The Argentina Rhodochrosite (4 page)

6

The superstar came directly in for
the cheek-kiss. Ainsley anticipated this and offered it first. His masculine scent overwhelmed her. His pheremones were a hundred times more powerful than those of any other man she’d ever met.

“Nadia said you are from the United States,” Ovidio said, pulling back, “but you greet like an Argentine.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“How long have you been in my country?”

Ainsley noticed the first-person possessive. Not
our
country or
this
country, but
my
country.

“About two hours.”

Ovidio cocked his head. He looked at Nadia. “And you hired her?”

Nadia nodded. “She came very highly recommended. You should hear what she accomplished in Uruguay.”

“Uruguay.” The superstar repeated the word to himself. Then he smiled and shook his head as though the country caused him some faint amusement. “We destroyed them last year in the Copa America.”

“And you scored the game-winning goal in penalty kicks,” addded Nadia. “Would you like to show her the video? So she can appreciate your talent?”

“No,” he said, “she can watch for herself. But how is she supposed to help if she is a stranger here?”

Ainsley looked at Nadia for the answer. It was a legitimate complaint. “Her ignorance of our customs is beneficial,” explained the manager. “She doesn’t know what not to do, or where not to go. She has no boundaries.”

But Ovidio had already lost attention, was barely listening. “Good, good, excellent. I need to shower. Follow me.” He tossed the towel over his shoulder and swept past the women, enveloping Ainsley in the scent of his
machismo
.

She and Nadia obediently followed him out of the exercise room. The two security guards immediately snapped into action, accompanying Ovidio on both sides.

As they moved, Ainsley watched the athlete closely. Even just strolling down the hallway, he displayed a weird stride, mincing short steps, occasionally changing his pace, even checking backwards over his shoulder. Basically, this man had the energy of a five-year-old. She could sense that he would be an absolute terror on the playing field.

They entered a private elevator. One guard turned his key in a slot, and the doors slid shut. Ainsley guessed that this was the route to the penthouse.

Meanwhile, Nadia clasped her folder to her chest and looked at Ovidio. Ainsley sensed that she was gauging her client’s mood, calculating the best way to communicate with him.

“I am getting restless,” he said. He whipped his neck back and forth, bouncing on his toes. “I need to… do
something
.”

“You could play football,” said Nadia. “They pay you to do that.”

Ainsley got the sense that these two had been over this issue many, many times. She also got the sense that discretion would be the best option here.

“No,” Ovidio said, clutching his head, “no no no, I can’t play. I can’t play without my mother.”

He was squatting on the floor of the elevator now, drumming his hands on the carpet. Ainsley scratched behind her ear. Had he just called the rhodochrosite necklace my mother? That would’ve alarmed any number of psychotherapists. Ainsley guessed that he needed some serious couch time.

The doors slid open, revealing a swank hotel suite. Ovidio sprang inside, and Ainsley followed. She scanned the room. More red carpeting, heavy swag over the French doors, gilded tables, marble fauns. It didn’t feel the least bit masculine, but it wasn’t Ovidio’s home.

Then Ainsley heard a short squeal from the other side of the room. A petite blonde was running towards the bedroom. She was completely naked.

The soccer star was peeved. “It’s one o’clock,” Ovidio said. “You were supposed to leave at twelve-thirty.”

“I needed to do my makeup,” came the reply from behind the bedroom door.

“You are making me very unhappy, Rosa,” said Ovidio. “And you are inconveniencing my guests. They had to see your ugly little butt.”

“It’s
Ana
,” her voice shouted, “my name is
Ana
.”

Nadia dropped her purse on the table as though she owned the place. “What happened to your plan?”

“What plan?” said Ovidio.

“The namecard plan.”

“I don’t remember.”

She sighed. “At night you were going to tell the butler the name of the girl, he was going to write it down on a card, and then he was going to slip the card under your coffee cup the next morning. So you don’t embarrass yourself.”

Ovidio shrugged. “That only works if I find out their names.” He banged with his fist on the door of the bedroom. “Rosa, there are people out here who want to talk
business
. It’s time for little party girls to leave.”

The muffled response: “It’s
Ana
, and I’m
going
.”

The blonde streaked out of the bedroom, dressed in morning-after clubwear: boots unzipped, her shirt sliding off the shoulder. She was headed straight towards Ovidio.

She was hysterical. “I need to know, this can’t be the end, when can we—”

Ovidio had played this role countless times. He gestured to his security guard, who gently disengaged the girl from the athlete and steered her towards the elevator. “I left my phone number on the bed!” the girl shouted. “You call me when—”

Ovidio cut her off. “Thank you,” he said, waving goodbye, “thank you very much, for your generous support of Argentinian football.” He still hadn’t looked at her. Then the elevator door closed tightly, and the girl was gone.

The athlete disappeared into the bedroom, and Ainsley heard the shower turn on.

She felt a tight ball of disgust forming in her stomach. Despite his position as her new boss, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, whether or not, hypothetically, he might’ve given her a chance in the sack. After all, his charisma was undeniable.

But that was before this little display. She didn’t date narcissistic peacocks.

Ainsley stood near the window, looking onto the street. “How many women does he go through?”

Nadia looked annoyed. “How many stars are in the sky? Why do you care? Just don’t be one of them.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Neither was that girl, probably. Celebrity has a strange power.”

