Scarred Face Read online

  Scarred Face

  Stefano Paolocci

  Translated by Daniela Portelli

  “Scarred Face”

  Written By Stefano Paolocci

  Copyright © 2016 Stefano Paolocci

  All rights reserved

  Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

  www.babelcube.com

  Translated by Daniela Portelli

  “Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Scarred Face

  Scarred Face

  THE END

  Your Review and Word-of-Mouth Recommendations Will Make a Difference

  Are You Looking For Other Great Reads? | Your Books, Your Language

  This book is dedicated to Lucrezia and Angelica.

  For my father because, having given up on the torment of the few last days, he made up his mind to wake me up at one o'clock in the morning for that Italy-Argentina, Bettega's goal, of which I don't remember a thing, apart from the speckles of dust at the end of the game.

  After all, everything in life happens for a reason........

  At the bottom of it all, football is fantasy, comics for adults.

  Osvaldo Soriano

  Scarred Face

  Contents

  Cubillas

  Dirceu

  Rensenbrik

  Rossi

  Krankl

  Kempes

  Historical Facts

  Cubillas

  Now nobody could deny him that reward: it was waiting and the world could fall at his feet, because it was that and only that, what he was asking for.

  He had called out Luz’s name, trying to sound pleasant but firm at the same time.

  It was annoying that all this was for nothing, since he’d quickly discovered the small tiptoeing feet of the little girl, without a moment's hesitation, coming closer, swift and precise as church bells for the evening prayers. He hadn’t even finished calling her when she’d appeared.

  -What's going on? - asked the girl in the purple pyjamas with oversized sleeves and with a robot picture splayed right at the centre, which undoubtedly was, a recycling in her older brother's wardrobe.

  -I've made up my mind: with the fifty pesos I will buy five packets – he announced proudly.

  -No, no stickers of Gazzosa-

  -And what about mum? - continued asking Luz with an angelic smile on her face.

  -I'll take care of mum tomorrow! Now hurry up to bed as it's late and I'm warning you: Try not to ruin my plans! - and having said that, Guglielmo watched the blond head walk swiftly like a policewoman in an American movie, zigzagging in between the cushions on the floor, flattening more than one could possibly flatten, against the walls, until finally, with one hasty look to the left and right, run away, swiftly to her room, less than five steps away.

  Outside, the city was sleeping peacefully, waiting for the event of the century. Even the ocean, which up to a few days ago had been churning and rumbling, sounded now, peacefully calm.

  It seemed like only the moon wouldn’t close any eye to the excitement, the moon and Guglielmo.

  -Have you told her? -

  -Not yet Luz, come on, be quiet, let me work!

  There was only a moment, a specific time in which mothers were more lenient and would give in to their children's demands: whilst the radionovella on the radio was being aired. This, Guglielmo had learnt by heart, just from the moment that he was born. It was now only a question of minutes, in a short while the announcer would interrupt the playing music and would announce in a dreamy voice, the start of "Rosas y amor" (Roses and Love).

  But it was the 1st of June in 1978 and from early morning the headlines being shouted out by the paperboys in town, wouldn’t leave room for anything else other than the commencement of the World Cup. With a huge disappointment to Guglielmo, even the radio programme transmissions had to do some changes to their normal schedule:

  -Ladies and Gentlemen, to leave space for the live coverage, direct from Buenos Aires, for the inauguration ceremony of the World Cup, today, the scheduled episode of "Rosas y amor", will not be aired.

  Luz, having been pissed off at how she had been treated a while ago, had set off to her room and consoled herself with her rag dolls, and so the whole fifty kilos of boiled potatoes have had to be peeled off all by Guglielmo himself.

  Having plucked up a little courage, he started by saying:

  -Mum? The teacher has told me that if I carry on getting the same marks in my homework as I did the other day, I'll finish the school year with excellent grades in my report sheets.

  But his mother wasn’t really listening. She was grumbling and complaining loudly about the World Cup, the ball and of those ‘twenty hot-headed guys in tiny shorts and leather shoes running around the football pitch like a flock of sheep following their shepherd’.

  -They are twenty-two mum- muttered Guglielmo, but when he realized he’d said it out loud, it was too late. The words had fallen on deaf ears.

  -But of course, why not! You will get good grades in your finals! Is this the mathematics that they’re teaching you at school this year: how many players there are in a team, how many teams are participating in the world cup, how long does a football match last?? – replied his mother furiously - Oh go away with this nonsense! Meanwhile, nobody tells me if Javier is getting back with Manuelita! It’s all their fault, these silly football players!

  The situation certainly wasn’t to his advantage, but sometimes one has to take the risk and Gulgielmo made up his mind that now was the right time:

  -You promised me fifty pesos if I’d do well in my school work, and promises are made to be kept –

  -Well, promises....- and having said that, his mum moved away from the kitchen table, opened the second drawer, ransacked amongst the tablecloths and took in hand what could make ends meet, the family’s nest: a canvas bag which contained some spared coins. She fished out two, a tenner, and two of twenty and to Guglielmo’s disbelief, her arm just stretched out in his direction, with palm open and money in hand.

