Renaldo

by James McCreath

  and if the universe unfolds as it should, the young lady will be swamped with

  requests to perform worldwide.”

  There was now a strange look of admiration and unexploited lust about

  the younger man. The girl’s name had struck a nerve.

  “Simone must capitalize on this moment, Renaldo, just as you must. I

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  have tentatively scheduled a world tour and several command performances in

  Europe for our mutual friend commencing immediately after the tournament

  ends. If you had been planning to fall in love, get married, settle down, and

  have babies . . . well, those plans will just have to be put on the shelf until my

  singing superstar is available. I guarantee you that such a thing will not happen

  during the next two years at least, and during those two years, you can be

  making a fortune and getting a start on your medical degree in England.”

  There was a flash of disappointment in the younger man’s eyes as this

  latest theory sank in, but in truth, Renaldo had thought no further of his

  future with Simone than the eventual consummation of their relationship. She

  was still an unattainable commodity in his eyes, a fantasy that he considered

  beyond his grasp. Gordero kept up the one-sided dialogue, for he could see that

  his client did not fully accept his words of wisdom as gospel.

  “You are both so young, the world is your oyster. Take the half-shell with

  both hands and drink down its succulent treasures. Life can too easily be full

  of regrets and missed opportunities. I can book the young lady into London

  venues during both of the years that you are contracted to the English. We

  can use London as a home base for her excursions to the continent. Believe me,

  Renaldo, I can arrange things so that you see much more of Simone in London

  than you ever would if you stayed here in Buenos Aires.”

  A large, chubby hand patted the boy tenderly on his thigh. Renaldo knew

  that his mentor spoke the truth, for as a longtime fan of the talented singer, he

  always thought that she had the potential to exploit her charms and talent on

  the global stage. She had outgrown the Argentine market. Her recent World

  Cup promotional successes were proof of that. Yes, Simone must drink from the

  half-shell with both hands, and if he believed his agent’s musings to be true,

  so must he!

  “So, there it is! That is all I can tell you about the future right now, my dear

  boy. Ahhhhh, I almost forgot. There are two more matters of relevance. Firstly,

  win or lose, you are aware that the entire team has a command performance at

  the FIFA closing ball tomorrow evening. All of you will be billeted at the Hotel

  Presidente, where the gala takes place. Simone has asked me to tell you that

  she will be there and is ‘breathlessly’ looking forward to seeing you.” A fatherly

  smile adorned the facilitator’s ample face.

  “Secondly, the English have asked me to extend an invitation to lunch

  with them on Monday next. Vida is invited as well. Your decision must be

  made by then. I realize that all this is a lot to place on your shoulders on the

  eve of the most important football game of your life, but time waits for no

  man! You have been flung into the swirl of the tornado called fame. One look

  at the mountains of fan mail stacked away will attest to that fact. The time has

  come to deal with all these matters as an adult Renaldo, for you are no longer

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  a schoolboy. So, I have talked too much! Do you have any questions for me, or

  should I just leave you the English contract to read and we can talk after the

  championship final?”

  There was a pained expression on the center half’s face as he spoke for the

  first time.

  “My father was killed in England, Señor Gordero. After attending a

  football match. I really don’t know if I can go there. What if there are too many

  ghosts in England for me to deal with? How will I cope?”

  The boy’s misgivings fell into the one area that the lawyer had overlooked.

  He had to think quickly.

  “Renaldo, you have English blood in you. Your paternal grandmother Lydia

  is as English as the Union Jack. Your father’s tragic death was an accident, an

  occurrence that could have as easily happened right here in Buenos Aires. You

  have a heritage in England, and I daresay, relatives as well. I can work with your

  grandmother to get you connected with these people. You will not be alone!

  You will have Vida, your extended family, and at times, Simone and me. There

  is also Lady Mallory Russell, the owner of the Canary Wharf Football Club.

  I think that you will be very impressed with her when you meet on Monday.

  Not only is she strikingly beautiful, but she is knowledgeable, down-to-earth,

  and extremely bright, for a woman. She has promised me that the club will

  look after your every need, and I believe the lady. Her father, Sir Reginald, is

  an eccentric old fop, but it is Mallory that really runs the show. You will see for

  yourself. So, do we have a luncheon date on Monday?”

  Renaldo pondered the scope of all that he had been told. Slowly, almost

  cautiously, he nodded his head in the affirmative.

  “I suppose that I have nothing to lose by going to lunch. Of all the

  things that you have told me, Señor Gordero, I find my mother’s attitude the

  hardest thing to grasp. She has hated the English, even to some extent my own

  grandmother, ever since my father’s death. For her to allow me to set foot on

  English soil is something that boggles my mind. But I will play this thing out,

  if that is what you wish, Señor.”

