Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (61 page)

Sofia followed Clara around to the front of the house. Later she would laugh when she remembered the expressions on the faces of her mother and father as they sat in the tranquillity of the long afternoon shadows gazing as they always did out onto the distant plains. A typical day on the farm, nothing unusual, nothing to disturb their routine or so they thought. The sight of them brought it all back and she confidently strode up to them.

When Anna saw Sofia she dropped her teacup onto the terracotta paving stones, shattering the china into large pieces. Her long white fingers shot straight to the necklace around her throat, which she twisted in agitation. She looked to Paco for guidance. Paco went very pink in the face and staggered to his feet. The sight of his sad eyes brimming with remorse was enough to stir Sofia’s distant heart.

‘Sofia, I don’t believe it. Is it really you?’ he asked huskily and shuffled forward to embrace her. As with Rafael, she felt herself respond with unchecked affection. ‘You don’t know how much we have longed for this moment. So much, we missed you so much. I am so happy you are home,’ he said with genuine joy. Her father had aged so dramatically since she had last seen him that she felt the bitterness dissipate.

Anna remained seated. She wanted to embrace her child, she had imagined she would, but now suddenly her daughter stood before her with distant eyes, she didn’t know what to do.

‘Hello, Mama,’ Sofia said in English. As Anna hadn’t stood up to greet her daughter, Sofia didn’t approach her.

‘Sofia, what a surprise. I wish you’d let us know,’ she said confused, then wished she hadn’t said it. She hadn’t meant it to sound like that. She anxiously

smoothed back her rusty hair that she had tied into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Sofia had forgotten how cold her blue eyes were. In spite of the many years that should have mellowed their differences, she felt no affection for Anna. She was a stranger to her. A stranger who reminded her of someone from her past who had been a mother to her.

‘I know. There just wasn’t time,’ she replied coldly, not sure of how to interpret the woman’s apparent indifference. Anyway, I came for Maria,’ she added.

‘Of course,’ her mother replied, regaining her composure. For a moment Sofia was sure she saw disappointment set Anna’s cheeks aflame, then spread in a hot rash over the diaphanous skin of her throat.

‘Have you seen her yet? She is so changed,’ Anna said sadly, casting her eyes across the plain as if she longed to be far away among the long grasses and beasts of the
pampa.
Away from this interminable human suffering.

‘Yes, I have,’ replied Sofia, chastened. She lowered her eyes and suddenly an overwhelming sense of loss caused her chest to compress. Maria had shown her how fragile human life was and how precarious. She looked down at her mother and her resentment softened.

At that moment Soledad rushed out to clear up the china followed eagerly by

an over-excited Clara.

‘You should have seen
Abuelita’s
face. She went white, and then she dropped her cup -
imaginate
. . .'

Soledad hadn’t aged but she had expanded like a prize cow at a village
fete.
When she saw Sofia standing before her, those watery brown eyes liquified into a river of tears that cascaded down her face and into her wide smile that gaped in surprise. She pulled Sofia into her familiar bosom and sobbed uncontrollably. ‘I don’t believe it. Thank You, God. Thank You for bringing my Sofia back to me,’ she cried.

Clara hopped up and down with excitement as the other children who had been playing with her on the swings stood around in bewilderment.

‘Clara, go and tell everyone that Sofia has returned,’ said Rafael to his daughter, who immediately strode up to her cousins and delegated the task to them. They shuffled off reluctantly, followed by a few bony dogs sniffing at their heels.

^l
Tia
Sofia, everyone is very pleased to see you,’ she grinned, as Soledad swept up the china with unsteady hands. Sofia sat down at the table - the same one that she had sat at so many times all those years ago - and pulled the
child onto her knee. Anna watched her warily while Paco clutched his daughter’s hand in his but could no longer find the words to speak. Both sat in silence but Paco’s tears communicated with Sofia more than he could ever have in syllables. Rafael calmly helped himself to cake.