  Luz’s small footsteps, who had been watching the whole scene from behind the door, had confirmed that this was really happening and not some sort of an illusion.

  At this time there was no time to lose: the five packets with the World cup stickers would be waiting for him with open arms in Ernesto’s shop, just across the street, after all this was a fairly short distance for such a dream to come true.

  Alfredo met up with Guglielmo along the path which ran through the woods and ended on the beach, Playa del Sur.

  Of the two one could certainly, without a doubt, say, that the two knew each other very well. In reality Alfredo had moved to the city in the last couple of years, whilst Guglielmo had never lived anywhere else in all his life. But now, they lived in the same area, attended the same school, had the same circle of friends, and if this does not count as ‘knew each other by heart’ then well......

  There was something, so to speak, that set them apart: the fact that they were opponents during the games that they played in the long afternoons on the beach: Guglielmo and Jorge were in one team. With them, Nestor and Carlos had to put the ball in Miguel’s net. On the opposing team, Alfredo, Hugo and Walter’s main task, was, to sneak the ball behind skinny Jorge’s shoulders.

  -Do you always carry it with you? – asked Alfredo motioning enviously at the sticker album which was tucked safely in the armpit of an extremely happy Guglielmo.

  -Always! If I had to leave it at home, my sister Luz would be delighted, drawing and scribbling all over it with her coloured pencils, so better safe than sorry! – he said patting his sticker album. And without pausing f
or breath, rather with more excitement and energy he revealed to his friend excitedly:

  -Guess what! Today with the sticker of Cubillas I have completed Peru’s page.

  The rhythmic sound of the ocean was sounding closer, and even Carlos’s unmistakable cries, who was not on good terms with Nestor and his incredible missed goals, were a certainty, that the football matches weren’t too far away.

  Oh gosh, perhaps it was a bit exaggerated to call it “a match”:

  But only two small molehills of sand were there to show the posts on one side and two more on the other side. Only in someone’s fantasy could they begin to look like the green grass of the turf which was situated a few thousand kilometers to the north, in the stadium of Mar del Plata, that was about to be trampled by amongst others, by its very own, Argentina’s national team.

  But deep down, wasn’t it enviable to look around and not have any higher aims and limits, if not that of the blue and azure, that try to separate, and during some summer days doesn’t even manage, of the sky and the sea?

  -Guglielmo!

  It was Jorge, right on cue, to notice his arrival, perhaps because whereas nature has been scarce (the weight- him being so skinny), on the other hand bountiful (eyesight- very good eyesight).

  The routine was the same every time, Jorge was the first one to notice something, Carlos the quiet one and Nestor the one to run and check if there was a new face freshly stuck to the album.

  A few meters away, lying at the water’s edge, with feet wet by the sea, Alfredo’s friends were having a great time putting misery into a poor crab, who unfortunately happened to end up in their path.

  -Pull out one of its claws – shouted frantically Walter whilst Hugo dangled the creature from its huge claws.

  -Yes, but leave him at least two, so at least it’ll be easy catch for bigger crabs who would devour him in one bite- retaliated Miguel.

  -Set him free! – they heard, which got them halted if only for a second.

  Alfredo’s order sounded urgent, but as a result, what he got back was only a resounding cheer and laughter from all of them, which only made him ashamed big time.

  For Alfredo, there was nothing left to do other than say “come on, let’s start” which saved the poor crab’s life, missing one claw, but at least set free.

  The matches on the beach didn’t have a fixed routine, everything depended on the score, but one thing was certain: draws were something unheard of. As a general rule, from the lane bringing home the eight opponents, at least four had to return back on the street, with arms raised high as a sign of victory. This explained the tenacity with which every time Carlos grumbled with Nestor about his lack of interest for scoring a goal:

  -What do you mean lack of interest- continued Nestor, soaked in sweat, and breathing noisily like a coffee pot’s whistle when the brew is ready.

  -Yes, what do you mean- added a bit more doubtful Carlos.

  The one thing that he certainly would never ever confess up to, was, his stupidity, therefore he mumbled on by saying:

  -Lack of interest means, well, has the significance of, sort of.... You don’t know how to score a goal, that’s all! So pull yourself together, and learn, or else you’ll end up as the goal keeper.

  Nothing is more miserable!

  Being the goal keeper was the worst of the worst, shameful. Something nobody wanted to do.

  At the goal posts, stood the least good player, the one who had to stay as far away as possible, from the goal post of the opposing team, the terrain of the professional forwards, the natural habitat for the strikers and attackers like the sorts of Guglielmo and Alfredo. It was always their task to select the positions, all that was needed was a rough day, and for the respective teams, it would be a certain defeat.

  Guglielmo, placed right at the centre spot, waited impatiently for the start of the game, his precious sticker album, tucked away safely, as it rightly should, in the thick branches of a nearby bush. His shirt sleeves rolled right up to his shoulders.

  At home, in her room, Luz had placed a cushion on her bed and was kneeling at it. She pretended that it was a writing desk and a chair. On it was a small colouring book. Not far away, placed on her mattress embraced in an old shoebox, was a refreshing rainbow of colouring pencils, all waiting for her chubby little hands to start the work.

