Córdoba stadium, surrounded by dignitaries and other officials of similar
status. To see his unmistakable form on the terraces with the Barras Bravas,
the ‘Brave Bold Ones,’ was truly a puzzling sight.
“He prefers to rub shoulders with the real followers of the sport at
important games such as this,” Santos had explained. The power and passion of
1
JAMES McCREATH
football could cut across all social and economic barriers. There on the terraces,
wealth and social status meant nothing. A loud voice and a fearless constitution
meant everything!
But Renaldo was not as presumptuous as Estes Santos. He felt certain
that The Fat Man’s gratitude would not extend a minute beyond the end of
this entertaining train ride. They would be two forgotten heroes once they
disembarked in Buenos Aires. That assumption was discarded forever when
Astor Gordero waddled over to the couch were Renaldo continued to sit in the
early morning hours.
“So, my newfound friend, are you enjoying yourself?” the chairman
inquired. The boy nodded politely.
“Very much so, Señor Gordero. Especially the food and the floor show.”
“I am glad that you decided to remain a spectator to all of this. I would
have thought less of you, quite frankly, if you had joined in. A fine young
man like you should always hold yourself above such public displays. It is all
very amusing, of course, but I find it somewhat degrading in the end, very
animalistic and messy. I guess that I will have to replace the carpet after all,”
he chuckled surveying the predawn dénouement.
“Our meeting is not by chance, Renaldo,” The Fat Man continued. “As a
matter of fact, I was the one who arranged for you and Santos to be here today. I
had hoped to meet you personally and congratulate you on your fine season, but
I hadn’t anticipated the rather trying circumstances under which we became
intimately acquainted.”
Gordero spoke in a soft fatherly tone, a look of real concern planted on his
moon-shaped face. He didn’t wait for the boy to respond. Pointing his right index
finger at his audience, he smiled warmly. “I know your family background. An
illustrious history that helped shape modern-day Argentina. The general and
your grandfather, what men of vision they were! I knew your father personally.
He was a great surgeon.” The tone of voice was suddenly remorseful, with just
the right amount of profound respect thrown in. There was a pregnant moment
of silence. “I have met your mother on several occasions. She is a cultured,
beautiful lady! As for you, my sources tell me that you want to enter university
next semester, that you stood at the top of your graduating class academically
at Sir Isaac Newton. Well done!” Gordero clapped his hands in approval.
The two men sat silently for a brief moment as the chairman adjusted his
position to lean closer to the young scholar.
“Of greater interest to me, however, is the fact that while you could still
be playing schoolboy soccer, your level of proficiency in the sport has earned
you the captain’s band of our semiprofessional, under twenty-one team. Both
your coaches and your fellow players have nothing but good things to say about
you . . . unusual, for someone so young and wet behind the ears to achieve such
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RENALDO
positive accolades. On the whole, you’ve achieved quite a well-rounded list of
accomplishments to date. Your mother must be very proud of you.” The patron
paused to let the compliments sink in.
“I am told that you have achieved all of this while still retaining your
humility and your levelheadedness. That is a great asset! Men respect that, they
will follow a man like you. I have seen today with my own eyes that you have a
special ability to handle men in difficult situations. Keep your head about you
and you should expect great things, my boy.”
The chubby index finger jabbed the air in front of Renaldo’s chest.
He felt uncomfortable listening to The Fat Man’s praises and tried to tell
his host several times that his actions did not deserve such attention. Astor
Gordero would have none of it.
“I have watched you play the sport, Renaldo. That game against Racing
Club in which you scored two goals and set up a third? A stunning performance!
It was a shame so few people got to see it. But I did, and I haven’t forgotten it
either.”
The rotund barrister turned his attention momentarily to the empty
champagne glass in his left hand. The ever-present steward needed only a
raised eyebrow as instruction to top the vessel up. When Gordero started to
speak once again, his face was masked in a tight, serious expression.
“You are, no doubt, aware that the greatest sporting event the world has
ever seen will take place in Argentina in six months’ time. The generals and
politicians that run this magnificent land want the World Cup to be Argentina’s
when it is over. Frankly, they will stop at nothing to appease their egos. In this
case, that means a world soccer championship. To achieve that result, no stone
will be left unturned to find the right players for our National Team. But in
spite of the positive lip service the men at the top espouse, at the moment,
things could hardly be in worse shape. Scandal, dissension, corruption . . . the
men that are running the program are nothing but braggarts and blowhards!
