by Mel Stein
His friend shook his head miserably. Once Branco got on to his favourite subject of Colombian history then he knew he would be there for a while.
‘Sepulveda was a wealthy Spaniard who, in the sixteenth century, actually obtained a permit from his Catholic Majesty to drain the lake. So he comes here, a civilised man, and raises a huge local labour force and cuts into one side of the volcanic crater that forms the lake, in an attempt to drain off the water. Now the locals are terrified. We now know that the crater which became the lake was formed by a huge meteor falling to earth some two thousand years ago. But the Indians believe that a golden god came down to earth, made this hole, filled it with water and then lived forever more at the bottom of the lake. So, as you can imagine, they are none too happy about this god being disturbed by some gold-crazy foreigner.’
‘And what happened?’ the guest asked, pretending to show some interest, sensing that this was required of him and knowing what Branco did to those who failed to meet his requirements.
‘Nothing happened that the Indians did not believe would happen. At the bottom of the lake, amidst the mud, Antonio de Sepulveda, found his own destiny. The result of all his efforts was two hundred and thirty two pesos and ten grammes of fine gold. Sepulveda returned to Spain a broken man and died bankrupt. When the Indians heard of this much later they thanked the god for answering their prayers and cursing the man who had caused them so much death and destruction.’
He swirled the wine in his crystal glass and looked straight ahead at the perfect circle of the lake as if seeking some ancient truth.
‘There have been many attempts since then to find El Dorado. The English, the North Americans, even our own compatriots, but to no avail.’ He turned his gaze full on the man beside him, who physically shrank away from those piercing eyes.
‘But I have discovered my own El Dorado and there is no way and nobody who will take it away from me. You understand?’
The man nodded dumbly. He understood.
‘And our man, he understands?’
‘I think so.’
‘Thinking is not good enough. There are times when I feel he believes I work for him, rather than he is working for me.’
The other man shrugged in the dark. There was silence except for the cicadas amongst the greenery mingling with the low buzz of mosquitoes hovering above the water.
‘And our friends across the ocean?’
‘They say they have things under control.’
‘Good. I have more faith in them than our local lad.’
Branco emptied his glass and rose to go inside without any ceremony. The other man followed him obediently, his briefcase under his arm.
‘Well,’ Branco said, ‘I suppose you must be going. I am grateful to you for the visit and the information. Be careful on the roads. They are full of dangers. This country has too many criminals.’
And, as the man descended the marble steps leading to his car, he thought he could hear the sound of Branco’s laughter following him all the way.
CHAPTER 36
Mark sat with Luis on the first floor of the magnificent building of the Fundacion Gilberto Alzate Avendano at Calle Ten which housed not only the Restaurante Los Ultimos Virreyes but also an art gallery which contained an impressive exhibition of modern works. They looked down on the beautiful patio below, the menus in their hands, awaiting the arrival of Juanito Ferrera. Luis was on to his second Scotch, whilst Mark nursed a Diet Coke without enthusiasm. There had been too much ice to start and now he had little doubt that he was doing exactly what he’d been warned not to do, namely drinking the local water.
‘I think all you need is to agree terms with Juanito. I know for a fact that his club is in desperate need of money. The player is worth five million dollars, but if you pay in cash, all in one instalment, then I am confident you can get away with just a million.’
Mark laughed.
‘Just a million. This is Hertsmere I’m here for, not Juventus or Liverpool. They may have won a European title, they may be hopeful of the Premiership this season, but it’s still all done on a shoe-string budget. I hope Ferrera doesn’t have too many high hopes of becoming a millionaire overnight.’
It was Luis’s turn to smile.
‘I think Ferrera is a millionaire already. His high hopes are of proving he can be a superstar outside his own country. I truly believe this is about ambition, a new challenge, rather than money.’
Ferrera had arrived unseen and, standing behind Luis, he had overheard the last part of his speech.
