Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree

by Santa Montefiore

  Slowly, life at Santa Catalina returned to normal. The winter months finally thawed and gave way to the lengthening days and budding flowers. The scent of fertility filled the air and the birds returned to announce the arrival of spring. Past wounds began to heal over and resentment dissipated with the winter mists. Santi opened his eyes and began to see the world again; it looked different somehow. It was time to shave off his beard.

  Chapter 23

  Eduardo Maraldi was tall, lanky and intellectual. He had a long sensitive nose and grey eyes that betrayed his every emotion. If it had not been for his small, Trotsky-style spectacles, they would have declared his feelings to anyone who got close enough to look into them. When he first visited Maria she was immediately struck by the soft voice that belied his tall frame, and the gentle way he placed his hands on her when he examined her.

  Tell me, where does it hurt?7 he asked her and she found herself playing down her pain for fear of upsetting him. She was used to doctors who were coolly detached, doctors who didn’t get too involved with their patients.

  By the second visit she was telling him all about Facundo. Things she hadn’t even told her mother. Like how he’d force himself on her when he was drunk -he had never wanted to have sex with her, he had wanted to save her virginity for their wedding night, but he had run his hands over her body and when he had been drunk he had hurt her. She told Eduardo how he had made her touch him in a way that she had found distressing. How he had made her do things she didn’t want to do. How he had frightened her and won her love at the same time. Encouraged by Eduardo’s unassuming smile and kind expression she told him things she never thought she’d tell anyone. Suddenly, responding to his sympathy, she started to cry. He placed his arm around her and without overstepping that fine line that separates doctor from patient, he did his best to comfort her.

  ‘Seinorita Solanas,’ he said after she had calmed down a little, ‘physically your wounds will heal until they disappear altogether and no one would ever know you had been hurt. That is not the problem.’ She looked up at him quizzically. ‘It is your mental scars that I worry about. Is there anyone you can talk to at home?’

  ‘I haven’t talked about it really with anyone.’

  ‘What about your mother?’ He recalled the slim, affectionate woman whom he had met on his first visit to her house.

  ‘Oh, I talk to her. But not like I talk to you,’ she replied and blushed. She lowered her eyes.

  ‘You need to be looked after and loved,’ he said. She flushed a deeper red and hoped he hadn’t noticed. He had and he also felt hot under his collar.

  ‘Oh, I have a very loving family, Dr Maraldi.’

  Those mental scars will take a long time to heal. Don’t expect miracles. You may suddenly get depressed for no apparent reason. You may find it difficult to start a new relationship. Just be patient and remember that you have been through something that will have affected you more than you realize.’

  Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘If you need to talk, you can always come and see me,’ he suggested. He hoped that she would.

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  When she left his surgery, Eduardo splashed his face with cold water. Had he spoken out of turn? Had he scared her off? He wanted to tell her that he would look after her, but he couldn’t ask a patient out. It was unprofessional. Oh, how he hoped she’d come back.

  Maria wished Sofia were around. She would have been able to talk to her frankly about all of this. She missed her. She thought of her often, wondered what she was doing, who she was with. She had tried to write again to explain, but Dominique had sent the letter back with a note of her own, telling her that Sofia had gone to live in London and that she had no idea of her address. Well, Maria wasn’t that stupid. Sofia had obviously told her that she didn’t want her family to know where she was. She really had cut herself off-and it was all her fault. The guilt she felt weighed heavily on her heart. She half wanted her cousin to come back so she could explain, and half never wanted to see her again because she felt too ashamed. She knew she would never find a friend to replace Sofia.

  During the next two months Maria thought of Eduardo more often than she had expected to. The images of Facundo slowly receded in her mind and Eduardo’s long, angular face took his place. She hoped he’d call, but he never did. She knew she could go and see him, under the pretence that she needed to talk, but she worried that he might see through her. She doubted he had thought of her once since their last meeting.

