The Argentina Rhodochrosite (3 page)

4

Ainsley blanched at the news. She’d
never really been interested in the upper reaches of society. The tabloid headlines at the grocery store checkout lines, the glossy gossips on the entertainment channels—all of it made her feel dirty somehow. In her opinion, the upper crust was nothing but a bunch of crumbs held together by dough.

But she wasn’t going to lose this opportunity. “Tell me more,” she said.

“Are you a soccer fan?” asked Nadia.

“Not really,” Ainsley replied.

“Good. It’s easier that way.” As Nadia began to talk, Ainsley watched her fingers absently use a ballpoint pen to draw perpendicular shapes on a pad of paper.

“Ovidio is thirty-five years old,” she said. “When he was younger, he played for a team called the Argentinos, until Europe discovered him. So he went to England for six years, where his team won the Premier League twice. Then his big mouth destroyed his success. He badmouthed the owner of his team. In public.”

Ainsley nodded.

“He got fired. His management dumped him. So he hired us. Nobody here wanted to work with him. He was known to be absolutely impossible.”

“Is he?”

“Of course. But I was the new girl around here”—she twirled her pen in the air—“so I couldn’t say no. Since then, I have worked night and day to resuscitate his career. In conjunction with several agencies around the world, I landed him three one-year contracts.”

“And now he has come back home,” said Ainsley.

The manager nodded. “It’s the twilight of his career.”

Ainsley glanced at the photo again. “The people seem to love him.”

“He is an Argentine icon. But right now that is all up in the air.”

“Why?”

“He won’t play.” Nadia thumped the pen against the table as though it were a small club. For a moment she looked angry and distant.

“Why?” said Ainsley again.

“I can’t tell you that until you agree to take this job.”

“I’ll take it,” said Ainsley. “I have nowhere else to go.” That was the truth. There was no point to pretend otherwise.

“You cannot speak to anybody about this,” said the manager. “It is confidential.”

“I understand.”

“Swear upon it.”

Ainsley held up her hand. “I swear.”

Nadia lowered her voice. “Someone stole his necklace.”

Ainsley struggled to digest this news. She’d had jewelry stolen over the years, but she’d never let it wreck her life.

“What type of necklace was it?” said Ainsley.

“A rhodochrosite. Do you know it?”

If there was anything Ainsley Walker knew, it was gemstones. And she knew that rhodochrosite was a pinkish stone, barely semiprecious, found almost exclusively in Argentina. It was formed by water that had dripped from manganese stalactites and subsequently bonded with carbonite. Back home, she owned a simple pair of rhodochrosite earrings; the pair had cost her less than ten bucks. She’d honestly never thought much about the stone.

“But rhodochrosite isn’t valuable,” Ainsley said. “Why is he so upset?”

“This necklace used to belong to his mother.”

Nadia looked at her coolly, as though that fact were enough to understand everything.

“Maybe he could ask her for another one,” said Ainsley.

“His mother is dead.”

“Oh.”

Nadia became very serious. “He never knew her. She was a victim of the dirty war.”

The mood of the conversation changed. A heavy feeling flooded into the room like dark sludgewater. Even the usual small sounds of an office seemed to have died outside the door.

Ainsley cradled her head in both hands. She felt ignorant. “Nadia, please pretend that you are talking to someone who has been asleep for a century, and explain to me just what the dirty war was.”

Trying to contain her irritation, Nadia began to explain. “Argentina experienced a very unpleasant period in the nineteen seventies and eighties. We were taken over by a military junta. The government squads kidnapped people out of their homes, or from the streets, and tortured them in detention centers. College students, union leaders, and subversives. A few were spared, but most were killed, about thirty thousand.”

Ainsley chewed on her lip. Judging from Nadia’s tone and manner, this wasn’t something you casually discussed over a game of cards.

“So he was born—”

Nadia nodded. “In the torture facility. His mother had been kidnapped when she was already pregnant.”

“How terrible,” Ainsley said.

“You have no idea. There are many like him today, grown up now. The children of the disappeared.”

“How did he get out?”

“Ovidio says an angel brought him out. The truth is that nobody knows.”

“Can’t you ask his foster parents?”

“His foster parents died when he was an adolescent. They refused to tell him anything, even at the end, except that his birth mother had wanted him to have her rhodochrosite necklace. She had been wearing it on the day she was kidnapped.”

