held one of the major surprises. The reigning champion of the world, West

  Germany, looked totally out of step and confused in their nil-nil encounters

  with Poland and Tunisia. A 6-0 shellacking of a terrible Mexican team did

  little to silence their critics on both sides of the Atlantic. Poland topped the

  group with two wins and a tie, followed by West Germany with one win and

  two ties. The very game Tunisians were a pleasant surprise but they were sent

  home along with the dismal Mexicans.

  The despised Brazilians had been the favorites to top Group Three, despite

  their whining about having to play in the frigid seaside resort of Mar del Plata.

  But they had accomplished only two ties in their first two games, with only one

  goal to show for one hundred and eighty minutes of football played. It would be

  fair to say that the entire host nation was reveling in the misfortune of yellow-

  shirted prima donnas.

  There was some merit to the Brazilian’s claim of unfair treatment,

  however. They were the only team in the group forced to play all its fixtures on

  the horrendous pitch of Mar del Plata Stadium. Each of their three adversaries

  had been lucky enough to play at least one game in brand-new Velez Sarsfield

  Stadium in the capital city.

  Judged the finest pitch in the tournament, Velez Sarsfield also afforded

  its competitors the moderate climate of Buenos Aires. The Brazilians were

  adamant that they needed a good playing surface to excel at their ‘change of

  pace’ style of play.

  JAMES McCREATH

  The soggy, rutted field at Mar del Plata resembled a groundhog’s convention

  after Brazil’s 1-1 tie with Sweden. To make matters worse, the chilling winds

  and biting rain that invited themselves to each of the Samba King’s games

  made for plodding, disjointed contests.

  These were not the Brazilians of Pelé and Socrates. The elements and the

  pitch had reduced them to mere mortals. A 1-0 victory over group winner

  Austria in the final game of the first round gave but slim hope for a resurgence

  to the form of yesteryear. It was a confused and troubled team that headed for

  Mendoza to open the second round against Peru. Spain and Sweden booked

  passage back to Europe as Austria and Brazil advanced.

  Peru turned out to be the undisputed dark horse of the first round.

  Thought to be an easy adversary whose players were too old and too unfamiliar

  with each other’s style, the Peruvians pulled the rug out from under Scotland’s

  hopes in their opening match. An impressive three-goal comeback after Hamish

  MacPherson had given the Scots an early lead sent the Tartan army reeling. A

  scoreless draw with the Netherlands followed. Inspired by those two confidence-

  building games, the men of the Andes then thrashed Iran 4-1, achieving first

  place in Group Four. The Netherlands also advanced, giving game but luckless

  Scotland and Iran their leave.

  Thus, the eight teams advancing for further battle were Italy, Argentina,

  Poland, West Germany, Austria, Brazil, Peru, and the Netherlands. Three

  South American teams, five European teams. A decent balance, and at this

  point, the Italians looked to be the class of the tournament.

  The National Team of Argentina had been placed in Group B for the

  second round of play, along with Brazil, Poland and Peru. Each team would

  play the others in the group once. A complicated tie-breaking system would

  determine the winner of each group, should there be equal merit for the top

  spot.

  Transposing the entire National Team operation to Rosario was a logistical

  nightmare that Octavio Suarez had hoped to avoid. There had been contingency

  plans made well before the fact, however, and the relocation was carried out in

  less than twenty-four hours without any major trauma. That left three days to

  adapt to their new surroundings and prepare for their opening second round

  match against Poland. On the bright side, the Italian victory had provided an

  opportunity to let fans outside of the capital city view their darlings in the

  flesh.

  The move to this new home base posed logistical problems for more than

  just Octavio Suarez and his legions. Rosario was an industrial port city of seven

  hundred and fifty thousand people, some two hundred miles northwest of

  the capital up the Paraná River. The new host city for the National Team of

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  RENALDO

  Argentina found its infrastructure strained to the limit once the world turned

  its eyes on the spectacle that was unfolding there.

  Central Stadium, the venue for Argentina’s games in Rosario, was the

  most intimate of all the facilities in the tournament. No moats or warning

  tracks separated spectators from their idols. The steep second tier of the stadium

  seemed to hang over the touch lines at an impossible angle. The problem was

  that only thirty-two thousand-odd hearty souls could be shoehorned into its

  tight enclosure. This was much less than half of River Plate’s capacity.

  Demand for first-class hotel rooms and tickets of any denomination were

  at an extreme premium. The flourishing local black market in ‘beds, broads,

  booze, and a board,’ the latter referring to the plank that one’s derrière would

  cover in the stadium, managed to keep almost everyone happy, for a considerable

  brokerage fee.