  She thought about it for a while, then, as sure as can be, had fished out the brightest red. She looked at it, nodded to herself cheerfully and finally made a stripe, an unsteady stripe, on the white t-shirt of one of the national Austrian players. Of course, now, with that touch of colour, the sticker was not only beautiful, but a work of art.

  Oh gosh, actually this particular sticker wasn’t exactly hers. With Guglielmo, she had agreed and made a pact:

  -I will give you the duplicate ones, so you can stick them on your notebook and scribble, make a mess all over them as much as you want with all the colours that you’ve got. But you have to swear, cross your heart, and promise me, that never, and I mean never ever, you’d do the same thing to the other sticker which would be in my album. Say I swear! - he’d insisted with her.

  And Luz, from behind those chocolate brown eyes, had sworn, crossed her heart, and promised, and continued by saying:

  -But I don’t make a mess when I use my colours. My colours don’t spoil or ruin the picture.

  And she was right, because this insignificant sticker of the Austrian player, was finally sprinkled with joy: purple eyes, green goldish hair and that stripe, which had been multiplied to the point that it had become parallel in a stark white shirt, had made the player look like a drawing from that famous painter, who in his drawings had a habit of placing the nose on the forehead and the eyes in the mouth’s place.

  -Perhaps even nicer- said gleefully Luz, whilst closing her special album, feeling proud of her impeccable work.

  -Gooooaal, goooooaaal, gooooooaallll! Cubillas! –

  Guglielmo, like a crazed out lad, started shouting and running diagonally towards Jorge, who from his side, was hopping joyfully on the invisible goalpost line. That header certainly blessed with luck, was worth all the rejoicing for the victory in the day’s match.

  In the meantime, Walter was showering Miguel with insults, who in return was putting the blame on Hugo and all those were directed at Alfredo who in plain sight of a jealousy crisis asked Guglielmo who had newly been transformed into the player Cubillas :

  -Why are you boasting and yelling like that for? After all it’s just a goal.

  Most likely it was just that, only a silly goal, but for Guglielmo, to disguise his childish voice in that way, in a crackly and hoarse voice just like the radio commentators, was utterly fascinating and totally loud, and totally Argentina. Or who knows, perhaps just adding that extra “o” for each and every goal scored, might be the magic key that transports him amongst the thousands of white and azure flags waving in the stands at Mar del Plata, Cordoba or Rosario.

  -....and what has Cubillas got to do with it all? Is he not Peruvian? Are you supporting the opponents now?- added Hugo.

  These questions, no use in hiding, had surprised him quite a bit, because after all, this was all about football and he had always linked football with happiness, so what was the whole point of such anger and jealousy?

  If they were only depressed because of the defeat, the next day would bring them another match and the day after another one and so on, and perhaps it could be their team’s turn at winning, so where precisely was the problem?

  It was futile to give them an answer, it was better to leave his friends to their own obsessions and move on to the bush to retrieve the sticker album from where he had left it earlier.

  With pride he noticed that the only ray of sunlight cutting through the dense branches of the bush was hitting right in the middle of the glossy album cover, and seemed to be lighting up to him. Having retrieved it from the ground, he dusted it from a few grains of sand that had ended up on it, and opened the album to find th
e page of his hero of the day.

  The entire collection with all the faces of the Peruvian players was smiling cheerfully at him, above all, with pearly white teeth, the one of Teofilo Cubillas, who seemingly looked just as though it had winked at him.

  The empty streets had welcomed the return back home, of an unhappy Alfredo and a dreamy Guglielmo.

  As company, the two boys, only had the crackling disconnected voices on radios and televisions here and there, amplified by a chorus of ‘oh’s’ and ‘ah’s’ in admiration. The World Cup was living its first sport match, Germany and Poland were struggling for their first two points in their march towards winning.

  -See you tomorrow morning at school- said Guglielmo happily. But Alfredo only nodded, with downcast eyes, the darkness of his hair reflecting the darkness of his long shadow on the asphalted ground.

  At school, as well as in the streets, there was only one topic that dominated every conversation: the World Cup. Even the teachers, who were usually immersed in reading books with complicated literatures, or busy complaining on catching up lost lessons, were, that day, having fun reproaching this or that player because he didn’t score his ball faster, or not fast enough.

  Guglielmo was by himself at his school desk, busy leafing through the pages of the sticker album. It looked as though he was stroking gently each page. Enormous was the care he was taking leafing through it, one after the other, sheets full of football teams, with some smiling and some in serious faces.

  Two rows back, Alfredo together with the rest of his team, were whispering in hushed voices.

  -He has got to pay for it! – said Walter frowning with a grim expression on his face.

  -It’s true, he’s always pulling our legs, with his ‘goooooaaaaallll’ he gets on my nerves like few other things. What do you say if we got back at him by hitting him properly on his shins – added menacingly Miguel.

  The whole gang was paying close attention to detail, waiting for any occasion that might arise and give them reason to punish Guglielmo and his friends. It didn’t take too long, since all, or rather almost all of them, agreed with Walter: