Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘... Well, where did it come from?’ Anna snapped angrily.

  ‘Business, it’s not what you think,’ Paco replied coolly.

  ‘Business? Why on earth did you need a hotel in this city when you have a perfectly good apartment? For God’s sake, Paco, I’m not a fool!’

  There followed a heavy silence. Soledad didn’t move, she stood as still as if she were a piece of hall furniture; she barely breathed. Her heart beat though, in fact, it accelerated fiercely. She knew she was listening to a conversation that was private. She knew she should turn and walk away, carry Sofia off to her room and pretend she hadn’t heard anything. But she couldn’t. She was too curious; she had to know what they were talking about. She heard pacing. Señor Paco must be walking the room; she heard the cold sound of shoes on wood and then the soft sound of the carpet, back and forth, and the occasional sniff from Señora Anna. Finally Paco spoke.

  ‘Okay, you’re right,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Who?’ sobbed Anna.

  ‘No one you know, I can assure you.’

  ‘Why?’ Soledad heard Anna get to her feet. She then heard the sharp tapping of her heels, as she must have walked across the floorboards to the window. Once again there was a tense moment of silence.

  ‘A man needs to be loved, Anna.’ He sighed wearily.

  ‘But we loved each other, didn’t we? At the beginning?’

  ‘We did. I don’t know what went wrong. You changed.’

  ‘.' changed?’ she retorted severely. ‘.' changed? I suppose then all this is my fault? I drove you into her arms, did I?’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘Then what are you saying? You changed too, you know!’

  ‘Anna, I’m not saying it’s your fault. We’re both to blame. I’m not excusing myself. You wanted to know.’

  ‘I want to know why.’

  ‘But I don’t know why. I fell in love with her. She loves me back. You stopped responding to me years ago, what do you expect?’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that this is some sick Argentine custom, husbands taking mistresses when they get bored with their wives.’

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘Well, then it’s exclusive to your family, is it? It’s in the blood,’ she snapped scornfully.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he replied slowly. Soledad noticed the tone of his voice change; it descended a note.

  ‘Your father and his . . . mistress.’ She was about to say ‘whore’, but instinct cautioned her against going too far.

  ‘Don’t bring my father into this. This is about you and me, it’s got nothing to do with Papa.’ Paco was stunned, wondering how exactly she knew.

  ‘I just hope you don’t teach Rafael and Agustin to do the same. I don’t want them breaking hearts the way you do.’

  ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,’ he said, exasperated. Soledad heard him making his way towards her and turning swiftly she scuttled across the hall. But he strode out and slammed the door behind him before she had time to disappear.

  ‘Soledad,’ he said sternly. Blushing deeply she bowed her head and turned to face him. This is the end, she thought. Why was I so stupid? She would have to pack her bags and leave. She sniffed miserably. ‘Bring Sofia to me,’ he

  ordered. Soledad shuffled over without meeting his eyes.

  ‘My dear Sofia,’ he said in a soft, honey voice as he kissed his daughter’s hot forehead. She seemed to respond to his touch even in sleep. ‘You love me, don’t you? And I love you, you don’t know how much,’ he whispered.

  Soledad noticed his face had transformed into an expression of tenderness; she noticed too that his eyes glistened. She stood there while he stroked his daughter’s face, feeling awkward, awaiting his reproof. But none came. He caressed the child’s cheek, then, picking up his coat, he made for the door.

  ‘Are you going out?’ she heard herself ask, then wished she hadn’t; it was none of her business.

  Paco turned to her and nodded gravely. ‘I won’t be back for supper - and Soledad?’

  lSi, Senor Paco?’

  ‘What you have heard this evening must not be mentioned to anybody, do you understand?’

  lSf, Senor Paco,’ she replied emphatically, flushing guiltily.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Soledad glanced at the sitting-room door before making her way through the kitchen to her quarters. She knew she shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but once she had recovered from the shock she began to piece together their conversation. So, Senor Paco was having an affair, she thought to herself. It didn’t surprise her. Most men took lovers every now and then, and why shouldn’t they? However, this didn’t seem to be about sexual gratification, but about love. If Senor Paco had stopped loving Señora Anna then that was serious. She felt desperately sorry for her mistress. She felt sad for both of them.