They have achieved nothing positive at all. They mouth optimism, but look
at the record. Far too many losses on the field in warm-up games. The press is
all over the team and its managers. Many of our best players don’t even want
to play for fear of getting caught up in this mess.” A look of disgust shrouded
Gordero’s meaty face. He shook his head silently for several moments before his
eyes once again brightened and he proceeded.
“There is, however, a movement afoot to straighten out the problems by
bringing in Octavio Suarez as supreme manager in charge. It would be his job
to clean house and start anew. I believe that you know Suarez, is that not so?”
Gordero had certainly caught Renaldo’s attention once the topic had
changed to the World Cup and Argentina’s National Team. The whole nation
was obsessed with the daily soap opera that was unfolding in the newspapers
19
JAMES McCREATH
and on television. Even more urgent than the team itself was the infrastructure
debacle. Would FIFA, the governing body of world soccer, even allow Argentina
to stage the event? Construction of the major stadiums to be used was months
behind schedule. The same could be said for the modern telecommunications
facilities that would beam the games around the world. Adding salt to these
internal wounds was the fact that Brazil had offered to stage the tournament
should Argentina fail to meet its commitments by the appointed time. This
was considered a slap in the face from a South American neighbor, and hostility
toward the country to the north saw many effigies clad in the yellow jerseys of
the Brazilian National Team burned in the streets. FIFA representatives were
to arrive in Buenos Aires the following week to hand down their decision after
a final inspection tour. The resulting chaos would be too horrible to imagine if
the games were taken away from Argentina.
“Yes, I have taken clinics and trained under Señor Suarez. He has an
excellent tactical knowledge of the game. I found him very inspiring,” Renaldo
recalled.
“He would not take the position of National Team manager when it was
initially offered to him because of the interference he anticipated from the
bureaucrats,” Gordero continued. “I always thought that he was the only man
who could do the job. Señor Suarez remembers you as well, Renaldo. He told
me once that you play the game as if your head and your feet are connected as
one.”
The Fat Man held up his left index finger at the same time he said the
word ‘one.’ Renaldo noticed the size of his entire hand for the first time. It
was massive! The speaker then gently rested his palm flat on the boy’s right
thigh, placed his index finger on top of his middle finger, and then crossed his
forth finger over top of the other two. He removed his hand from the boy’s
leg holding up three perfectly entwined fingers, his thumb holding down his
crooked little finger.
“Head and feet perfectly connected as if one entity, perfectly connected!”
The ham hock appendage continued to be displayed for the prolonged viewing
of Gordo’s captive audience.
“Renaldo, I want you to come and see me at my office. We can talk in
private there about how I may be able to help you. These are dangerous times for
timid men, my young friend. But danger brings opportunity to the courageous,
the risk takers. I have seen how courageously you behaved today, and if you
have the strength and the desire to be even more courageous, I can make great
things happen for you! Do you have that strength and desire, Renaldo?”
An emotional wave swept over the boy, bringing tears to his eyes. It
had been a long time since he had let his inner feelings come to the surface,
but Gordero’s fatherly demeanor had instilled in him such a sense of trust
20
RENALDO
and security that Renaldo blurted out his deepest secret with gut-wrenching
introspection.
“I have a mission, Señor Gordero, a mission that has never been revealed
to anyone. It concerns my late father and something that I would like to achieve
on his behalf, something that would bring pride to our family name. It is the
reason I continue to play the game of football instead of concentrating one
hundred percent on my studies. My mother has difficulty understanding my
desire to play. I simply tell her that it’s to stay in top physical condition, that
it stimulates my mind as well, and she leaves me alone for a while. But it
goes much deeper than that. It is for my father’s memory, for his unfulfilled
dreams.”
Renaldo was trying desperately to regain his composure as the tears rolled
slowly down his cheeks. He choked out his final few words as the older man
held out a napkin to stem the saline flow.
“It is my dream to play for the National Team of Argentina in the World
Cup one day, and yes, Señor Gordero, I can find the strength and desire to be
courageous. If you can help me, I will not let you down!”
Astor Gordero held Renaldo’s brimming eyes intently with his own. He
was touched by the show of emotion. The lawyer felt as if he could have gone
on talking to this fine young man for hours, but alas, Estes Santos staggered
over to the couch and announced their imminent arrival in Buenos Aires. The
patron was at first put off by this intrusion, but he was quick to remember that
it was as much the actions of Estes Santos as those of young De Seta that were
responsible for his still being among the living.
“Estes, I want you to bring Renaldo to see me this week, and we can
discuss the future . . . a future that I hope will unfold to our mutual benefit.