‘I trust you do not expect me to play for nothing. But, apart from that, I am sure that all Luis is telling you is right.’
His English was heavily accented, with a slight American drawl over some of the words. Others were almost unintelligible, as if he had forgotten the translation and was slurring in the hope that nobody would notice. He looked bigger off the pitch than on it. His muscular frame swelled out his open-necked shirt, whilst his broad thighs threatened to split the tight trousers he’d affected for formal evening wear. He seemed as genial now as his posture had been aggressive throughout the match. He pulled up a chair to join them, the piece of furniture looking toy-like in his hand.
‘I’m pleased I’m not playing football any more. I don’t think I’d stand a chance if I got in your way.’
‘Señor Rossetti, you are too modest about your talents. Everybody I have spoken to about English soccer tells me what a fine player you were.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere. The only thing it won’t do is get you more money. Shall we eat first or do you want to get the business out of the way?’
Ferrera fumbled in his pocket and produced a neatly folded sheet of paper.
‘I come all ready. This is what I think is fair for me at a club like yours. I have spoken with my club. You pay them two million dollars, they sell me.’
‘Luis here thinks they will take half of that,’ Mark said.
The smile never left the player’s face but there was just a blink of the eyelids that covered any irritation he might have felt for the broadcaster’s interference in his negotiations.
‘Well, we shall see. Now, what about my terms?’
Mark unfolded the paper apprehensively and quickly read it through. Sinclair had given him a budget with a stern warning it was not to be exceeded under any circumstances.
‘I don’t want you coming back and telling me what a great player Ferrera is as an excuse for blowing our wage structure to smithereens. And in case you think you’ve got any room to manoeuvre, let me tell you straight away that I’ve already built that in,’ the Hertsmere chairman had said as his parting shot.
Ferrera turned his attention to the menu as Mark digested what was before him.
‘A good choice of restaurant, Luis,’ the player said, ‘very European. It will prepare me for England.’
‘Nothing can prepare you for English food, Juanito,’ Luis replied. ‘Steak and kidney pie, roly-poly pudding, porridge. You will come back looking like a ship.’
‘A barge,’ Mark interrupted. ‘I don’t suppose either of you have a calculator?’
To his surprise, it was the footballer who produced one out of the men’s Gucci bag he had placed by the side of his chair. It was tiny but sophisticated and Mark began to realise that the man with whom he was dealing was a very different sort of footballer to those he had become accustomed to at Hertsmere.
He turned on the machine and began to press buttons with a single-minded purpose. He could already see that what the Colombian was asking was not unreasonable but that was no reason to make it easy for him.
‘I’m afraid we don’t pay wages net in England,’ Mark said eventually.
‘You mean I must pay tax?’ There was a note of surprise in Ferrera’s voice.
‘I’m afraid so. We all do.’
Ferrera shook his head in disbelief.
‘How much is the tax?’
Mark told him and the player whistled.
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‘No wonder this is such a poor country and you have The Beatles and Mrs Thatcher.’
Mark couldn’t tell just how serious Ferrera was, but he answered anyway.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have either any more. Anyway, the bottom line is that we could agree your wages and signing-on fee, but you’ll have to pay the tax on them.’
‘Maybe,’ Ferrera persisted. ‘I have always found that if you want something badly enough you can find a way to get it.’
‘Well, Juanito – and you must call me Mark – I must tell you that the Inland Revenue in my country will want your tax rather badly and I assure you that they have a way to get it. You see Hertsmere will take it off your wages and pay it over to them.’
‘This is robbery, I think. So maybe Hertsmere pay some of my money abroad. Maybe to a company?’
‘Maybe they would have done that a few years ago, but not now. Now everything is very tight. If they did that they would risk being expelled from the league.’
‘Perhaps I am worth the risk,’ Ferrera said, with a smile. He took back the piece of paper and removed a gold pen from his bag. He sat for a few moments thinking, then crossed out a couple of numbers and handed the sheet back to Mark.
