Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (24 page)

He opened her legs, which she then voluntarily opened even wider and he knelt between them, smoothing his hands over her hips and thighs. She was blonde, a natural blonde he noticed, looking at the tidy triangle of hair that revealed to him her charms. She watched him with brazen eyes, enjoying him admiring her. For the next two hours she showed him how to caress a woman, slowly and sensually, and gave him more enjoyment than he thought possible. By two in the morning he had come enough times to prove that Georgia really was a fantasy of the bedroom, and she had come with the ease of a woman comfortable with her own body.

‘Georgia,’ he said, ‘you’re not for real. I want to hold you all night to ensure you’ll still be here in the morning.’ She had laughed, lit a cigarette and promised him they would do nothing for the whole weekend except make love. ‘Long, slow and passionate, right here in Hope Street,’ she had said. She told him how much she loved his accent and made him talk to her in Spanish. ‘Tell me you want me, that you love me - let’s just pretend,’ she said. So he told her,
‘Te quiero, te necesito, te adorn.’

When they were spent, their bodies aching from their pleasure, they slept. The lights of the occasional car bathed them momentarily in gold, exposing naked limbs that were limply draped over each other. Santi dreamed. He was in

the Ancient History class with Professor Schwartzbach and there was Sofia. She sat with her long dark hair tied into her usual plait, knotted with a silky red ribbon. She was wearing jeans and a lilac shirt which enhanced her glowing tan. She looked beautiful, smooth, dark and glossy. She turned to him and winked, her mahogany brown eyes smiling capriciously at him. Then suddenly she was Georgia, sitting naked, grinning at him. He was embarrassed that she was naked in front of the whole class, but she didn’t seem to mind. She gazed at him sleepily. He longed for Sofia to come back, but she had gone. When he awoke, Georgia was between his legs. He looked down at her to make sure that it was Georgia and not Sofia. His body relaxed when he saw her lustful blue eyes looking up at him.

‘Honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she laughed.

‘I have,’ he replied and allowed himself to drift on the sensual sensation of her tongue working its magic on him again.

Santi had spent the first six months of his two years abroad travelling extensively around the world with his friend Joaquin Barnaba. They went to Thailand where they trawled the red-light district in search of entertainment and whores.

Santi had been appalled as well as fascinated by the things women could do with their bodies, things that he wouldn’t have been able to invent even in his most lurid dreams. They smoked cannabis in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia and watched a sunset that turned the hills to gold. They travelled to China where they walked along the Great Wall, admired the Hall of Supreme Harmony in the Forbidden City and discovered to their disgust that the Chinese really do eat dogs. They backpacked their way through India where Joaquin vomited outside the Taj Mahal before spending three days in bed with dehydration and diarrhoea. They rode elephants in India, camels in Africa and beautiful white horses in Spain.

Santi sent postcards back to his family from each country he visited. Chiquita despaired that she was unable to contact him. For six whole months he was in places where they could not reach him, and moving on every few days without knowing where he was going. They were all relieved when at the end of the winter they received word that he was in Rhode Island finding a place to live and registering for his courses, which included Business Studies and Ancient History.

For the first few days at Brown, Santi stayed in a hotel. However, when he

attended his first lecture on campus he met a couple of affable Americans from Boston who were looking for someone to share their house in Bowen Street. By the end of the lecture, given by an ancient professor with a small mouth hidden behind a thick white beard and an even smaller voice that gobbled up the ends of his words, they had discovered almost everything there was to know about each other and had become the best of friends.

Frank Stanford was short but strong, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles, the sort of young man who made up for his lack of height by working out in a gym to ensure he was as toned as possible and by endlessly practising games such as tennis, golf and polo so the girls would overlook his stature and admire him for his accomplishments. He was immediately impressed with Santi, not only because he came from Argentina, which was in itself immensely glamorous, but because he played polo and no one played better polo than the Argentines.

Frank and his friend Stanley Norman, who preferred to sit in a corner smoking cannabis and strumming his guitar to throwing around a tennis racket or polo mallet, invited Santi back to Bowen Street to show him their house. Santi was impressed. It was typical American East Coast with tall sash windows and imperious porch in a street lined with leafy trees and elegant cars. Inside, it was immaculately decorated with newly painted walls, pine furniture and navy blue and white upholstery in stripes and checks.