  Anna remained in the sitting room, slumped into an armchair, too weary and miserable to move. She wondered what to do next. Paco had admitted to having an affair but he hadn’t suggested he’d stop seeing the other woman. She had heard him leave. Running straight back to her, whoever she was. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t trust herself. She’d be quite capable of rushing over and stabbing her in a fit of anger and despair. She thought of Aunt Dorothy. This was probably a penance for jilting Sean O’Mara. Maybe her aunt had been right all along, perhaps she would have been happier if she had married him and never left Glengariff.

  The weeks that passed were bleak and unhappy. Paco and Anna didn’t discuss

  the matter again and nothing seemed to have changed, only the water froze over and communication ceased altogether. Anna watched Paco’s relationship with Sofia with bitterness. Every caress wounded her; it might just as well have been her daughter who was the other woman in his life. He spent more time with her than he did with his wife and he enveloped her with love that had once been hers, shutting Anna out completely. Anna spent her time with her sons, soaking up their affection like a plant in the desert. She found it hard to love Sofia, who was somehow connected to Paco and her misery. The child even took to whining when she was in her mother’s arms as if she sensed the ill-feeling there, whereas she warmed to her father’s embrace, shamelessly grinning as if to say, ‘I love him and not you.’ Anna could barely watch without hurting inside.

  Anna thought she had never felt such unhappiness. Earlier that year, her father had sent her a telegram telling her that her mother had died. When he had arrived at her door she had tried to find her mother’s love in her father’s embrace but he too had been swallowed up by the little enchantress that Sofia had become. They were strangers. The bond that had once sealed their love for each other had been worn apart by the years of estrangement.

  She missed her mother more than her father, whom she watched roam about the farm like a lost dog. She remembered Emer’s mellow laughter and the light in her gentle eyes. She remembered the smell of soap and lavender that enveloped her like an ethereal cloud and in her mind she raised her mother onto a pedestal that she had never been close to in life. She didn’t recall the woman whose sad old face had melted into a river of tears that autumn evening they had embraced for the last time. The mother she needed right now was the woman who had dried her tears when her cousins had teased her in Glengariff, the mother who would have stopped the world from turning had it put a smile on her daughter’s face. She missed her mother’s unconditional love. As a grown-up, love had become so hard to keep.

  Anna allowed Soledad to assert herself more in the nursery with young Sofia. The boys were now five and seven and at school, so she found she had more time on her hands. She needed more time to herself. Anyway, she thought, Sofia is perfectly happy with Soledad. Anna took to painting and built a small studio out of one of the spare rooms in their apartment in Buenos Aires. She wasn’t very good, she could see that. But it was a distraction from domestic life and allowed her to spend time on
her own without questions. Paco never

  entered her studio. It was her sanctuary, a place she could call her own, a place she could hide in.

  Paco was deeply hurt that his wife had found it necessary to mention his father’s affair with Clara Mendoza. It didn’t surprise him so much that she knew, for at the time many people had known, but it surprised him that she could stoop low enough to use it as a weapon to hurt him. He watched her warily and asked himself whether their romance in London all those years ago had really happened at all. It was as if he had fallen in love with a sweet young woman and had brought a bitter one back to Argentina with him by mistake. He imagined the Ana Melodia of his memories sitting forlornly beside the fountain in Trafalgar Square and wondered whether she was still there. His heart ached for her. He still loved her.

  One day in mid-spring, Anna was out walking over the plains with Agustin. It was very warm and the wildflowers were beginning to burst open and paint the pampa with colour. To their delight they spotted a couple of young vizcachas sniffing each other in the sun, their furry brown backs glistening in the light. Anna sat down among the long grasses and pulled her five-year-old son onto her knee.