‘There, I have made changes. On those monies, if I have to pay tax, then I am happy to make your English taxman happy. It’s OK?’
Mark borrowed the calculator again. It was as if Ferrera had read Sinclair’s mind. The figures over a four-year period tallied almost exactly with the maximum figure Sinclair had told Mark he could spend. Assuming the Hertsmere chairman had expected him to exceed his limits, then bringing the deal home dead on budget had to be some sort of result.
He extended his hand to the Colombian who gripped it tightly.
‘Juanito, welcome to Hertsmere. We’ve got a deal subject to my sorting things out with your club. Now who do I speak to in order to do that?’
Ferrera smiled and produced a mobile phone.
‘He is awaiting our call.’ He dialled the number, waited for the first ring and then handed the phone across to Mark.
‘Who am I speaking to? What’s his name?’ he asked, but the phone had already been answered.
‘Hello, this is Mark Rossetti here. Do you speak English?’
‘Certainly,’ said the man at the other end.
‘Good. I represent Hertsmere Football Club in England.’
‘And I, as you gather, represent Chingaza. You are, I believe, interested in acquiring our player Ferrera.’
‘We are. I hope you don’t mind, but I have him here right now.’
‘And if I do mind, I think it makes no difference. The player wishes to play in England. We cannot keep an unhappy player.’
‘We don’t have unlimited funds. I’m authorised to offer half a million pounds sterling.’
The Chingaza chairman laughed down the phone.
‘Señor Rossetti, please do not insult my intelligence. If you were to return to football then your value might be that. We may be a poor country in economic terms, but we are rich in football talent. The price is two million US dollars and if you sell him for more than that then we divide the profit equally.’
‘We couldn’t afford that. I’m sorry, Señor …?’ Mark realised that he had not been told to whom he was talking, unless it had been one of the words glossed over by Ferrera. But the man did not respond and Mark was left to deal with the embarrassing silence.
‘I can increase the offer slightly without speaking to the chairman back in England, but only slightly.’
‘Tell me what this slightly means,’ Mark was asked.
‘Well, we could go to another hundred thousand, which would take us to a million dollars.’
‘Then I fear that slightly is not enough. I’m sorry you’ve had all the trouble. Perhaps it would have been wiser to deal with this in the normal way between clubs and speak to us first. I am afraid that in the circumstances if the transaction does not proceed then I shall have to make an official complaint to FIFA and indeed your own FA about what I think is called an illegal approach. Nor, indeed, are you a licensed FIFA agent, I believe.’
Mark did not like the course the conversation was taking and cursed Sinclair for landing him in this situation. He’d assumed that he’d spoken to the club, but he’d obviously assumed wrong.
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘No, my friend, it’s called negotiating. Now I am a reasonable man, so this is what we will agree. You will pay a million dollars now. When Juanito has played twenty games or scored ten goals, which he will, then you pay another half a million. That I think is fair play as you English say. Do we have a deal?’
Mark looked down the mouthpiece of the mobile for inspiration, wondering if this was all a bluff, decided it wasn’t and also decided this was an agreement he could sell to Sinclair. The season wasn’t that old and already they’d proved themselves short of firepower up front.
‘Very well, it’s a deal.’
He could hear the other man chuckle down the phone before he said, ‘I will have all the papers drawn up in readiness.’
‘It has to be subject to a work permit, but there shouldn’t be too much of a problem there as he’s an established international.’
‘You must do what you must do. Juanito knows where to find me.’
‘Is it all settled?’ the player asked anxiously.
‘It would seem so,’ Mark replied. ‘He’s a pretty good negotiator, your chairman or president.’
Ferrera smiled and nodded and, as they ordered their meal, Mark realised he was still none the wiser as to whom he’d been dealing with and Ferrera seemed to have no intention of telling him.
