Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Hey everyone, there they are!’ she announced. ‘There they are!’ And with that an expectant silence descended upon them all as they turned their

  attention to the cloud of dust.

  Chiquita held her breath, not wanting to bring bad luck by hoping too much, expecting any second for the car to turn the other way and to be disappointed. No one noticed one of the dogs steal a sausage from the barbecue. Panchito, now six years old, ran after it oblivious to the arrival of his brother whom he barely remembered anyway. Sofia felt her heart thumping against her ribcage as if it were struggling to free itself from its confine and burst out along with her suffocating breasts. She felt the palms of her hands grow damp with excitement and suddenly wished she had worn jeans and a shirt the way he would have remembered her.

  The cloud got bigger and bigger as it approached until the glimmering steel of the Jeep twinkled through the dust, turned the corner and rattled down the avenue of trees towards the ranch. When it finally halted under the shade of the eucalyptus trees out jumped a taller, broader and more dashing Santi, in a pair of ivory chinos, a sky-blue open-neck shirt and brown leather loafers. The young American had returned.

  Chapter 15

  Santiago Solanas arrived to a welcome party such as he had never seen before. He was suddenly surrounded by his cousins, brothers, aunts and uncles who all wanted to kiss him, embrace him and ask him dozens of questions about his adventures abroad. His mother smiled through her tears with joy and relief that her son had returned safely to the bosom of his family.

  Sofia watched him descend the Jeep and saunter over in the unique way that he walked, confident, slightly bow-legged from having spent his life on a horse, with his slight but detectable limp. He embraced his mother with genuine tenderness. She seemed to dissolve into his arms. He was broader and heavier than he had been the summer before he departed for America. He had left a child and returned a man, Sofia mused, biting her lower lip anxiously. She had never before felt nervous in his presence, and yet suddenly she was overcome with a shyness that was new to her. In her dreams she had unwittingly cultivated a sensual, intimate relationship with him that, although contrary to reality, had become a reality for her that she was now unable to reverse. She couldn’t look at him without blushing. He, of course, knew nothing of it, and when he saw her, embraced her with the same brotherly love as he always had done.

  ‘Chofi, how I missed my favourite cousin,’ he breathed into her softly perfumed neck. ‘You look so different, I hardly recognized you!’ She lowered her eyes apprehensively. He, noticing her awkwardness, frowned in confusion. ‘I think my Chofi has blossomed into a woman while I’ve been away,’ he said, giving her a playful squeeze. Before she could reply, Rafael and Agustin pushed her to the side and patted their cousin on his back with rough affection.

  lChe, good to have you back!’ they exclaimed merrily.

  ‘It’s good to be back, I can tell you,’ he replied, his large green eyes searching the crowd for Panchito. Chiquita, sensing this, hurriedly scoured the terrace and fields for her youngest, eager for everything to be just perfect for her Santi. Finally Miguel appeared round the corner of the house with a squeaking and writhing Panchito dangling happily over one of his big shoulders.

  ‘Ah, there you are, you naughty rascal,’ his mother said cheerfully. ‘Come and say hello to your brother.’ At this request the little boy went quiet and putting a chubby finger in his mouth allowed his mother to take his hand and lead him over to where Santi was waiting for him.

  ‘Panchito!’ Bending down, Santi swept the bashful child into his strong arms. ‘Have you missed me?’ he asked, ruffling the little boy’s sandy hair. Panchito, who looked very much like his brother, opened his green eyes as wide as he could and studied Santi’s face with fascination.

  ‘What is it, Panchito?’ he asked, kissing his smooth, tanned face. The little boy laughed mischievously and after much coaxing buried his head in Santi’s neck and whispered something to him. ‘Ah,’ laughed his brother, ‘you think I’m as hairy as Papa, do you?’ And Panchito ran his hand over his brother’s bristly chin.