‘Why is
Abuelito
crying?’ whispered Clara to her father.

They are tears of joy, Clara.
Tfa
Sofia has been away for a very long time.’

‘Why?’ Sofia noticed she was directing her question at her.

‘It’s a long story,
gorda.
Maybe I’ll tell you one day,’ she replied and caught her mother’s eye.

‘That would be highly inappropriate, don’t you think?’ she said in English, but Anna wasn’t chastising her. She was trying to display a sense of humour.

‘I understood that,’ laughed Clara, who was clearly enjoying the scene. The more she sensed intrigue the more she liked her new aunt.

Before the conversation could get her into more trouble people began to arrive from every corner of the farm. Groups of curious children, Sofia’s nephews and nieces, Chiquita and Miguel - a very tall Panchito, and to her horror a beautiful, radiant Claudia. Sofia was touched by the welcome, the warmth of which she could never have anticipated or hoped for. Her Aunt Chiquita embraced her for a long time. In her eyes Sofia could see that she was grateful she had come home to comfort Maria through her last days. She looked tired and strained and wore a haunted expression on her face where there had once been a gentle beauty. Chiquita had always been serene, as if the cruel world had never invaded her benevolent existence. Maria’s illness had all but broken her.

Sofia couldn’t help but notice Claudia’s grace; she was everything that Sofia was not. She was feminine, dressed in the sort of dress that Sofia had welcomed Santi back from America in, the one he had hated. Her long dark hair was loose and flowing and her face perfectly painted but not overdone. If Santi had tried to find a woman who least resembled her he couldn't have done a better job. Sofia wished she had made more of an effort to get her figure back after India was born.

Although Claudia kept her distance Sofia could feel her every move. She didn’t know whether Santi had told her the whole story, but she jealously wanted her to know. She wanted her to understand that Santi had always been meant for her, that Claudia had been his second choice, a substitute. She couldn’t bear to talk to her so she turned her attention to the children, but like

an animal marking her territory Claudia bristled with mistrust beneath those cool, smiling eyes.

Sofia recognized one of Santi’s sons immediately by the way that he walked. Slow, laid-back and confident. He must have been about ten years old. She whispered into Clara’s ear and she called him over bossily.

‘You must be Santi’s son,’ said Sofia, suffering a gnawing pain in her chest, for in this child she saw what could have been hers.

‘Yes, who are you?’ he replied arrogantly, sweeping his blond hair out of his eyes.

‘I’m your cousin Sofia.’

‘How come you’re my cousin?’

‘She’s my aunt.
Tfa
Sofia!’ laughed Clara, taking Sofia’s hand affectionately in hers and squeezing it.

The boy looked mistrustful and narrowed his large green eyes suspiciously. ‘Ah, you’re the one who lives in England,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘Do you know, I don’t even know your name?’

‘Santiago.’

The colour drained from Sofia’s face. ‘That’s a bit confusing, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose.’

‘So what do they call you?’

‘Santiguito,’ he replied.

Sofia swallowed hard in an attempt to retain control of her feelings. ‘Santiguito?’ she repeated slowly. ‘Are you a good polo-player like your father?’ she croaked, watching him shift his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Yes, I’m playing with Papa tomorrow afternoon. You can watch if you like.’

‘I would like that very much,’ she replied and he smiled tentatively, lowering his eyes. ‘What else do you guys do? You know, when I was a child we used to make wishes in the ombu tree. Do you do that?’

‘Oh no, Papa doesn’t let us go there. It’s out of bounds,’ he said.

‘Out of bounds, whatever for?’ she asked curiously.

‘I’ve been there,’ whispered Clara proudly. ‘Papa says that
Tio
Santi’s angry at the tree because he made a wish once and it didn’t come true. That’s why he doesn’t let us visit it. It must have been a very important wish for him to be so angry.’

Sofia suddenly felt nauseous and in need of space. She pushed Clara gently off her knee and walked briskly in the direction of the kitchen, bumping
straight into Santi.