  Then the strangest thing happened. God, or whoever controls our destinies, realized that if He didn’t intervene these two self-effacing creatures would never find each other again. So He placed Eduardo in the middle of the street as Maria was wandering absentmindedly down it with her basket of books, on her way back home after a lecture at the university. Not looking where she was going, she bumped right into him. They both apologized at the same time before they raised their eyes and recognized each other.

  ‘Senorita Solanas!’ he exclaimed and his misery lifted. The last two months had dragged by as he had plunged himself into depression for no reason at all. Suddenly, his spirits jumped out of their socks and he smiled wider than was normally comfortable.

  ‘Dr Maraldi,’ she laughed in surprise. This is such a ...’

  ‘Coincidence. Yes, isn’t it!’ He chuckled and shook his head in awe of his luck.

  ‘Please call me Maria,’ she said, her face aflame.

  ‘I’m Eduardo. I’m not your doctor today.’

  ‘No, no you’re not,’ she replied and giggled foolishly.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or something?’ he asked, then added quickly, ‘You probably don’t have time.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to,’ she said just as quickly.

  ‘Good. Good,’ he stammered. ‘I know a nice cafe a couple of streets from here. Here, let me help you with your bag,’ he insisted. She let him take her basket, which was really quite heavy due to a new hardback history book she had bought, and they wandered slowly down the street. Eduardo made sure he walked on the outside.

  Cafe Calabria was cool and not very busy. Eduardo chose a table in the corner by the window and pulled out her chair. When the waiter ambled over Eduardo gave him their order and asked for two alfajores de maizena. ‘Oh, I really couldn’t!’ protested Maria, worrying about her figure. Eduardo looked at her and thought how truly beautiful she was because of her luscious body. She reminded him of a ripe peach. Maria noticed his expression behind his glasses and heard herself adding, ‘Well, all right, just this once.’

  Their coffee lasted through lunch and tea and they didn’t leave until six in the evening. Maria told him all about Sofia; she confessed everything. He understood all her actions and had an explanation for every one. He seemed to have a deep knowledge of psychology. She told him of her cousin’s relationship with her brother and trusted that he would never tell anyone.

  ‘I did a terrible thing,’ she explained sadly. ‘I burnt Sofia’s letters. I wish I hadn’t, I’ll never forgive myself. Because now I’ve lost my best friend and I almost lost my brother.’

  Eduardo looked at her, his face full of compassion. ‘You thought you were doing the right thing. The path to Hell is paved with good intentions,’ he said and chuckled kindly.

  ‘I know that now.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it. But we learn much more from unhappy times than we do from happy ones. With every sadness there is always something positive just around the corner. Perhaps one day when Sofia is happily married with five children, she'll come to you and thank you. Who knows? The important thing is not to torment yourself about it now. There’s no point crying over something that is done and irreversible. Look forward,’ he advised, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the napkin.

  ‘So you don’t think I’m evil?’ she asked and smiled shyly.

  ‘No, I don’t think you’re evil. I think you’re a good person who made a mistake and - well, we all make
mistakes,’ he said, reassuring her. He wanted to tell her that he thought she was a beautiful person on the inside as well as on the outside. He wanted to love her enough to erase any trace of hurt or guilt or pain. He knew that he could make her happy if she would only give him the chance.

  Eduardo told Maria that he had almost married. When she asked him why he had changed his mind, he replied truthfully that there was something missing. A spark, a connection. ‘Call me an incurable romantic,’ he said, ‘but I knew I

  could love someone more than I loved her.’

  Since that afternoon they had spent long hours on the telephone, gone on a few dates to the cinema and dinner before he attempted to kiss her. She knew he was taking it slowly and was grateful even though she had wanted him to kiss her that afternoon in the cafe. He arrived with a small bunch of wildflowers to pick her up. He then drove her to a restaurant on La Costanera overlooking the river where they gazed at each other through the candlelight and talked without pause. After the dinner he suggested they walk a little by the waterside. She knew he was going to kiss her and she suddenly became nervous and quiet. They walked along in silence for a while until the silence became too arduous to bear. Finally he took her hand and held it firmly, then he stopped walking and took her other hand, swinging her around to face him.