  ‘Hey, Panchito, are you going to let me give Santi a hug too?’ said Maria, putting her arms around both of them. Fernando took longer in coming forward; when he did he felt his chest constrict with resentment, but did his best to disguise his awkwardness. He had watched his brother arrive to a hero’s welcome and had hated every moment of it. It sickened him. All he had done was study in a different country, what was the big deal? Pushing his jet-black hair out of his eyes he looked up at Santi from beneath a heavy brow and managed a thin smile. Santi pulled him into his arms and patted him on the back like an old friend. Old friend? They had never been friends.

  ‘How I missed the Argentine asadol’ sighed Santi, tucking into his lomo and blood sausages. ‘No one cooks meat like an Argentine.’ Chiquita glowed with pride, having taken so much trouble to prepare everything just the way he liked it.

  ‘Show everyone how you speak English like an American,’ Miguel said proudly. He had been impressed when he had heard his son talking with the Stanford family back in the spring. As far as he could tell, he didn’t sound any different from the rest of them.

  ‘Yes, I spoke English all the time. All my courses were in English,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, are you going to show us your English or not?’ asked his father, pouring himself some more wine from a crystal decanter.

  ‘Well, what do you want me to say? I’m glad to be home with my folks and I missed you all,’ he said in perfect English.

  ‘Oh, por D/os, spoken like a true American!’ declared his mother, clapping her small hands together proudly. Fernando almost choked on his chorizo.

  ‘Anna, you must be relieved now you have someone else to talk to in your own language,’ said Paco, raising his glass to his nephew approvingly.

  ‘If you call that my own language,’ she replied with mock disdain.

  ‘Mama speaks Irish, that’s hardly pure English either,’ said Sofia, unable to resist.

  ‘Sofia, when you don’t know what to say, sometimes it is better not to say anything at all,’ her mother replied coolly, fanning herself under her hat.

  ‘What else did you miss while you were in America?’ asked Maria.

  Santi thought for a while before replying. He gazed into the half distance, recalling those long nights dreaming of the Argentine pampa, the smell of eucalyptus and the vast blue horizon, so wide and so distant that it was difficult to tell where the earth ended and the sky began.

  ‘I’ll tell you exactly what I missed. I missed Santa Catalina and everything that goes with it,’ he said. His mother’s eyes misted over and she smiled at her husband who responded with equal tenderness.

  ‘Bravo, Santi,’ he said solemnly. ‘Let’s raise our glasses to that.’ And they all raised their glasses to Santa Catalina, except for Fernando who smouldered in silence.

  ‘May it never, ever change,’ said Santi wistfully, glancing momentarily at the strange but beautiful young woman in the white dress who looked at him with limpid brown eyes, and wondered why he felt so uncomfortable in her

  presence.

  With Latin sentimentality the lunch was punctuated with emotional speeches, encouraged along by the constant flow of wine that swelled the senses. The boys, however, found this display of family tenderness a little excessive and tried hard to suppress their laughter. They only wanted to know the calibre of girls in the States and how many Santi had slept with, but they tactfully left their questions until later when they were alone with him on the polo field.

  In despair Sofia threw herself into her room and slammed the door behind her. She almost tore the dress off her body in frustration. Santi had hated her new look, and on reflection so had she. He had completely ignored her. Who was she trying to be? She felt so ashamed. She had looked a fool in front of everyone.

  Rolling the dress into a tiny ball she shoved it at the back of the cupboard behind h
er sweaters and vowed never to wear it again. Hurriedly she pulled on her jeans and polo shirt and picked the pins out of her hair, hurling them onto the floor as if they had been the cause of his indifference. Sitting in front of the bedroom mirror she brushed her hair with angry strokes that hurt her head. She then plaited it, tying it as usual with a red ribbon. Now I feel like Sofia, she

  thought to herself, and wiped her tearstained face with the back of her hand. With a determined step she strode out into the sunshine and hurried towards the pony lines. Never again would she try to be what she wasn’t.

