by Mel Stein
As he recorded his first report back to Ball Park, he couldn’t help but be critical.
‘Whoever arranged this fixture just after the start of our domestic season must need their brains tested. There are moments and places of beauty about this city and this country, but hell far outweighs heaven. It’s hard to walk the street without being offered drugs. The noise is everywhere, blasting out of the bars, from the cars, the houses, the ghetto blasters. I travelled on a bus yesterday for the experience and was subjected to at least six different radio stations all played at full volume from separate parts of the vehicle. Even in the first class hotels you don’t go into the television lounge without ear-plugs. When we were allowed to attend the squad training session yesterday we could see several of the players struggling with their breathing. And this is the so-called dry season. It’s a wonder that the bumbling administrators who decided on this match, more for the media money than the experience, didn’t decide to make the trip in the rainy season. Then we could have arranged a joint tour with our international swimmers and water polo team.’
Two days still to go before the match, two days of acclimatisation for the players, but stretching endlessly ahead of him. Yet he was lucky compared to some. A few of the journos on tight budgets were staying on the fringes of the red-light area of town. The rest of them had already heard a sample of the horror stories. Hookers and drug-addicts thronging the steps of their hotels, walls made of paper-thin plywood sawn through during the day and their rooms stripped bare of all their possessions. Then there were those who thought they were more streetwise than the rest and felt they were safe if they fell into the Colombian way of life. They’d accepted invitations at bars to rumbas, the traditional all-night parties. They rarely ended before dawn and had left them walletless and with a sickening headache from the local beer and the ear-splitting noise that, again, was so much a part of the Colombian way of life.
He felt even luckier now that Patti had arrived. He’d found her, spread out on his bed, fast asleep, when he’d arrived back from the training ground the previous day. He’d allowed her to crash out for as long as she needed even though he’d longed to throw his arms around her, kiss her half-awake and then make love to her until she was fully aroused.
He’d had his reward for his patience. She’d eventually come to, stretched and yawned with that feline gesture that he loved so much, then opened her arms to invite him towards her.
‘If you can stand the smell, Mark, I can live with you having your wicked way with me.’
She’d not really smelled badly. First class travellers were not permitted to arrive looking as if they had been anything else than thoroughly spoiled on their journey. Making love had been like the first time. It seemed so long ago that they had shared their bodies that Mark went on a voyage of discovery, seemingly working by instinct to discover what it was that she really sought from a man’s body, from a man’s touch. His tongue ran its way over her long nipples until they were erect, then worked its way down to the valley of her breasts, down until it found the fine hair-line, until finally it entered the damp, welcoming crevice between her legs.
‘If you can live in a Burrow, then I can live in one too,’ he’d once said in the dawn of their relationship, as he eased himself into her, feeling her nails digging into his back, urging him ever deeper. As they came together in this hot room in Colombia, all the pain, all the harsh words were dispelled from his mind.
‘Whew, I feel awake now. First a shower and then you can show me the town, big boy.’
‘I’m not so sure you really want to see the town, Patti. Quite frankly the sooner I’m out of here, the happier I’ll be. It’s like Sodom, Gomorrah, New York and Piccadilly Circus all rolled into one.’
‘I thought they were all one,’ she replied. ‘Come on Mark, it can’t be that bad.’
‘Were you unconscious on the way in from the airport?’
‘I was pretty tired.’
‘You have to be pretty dead not to notice.’ He paused and took a notional step back to look her up and down.
‘Sorry. Just checking that you are for real. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I’d have got us a better room.’
‘This’ll do just fine. And as for letting you know, it was a spur of the moment thing.’ She sought for the right words, then, mindful of the fact their bodies had been intertwined just a moment before, said, ‘I was missing you.’
‘I’m glad.’ He opened his mouth to continue, but she put her finger to his lips.
‘Leave it at that, darling. I’m not in the mood for serious analysis of what might or might not have gone wrong with our relationship. It’s all right now.’
She kissed him long and slowly, leaving him in no doubt that she meant what she said. Mark watched her walk towards the shower and shook his head in wonderment at the ways of women. It seemed neither possible, nor fair, that they should have the power both to wound and to heal, for them to change the rules of the game without rhyme, reason or warning; but for all that he was pleased to have her here, pleased that once more they would seem to be a couple, ready to take on the world.
She returned to the room, still naked save for a towel wrapped around her head.
‘Toss us my bag, Mark. I’ve lost all track of time, but I’m dying for a morning fag.’
‘It’s not morning,’ Mark replied.
‘It is somewhere,’ Patti countered, and reluctantly Mark handed across the voluminous hold-all that had the dimensions and capacity of the Tardis. She rummaged around and produced a two hundred pack of duty-free Silk Cut.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll smoke on the balcony,’ she said. ‘I can see the look of disapproval. Just don’t start.’
There was a light note to her tone, but Mark knew from experience that could change in a heart-beat and he didn’t push the joke too far.
She leaned over the balustrade which overhung a huge swimming pool and took a deep drag from her cigarette.
‘That’s better. This place doesn’t look too bad to me.’