Ainsley sat back. She was honestly moved. This put her own problems in humbling perspective. Her husband, the Legal Weasel, had walked out on her, and she had been manically hopping from job to job, but at least she’d gotten a good start in life. What had happened to Ovidio should’ve taken the wind out of his sails.

He was a strong person.

“That piece must mean a lot to him,” said Ainsley.

“Ovidio wears that necklace every time he steps on the field. He says it gives him strength, knowing that his mother is somehow near to him. He won’t play without it.”

She had been tracing and retracing a dark box on the scratch pad. Finally the tip of the pen ripped through the page. Nadia balled up the paper and threw it into the trash can.

Ainsley felt her eyes getting moist. She knew what it was like to lose a parent, but she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have never known one.

She looked at Ovidio’s photo again. “Can’t you just say that he’s been injured?”

“We tried that. The paparrazi bastards with their long-range cameras found a way to photograph him in practice, exercising and playing as usual. So now there are rumors. The fans are upset and they want answers. He’s even received death threats.”

“But you can’t reveal the truth.”

“Never. The moment we announce that his necklace has been stolen, there will be ten thousand people holding up replicas, claiming a reward. Even worse, his reputation will never recover. He will appear to be a massive primadonna.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Of course,” Nadia shot back. “He is a like a thousand needles in my ass. But the people don’t know that.”

Ainsley felt a bit intimidated. None of this sounded remotely like steak and tango. “How can I help you?” she said. “I don’t know your country.”

“You,” said Nadia, “are going to be a journalist.”

“I am?”

“Yes. A journalist from the States. You’ve come to investigate Ovidio for a profile on modern soccer. Don’t worry, we have a different journalist every month. It’s an easy cover story.”

“Okay.”

“But only three people will know the truth. You, me, and Ovidio. Here is your contract.” The manager slid a sheaf of papers across the table. “Sign them and you’ll get the first half of the fee.”

Ainsley picked up the contract. It was in Spanish. Her language skills were intermediate and improving quickly, but she couldn’t have interpreted this document even in English. She wished that David, her lawyer back in the States, could somehow be here to back her up.

“We agreed on twenty thousand dollars,” said Ainsley.

“Yes, you’ll get ten thousand when you sign the forms,” replied Nadia. Her voice took on a reassuring tone. “Have no fear about money. Ovidio takes care of everyone.”

“I need a few hours on this,” Ainsley said.

“Of course. In the meantime, you and I can go to the hotel and figure out your first move.”

“You didn’t have to book me a room,” said Ainsley.

Nadia looked confused. “I didn’t.”

“Then why are we going to a hotel?”

The manager smiled. “Because you need to meet Ovidio.”

5

As they were whisked by private
car through the maddening traffic, Nadia spent most of the ride on her mobile phone, yapping in such high-speed Spanish that it made Ainsley’s head hurt.

She began to think about her own history with soccer.

Ainsley had played the sport for a single season when she was eleven years old. It’d been a local youth league. True to her personality, she’d tried every position but been satisfied with none.

First she’d been assigned as a striker, but she hadn’t displayed that killer instinct, that need to floss her teeth with the opponent’s net. So she’d been relegated to the midfield, but the fact that she could neither turn on a dime nor run constantly for ninety minutes—both of which are job requirements for that position—had pushed her back to defense. Then her sudden growth spurt had occurred, sending her shooting up to nearly two meters in height, and quickly she’d found herself saddled with the heavy jersey and gigantic gloves of the goalkeeper. She’d allowed an average of five goals per game to pass between her gangly legs. After the final whistle of the final match blew, she’d stripped off the jersey and bid sayonara to the world’s most popular sport.

Now, almost two decades later, she was going to work for one of the world’s most illustrious players.

Nadia ended her calls and stowed away her phone. “You seem sad.”

“I feel like everybody has a purpose,” said Ainsley. “Everybody but me.”

“You have the most important purpose of all,” said Nadia. She gestured to the people on the street. “In Argentina, football is a religion, not a sport. We see the suicide rates climb after the national team loses. For a lot of
porteños
, Ovidio’s performance is their reason for living.”

“Are you telling me that the emotional health of Argentina is depending upon me?”

Nadia paused. “You said that, not me.”