  ‘Look, darling,’ she said in English. ‘Can you see the rabbits?’

  ‘They’re kissing each other,’ he said.

  ‘We have to be quiet and still, or we’ll frighten them away.’ They sat and watched the creatures jump around playfully, every now and then looking about them as if they sensed they were being watched.

  ‘You don’t kiss Papa any more,’ said Agustin suddenly. ‘Don’t you like him any more?’

  Anna was stunned by the question and troubled by the anxious tone in his voice.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replied emphatically.

  ‘You’re always fighting and shouting at each other. I don’t like it,’ he said and suddenly began to sob.

  ‘Look, you’ve frightened away the rabbits,’ she said, trying to distract him.

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to see the rabbits any more!’ he cried. Anna held him closely and tried to reassure him.

  ‘Papa and I sometimes fight, like you and Rafael, or you and Sebastian. Do you remember that fight you had with Sebastian?’ The child nodded slowly.

  ‘Well, it’s nothing more than a small fight.’

  ‘But Sebastian and I are friends again now. You and Papa are still fighting.’

  ‘We’ll make up, you’ll see. I promise, we’ll make up. Now, dry yer tears and let’s see if we can spot an armadillo to tell Grandpa,’ she said, gently drying his face with her shirt sleeve.

  As they walked back to the house she decided she simply couldn’t live like this. It was unbearable for her, it was unbearable for the family. It wasn’t fair that their misery should filter down to their children. She looked at Agustin’s now smiling face and knew she couldn’t disappoint him.

  As she approached the house Soledad came running out, her face wet with tears. Oh God, thought Anna in panic, gripping Agustin’s small hand. Not Rafael, please not Rafael.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked hoarsely as her maid approached, white with anguish.

  ‘Señora Maria Elena!’ gasped Soledad.

  Anna burst into tears with relief. ‘What’s happened?’ she sobbed.

  ‘She’s dead. Señora Maria Elena is dead.’

  ‘Dead? Good God! Where is my husband? Where is Paco?’ she asked.

  ‘At Señor Miguel’s house, Señora.’

  Anna handed Agustin over to Soledad and ran through the trees to Miguel and Chiquita’s house. On entering she found the whole family together in the sitting room. Her eyes searched through the crowd for Paco. But she couldn’t see him for people. Chiquita saw her and walked hastily over to meet her. Her face was swollen from crying.

  ‘Where is Paco?’ Anna asked croakily.

  ‘On the terrace with Miguel,’ she replied, pointing to the French doors. Anna squeezed past her relations whose miserable faces were now no more than a blur, until she reached the doors to the terrace. She peered through the glass and saw Paco talking to Miguel. He had his back to her, so he didn’t see her approach. Miguel acknowledged her sadly before tactfully retreating back inside. Paco turned to see his wife’s pale face looking at him plaintively.

  ‘Oh, Paco. I’m so sorry,’ she said and felt the tears spilling onto her cheeks. He looked at her coldly. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘A car crash, she was on her way down here. Hit by a truck,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘I can’t bear it. Poor Hector, where is he?’

  ‘At the hospital.’

  ‘He must be devastated.’

  ‘He is. We all are,’ he said, averting his eyes.

  ‘Paco, please.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked impassively.

  Anna gulped back a sob. ‘Let me in,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to comfort you.’

  ‘You want to comfort me,’ he repeated as if he didn’t believe her.

  ‘Yes. I know how you must be feeling.’

  ‘You don’t know how I’m feeling,’ he replied scornfully.

  ‘You’re the one who’s having an affair, I’m prepared to overlook that. Forget it. Make a new start.’

  Paco looked at her and frowned. ‘Because my mother’s died?’ he said.

  ‘No, because I still care about you,’ she replied anxiously, blinking at him.

  ‘Well, I’m not prepared to forget what you said about my father,’ he retorted angrily.

  She looked up at him, stunned. ‘Your father? What did I say about Hector? I love Hector.’