  “It is what I wish, Renaldo, because it is the best thing for you. Your

  mother is a changed woman, my son, because for the first time since your father

  died, she is in love again. Herr Stoltz has convinced her to cut the apron strings

  and let you soar to your own new heights. It is your life, and for the first time,

  she is aware of that fact.”

  Astor Gordero fumbled with his inside suit-jacket pocket as he attempted

  to rise from the bed.

  “Oh, here, take this. I thought this little item might soothe and motivate

  you after I leave.”

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  The agent handed his client a small manila envelope. Its contents felt hard

  and bulky in Renaldo’s hand.

  “You are a lover of classical music, I believe. Have you ever been to the

  opera?”

  “Yes, Señor, many times.”

  “Good, I would have thought so. Then you might find this stimulating on

  two levels. It deals with tomorrow. The piece is ‘Nessun Dorma,’ from Puccini’s

  Turandot. It has brought me to tears many, many times. I have translated

  the lyrics into Spanish on a piece of paper inside the envelope. Listen to them

  carefully. Allow the melody to carry you away. Allow the lyrics to give you

  focus on your true purpose. The song tells you what that ‘purpose’ is very

  clearly. Give your soul to this music, Renaldo, and it will reward you with true

  inspiration!”

  It seemed that the pompous lawyer was near tears as he made his closing

  remarks to his puzzl
ed audience.

  “Now, remember tomorrow, head and feet as one! You have accomplished

  so much my boy, don’t stop now. Viva Argentina!”

  The agent turned to leave when his client’s final question sent a chill

  down his spine.

  “I don’t suppose that you have heard from my brother, Lonnie, by any

  chance, Señor? I was really hoping that he would contact one of us to secure a

  ticket to the final game. Have you received any word at all?” Gordero turned

  slowly, allowing time to form the proper sad expression.

  “Regrettably, I have received no word from Lonnie. But do not be

  disappointed. I am certain that he will be watching you, wherever he is. I know

  that you will make him a very proud older brother. Good luck, Renaldo. I want

  to see you on the victory podium tomorrow!” He held up one large hand, its

  fingers already meshed in the familiar pattern.

  “Head and feet as one, my boy, head and feet as one!”

  Finally alone in his room, the confused, lovesick player slowly opened the

  offering from Astor Gordero. Enclosed was an original, sealed cassette tape and

  the translation.

  Renaldo unwrapped the cellophane covering, then slipped the black

  cassette into his tape machine. The usual hiss of a prerecorded tape sizzled on

  the speakers until the roll of a kettle drum and a sweeping flourish of strings

  sent the listener hypnotically backwards into the wooden chair. The tenor’s

  plaintive voice fell across the stirring backdrop:

  ‘Nessun Dorma! Nessun Dorma!’

  The listener mouthed the translated lyrics as the symphonic sounds filled

  the room.

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  ‘None must sleep! None must sleep!

  And you, too, princess,

  In your virginal room,

  Watch the stars

  Trembling with love and hope!

  But my secret lies hidden within me,

  No one shall ever discover my name!

  No, no, I shall say it as my mouth meets yours

  When the dawn is breaking!

  And my kiss will dissolve the silence

  Which makes you mine!

  Depart oh night! Set you stars!

  Set you stars! At dawn I shall win!

  I shall win! I shall win!’

  Renaldo felt totally drained by the time the last riveting notes had

  subsided. He had given himself totally to the soporific combination of voice

  and instruments. The lyrics had made a profound statement, reinforced by

  that incredible melody. For the first time in his young life, he understood his

  destiny.

  “At dawn I shall win, I shall win . . . the World Cup trophy and

  Simone!”

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  Chapter twenty-eight

  Millions of Porteños watched the sunrise that Sunday the twenty-

  fifth of June. The party had lasted all night, never stopping, never

  standing still. The central business district of Buenos Aires was

  clogged with traffic of every description. Movement, whether on foot or by

  some mechanized means, was next to impossible. The persistent staccato

  honking of car horns blended comfortably with the nonstop screaming of the

  word “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!”

  Powder-blue and white were the only acceptable colors to sport, and even

  many household pets, dressed appropriately, of course, joined the bubbling,

  throbbing masses on the avenues. There was no fear of the Dutch in these

  quarters. The final result was a forgone conclusion. No one would dare put a

  damper on the greatest party ever seen in South America. Not if they expected

  to leave Argentina alive!

  Only as the witching hour approached did the streets start to empty.

  Those lucky enough to be the proud owner of a ticket snaked their way north

  to the towering River Plate. Those less fortunate, and they were the vast, vast

  majority, sought refuge under the bright beams of the nearest television set. By

  two forty-five p.m., fifteen minutes before kickoff, the once-infested streets of

  the capital were totally deserted. An atomic bomb could not have evaporated

  every human soul from those streets with such finality.