  When Santi saw her approach he was relieved to see that it was the familiar, puerile Sofia who was striding towards him with her unique duck’s gait. The arrogance of her walk amused him and he smiled at the sudden twinge of nostalgia that caused his stomach to lurch. He had felt slightly uneasy when he had first laid eyes on her in her white dress and grown-up hairstyle, although he hadn’t really understood why. She had looked like a ripe peach bursting with sensuality yet there had been something about her that had placed her beyond his reach. She wasn’t his old friend any more, but someone new. He couldn’t help noticing either her newly rounded figure beneath the dress that went transparent when the sun shone behind it, and her shiny brown breasts that underlined her growing up and growing away. She wasn’t a bit the Sofia he had remembered.

  Before he could dwell on it any more she came bounding up to him. It still disturbed him that she had flowered into a woman. He somehow longed for the child she had been when he had left. But once they started chatting the familiar mischievous sparkle in her eyes returned and he was relieved to find that the person inside the new voluptuous body was in fact his beloved cousin after all.

  ‘Papa lets me play all the time,’ she said cheerfully as they walked over to the pony lines.

  ‘And Tfa Anna? How did you manage to get round her?7

  ‘Well, you won’t believe it, but this morning she actually suggested I play polo with you.’

  ‘Is she sick?’

  ‘She must be. Certainly not entirely compos mentis,’ she laughed.

  ‘I enjoyed your letters,’ he said and smiled down at her, recalling the hundreds of long epistles, written in her messy, careless scrawl on pale blue airmail paper.

  ‘I enjoyed yours. You sounded like you had a really incredible time. I was quite envious actually. I’d love to go away.’

  ‘You will one day.’

  ‘Did you have lots of girlfriends in America?’ she asked masochistically.

  ‘Lots,’ he replied casually, and his hand grabbed the back of her neck fondly.

  He squeezed it a little too enthusiastically. ‘You know, Chofi, I’m so happy to be back, I can’t tell you. If I was told now that I would never leave Santa Catalina again I would be the happiest man alive.’

  ‘But didn’t you like America?’ she asked, remembering the tone of his letters which all suggested that he had lost his heart to it.

  ‘Sure I did, I had a great time, but you only realize how much you love something when you leave it for a while. When you return you see it in a totally different light because you are suddenly able to stand back and see it the way it is. All the things you previously took for granted you suddenly love with such intensity, because you know what it is to be without them. Do you know what I’m saying?’

  She nodded. ‘I think so,’ she replied, but she clearly didn’t for she had never left Santa Catalina like he had.

  ‘You take it for granted, don’t you, Chofi? Do you ever stop and look at it in all its beauty?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she replied, not sure whether she really did or not. He looked at her with a wry smile, the crow’s feet at the ends of his eyes extending and deepening as he did so.

  ‘I learnt a valuable lesson while I was away. My friend Stanley Norman taught me.’

  ‘Stanley Norman?’

  lSf. I have to tell it in English, it won’t work in Spanish.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s a little story about “the precious present”.’

  ‘The precious present.’

  ‘It’s a true story about a little boy who lived with his grandparents. His grandpa was a serene and spiritual man who told him wonderful stories. One of the stories he told his grandson was about the “Precious Present”.’ Sofia thought of Grandpa O’Dwyer and suddenly felt sad. ‘The child was so excited about it and would always ask his grandpa what exactly this present was. The old man told him that he would find out all in good time, but that it was something that would bring him a lasting happiness such as he had never experienced before. Well, the little boy kept his eyes peeled and when he was given a bicycle for his birthday which made him very happy indeed he thought that this must be the “Precious Present” his grandpa had described. But by and by he grew bored with his new toy and realized that it couldn’t be the Precious

  Present because his grandpa had told him that it would bring him lasting happiness.

  ‘Well, the little boy grew into a young man and he met a lovely young woman with whom he fell in love. At last, he thought, this is the Precious Present that will bring me lasting happiness. But they fought and grew restless and in the end went their separate ways. So the young man travelled and saw the world and in every new place he thought that he had at last found true happiness, but he was always looking to the next country, the next beautiful place, and found that his happiness never lasted. It was as if he was searching for something unattainable, but searching nonetheless. And this made him very sad. Then, having married again, having had children and finding that he still hadn’t discovered the Precious Present that his grandpa had told him about, he became very disillusioned.