  With luxury accommodations all but nonexistent, the two finest suites

  in the Hotel Libertador had been booked for their respective guests using all

  the power and influence that they could muster. People of discriminating taste

  simply had to stay there. This prime billet was head and shoulders above all

  the other establishments in town. After all, they were the only ones to serve

  high tea at precisely four o’clock each afternoon. This fact would not be lost

  on the occupants of suite number 237, one Astor Armondo Luis Gordero and

  associates from Buenos Aires.

  Similarly, the occupants of suite 358, Miss Mallory Russell and her father,

  Lord Reginald Russell of London, England, would luxuriate whenever possible

  in the lobby café over sandwiches, scones, and cakes. It was there, in the Café


  Inglaterra, that the two parties would make one another’s acquaintance for the

  first time. It would be a meeting that would change all of their lives.

  It had been necessary for Astor Gordero to delay his departure to Rosario

  by several hours to enable him to deal with a potentially embarrassing situation.

  On the morning of June eleventh, Wolfgang Stoltz had informed his employer

  of a telephone call that had been placed to Florencia De Seta by her bank

  manager, Anthony Rodrigues.

  The wire tap operator had recorded the entire conversation. Luckily,

  Señora De Seta was not at Casa San Marco at the time of Señor Rodrigues’

  call. The female servant, Oli, had spoken to the banker briefly, the male voice

  stating in a blunt, agitated manner that his name was Rodrigues and that he

  would call again.

  36

  JAMES McCREATH

  “That bastard Rodrigues!” thundered Gordero upon listening to a cassette

  tape of the conversation. “Alright, we have to act quickly, Wolfie. Get Señora Paz

  in here right now. Rodrigues takes his noon meal on the stroke of twelve every

  day. At twelve fifteen, Señora Paz will make her call. Can you get Florencia out

  of Buenos Aires sooner than planned? Your meeting with Lydia in Pergamino

  is on the thirteenth. Wolfie, you must find her right away and convince her that

  the capital is a terrible place to be right now. That you need some time away

  from the football madness, and that you both should take a few extra days and

  leave for the country sooner, like tonight! Do you have your presentation for

  Señora Lydia prepared so that you can leave?”

  Gordero knew the answer to his last question before it left his lips. The

  ever-efficient German had been ready for weeks!

  “Of course, Astor, everything is in order,” Stoltz sounded hurt by the

  slight.

  “Come now, Wolfie, I was just teasing. I knew you would have things set

  up perfectly, just like you always do!” The sparkle returned to the German’s

  eyes.

  At twelve fifteen p.m., Señora Carla Paz, the office manager of A. R..

  Gordero and Sons placed her call to Anthony Rodrigues of the Banco Rio de

  la Plata. As Astor Gordero knew would be the case, Rodrigues was out of the

  Banco on his midday break.

  “This is Florencia De Seta speaking. Could you kindly inform Señor

  Rodrigues that I returned his call, and that I am leaving Buenos Aires within

  the hour. Until this World Cup nonsense is concluded and I return to the

  capital, Astor Gordero is attending to all my business and personal matters.

  Señor Rodrigues should contact him exclusively concerning my affairs during

  my absence. Thank you very much, good day.”

  Señora Lydia De Seta could feel her blood turn ice-cold the moment

  Wolfgang Stoltz opened his mouth. Her right hand, which she had extended in

  greeting to her male visitor, was withdrawn after the faintest of touches. The

  lawyer from Buenos Aires sensed that he was in trouble from that moment.

  The matriarch of the De Seta family sat in stony silence as Herr Stoltz

  gave a precise but lengthy speech on the merits of A.R. Gordero and Sons. This

  included a strong case for consolidating the family investment portfolio and

  asset supervision under one advisor. Any attempt at humor by the visitor was

  met with a dour stare from the hostess.

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  RENALDO

  Even Florencia felt ill at ease with Lydia’s demeanor. She tried to get

  the old lady to loosen up a bit by talking of her grandson’s future security.

  In particular, the younger woman stressed the fact that Renaldo had already

  signed a management agreement with Stoltz’s firm. When the presentation was

  finally finished, the elder Señora De Seta spoke for the first time.

  “It is not my intention to be rude, Herr Stoltz, for you personally had no

  idea what you were getting into by coming to see me today. I do not blame

  you for that, but I must say that if Florencia had given me the name of the

  gentleman that she was bringing to Pergamino . . . well, I think we could have

  avoided this meeting and the uneasiness that it has caused me.” Lydia paused

  for a moment, locking eyes with the stunned lawyer.

  “My sincere apologies, Señora. What on earth have I done to offend you?”

  Stoltz stammered.

  “I suppose an old lady should be able to forgive and forget, but I find

  myself unable to be that charitable. Herr Stoltz, did you take up arms against

  the United Kingdom in the last Great War?” Again Lydia’s eyes bore down on

  the squirming guest.

  “Yes, Madame, I must confess that I was a sailor in the German Navy.

  I was very young, still a teenager. The captain of my ship sought refuge in

  the port of Buenos Aires just before the end of the conflict. I have been in

  this country ever since. I obtained my Argentine citizenship in 1965. Is it my

  German background that is giving you discomfort, Señora De Seta?”

  Again Lydia let the question linger in the frigid atmosphere of her parlor

  before responding.

  “Yes, Herr Stoltz, that is precisely what is giving me discomfort. I lost a

  brother and a sister in the first war to your savage, imperialistic ambassadors

  of death. Another brother was gassed into a wheelchair to live a half-man’s

  life. Two more of my brothers would perish as a result of your beloved Führer’s

  unappeased bloodlust in the second Great War. Need I say anything further,

  Herr Stoltz?”

  The old lady had to grasp the arms of her century chair, she was shaking

  so violently. Her voice was hollow and uninviting, and Florencia could not

  believe that this was the same person that she had known and respected for

  twenty-five years. Lydia fought hard to calm herself, then stood abruptly and

  continued to address a shocked Wolfgang Stoltz.

  “Your accent alone is enough to make me want to vomit. I know that is

  not very ladylike at all, but I must be brutally frank with you both. I could

  never consider placing one peso of the family fortune under your care, Señor,

  for I would not be able to sleep at night with the thought of having a Hun

  overseeing my family’s business affairs. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take

  my leave, for I feel that I am about to be ill. I am sorry, Florencia, but there is

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  JAMES McCREATH

  nothing more you can do here. I would ask you to take your friend and depart

  right away. Good day to you both.” She was gone without a backwards glance.

  The two lovers sat in a silent daze for several moments. Florencia had

  never heard her mother-in-law talk to anyone in that manner before. The lady

  never raised her voice, not even when trying to calm her robust grandsons.

  She glanced over at Wolfgang. The German looked crushed. Florencia swiftly

  moved to his side and grasped his hand.

  “Don’t worry, Wolfie, I will talk to her alone. I know I can convince her to

  change her mind. I had no idea that she harbored such strong feelings about the

  German issue. She must be ill, for I have never seen here act like that before.”

  “She was not ill, Florencia, and there will be no changing her mind,” Stoltz

&
nbsp; replied, disbelief still ringing in his voice. “I thought foolishly that I would never

  have to confront that anti-Nazi prejudice again, but I was obviously wrong. I

  cannot undo what has been done, and I cannot make myself something I am

  not! No, it would be futile to try and convince Señora De Seta to reconsider my

  proposal. The lady’s mind is made up! It is over! Kaput! Now let us be gone

  from this wretched place at once!”

  “Hey, man, you are almost beautiful again. That swollen beak of yours

  looks pretty good today. Maybe a touch of makeup would help for those

  television close-ups after you score the winning goal tonight.” An upbeat

  Ramon Vida had caught Renaldo De Seta inspecting his battered nose in the

  mirror as he burst into his friend’s room at the National Team training center

  and headquarters in Rosario.

  “I don’t know, Ramon. It still is very swollen. I think I will let you score

  the winning goal tonight so that I don’t offend anybody with my ugly looks. I

  will wait for the championship game to score again. By then, I should be back

  to my gorgeous self,” Renaldo smiled as he gently patted his nose.

  The two players then departed for their last practice session before the

  opening game of the second round. Poland was that evening’s opponent, and

  Octavio Suarez had made sure that every player knew exactly what kind of

  lion-hearted men they were to face.

  The manager had projected a film of the Poles 1-0 loss to West Germany

  in the 1974 World Cup semi-finals during the morning team meeting. Against

  huge odds on a leadened, drenched pitch, the men from behind the iron curtain

  had shown the world the meaning of true grit that day. Tonight, with two wins

  and a tie already to their credit in the 198 tournament, the red-and-white-clad

  visitors would be no less formidable adversaries.

  30

  RENALDO

  The Argentine National Team seemed to make the adjustment to their

  new surroundings and their new lineup with relative ease. Leaving Buenos Aires

  and the memory of the Italian fiasco behind them had given the players and

  management a chance to clear their heads of the past. While the future looked

  daunting enough with the likes of Poland, Brazil, and Peru as opponents, the

  six new Argentine starters for the Polish contest seemed to bring an easygoing