‘It shouldn’t. We’re paying for the privilege. Or at least Ball Park is. We’re up in the north of the city. From what I understand that’s comparatively fine. There are certain no-go areas. The tugurios are definitely out.’
‘What are they when they’re at home?’
‘Shanty towns,’ he replied, ‘I know you, Patti Delaney, when it comes to local colour, but forget it. If it’s dangerous to walk around there by day, then it’s suicide by night. And don’t assume the city centre’s safe, either.’
‘You seem to have got yourself well prepared.’
‘Matter of survival. One of the Colombian TV guys is an ex-pro who played in Europe for a while, Luis Cano. We had a drink the other night and he filled me in.’
‘A drink?’
‘He had a drink to be precise. I had a Coke. Don’t worry, Patti, you’ve not driven me back to the bottle. Anyway, Luis told me some real horror stories. Fake policeman stopping you in the street, strip-searching you in a corner café, then leaving you without clothes or belongings; taxis taking off with your baggage and leaving you behind; buses hi-jacked in broad daylight, drugs planted on you so that you pay up a bribe to get rid of the charges. The list is endless.’
‘Sounds a cosy sort of town. Where do the elves and pixies live?’
‘Cosy? You need a bit of journalistic licence to make that word fit Bogota. We’ll have to be sure to come back here for the honeymoon.’
He waited for her to see him off with a barbed comment or her usual put-down, but she had either not heard him or chose to ignore it.
‘Tell me a bit more about the drugs. After all, it’s Colombia’s claim to fame.’
‘Probably their main export as well. I’m not sure how much I really know. It’s not the sort of thing you chat about over a cup of coffee. And by the way, that’s the best thing here. Anyway, Luis is coming by the hotel tonight. He seems to know everything about ever
ything. Ask him yourself.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ she said as a throw-away line, but Mark knew her well enough to know she was only feigning lack of interest.
She got dressed quickly, leaving him no option but to take her out, although he was ready for a siesta himself. There was another training session in the relative cool in the evening, he had today’s film in the can and he could not honestly say he’d had any plans for the afternoon.
He made for the door and ushered Patti out first. A door to a room along the corridor opened almost simultaneously and he took in a deep breath as he saw the familiar figure of Jenny Cooper. She saw Patti, recognised her and ignored her in the same second, but flashed a knowing, familiar smile at Mark.
‘Mark Rossetti! Are you avoiding me? We’ve been over forty-eight hours and I don’t think you’ve said more than half a dozen words to me. And after you left Burnham Beeches in such a hurry …’
Patti seized on the reference to the team hotel and shot the Deputy Press Officer a look that would have shattered glass at fifty paces, then turned what was left of it on Mark.
‘Did I interrupt something?’ Jenny asked. Patti took in Jenny’s tight blue jeans and clinging white T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. Jenny gave her a pitying smile.
‘No, you interrupted nothing,’ Patti almost snarled. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy, Mark. I’ll find my own way around town. Don’t worry, I’m a big girl. I can look after myself, and I’ll be sure to avoid all the nasty areas. Doubtless if I’m not back by tomorrow you and your friend can send a search party out for me. That is if you’re not too tied up with other things.’
She danced past Jenny and, without giving him the chance to reply, she was gone; and Mark was left in the corridor with Jenny, key in his hand and time on his hands.
CHAPTER 15
Mark did not know what Patti had done with her time away from the hotel and she gave him no encouragement to ask. However, by the time they met up in the room in the late evening she seemed to have calmed down. He was careful to ensure that he gave Jenny a wide berth, and in a way was flattered that Patti should show such jealousy and animosity towards another woman. It was a long time since he had experienced two women fighting over him. It was interesting, but he had experienced enough things of interest in his life and he wanted it to be over.
Luis Cano had spent enough time outside his native country to have acquired a vaguely European approach to time-keeping and arrived at the hotel shortly after the appointed hour of seven.
‘You see, my friend, the Colombians invented mañana. You know what that means?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Patti said with a smile, knowing that the obvious answer was also the wrong one.
Luis smiled back, a dazzling smile that suggested he kept it only for special ladies. He looked more Italian than South American. Slim, with long dark hair falling in permed rolls, his olive eyes shaded by girlish lashes, he had clearly kept himself in trim since his retirement from the game. His cheeks were covered by a designer stubble that suggested that it took more time and attention than if he had shaved every day and which contrasted sharply with the pearly-white teeth that he flashed regularly in a lazy well-rehearsed smile.
‘He’s the sort of man who could make you pregnant with just a handshake,’ Patti said later. But at their first meeting, to Mark’s growing annoyance, she seemed to hang on every word he had to say. If there were any secret messages passing between them, Mark could not decode them, and given Patti’s reaction to Jenny earlier in the day he thought it best to say nothing. He was certainly not going to disclose Jenny’s clumsy attempts at seduction. That was the sort of incident that either merited a phone call immediately to your loved one or else should remain buried in the mists of time.
Luis focused on the mañana question.