‘Santi!’ she gasped, blinking the mist from her eyes.

‘Sofia, are you all right?’ he said quickly. His hands held her upper arms more tightly than he meant to and his eyes searched her face as if probing her features for her thoughts.

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she stammered, resisting the impulse to throw herself against him as if those twenty-three years had been but a blink in the eye of time.

‘I gather you came down with Rafa. I called your hotel but you had already left,’ he said, unable to disguise the disappointment in his voice.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t...’

‘That’s fine, don’t worry,’ he assured her. There followed an uncomfortable moment of silence during which neither could think of anything to say. Sofia blinked at him helplessly and he grinned back bashfully, feeling inadequate. ‘Where are you off to at such speed?’ he said finally.

‘I wanted to see Soledad, I haven’t really had a chance to chat to her. You remember how close we were.’

‘Yes, I do remember,’ he said and his sea-green eyes bore into hers like a

light from a lighthouse beckoning her home.

That was the first mention of the past. She felt her throat go dry as she remembered sadly how it had been Soledad who had delivered her desperate note to him that night they had met for the last time. She felt herself sinking into his gaze. He was trying to communicate something without being able to find the words. She wanted to talk about the past - there were so many things she wanted to say - and yet now was not the moment. Sensing twenty pairs of eyes watching them from the terrace she once more cautioned herself against revealing too much. She saw the pain and years of loneliness etched in lines on his brow and around the eyes, and she longed to run her fingers over them and erase them. She wanted him to know that she had suffered too.

‘I met your son - Santiguito. He’s so like you,’ she said, for want of anything better to say. His shoulders sagged with disappointment that their conversation had been reduced once more to the mundane. He suddenly retreated into indifference. A wall had at once been erected between them and Sofia didn’t know why.

‘Yes, he’s a good boy, he plays a fine game of polo,’ he replied flatly.

‘He told me you are both going to play tomorrow afternoon?’

‘It depends how Maria is.’

Sofia had been so blinkered by her own preoccupations she had completely forgotten about Maria; after all, she was the reason Sofia had come out.

‘When are they bringing her home?’ she asked.

‘This evening. You will come over, won’t you? I know she will want to see you.’

‘Of course.’

He shuffled uncomfortably and looked down at the paving stones. ‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. I came out to see Maria before ... to spend some time with her. I haven’t thought any further than that. I’m so sorry,’ she said, instinctively touching his hand. This must be a horrible time for you.’

He withdrew and fixed her with distant eyes that only a moment ago had been welling with emotion.
'Bueno,
Sofia, I’ll see you later,’ he said, and wandered out onto the terrace.

Sofia noticed his limp had got worse. She watched him go a moment. She suddenly felt very lonely. She didn’t go into the kitchen immediately but made her way instead to where her bedroom had once been, only to find that it was

exactly as she had left it twenty-three years ago. Nothing had changed.

Her heart pounded with excitement. It was as if she had opened a door to her past. She wandered around picking things up, opening cupboards and drawers; even the lotions and scents she had used were still on the dressing table. What choked her most was the basket of red ribbons she had always worn in her hair. She sat before the mirror and held one between her fingers. Slowly she let her hair down until it fell over her shoulders; it wasn’t as long as it had been back then, but she managed to plait it. She tied it with the ribbon and sat gazing at her reflection.

She ran her fingers over her face that had once glowed with the gift of youth. Now the surface was thinner, dryer and the lines around her eyes revealed the years of sadness and the years of joy. Every emotion was stamped into her features like a kind of physical passport displaying the many places she had visited in her life. The low places of torment and the high places of delight. The laughter, the tears, the bitterness and finally the humble resignation that comes when one realizes that it is only futile and self-destructive to fight life. She was still good-looking, she recognized that. But youth is something that one takes for granted and is only appreciated when it is lost. She had been young once, young and brave and headstrong. She looked at the mirror and longed to jump through it into the past and relive it all again.