Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (48 page)

When he heard the sharp, steely footsteps making their way down the corridor towards him, he was seized with panic. He wanted to scream but no sound escaped his dry, sticky mouth. The door opened and a man entered.

Fernando shielded his face against the light that entered with him.

‘Get up,’ the man ordered. Fernando staggered to his feet; every move gave him pain. The man walked over to him and handed him a brown envelope. ‘F-lere is a new passport and enough money to get you across the river to Uruguay. There is a car waiting for you outside. Once you’re in Uruguay I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again - understand? If you return you’ll be killed.’

Fernando was dumbfounded. ‘Who are you?’ he said, looking into his face. ‘Why?’

‘That doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this for you,’ the man said tersely and escorted him out.

It wasn’t until Fernando was safely across the border that he suddenly remembered where he had seen that man before. It was Facundo Hernandez.

When Chiquita heard Fernando’s voice she wept with relief. Miguel took the telephone and listened to his son recount his experience. ‘I can’t come home, Papa, not until there’s a change of government,’ he said. His parents were devastated that he wasn’t coming home, but grateful that he was alive. Chiquita wanted to see her son, she wanted proof that he really was all right, and it took

a lot of reassuring before she finally allowed herself to believe that he was telling the truth. It would take months for Chiquita’s nightmares to subside. For Fernando, his experiences in that small, airless cell would haunt him for many years to come.

A couple of months after Fernando’s departure, Santi met Claudia Calice. His parents had asked him to represent them at a charity dinner in Buenos Aires. Chiquita was suffering from stress and she felt unable to face the world so soon after her son’s escape from what had been, most certainly, the ‘jaw of death’. So Santi sat at the table, stifling a yawn, listening to the speeches and making polite conversation to the powdered lady on his right. He let his eyes float about the room, taking in the merry faces of bejewelled women, half listening to the monotone that irritated his patience like a buzzing mosquito hovering about his ear. He nodded at intervals so she was under the illusion that he was listening. Then his eyes settled on a smooth young woman, apparently doing the same thing, at a table the other side of the room. Like an accomplice she smiled at him sympathetically before turning to her neighbour and nodding attentively.

After the dinner Santi waited for the man on her left to leave his seat, then he crossed the room. She welcomed him by pulling out the chair and introduced herself. She whispered into his ear that she had watched him go pale with boredom. ‘It has been dreadfully dull for me too,’ she said. ‘The man on my right is an industrialist. I had nothing to say to him. He didn’t once ask me about myself.’ Santi told her that he would like nothing more than to listen to her talking about herself.

In the weeks that followed, Soledad noticed that Santi had begun to smile again. She felt slightly possessive of him and didn’t take to the sophisticated, laminated Claudia Calice who was becoming a regular visitor at Santa Catalina. She worried for Sofia, although she hadn’t heard from her since she had left in 1974. Claudia was brown and glossy, like a wet seal. She painted herself beautifully and her shoes were always highly polished, never scuffed. Soledad wondered how she managed to look so groomed all the time. Even in the country when it was pouring with rain her umbrella matched her belt. Whether she liked the woman or not it didn't really matter, her opinion didn’t count, but she was grateful for one thing: this Claudia Calice was making Santi happy. He hadn’t been happy for a very long time.

Soledad missed Sofia dreadfully, so much so that sometimes she cried out loud, worrying about her, hoping she was happy. She longed for her to write, but she never did. She didn’t understand the girl’s total lack of communication. Sofia was like a daughter to her. Why didn’t she write? Soledad had asked Señora Anna if she could write a letter herself, just to let Sofia know she was cherished. It had upset her deeply that Anna had refused to give her the address. She didn’t even say when the child would be returning home. Such was Soledad’s distress that
La Vieja Bruja,
the old witch in the village, had given her a white powder to mix with her
Mate
, which she was required to drink three times a day; it seemed to be working. She found she was able to sleep at night and stopped worrying so much.