  ‘Maria,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ she replied.

  ‘I . . . I’ve wanted to . . .’ It was agony. She wished he’d just kiss her and get it over with.

  ‘Eduardo, it’s okay. I want you to,’ she whispered finally, then caught her breath at her boldness. He seemed relieved that she had given him her

  consent. Momentarily she feared it would be unpleasantly awkward but then as he placed his warm hand on her face and his trembling lips on hers he kissed her with a confidence she didn’t think he possessed. Later when she told him this he smiled proudly and informed her that she gave him the belief that he could do anything.

  Chiquita and Miguel had been aware of every outing with Dr Maraldi. They had sat up in bed at night discussing the romance. Chiquita prayed every night before she went to bed that he would look after her little girl and make her forget the horrendous Facundo. She prayed so hard that sometimes she would wake up with her hands still firmly pressed together. When they announced their engagement at the end of the summer Chiquita muttered a silent word of thanks before embracing her daughter tearfully.

  ‘Mama, I don’t know why I deserve this,’ Maria said later when she was alone with her mother. ‘He’s everything I could possibly want. He’s kind, and funny, and eccentric. I love him because of the way his hands shake when he handles fragile things, because of the way he stammers when he’s nervous, because of his humility. I’m so lucky. So, so lucky. I only wish Sofia were here to see me. She’d be happy for me, I know she would. I miss her, Mama.’

  ‘We all miss her, dearest. We all miss her terribly.’

  Chapter 24

  London, 1974

  Sofia arrived in London in mid-November 1974 with a flagging spirit. She took one look at the grey sky and drizzle and yearned for her homeland. Her cousin had made a booking for her at Claridges. ‘It’s just next to Bond Street,’ she had said brightly, ‘the most glamorous shopping street in Europe.’

  But Sofia didn’t want to shop. She sat on her bed staring out of the window at the relentless rain that seemed to float down from the sky. It was cold and damp. She didn’t want to go out. She didn’t know quite what to do, so she called Dominique to tell her that she had arrived safely. She could hear little Santiguito crying in the background and her heart ached with longing for him. She recalled his little fingers and perfect toes. When she put down the receiver she went over to her suitcase and rummaged inside. She pulled out a piece of white muslin and pressed it against her nose. It smelt of Santiguito. She curled into a ball on her bed and cried herself to sleep.

  The hotel was very grand, with tall ceilings and beautiful plasterwork on the walls. The staff were charming and looked after her every need as Dominique had said they would. ‘Just ask for Claude, he will take care of you,’ she advised. Sofia had found Claude, a small, portly man with a shiny bald head that resembled a table-tennis ball. When she had mentioned her cousin Dominique’s name, Claude’s head had swelled red, right to the shiny plateau on top. Dabbing his forehead with a white hanky he had told her that if she needed anything, anything at all, she must not hesitate to ask. Her cousin was a very good client of the hotel, the most charming client, in fact. It would give him great pleasure to do her the favour.

  She knew she should look for a flat, a job, but she hadn’t the energy. So she went for long walks around Hyde Park, getting to know this new city. If her heart hadn’t felt so heavy she would have enjoyed the freedom of exploring London without a parent or bodyguard shadowing her everywhere she went. She was able to go anywhere, talk to anyone, without suspicion. She wandered up the streets, peering into shop windows that glittered with Christmas decorations, she even visited a few galleries and exhibitions. She bought an umbrella from a small shop in Piccadilly; it would become her most useful purchase.

  London was so unlike Buenos Aires. It didn’t really feel like a city at all, more of a large town. The houses were low and the roads lined with trees and

  perfect, smooth pavements, twisted and turned so one had no idea where one was going to end up. Buenos Aires was constructed on a grid system of blocks; one always knew where one was going to end up. To Sofia, London was as shiny and neat as a polished pearl. Her own city looked grubby and crumbling by comparison. But Buenos Aires was home and she missed it.