The smell of diesel disappeared as the Mercedes entered a wealthy
barrio
. Immaculate landscaping and elaborate trim dominated the properties here. Ainsley rolled her window down and sniffed. There was cleaner air here, the lush scent of jasmine.

An unusual sight on her right seized her attention. There were hundreds of tiny stately roofs peeking over a long white wall.

“The Recoleta cemetery,” said Nadia. “If you weren’t going to be so busy, I’d tell you to go visit like all the other tourists.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Our pride and joy. Over there is La Biela, a famous cafe. Down that street is—” The manager stopped herself. “Enough. I am proud to call Buenos Aires my home. But we need to stay focused.”

Three blocks later, the car pulled into a circular driveway and stopped beneath the opulent portico of a hotel. “This is the Alvear Palace Hotel,” Nadia said. “Ovidio is living here for the moment.”

“Why?”

“Because the
barra brava
have threatened his life. I’ll explain more later. Right now, you need to know two things. One, don’t say his name in public. If you need to refer to him, say ‘my brother’ instead. We all do it.”

“Who is we?”

“His entourage. That’s number two. I want you to investigate his friends about the theft. And he has
many
male friends. By pretending to be a journalist, you have a license to follow them around, ask them questions.”

“So Ovidio suspects them too?”

Nadia nodded. “Of course.”

“That’s really sad.”

“That’s celebrity.” The woman wrinkled her nose as though she’d smelled something rotten. “Just be careful around them. They’re animals.”

The women exited the car together. The sky had turned grayer, the wind more biting, and Ainsley pulled her coat more tightly around her body as she strode through the formally-opened doors.

The Alvear Palace Hotel embodied the phrase red-carpet treatment. The lobby featured the plush stuff from wall to wall. There was even more down the hallways that radiated off in several directions. It felt almost like Versailles.

Ainsley followed Nadia down one of the hallways. It was lined with small pricey boutiques, mostly high-end French and Italian brands. She passed displays of creams, sprays, perfumes, furs, gowns, shoes, and all the other Eurocentric accoutrements that the well-heeled visitor could demand.

Nadia was on her phone again, yapping in high-velocity Spanish. This time, Ainsley picked out the words
el sector fitness
.

Two more corners, left, then right, and they ran into a pair of large men, dressed in black suits, standing with arms crossed. Their eyes were cold and professional. There wasn’t a speck of bullshit on or near them.

“
Pasaporte
,” one said.

Nadia turned. “He needs to see your passport.”

Ainsley obeyed and handed the small booklet over.

The security guard recorded her name and passport number into a leather case, then handed it back. Then he held open the door with a meaty arm.

They passed between the men into a second hallway. “Do those men work for the hotel?” Ainsley asked.

“No, they are Ovidio’s private security.”

“So you know them?”

Nadia looked at her oddly. “I
hired
them.”

Ainsley followed, feeling chastened, still trying to wrap her head around exactly how huge a soccer player could become in South America.

They encountered a identical pair of guards stationed outside another door. This time, Nadia greeted them with a turned cheek. Both kissed her. Ainsley did the same, and felt their scruff abrade her face. She guessed that these were Ovidio’s personal guards, body men assigned to his immediate space.

“This is Ainsley Walker, a journalist from the United States,” she said. “No restrictions.”

The men nodded impassively, but their eyes betrayed new respect. Ainsley was to be given the VIP treatment. She guessed that journalists weren’t customarily given full access to soccer superstars, maybe a half-hour of supervised visits at most.

She followed Nadia between the men and through another door.

Finally Ainsley found herself standing in the hotel exercise room. At one end, a rack of dumbbells stood against a mirrored wall. In the middle, an assortment of white Nautilus equipment awaited silently, gleaming and sterile.

At the far end of the room, overlooking the gardens, was a row of elliptical trainers and other cardio equipment.

On a treadmill, in silhoutte before the window, someone was running furiously. Ainsley knew treadmills, had used them a lot. From the speed of his legs, she guessed that he’d set the machine at nine miles per hour.

The runner waved his hand; he’d spotted them. He punched a button on the face of the treadmill. It slowed down to about three miles an hour, a nice walking pace. A minute later, he punched the button again, and the machine stopped.

He stepped off and wiped his face with a towel before coming over to greet his visitor.

As he drew nearer, the lights finally illuminated his face.

It was Ovidio Angeletti.