Here is my business card. I will inform my executive assistant to make sure
that you get the first available appointment.”
Gordero also gave the handsome athlete a card, just in case the obviously
hungover Santos were to lose his, or fail to remember this conversation
altogether. The Fat Man had no doubt that Renaldo De Seta would remember
their conversation, and that the talented, sensitive youngster would pay him a
visit . . . with or without Estes Santos.
The men said their good-byes on the station platform and took leave
of each other just as the first rays of sunlight set the eastern horizon aglow.
Renaldo then helped his coach to the taxi that would take them both home.
Estes Santos had celebrated with too much abandon, and now he was paying the
piper. His gait was an off-balance stagger as he made his way to the curbside
taxi stand. The two men initially sat without saying a word as the black and
yellow Fiat sped through the Sunday morning dawn. It was Santos who first
broke the silence.
21
JAMES McCREATH
“Do you think he is serious about our meeting? I mean, really, why would
such a powerful man want to talk to us about ‘a future that will unfold to
our mutual benefit’? There is nothing that we can do for him now. He is just
leading us on. The clear light of dawn shines reality on my great expectations.
Oh, well, such is life!” Santos sighed, resting his head against the leather
upholstery of the cab’s interior.
“I would not be so certain about that meeting never happening,” the
younger man responded. “I have a strange feeling about Señor Gordero. There
frank. I am confident that we will, at least, be granted an audience with him.”
“Oh, for youthful optimism!” snorted Santos. “The only audience I
want now is with my bed. Those putas and that champagne were a lethal
combination. I feel like shit!”
Estes looks as terrible as he must have feel, thought Renaldo. He wondered
how a man could go home to his wife and family in such a state, for the residue
of Estes’ carousing was all over his face and clothes. But Estes Santos was a
careful man. He instructed the cabby to let him off at the Newton Academy
sports dormitory, where he could shower and change into the fresh clothes that
he kept there for exactly such an occasion as this. The coach gave his captain an
enthusiastic hug before stepping out of the cab, and made certain that the boy
did not want to be accompanied home.
“If my mother were to lay eyes on you now, she would ban me from
ever playing football again. What’s more, she would do worse to you, Señor
Santos.”
“You are wise beyond your years, my captain. Now, not a word of what
you have seen on this adventure must ever pass your lips, or I will make certain
that it costs you more than just your football career.” The smile on the older
man’s face contradicted his stern tone of voice.
“Adios, coach Santos. Make sure you call The Fat Man!” Renaldo called
after him.
“From this
day forth, I will refer to the gentleman as ‘Señor Astor
Gordero, my most benevolent benefactor,’ at least until he refuses to see us. If
that happens, I have names much worse than ‘Gordo’ to call him. I will talk
to you tomorrow.”
Finally the schoolboy was left alone to collect his thoughts. He sank back
into the corner of the cab’s rear seat, closed his eyes, and replayed the events of
the past twenty-four hours in his overworked mind. No one would believe what
he had seen and done, especially his mother. Heaven help him if she ever found
out that he had been in the least bit of danger. But he was safe nonetheless, and
would arrive home in one piece, on schedule.
22
RENALDO
Throughout the haze of his early morning recollections, the face of Astor
Gordero kept coming to mind.
Fate works in strange ways, he reflected. Or had Gordero really intended for us
to meet all along, just as he had alluded to on the train?
It really didn’t matter now, the fact was that they had met. But an
unanswered question lingered. Renaldo had the distinct impression that Astor
Gordero, should he choose to acknowledge his debt to the two men that had
saved his life, would ask for something substantial in return. The young player
wasn’t at all certain what that something might be, but The Fat Man just
seemed like the type that never gave anything away for free.
“Head and feet as one,” he mumbled, somewhat amused. Had Octavio
Suarez really said that about him? Renaldo looked down at his right hand which
was resting limply on his thigh. He tried several times to braid his fingers the
way the chairman had.
“Head and feet as one.”
“Qué?” the cabby responded.
“Oh, nada. Nothing,” Renaldo shot back.
Finally, out of sheer frustration, he arranged his fingers in the crisscross
pattern with the help of his left hand. Even that took several attempts.
My head and feet might be as one, but my fingers have ten separate minds!
23
Chapter twO
Florencia De Seta could see the yellow and black Fiat cab pull up to the
front gate of Casa San Marco from where she sat at her desk in the
second-floor study.
She had barely slept. The news of the soccer riots in Córdoba had
transformed her mildly fretful demeanor into sheer panic. She tore from the