  After a couple of days she began to look for a flat. On Claude’s advice she spoke to a lady called Mathilda at a rental agency in Fulham who found her a small, one-bedroom apartment in Queen’s Gate. Pleased with her new flat, Sofia went out shopping for things to put in it. It was fully furnished but she wanted to make it her own, her little fortress in this foreign land. So she bought a bedcover, rugs, china, vases, coffee-table books, cushions and pictures.

  Shopping made her feel better and she ventured out in spite of the frightening wave of bombs that hit London at that time. One actually went off in Harrods and one outside Selfridges. But Sofia didn’t have a television and didn’t bother to buy the papers - she heard all the news she needed from the taxi drivers who were the jolliest group of men she had ever met. London taxis were shiny and spacious and the buses were adorable, like models from a toy

  town.

  ‘Foreign, are you?’ asked one taxi driver in an accent that made it hard for her to understand what he was saying. ‘Not a good time to come to London, luv. Don’t you get the news where you come from? Those bloody Unions seem to be runnin’ the country. There’s no proper leadership, that’s the problem. The country’s in free-fall. I told my wife, I said, “The country’s going to the dogs. What we need is a good sharp shock.” ’ Sofia nodded blindly. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Sofia gradually warmed to London with its handsome policemen in funny hats, the guards outside St James’s Palace who never moved, and the little townhouses and mews; it was like nothing she had ever seen before. A doll’s city full of doll’s houses, she thought, remembering her mother’s book on England with all those quaint photographs. She hung around outside Buckingham Palace only because she wanted to know what everyone else was doing there with their noses pressed to the iron gates. She discovered the Changing of the Guard, which so enthralled her she had to return the following day for a second viewing. She starved her heart of thoughts of Santi and Argentina and of little Santiguito until it gave up the fight and numbed itself into submission.

  She wouldn’t torment herself any longer.

  When her money began to run out she embarked reluctantly on the search for a job. Unqualified, she started by trawling around the shops. They all wanted someone with experience and as she had none they simply shook their heads and saw her to the door. ‘There’s so much unemploymen
t,’ they sighed, ‘you’ll be lucky if anyone wants you.’ After three long weeks of looking without success, Sofia became desperate. Her money was disappearing and she had to pay the rent. She didn’t want to call Dominique. She had been kind enough and Sofia couldn’t bear to be reminded of her son.

  One day, feeling downhearted, she wandered into a bookshop on the Fulham Road. A kind-looking man wearing glasses was sitting behind a pile of books, humming along to the radio. She told him she was looking for work but everywhere she had tried needed people with experience and she had none. She imagined things were busy, as it was the Christmas season. The man shook his head, said he was sorry, but they didn’t need any more staff. ‘It’s only a small shop, you see,’ he explained. ‘However, they do need help next door at Maggie’s. You could try there. You see, they’re not looking for experience.’

  She wandered back out in the cold. It was getting dark. She looked at her watch. It still surprised her how early it got dark in England. It was only three-thirty. Maggie’s, it turned out, was a hair salon. Sofia recoiled. She certainly wasn’t desperate enough to stoop to that level. So after looking in through the foggy window she walked on by, bought herself a hot chocolate at a cafe and sat gazing into her cup. After a while she watched the other people around her. Some had been out Christmas shopping; their bags brimmed with shiny packages. They all chatted away, oblivious to her. She placed her hands around the mug to warm them and hunched over the table. She suddenly felt very alone. She didn’t have a single friend in this country.

  Oh, how she missed Santi - and she missed Maria, too. Maria had been her best and most treasured friend. She longed to talk to her and communicate what she was going through. She regretted never having written to her. She regretted never having confided in her. She imagined Maria must be as sad and as lonely as she was. She knew her friend. But it was too late now. If only she had written a year ago. But if she hadn’t known how to begin a letter then she certainly wouldn’t know how to begin one now. No, she had missed her moment. She had not only lost her lover, but the woman who, albeit of a more gentle and timid nature than herself, had understood her and supported her