‘My mom insisted she do it up for me,’ said Frank casually. ‘She’s one of those mothers who’s vastly overprotective. As if I’d mind. I mean, look at the place - it should be in a magazine. I bet it’s the grandest house in the street.’

‘We don’t have house rules, do we, Frank?’ Stanley asked in his slow Boston drawl. ‘We don’t mind chicks.’

‘Yeah, we don’t mind, we only request you bring back her sisters if they’re cute. Know what I mean?’ Frank winked at Stanley and chortled.

‘I imagine they’re cute here,’ said Santi.

‘With your accent, buddy, you won’t have any problems. They’ll love you,’ Stanley assured him.

Fie wasn’t wrong. Santi was chased by the bestlooking girls on campus and it didn’t take him long to realize that they didn’t want to marry him, they just wanted to sleep with him. In Argentina it was different. You simply couldn’t sleep around; women demanded more respect. They wanted to be courted and they wanted to get married. But at Brown Santi made his way through them like

a strawberry picker. Some he put in a basket to keep for later and others he ate straight away. In September and October he spent weekends with Frank and his family at Newport where they played tennis and polo. Santi became a hero with Frank’s younger brothers who had never seen a real Argentine polo player before and was worshipped by Josephine Stanford, Frank’s mother, who had seen many Argentine polo players before, but none so handsome.

‘So, Santi - that’s short for Santiago, isn’t it?’ said Josephine, handing him a glass of Coke and wiping her face with a white towel. They had just completed their third set of tennis against Frank and his younger sister Maddy. Santi nodded. ‘Frank tells me you’re just doing a one-year course, is that right?’

‘That’s right. I finish in May,’ he replied, sitting down on one of the garden chairs and stretching his long brown legs out in front of him. His white shorts accentuated the rich honey colour of his skin and Josephine tried not to allow her eyes to linger there.

‘You go back to Argentina after that?’ she asked, attempting to ask mother-type questions. She sat down opposite Santi and smoothed her short white tennis skirt over her thighs with elegant fingers.

‘No, I’m going to travel a bit, then return home at the end of the year.’

‘Oh, that’ll be nice. Then you start all over again in Buenos Aires.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know why you don’t just do the university thing over here.’

‘I don’t want to be away from Argentina for too long,’ he told her earnestly. ‘I’d miss it.’

‘That’s nice.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Do you have a girlfriend back home? I’ll bet you do.’ She laughed, winking at him flirtatiously.

‘No, I don't,’ he replied, putting his lips to the glass and draining it thirstily.

‘Well, I am surprised at you, Santi. A handsome boy like you. Still, better for my American sisters, I suppose.’

‘Santi’s a bit of a hero on campus, Mom. I don’t know what it is about Latin men, but girls go mad for him,’ Frank joked. ‘I have second choice - crumbs from the rich man’s table.’

‘Bullshit, Frank. Don’t believe him, Mrs Stanford,’ said Santi, embarrassed.

‘Please, call me Josephine. Mrs Stanford makes me feel like a schoolmistress and I wouldn’t want to be one of those. Goodness no.’ She dabbed her blushing face with the towel again. ‘Where’s Maddy? Maddy!'

‘Here, Mom, just getting myself a drink. Do you want anything, Santi?’ she asked.

‘Another glass of Coca-Cola would be good. Thank you.’

Maddy was dark-haired and very plain, having inherited her father’s somewhat unfortunate looks instead of her mother’s thick auburn hair, golden skin and bewitching vixen face. Maddy had a large nose, small puffy eyes, which looked like she had only just woken up, and the sallow, pimply skin of a teenager living off fast food and sweet drinks. Josephine would have liked to encourage Santi to take her daughter out, but she was wise enough to recognize that her Maddy wasn’t pretty enough or interesting enough for Santi. Oh, if I were only twenty years younger, she thought to herself, I’d take him upstairs and drain him of all that excess energy. Santi watched Josephine through narrowed eyes and wished she wasn’t the mother of his best friend. He didn’t care how old she was. He knew she’d be fantastic in bed.

