Page 36 of You Had Me At Annyeong!
‘What about the rumours of racism and violence from your time in Japan? Do they have anything to do with why you have avoided coming here?’
True, rumours have swirled in footballing circles across the world about Rodrigo’s past that is till date mostly shrouded in mystery. His parents are unnamed and have never been identified in public; his publicists have always insisted on questions about his family being removed during interviews. Sketchy details are known about how he caused trouble at home in Japan and found his way to Brazil, eventually giving up his Japanese citizenship to represent Brazil internationally. His risethrough the ranks has been meteoric and the stuff of dreams. His rags-to-riches story is the sort of spin onCinderellathat young boys fantasize about. But nobody knows what triggered all of this. Nobody knows who Rodrigo was before he captured the imagination of fans across the world as a nineteen-year-old playing his first season with the senior team of Santos and emerging as the Brasileirão’s top scorer.
The journalist, his face weathered and his voice reeking of an accusatory tone, presses on.
‘Were you possibly involved in any incident with a Korean?’ All chatter stops. There’s only silence.
Looking ashen-faced, Rodrigo can only gape with lifeless eyes.
What is he talking about? Nobody is supposed to know about this! Why does it even matter anymore? Maybe this is a good time to clarify and end it right here. I’m tired of hiding a stupid kid’s mistake. But what if it backfires? I need to stay here and win her back!
Rodrigo’s thoughts are haphazard. He’s gobsmacked by the suddenness of the question and taken aback by the wiry-looking journalist’s brazenness. He tries hard to remember if it is a known face, but is unable to place him. He has had to face brutal attacks from journalists the world over, but none have brought up this incident from a past he has long forgotten. He recoils at the recollection of that past, of that person he had run away from and long believed to have been dead, at least on the inside. How wrong he is. The memory of that awful evening is still fresh like it were only yesterday. All of it—the cursing, the violence, the blood, the siren of the ambulance, the distinct smell of disinfectant, the stitches on his hairline that had scarred him forever, the questioning at the police station, being sent away to juvenile detention, all those anger management classes and countless therapy sessions, running away from home, notspeaking with his father for five years, meeting his mother and her family—all of it comes rushing back to him.
The president looks at the emcee and urges him to settle the matter.
‘Ah, I’m afraid this is all we have time for. As you all know, Rodrigo-ssi has just arrived in Korea and he has a busy schedule. He is already late for his next appointment. Let us excuse him for today. We look forward to your support through the season!’
Journalists rush towards the dais, all speaking at the same time. Loudly and over one another’s voices, so it’s impossible to understand a word. But it isn’t difficult to guess what they want to know.
‘Do stay back for lunch. And don’t forget to pick up the press kits we have so lovingly organized for all of you. Rodrigo-ssi has very kindly personally signed jerseys for everyone!’
Journalists and photographers jostle for a better look and attempt to get one last word in as Rodrigo bows, spine curved like a hairpin bend as if he were doing the ragdoll stretch. With a final, shockingly beatific smile, Rodrigo waves at the crowd and exits through the wings, one arm wrapped around the president’s neck. Whether it is for the latter’s support or his own or just a show of support for each other is anybody’s guess.
He takes his arm off as soon as they are away from prying eyes.
‘My apologies, Mr President. It must have been embarrassing for you. I’m not sure what happened …’
The old man impatiently cuts him off.
‘Save it, son. Looking at your face, there probably is some truth to it. I’m not one to pry and, frankly, I don’t care. You and I are both professionals. We have an understanding and we best get on with the job.’
Rodrigo, now hiding behind his dark Gentle Monster sunglasses, gulps silently and cusses under his breath.
‘Lay low after your medicals until training starts. I will have the legal team check in with you. Whatever the dirt, they’ll clean it for you.’
Rodrigo can only stare at the plain-looking man whose words are cold and demeanour ruthless. A far cry from the proud, almost smug man that he’d looked like only a brief few minutes ago. The stories he had heard about the Soul Reaper of Seoul Stealers FC seemed to be entirely true.
‘I’m really sorry, Mr President …’
‘You needn’t call me Mr President when it’s just us, Rod. You can call me Mr Ri or Eungchan-ssi.’
‘Sure, Mr Pres … I mean Mr Ri. I just hope the media won’t be too harsh. I’m just really concerned about the club’s image …’ ‘Don’t worry about it. This is Korea. We’re a step ahead of the rest of the world. There’s a hack for everything. Our team is already on it. You just focus on staying healthy and winning us the league next season!’
With that, he pats Rodrigo on his back and gets inside his car, a sleek black Audi A8 L, which has just pulled up, followed by Rodrigo’s Audi Q8. But Rodrigo doesn’t get in.
‘I think I’m going to take a walk. I need to clear my head. Can you put my address into the GPS?’ he requests his newly appointed personal assistant. A man in his mid-twenties, Min-hyun looks like he could’ve been an athlete himself—fit and long-legged with calves so strong that one can spot their bulge through his brown chinos. He is tempted to tell Rodrigo that it probably isn’t the best idea but decides not to. Instead, he does as he’s told. Getting inside the car, he instructs the driver to follow Rod, and gently lifts his left leg with both arms to reveal a prosthesis just below his calf—a permanent reminder of the life-altering injury he sustained during his time with the Seoul Stealers FC reserve squad.
Putting his much-favoured baseball cap on and upturning the collar of his jacket, Rodrigo walks out of the premises in giant strides befitting his 6’3’’ frame.
It has been an eventful few days since he’d arrived. He had been excited about all the possibilities that had presented themselves thus far, but nothing had prepared him for a brush with the ghosts of seasons past.
How on earth did that asshole even find out … nobody knows about it. Unless,hespoke about it … but that is impossible, even if he’s alive. He couldn’t have known it was me! And he vanished, too. If he had to make noise, he had all the time in the world to do it. Why now …
He can smell the river at a distance and feel the gentle breeze blowing over it and kissing his face. The air is cleaner here and he’s gulping it in copious amounts, hoping the extra oxygen will help clear his head.
Tim … shoot! She has no idea of all this. Gah, I not only messed things up with and for her, I also hid the truth from her. I’m a fraud, a liar. A good-for-nothing troublemaker. What is she going to think when she finds out?
He now recalls her face as she tripped on her heels and fell right into his arms only a couple of days ago. He remembers her tightly shut eyes and the light laughter lines around them. The same lines that had lit up his life … he immediately chides himself for only having been a bearer of bad news for Timira. Wearing a frown, he continues to worry.