  ‘How could you stoop so low as to throw his affair at me as if it’s some family tradition?’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Oh Paco. I only said that to hurt you.’

  ‘Well, you succeeded. Are you happy now?’

  ‘Agustin asked me why I don’t like you any more,’ she said softly. ‘His little face was pale with fear. I didn’t know what to say. Then I thought about it. I do like you. I’ve just forgotten how to love you.’

  Paco looked into her watery blue eyes that shone with self-pity and his heart softened. ‘I’ve forgotten how to love you too,’ he said. ‘I’m not proud of myself.’

  ‘Can’t we try and repair the damage? It’s not all gone, is it? Can’t we wander down those London streets again and recapture that magic? Can’t we remember?’ she said and her pale lips quivered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’

  ‘And I’m sorry I hurt you too,’ she said and smiled weakly. She gazed at him with solicitous eyes.

  ‘Come here, Ana Melodia. You’re right, I do need your comfort,’ he said and slowly pulled her into his arms.

  ‘Is it over?' she said after a while. ‘Can we try again?’

  ‘It’s dead,’ he told her and kissed her forehead with a tenderness she

  thought she’d never experience again. ‘I never stopped loving you, Ana Melodia. I just lost you, that’s all.’

  Maria Elena was buried in the family tomb in town after a sad and stirring service in the church of Nuestra Senora de la Asuncion. She had been loved by everyone. In fact, there weren’t enough seats in the church to accommodate the large number of people who wanted to come to pay their respects so the townspeople had to spill out into the square. Fortunately it was warm and the sun shone down brazenly as if no one had told it that Maria Elena had died.

  Anna watched Paco’s hands shake as he read the lesson and found herself crying all over again. She thanked God that He had made it possible for them to love each other once more. She traced her eyes over the icons beside the altar and found comfort in them. If I was deeply unhappy, she thought, this church and the good Lord would be where I would go for consolation. When it was Miguel’s turn to read she noticed Chiquita wilt like a flower. It had been a terrible shock for everyone, but no one suffered as much as Hector. He seemed to age in a mat
ter of hours, literally melt away in front of their very eyes. He was inconsolable. The strength was sapped out of him. The grief corroded his life like a waterfall of pain, battering his nerves and the canyon that had become his broken heart. He died a year later.

  In the years that followed, Anna and Paco’s lives returned to normal. They watched their children grow and delighted in them as parents should. They talked to each other again, but they never found London in the Argentina they built together. Paco had given up his mistress, Anna tried hard to be a good wife, but the roots of their problems remained even though the tree looked stronger.

  Chapter 12

  Santa Catalina, 1973

  It was late when Sofia crept into her grandfather’s room. The winter moonlight dusted the darkness with a pale blue light as she stopped at the end of his bed and looked down at him. He was snoring loudly, but to Sofia there was something comforting about the noise he made. It reminded her of her childhood, making her feel cherished and secure. She could smell the sweet remains of his pipe, embedded in the curtains and furniture after many a puff. The window was open and the wind rattled along to the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

  Sofia did not want to wake him, but she wanted him to wake up. She knew she shouldn’t be in his room in the middle of the night; her mother would disapprove if she found out. Anna had been horrid to Sofia that day. She didn’t like it when her father indulged her daughter. She accused Dermot of spoiling the girl and did her best to overrule him. But Grandpa O’Dwyer had promised Sofia a leather belt with a silver buckle carved with her initials. Anna had said he was wasting his money, that Sofia wouldn’t appreciate it. She said that Sofia never looked after her things. Threw them on the floor expecting Soledad to pick them up and tidy them away.

  If he had to buy her anything at all, it should be something sensible - like literature, or piano music. Paco had inherited his mother’s piano; Sofia barely used it. It was time the girl put her mind to something, finished something. She had no concentration: she started projects and then lost interest. Yes, Anna decided, studying the piano would be better for her than spending all her time up that ridiculous tree. All young ladies of her class should paint and play music, read good English literature and know how to run a household. Girls shouldn’t spend all day riding ponies and climbing trees.