‘So, Santi. What about introducing my Frank to a nice Argentine girl. You have sisters, don’t you?’ asked Josephine, crossing one long white leg over the other.

‘I have one, but she wouldn’t really be Frank’s type. She’s not smart enough for him.'

‘Cousins then. I’m determined to have you in our family somehow, Santi,’

she giggled.

‘I have a cousin called Sofia. Now she would be better.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Spirited, difficult, spoilt, but very beautiful and would play polo better than him.’

‘Now that’s a chick I’d like to meet,’ Frank said. ‘How tall is she?’

‘Oh, about your height. She’s not especially tall, but she’s got charisma and charm, and she always gets what she wants. You’d have your hands full with her, that’s for sure,’ he said proudly, conjuring up Sofia’s defiant face and remembering it fondly.

‘What a babe! When can I meet her?’

‘You’ll have to come out to Argentina. She’s still at school,’ Santi told him.

‘Do you have a picture?’

‘Back at Bowen Street, I do.’

‘Well, I think it’s worth a trip just to see her. I like the sound of. . . what did you say her name was?’

‘Sofia.’

‘Sofia. I like the sound of Sofia.’ He mused. ‘Is she easy?’

‘Easy?’

‘Would she sleep with me?’

‘Frank, darling, not in front of your mother,’ chided Josephine, waving her hand in front of her as if to clear the air of his foul words.

‘Well, would she?’ he persisted, ignoring his mother who was just showing off to his new friend.

‘No, she wouldn’t,’ Santi replied, feeling uncomfortable talking about Sofia in this way.

‘I bet she would with a little persuasion. You Latins might have the charm but we have the persistence.’ He chuckled. Santi didn’t like the competitive look in his eyes and wished he hadn’t mentioned Sofia.

‘Actually, I know a girl who would be much better for you,’ he said, backtracking frantically.

‘Oh no. I like the sound of Sofia very much,’ insisted Frank.

When Maddy returned with another glass of Coke, Santi sipped at it unenthusiastically. He suddenly felt very protective of his cousin and wondered how he was going to stop Frank from flying out to meet her. It was just the sort of thing Frank would do. He was rich enough to go anywhere and bold

enough to try anything.

Once back at university he found another letter from Sofia in the mailbox. She had written every week as she had promised.

‘Who’s that from?’ asked Stanley curiously. ‘You get more letters than the post office.’ He was strumming a Bob Dylan tune on his guitar.

‘My cousin.’

‘That wouldn’t be from my Sofia, would it?’ said Frank, emerging from the kitchen with a couple of bagels and smoked salmon for tea.

‘I didn’t think you were back,’ said Santi.

‘I’m back. D’you want some, they’re good?’ he said, chewing on a bagel.

‘No, thanks. I’m going to read this upstairs. Mama’s letters tend to be long.’

‘I thought you said it was from your cousin,’ said Frank.

‘Oh, did I? I meant my mother.’ He wondered why he was lying over such a trivial matter. Frank would soon forget about Sofia with all the girls at Brown.

‘Hey, Jonathan Sackville is throwing a party tonight. Want to come?’ said Frank.

‘Sure,’ replied Stanley.

‘Sure,’ replied Santi, retreating into the hall.

Once upstairs in the privacy of his room he read Sofia’s letter.

Dearest favourite Cousin Santi,

Thank you for your last letter, though it has not escaped my notice that your letters are getting shorter and shorter. This is not on. I deserve more. After all, Tm writing very long ones myself and Tm busier than you are - remember, you don’t have a mother like mine, forcing you to study all the time. Tm well, I suppose. Yesterday was Papa’s birthday so we all had dinner at Miguel’s house. It’s so hot, you cannot imagine. Agustin actually hit me last week. We had a row about something. He started it, of course, but guess who got the blame? So I threw his entire wardrobe in the pool, even his prized leather boots and mallets. You would have laughed had you seen his face. I had to hide with Maria as I really thought he was going to kill me. Would you miss me, Santi? Oops, must go, Mama’s coming up the stairs and she looks very angry. What do you think I’ve done now? I’ll leave you guessing and tell you in my next letter. If you don’t write soon, I won’t tell you and I know you’re dying to know.