  ‘Finally, one day his grandpa died and with him died the secret of the Precious Present - or so the young man thought. He sat down miserably and recalled all the happy moments he had shared with his wise old grandpa. And then it dawned on him, after all those years of searching. What was it about his grandpa that made him so satisfied, so contented and so serene? What was it about him that made you feel like the most important person in the world when you talked to him? Why was it that he created such a peaceful atmosphere around him and passed it on to everyone he met? The Precious Present wasn’t a present after all in the material sense of the word. It was in fact the here and now, the present, el momento - ahora. His grandfather had lived in the moment, savouring every second. He wasn’t existing in the tomorrow, for why waste your energy on something that might never happen? And he didn’t dwell in yesterday because yesterday is gone and doesn’t exist any more. The present is the only reality and in order to attain lasting happiness one has to learn to live in the here and now and not worry or waste time thinking about anything else.’

  ‘Hey, vamos chicosl9 shouted an agitated Agustin, already cantering around the field stick and balling.

  ‘What a divine story,’ Sofia said, thinking how much Grandpa O’Dwyer would have liked it. That was part of his philosophy.

  ‘Come on, Chofi, we’ll play together again - we play well that way, don’t we?’ he said, breaking away from her to mount his pony. Sofia watched him canter off into the field. His story had made a deep impression on her.

  Santi was thrilled to be playing with his brother and cousins again on the farm that he loved so much. He was filled with a bursting energy and joie de vivre, and felt at that moment that he could conquer anything and anyone. He cantered around the field aware of every smell, every colour and everything that belonged to Santa Catalina and inhaled it all in long, deep breaths. He loved it like a person. As the match began he was firmly existing in the moment, not wanting to hasten the arrival of tomorrow or think about yesterday.

  Sofia was playing with Santi, Agustin and Sebastian. On the opposing team played Fernando, Rafael, Niquito and Angel. It was a friendly match though not without the usual competitiveness that arose when all the family played together. Their shouts echoed across the field as they roared up and down, sweating
with exertion in the heavy, damp air.

  Paco enjoyed watching his daughter play; in her he saw his own aggressive love of the game reflected, and was proud of it. She was the only girl he knew who played to such a high standard. Sofia embodied all the qualities that he had recognized in Anna when he had first met her, although Anna disagreed with him wholeheartedly. According to her, she had never been nearly as daring or outrageous as her daughter; those qualities she could only have

  inherited from him.

  The cousins were used to Sofia’s presence on the field and no one minded. They had tolerated her participation in the match against La Paz that time because they had won, but they prevented her from ever playing in a match again. They knew they could treat her like a man but other players who were unused to playing with a woman just couldn’t bring themselves to act naturally around her. Therefore Paco agreed it wasn’t right that she should alter the tone of the match. She was allowed to play only with her cousins. For Sofia, she didn’t care as long as she played. For her polo was more than a game, it was liberation from all the constraints imposed upon her by her mother. On the field she was treated like everyone else. She could do what she wanted, shout and scream, vent all her fury, and what’s more, her father applauded her.

  The late-afternoon sun cast long, monstrous shadows which seemed to have a life of their own as they fought one another like medieval lancers on the grass. Once or twice Fernando nearly rode his brother clean off his pony, but Santi just smiled happily at him and galloped off. Santi’s smile made Fernando feel even more irritated. Didn’t he realize that his aggression had nothing whatsoever to do with the game? He’d push him harder next time. At the end of the

  match they gave their ponies, glistening with sweat and snorting froth, back to the grooms who had been milling around the pony lines in their bombachas and berets.

  ‘I’m going to the pool for a swim,’ announced Sofia, wiping her forehead which was damp and itchy from where her hat had been.