Ainsley chewed on her lip, thinking, staring out the window at the bushy tops of the green trees, waving in the gray spring afternoon.

The elevator opened again. An elegantly-dressed butler wheeled a metal cart into the room, an old-fashioned number with a shiny silver dome.

“You can leave it there,” said Nadia, pointing near the door. “Did you see Horacio in the lobby?”

The butler shook his head.

Nadia glanced at her watch. “That
flaco
is always late.”

“Who is Horacio?”

Nadia glanced up. “Horacio is the official taster.”

7

Ainsley cocked her head. She wasn’t
sure if she’d heard that right.

“Taster?”

“Yes.”

Absorbed in her phone, Nadia was acting like this was the most natural occupation in the world. Doctor, lawyer, fireman, teacher,… and taster.

“Is he that picky about his food?”

“Not about flavor. Just about poison.” Nadia put away her phone. “Ovidio thinks he’s going to be poisoned.”

“Really.” Ainsley felt a smile curling the corner of her mouth.

Nadia saw her skepticism and explained further. “You don’t understand yet how angry the people are at him. There are many who are losing money every day, legally and illegally, because of his refusal to play. Ovidio talks a lot about what happened to Escobar after the World Cup.”

Ainsley remembered the story. In the nineties, during a World Cup match against the United States, a Columbian defender had scored on his own team, which subsequently caused their elimination. Three weeks later, in Medellín, he had been shot twelve times by assassins, who were rumored to have been hired by a drug lord who lost a lot of money on the match. They had shouted the word
goal
with each blast.

The elevator doors opened again. A thin man with a brush cut sashayed into the room, wearing a tight sky blue t-shirt with an orange scarf. A touch of makeup put the exclamation point on his outfit.

“Horacio!” Nadia cried out. She stood up to exchange air kisses.

Then he noticed Ainsley. She noticed his eyeliner as he tracked her from head down to her boots, then back up to her head.

“Why is this one dressed?” he said to Nadia.

The manager shushed him with a finger to his lips. “She’s not one of them. She’s a journalist.”

He paused. “Old habits. Sorry.”

“Go, go,” said Nadia, slapping him across the shoulders, “make my client feel safe.”

Horacio walked over to the room-service tray and lifted the lid. Underneath the dome was a single dinner plate with a
milanesa
, fries, and a salad. His nose twitched. He bent down and sniffed the food.

Then the taster pulled on a latex glove, lifted a single french fry, and laid it on his tongue. He waited for several seconds. He removed the spud and tossed it into the trash, as though it were a used tongue depressor.

Then he pulled a package of silverware from his pocket, cut off a section of the
milanesa
, and did the same routine. That was followed by a forkful of salad.

By the end, he had swallowed none of the food.

“All good,” he said.

“I will let the baby know,” said Nadia, flipping through a magazine.

Horacio turned to Ainsley. “I love your hair. But you are way too skinny.”

Nadia laughed. “You are telling her this?”

“It takes one to know one.”

Ainsley blew him an air kiss, and he caught it against his cheek and twirled. This guy seemed like a lot of fun. Not to mention the fact that he had one of the easiest jobs in the world.

Ovidio came out of the bedroom, buttoning up a pair of gray slacks. He was shirtless. Ainsley discreetly admired his torso. Though not muscular, he boasted nearly zero percent body fat.

“Keep looking and you’ll turn to stone,” the soccer star joked.

Ainsley felt herself blushing. He’d noticed her noticing him.
Of course
he had. He was designed for admiration, wanted it, needed it. Surely he’d been missing the applause of the crowd.

“Girls come to his matches just to watch him rip off his jersey afterwards,” said Nadia.

“And some boys too,” added Horacio. “But we all know he’ll rip it off for anybody.”

“No, she has to be smiling,” Ovidio said. “It’s my only requirement. Besides, Pele gave away more jerseys than I have. He gave them away like candies. Ten thousand.”

“You’re no Pele,” answered Horacio.

The superstar rose to his feet, clearly piqued. “Who wants to be Pele?” he said. “For me, it’s only Maradona, Maradona,
Maradona
.” He accented each word with a hard chop to his hand. “Diego was a hero to this country.”

Then Ovidio dropped onto a chair again, mouth open, shaking his head. He looked gray, almost stricken, as though the true weight of that player’s accomplishment had only now been revealed to him.

His drama wasn’t unfounded. Maradona had left a very big pair of cleats to fill. Ainsley knew about Diego Maradona; nearly everybody in the world did. He’d been the best Argentinian soccer player of the twentieth century, many say the best player, period. The “little hairy one” who’d scored two famous goals against England in the 1986 World Cup, which was widely seen as revenge for Argentina’s devastating loss in the Falklands War.

Today, Maradona is a punchline, a national shame, having survived a nasty cocaine habit, a hundred-pound weight gain, subsequent bariatric surgery, and mountains of unpaid palimony. But in his heyday, the masses had worshipped him, seen him as a natural leader. Ainsley thought she saw in Ovidio the signs of similar ambitions.

“So we need to talk,” said Nadia. “Take yourself away,
Horacita
.”

The skinny taster pouted. “Fine. See you at eleven.” He turned and flounced towards the elevator. Then he turned back: “Ovidio, where do you think you’ll be?”

“I don’t know yet,” said the athlete, exchanging glances with his manager. “Watch your phone. We’ll let you know.”