CHAPTER 37
Salazar seemed preoccupied when Mark met with him the following morning. There was the usual Kafkaesque crowd outside his offices, everyone waiting hopefully for an audience with the great man, and Mark pushed his way past, ignoring what he thought were desperate requests to pass on messages to the lawyer.
He was ushered in to Salazar’s office shortly after ten, but where before the lawyer seemed to have all the time in the world for Patti’s case, now he appeared almost dismissive.
‘I am happy to see you, but I have no news for you.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Aren’t there preliminary steps we should be taking before the actual trial, if indeed we can’t avoid a hearing?’
‘Señor Rossetti, forgive me. I thought I had won the case when I obtained bail for your friend and permission to leave the country. I don’t think you quite understand what a triumph that was.’
The lawyer was already sifting through a pile of papers from a file that bore another client’s name, as if Patti Delaney and her problems were behind him and he had to move forward to bigger and more pressing matters.
‘You’re right, Mr Salazar, I don’t understand. In my country we start applauding when the client walks free. Bail is the beginning, not the end.’
‘Señor Rossetti, Mark. Let me say it simply. I think bail is the end because nobody expects to see your young lady back in this country. If she fails to show for her hearing then the bail is forfeit, there will be no sentence, no international arrest warrant and pride will be satisfied. That is why I have done no work on the case. Even if I believe Señorita Delaney’s story that the drugs were planted on her, what sort of evidence do you expect me to produce? A spirit who lived inside her bag and who can testify as to what was in there or not? Perhaps the spirit had a video camera to record whoever it was that placed the offending articles in there. Take my advice and go home, count the cost of the little adventure and put it down to experience. Now you must excuse me, I have an appeal to be heard today and if I fail my client will be executed by the end of the week. I’m sure you’ll realise that this is more important than a matter that hurts you in your purse.’
Before he could argue, the door was opened, and Mark was ushered into the reception area and thence into the sunshine. The queue seemed to
have doubled in length in the few minutes he’d had with Salazar and all eyes turned to him as a man who had been granted an audience, the eyes filled with hope.
‘Go home,’ he found himself shouting at them, ‘go home. He can’t help you. You’re in a country where no one can help you if you don’t help yourselves.’
They looked at him uncomprehending, wondering if he were a madman who had been turned loose on the streets. He realised it was useless. None of them spoke English and, even if they had, he was asking them to abandon their faith in a false Messiah. He looked at his watch. It was just after ten thirty. The only plane he could catch was not until seven in the evening. The whole day stretched before him. He’d spoken to Sinclair when he’d got back to the hotel, taking some pleasure in getting him out of bed in the middle of the night. He’d been grateful for everything except the disturbance of his sleep and had told Mark that Helen Davies would take over to conclude the paperwork with both the club and the player.
‘Have a few days’ break on the club. Isn’t there a seaside where you can get a deckchair, knot a handkerchief around your head and pretend to be an Englishman on vacation?’
‘You’ve never been to Colombia have you, David? I reckon the deckchair would last about sixty seconds on the sand before somebody nicked it and then they’d come back and mug you for the knotted handkerchief.’
‘Sounds idyllic. Well, back to sleep now and we’ll see you soon.’
Mark went into a sidewalk café and ordered a coffee. He realised that he was the only foreigner in the place, but when it became apparent that he was not there for the company he was left to his own thoughts. He turned over in his mind the tenuous connections he’d made between all the events that had surrounded those around him. He had to be missing something, or was he the link himself? If that was the case then, for the life of him, he couldn’t think why. Now there was a new dimension to the mystery. Why had Salazar been so offhand?
He had arranged to meet Luis for lunch and he wondered if he could provide the answer. He wondered if anybody could provide the answer or if this was how it had to end, with Barry banned from the game for the best years of his life, Patti convicted of a crime she did not commit, Jenny’s murderer roaming free, and Nathan Carr with the ESL rights? All the good guys and gals losing.