On 2 February 1983 Santi married Claudia Calice in the small church of
Nuestra Senora de la Asuncion.
The reception was held at Santa Catalina. As Santi watched his bride walk down the aisle on the arm of her father he couldn’t help but imagine that she was Sofia. His stomach lurched momentarily with longing. But then she was by his side, smiling up at him reassuringly, and he felt a surge of affection for this person who had shown him that it was possible to

love more than one woman in a lifetime.

‘Maria, what was Sofia like?’ Claudia asked one summer morning. Santi and Claudia had been married for over a year and yet she had never dared ask anyone about Sofia, and for some reason no one talked about her. Santi had told her about the affair. He had told her he had loved her, it wasn’t some sordid sexual fling behind the pony lines. He hadn’t hidden anything from her intentionally, but a woman’s curiosity about the ex-lovers of her husband knows no bounds and Claudia’s desire for more information was not yet satisfied.

‘What
is
she like,’ corrected Maria, not unkindly. ‘She’s not dead. She may well come back,’ she added hopefully.

‘I’m just curious, you understand,’ Claudia said, appealing to Maria’s common female bond.

‘Well, she’s not very tall, but she gives the impression that she is much taller,’ began Maria, putting down the pile of photographs that were scattered about her on the red paving stones and looking out over the hazy summer plains. Claudia wasn’t interested in how she looked. She knew how she looked. She had browsed through enough albums of photographs, studied the pictures that were scattered all over Paco and Anna’s house in silver frames. She knew exactly what Sofia had looked like from a baby to a woman. She was lovely looking; there was no doubt about that. But she was more interested in her personality. What was it about her that had captured Santi’s heart? Why was it that in spite of his efforts Claudia felt convinced that Sofia still possessed it? But she let Maria talk on; she didn’t want to miss this opportunity. Having her sister-in-law all to herself without being surrounded by her husband, cousins, brothers, parents, uncles, aunts was rare. When she had spotted Maria sitting alone on the terrace that Saturday morning, quietly going through stacks of old photographs, she had seized the moment and hoped no one would appear around the corner to ruin it.

What she didn’t realize was that Maria longed to talk about Sofia. She missed her. Although the feeling was now more of a dull ache provoked by certain associations that reminded her of her cousin, the years hadn’t managed to erase the indissoluble bond that the two women had forged together over their childhood and youth. No one else wanted to talk about Sofia, and if they did it was almost in a whisper that they spoke, as if she had died. The only person Maria seemed able to reminisce with was Soledad, who spoke about Sofia in a

loud, angry voice, not angry with Sofia, of course, but angry with her parents whom she believed had prevented her return. Now Claudia wanted to listen, Maria was only too eager to talk.

‘Everyone talked about Sofia,’ she said proudly, as if she were talking about a daughter. ‘What would she be up to next? Was her mother unfair on her or was Sofia just plain difficult? Did she have a boyfriend or didn’t she? She was so beautiful they were all in love with her. She always dated the bestlooking men around. Roberto Lobito, he could have anyone but he couldn’t tame Sofia. She used him and cast him aside like a polo ball. He’d never been chucked before.

I bet it did him good. He was rather too pleased with himself.’

She laughed and then continued as if she were alone and talking to herself: ‘Nothing frightened her. In that respect she was almost more like a boy. She didn’t have girlie phobias like me. She loved spiders and beetles, frogs and toads and cockroaches, and she played polo better than some of the boys. She always fought with Agustin over that. She fought with everyone. She did it to rile them all, but she never meant it. She was just bored and wanting some amusement. She made them all furious, of course; she knew exactly how to aggravate each person - she knew their weak spots. Things were a lot more fun when she was around. Santa Catalina was a more exciting place when she was here. There was always trouble, excitement, laughter. Now she’s gone it all seems rather bland - nice of course, Santa Catalina will always be that - but the sparkle has gone out of it. But she’ll be back, just to make sure that no one forgets about her. That will be typical of Sofia. She always loved to be the centre of attention, and of course she always was in one way or another, by making people love her or loathe her. It didn’t matter; she just needed to feel noticed.’