‘No, you are not wrong,’ he said to Patti. ‘But it means some time in the future as well. Maybe tomorrow if you are very lucky; but more probably in a week or so. Sometimes it means not in your life-time, but then life can be very brief.’
They gave their orders for dinner to an over-polite waiter who congratulated them on every choice as if he had cooked the meal himself, even though they followed Luis’s recommendation to try the local specialty of comida corriente.
‘We want our table in fifteen minutes,’ Luis said to the waiter. ‘That way I think we get it in about half an hour. That is OK?’ he continued, now talking to his companions.
‘That’s fine,’ Mark said, getting to his feet. ‘Let me get some drinks. What do you want?’
‘Aguardiente,’ Luis replied. ‘You’ve tried it?’
‘Hardly. I only got in today,’ Patti replied.
‘The cristal is our local spirit. It’s flavoured with anise; but for ladies we have mistela.’
‘Which is?’ Patti asked with suspicion.
‘It’s a home-made liquor. We put fruit and herbs into the aguardiente to make it sweet for the women.’
‘I’ll stick with whatever the men have,’ Patti said grimly. ‘I’ll give your mistela a miss. It sounds like the sort of thing that you get at a vicarage tea-party.’
Luis had clearly never been to a tea-party, let alone one at a vicarage, but he got the message. In a near-perfect imitation of his accent Patti placed the order for the drinks with another hovering waiter. Without even asking, she ordered Mark a Diet Coke. Luis nodded admiringly at her accent.
‘You speak Spanish well.’
‘I learned at school. I’ve not used it for a while. I guess I can get by.’
‘I guess you can get by at most things. Come, there’s a table near the window. We must appreciate the miracle of something happening on time. The boy will bring over the drinks.’
They settled down and clinked glasses.
‘To a good match,’ Luis said. ‘I think you will be surprised by our team. This is not the same bunch of strangers who gave up without a fight back in ’94.’
‘I remember that,’ Patti said, knocking back the drink in one gulp. ‘Didn’t one of your players get shot?’
‘They take their football seriously here. And, as I said, life can sometimes be short. Particularly if you miss a penalty.’
‘Not so much the goalkeeper’s fear of the penalty then, as the man taking it,’ Patti said, but her reference to the German film passed both of her companions by. There were times that she forgot that whatever Mark meant to her he was still an ex-professional footballer. She had tried to drag him screaming into the world of culture, but with only partial success. He still preferred musicals to straight plays, still watched little on television that wasn’t sport and rarely picked up a book when a magazine would do. Still at least she’d got him out of the habit of ordering steak and chips wherever he went.
‘Christ! Waddle, Pearce and Southgate can thank their lucky stars they play for England and not Colombia,’ Mark said. Patti yawned a warning.
‘Look, if you boys are going to talk football all night maybe I should leave you and turn in early. I’m really not that hungry and it’s been a long, long day.’
‘No, no,’ Luis said quickly. ‘We had only just begun about football and we will stop although Mark tells me you are a woman who likes and understands the game. We are being rude and we could not think of spending the evening without you decorating our table.’
‘I do like football. But I prefer it in the stadium to around the dinner table. And if you think I’m no more than a decoration, then think again.’
Luis made a mock bow from the waist down without rising from the chair and gave her his most winning smile.
‘My dear, you are not like our Colombian women. I can see that now. I promise to treat you like a man.’
‘Believe me,’ Mark added, seeing the expression on Patti’s face, ‘you couldn’t get a greater compliment from a Latin American.’
‘Can I have another of those drinks, if somebody can spare the time from this mutual admiration society? Maybe I could get to like this
place.’
She glanced around the room, satisfied herself that there was a smoker at almost every table and lit up. Belatedly she offered one to Luis from the packet and he took it without hesitation, leaning forward to take his light from her cigarette rather than the lighter.
‘I’m no longer a trained athlete, and I don’t have the dedication of your friend Mark. Together we will smoke him out.’
Mark forced an expression to his face that was meant to signify that he took the joke in good part, but instead made him look as if the food before him on the plate was causing him severe gastric pain. In fact he was having difficulty with the meal and he noticed that Patti, too was playing with her portion to make it look as if she had eaten more than was actually the case. The soup that had started them off could have been anything, but the main course was recognisable as some kind of fish, with rice, pasta, red beans and lentils, some fried plantains and a mixed salad.
‘You are not enjoying our local food, I can see,’ Luis said. ‘I must tell you that your native Colombian has this every day, twice a day, only his portions are smaller, sometimes so small as to be invisible.’
‘I think they’re the lucky ones,’ Patti said, pushing her plate aside. ‘No offence, you understand.’
‘None taken,’ Luis replied. ‘So we drink together and we smoke together, and next time we eat together we eat European. And always football is off the menu. So, Patti, it is your choice. What would you like to talk about? Some part of our Colombian culture other than food perhaps?’
‘That’ll do,’ she said, lighting another cigarette to add to the four already stubbed out in the ashtray. ‘How about drugs? They’re a great part of your culture, aren’t they?’
Luis smiled again, only this time it was as forced as Mark’s effort a few moments earlier, and there was no laughter in his voice as he answered.