  The morning had dawned brightly, but within a few hours, wispy clouds

  were often greying out the sun. Nevertheless, the mid-fifties temperature felt

  much warmer in the glow of euphoria that enveloped Buenos Aires that fateful

  day. The Argentine people, rich and poor, powerful and meek, old and young,

  sick and healthy, corrupt and pure . . . were ready for the Gods to deliver their

  just reward as faithful followers and devout disciples.

  They would all spread the word of Argentina’s greatness. They would

  shout it from the rooftops, the mountaintops, across the Pampas, through the

  rain forest, the length and breadth of their great nation. All that was needed

  was ninety minutes of total dedication to the ultimate goal. Victory!

  JAMES McCREATH

  “Oswaldo?”

  “Ya! You must be Lonfranco De Seta. It’s great to meet you. I am a big fan

  of your brother’s. He has done some amazing things with that football during

  the tournament. I sure hope he has another big game today. How about you?

  Are you ready for a big day?”

  The hunter and the hunted were finally standing toe to toe. Both searched

  silently for clues as they held eye contact for almost a quarter of a minute. As is

  usually the case, only the hunter knew the rules of the deadly contest in which

  the two men were about to participate.

  Lonnie had watched the man for ten minutes from across the street before

  making a move. He wanted to be sharp, take precautions, and especially, stay

  alive. Not that Astor Gordero would have any reason to set him up. It was

  just that past experience had shown that these mystery killers had a habit of

  turning up when you least expected them. Out of thin air, silently, and with

  deadly result!

  Gordero had been right though. There was no mistaking Oswaldo. A black

  baseball cap with the Newton’s Prefect crest now covered his carrot-topped

  crown, but he had been instantly recognizable from twenty yards while bare-

  headed. His bright blue eyes were warm and friendly as he paid his respects to

  Lonnie’s younger brother.

  This man is alright, the elder sibling decided. He likes Renaldo. Great! We

  will get along just fine. The desperado relaxed a bit, ready to have a ‘big day!’

  The two press accreditations that had been bestowed upon Astor Gordero

  had initially arrived as a ‘thank you’ for the ‘calling off’ of government

  henchmen out to get the editor of a left-wing newspaper. Although the solicitor

  considered them only partial payment for the man’s life, he had accepted the

  field-level photographer’s passes several months before the tournament began,

  then filed them away until needed. That need had arisen with Lonnie De Seta’s

  phone call.

  “Here, put this on, then take this camera and sling it around your neck.

  This is your identification card. Stick it in your pocket, somewhere handy. We

  will have to show it several times before we get settled on the field.”

  Rojo Geary handed Lonnie a red photographer’s vest with ‘38’ emblazoned

  in large white
numerals. That was the day’s pass code, a well-guarded secret

  until just hours before game time. Geary had already been to the stadium and

  secured the two vests by the time he met Lonnie. Now they were ready. It was

  time to enter the palace of the Gods!

  Lonnie De Seta had left no trace of his stay at Marla Gallego’s flat. He

  had been meticulous in his efforts to not cause the lady any more discomfort.

  Actually, he didn’t want the little bitch screaming at him that he had left his

  underwear in her bathroom sink when he attempted to discreetly visit the bank

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  again. The flat would be exactly as she had left it, except for the consumed

  foodstuffs, and, of course, a few quarts of Scotch.

  Lonnie had changed into blue jeans and a sweater. A brown leather

  bomber-style jacket and a very special accessory finished off his game clothes.

  That ‘special accessory’ was a white toque, with two powder-blue stripes

  circling around the turned-up headband. Above the stripes was written the

  word ‘Argentina’ in matching powder blue.

  The toque had been a going away gift from Renaldo last Christmas. Both

  brothers had been set to embark on new adventures way back then. His little

  brother had told him to wear the toque only if Renaldo made the team, and

  Lonnie was there to see him play. That way, the toque would bring them safely

  together again.

  It had been too precious an item for Lonnie to take away with him during

  his life as a terrorist and murderer, so he left it safely in his closet at Casa San

  Marco. The gift was the first item he had packed on his return home.

  Lonnie’s wallet, containing only the safety deposit key and Astor Gordero’s

  card, sat in his rear jean’s pocket. The Llama pistol rested against his waistband,

  concealed by the brown jacket. He had hidden his club bag behind some refuse

  cans in the rear of Marla’s building. His plan was to return and collect his

  portable possessions later that evening.

  As they came under the shadow of the mammoth steel and concrete home

  of the gladiators, Lonnie remembered his second request given to the genie.

  “Did Señor Gordero give you an envelope for me, by any chance?”

  Rojo Geary could see the hopeful anticipation on his new friend’s face.

  “Ya, he did! He told me the envelope contained important documents and