‘Do you really think she will come back?’ asked Claudia, biting a piece of dead skin from the side of her long painted nail.

‘Of course she will,’ Maria replied emphatically. ‘I know she will.’

‘Oh.’ Claudia nodded and pulled a weak smile.

‘She loved it here too much to leave it for ever,’ Maria said and began to sort through the photographs again. She swallowed hard. Sofia couldn’t leave them for ever, could she?

‘What are you doing?’

‘I haven’t had the time lately to stick all these into books. It’s quiet this morning, so I thought I’d start sorting through them.’ Then Maria noticed one of Sofia and picked it up. There, that’s a typical photograph of Sofia,’ she said

and gazed at it sadly. That was the summer she left.’

The summer she was in love with Santi, thought Claudia bitterly. She took the photograph from her sister-in-law and looked into the brown, radiant face that seemed to grin triumphantly out at her. Claudia saw a certain complacency in her smile. She was dressed in a pair of tight white trousers and brown boots, sitting on a pony holding a mallet casually over her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Claudia hated horses and didn’t much like the countryside either. The fact that Sofia had loved both to distraction made her dislike them even more.

The effort Claudia had made before they married to pretend she enjoyed them had been a complete waste of time. She found out one afternoon when Santi had taken her riding. Sitting stiffly on the pony, utterly miserable, she had finally dissolved into a fit of angry sobs and confessed to hating the very sight of horses. ‘I never want to ride again,’ she had sniffed.

To her surprise, Santi had almost seemed happy. He had taken her home, put his arms around her and told her that she never had to go near another pony as long as she lived. She had been relieved at first that she no longer had to continue pretending, but later she wished he hadn’t been so delighted.

Ponies, riding, the countryside - they were part of Sofia’s territory and Claudia believed Santi wanted to keep them exclusive to her. ‘Was Santi always particularly close to Sofia?’ she asked carefully.

Maria looked at her in alarm. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘You should ask Santi.’

‘He never talks about her,’ she shrugged and lowered her eyes.

‘Oh, I see. Well, they were always close. He was like an elder brother, you see, and Sofia was like my sister.’ Maria suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if the conversation was beginning to spin out of her control.

‘Do you mind if I look through some more?’ asked Claudia, tactfully changing the subject. She sensed she was perhaps being too inquisitive. She didn’t want Maria going back and telling Santi.

‘Here, why don’t you look through these - I’ve already sorted them,’ Maria offered, relieved, and handed one of the neatly marked piles to Claudia. ‘Don’t muddle them with the rest, will you?’

Claudia sat back in the chair, placing the photographs on her lap, and Maria stole a glance at her while she didn’t know she was being looked at. She was only a couple of months older than Maria, but she seemed much older. Sofia always said that people are born a certain age; she claimed to be eighteen and

said that Maria was in her twenties. Well, if that were the case, she would probably have said that Claudia was forty. It had nothing to do with her face, which was a rich, smooth, brown colour, she was naturally beautiful, but more to do with the way she dressed and behaved. She had offered to teach Maria how to use makeup to her advantage. ‘What I could do with your face,’ she had said tactlessly. Maria was too nice to take offence. She didn’t want to be painted with those rich colours like Claudia, and anyhow Eduardo would hate it. She wondered whether she slept in it, and if she didn’t she wondered if Santi recognized her in the morning. She was dying to ask, but didn’t dare. There had been a time when she could have asked him anything, but things had changed - only subtly, but they had changed.

No one had understood why Santi had married Claudia. They liked her enough, for she was pleasant, kind, pretty, but the couple didn’t seem to have anything in common. Like oil and water they didn’t gel. Chiquita had warmed to her immediately, but that was only because she was relieved that he had married at all. She was happy to see her son smile and move on. Oddly enough, the one person Claudia had really bonded with was Anna. They were both cool in temperament and both hated horses. They spent a lot of time together and Anna had taken trouble to make her feel welcome.