Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree

by Santa Montefiore

  When David returned Sofia was at the door impatiently awaiting him in the new red dress he had bought her. It was cut low at the front, exposing a tiny part of her lace underwear at the cleavage then close-fitting almost down to the ground, revealing when she walked a stocking-clad leg through the slit up the side. She was taller due to her high heels and her hair was clean and loose, falling about her in smooth, shiny waves. He was stunned and the admiration in his expression caused her stomach to flutter with happiness.

  After dinner in a small, elegant restaurant that opened onto the enchanting Place des Vosges, David helped her into her new coat and led her by the hand into the crisp night. The sky was alive with hundreds of tiny stars that trembled from far away and the moon so large and clear it took them both by surprise.

  ‘You know it’s Christmas Eve,’ he said as they walked slowly across the square.

  ‘I suppose it is. I haven’t really celebrated Christmas since I arrived in England,’ she said without self-pity.

  ‘Well, you’re celebrating it tonight with me,’ he said and squeezed her hand. ‘It couldn’t be a more beautiful night.’

  ‘It’s stunning. Santa Claus will have no problem finding his way through the sky tonight, will he?’ she laughed. They ambled around the icy stone fountain and gazed up at the sculpture that depicted a flurry of wild geese setting off into the night. ‘It looks as if someone’s clapped their hands and frightened them,’ she exclaimed in admiration. ‘Clever, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sofia,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It’s amazing those top ones don’t snap off, they look so fragile.’

  ‘Sofia,’ he repeated earnestly.

  ‘Yes?’ she replied, without taking her eyes off the sculpture.

  ‘Look at me.’ It was such an odd thing to say that she turned and looked at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, but she could see from his expression that there was nothing wrong. He took both her gloved hands in his and looked at her tenderly.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Marry you?’ she repeated in amazement. For a fleeting second she saw

  Santi’s anguished face and heard his voice resound weakly on the wind: ‘Let's run away far from here and marry. Will you marry me?' But then it was gone and David was standing over her, watching her apprehensively. She felt her eyes fill with tears and wasn’t sure whether she was happy or sad.

  ‘Yes, David, I will marry you,’ she stammered. David visibly exhaled with relief and his face crumpled into a smile. He pulled a small black box out of his pocket and pressed it into her hands. She opened it carefully to reveal a large ruby ring. ‘Red’s my favourite colour,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know,’ he replied softly.

  ‘Oh David, it’s beautiful. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything. Put it on.'

  She fumbled to remove her glove, giving the ring back to him so as not to drop it onto the glittering cobblestones. He then took her pale hand and slipped the ring on her finger before lifting it up to his lips and kissing it. ‘You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, Sofia,’ he said, his blue eyes shining at her with emotion.

  ‘And you’ve made me complete, David. I never thought I’d love again. But I love you,’ she said and placed her arms around his neck. ‘I really do love you.’

  Chapter 29

  Santa Catalina, 1979

  It was at the beginning of 1979 that Santi finally allowed himself to be loved again. It was also the year that Fernando’s chickens came home to roost.

  Chiquita would never forget the day they arrived at Santa Catalina to find their house broken into. She had only seen that sort of destruction in magazines. Other people’s houses, other people’s misery. It was always someone else’s problem. But she had looked around at smashed furniture, broken glass, torn curtains. Someone had urinated on her bedspread. The house smelt of strangers. It reeked of menace. They had found Encarnacion, too old to withstand this sort of shock, wringing her hands in despair, her face twisted with terror, howling on the terrace. ‘I don’t know how they got in. I didn’t see anyone. Who could do this?’ she wailed. When Miguel and Chiquita heard that Fernando had been arrested they realized they were dealing with something much bigger than themselves.

  Carlos Riberas, a friend of Fernando’s, called them from a phone box to inform them that their son had been involved with the guerrillas and that he had

  been arrested. He couldn’t tell them any more than that. He didn’t know where they had taken him, or when he would be released. He wanted to add ‘if they release him at all’. But he stopped himself. Fernando’s parents obviously had no idea of his nocturnal activities. He hoped Fernando would be strong enough to resist naming his friends.

  Miguel sank into a chair and sat so still he might have been turned to marble. Chiquita burst into tears. Wringing her hands and pacing the room she sobbed that she had no idea of Fernando’s involvement with the guerrillas, not a clue. He had conducted his activities in total secrecy. ‘I don’t know my son!’ she grieved. ‘My own son is a stranger to me.’

  Numbed by their sense of utter helplessness, the couple held each other. Both wished they had paid their son more attention; their anxiety over Santi’s affair with Sofia had completely eclipsed Fernando. Perhaps if they had been better parents they would have noticed and been able to stop him in time. But now what?

  Miguel and his brothers contacted everyone they knew in a position of power, but no one had any idea where Fernando was. They were told that he had probably been abducted by ‘off-duty’ security men - paramilitaries operating

  for the government. There was nothing they could do but wait. In the meantime they would continue to enquire as to his whereabouts.

  The whole Solanas family waited. A dark fog collected over Chiquita’s home, a fog from which she feared she might never be released. While she tearfully put her house back together again she kept telling herself that her husband’s family had influence. They would never hurt a Solanas. Fernando would be returned to them and everything would be all right. It was probably a terrible mistake. Her son couldn't be involved with the opposition, not knowing the dangers. He just wouldn’t put himself or his family through this. No, she convinced herself, there must be some mistake. Then more soberly she wished they had been able to prevent him from getting involved with those irresponsible young people. Hadn’t Miguel warned him of the risks involved? Yes, she did remember something about that. Why hadn’t they been more attentive? Once more she blamed herself.

  Fernando sat miserably in an airless cell. A small window allowed enough light to illuminate the concrete walls and floor. There was no furniture. Nothing he could lie on. He had been beaten. He thought they had probably broken a couple of ribs, maybe a finger, he couldn’t tell, it was too swollen. But he hurt all over. His face throbbed. He didn’t know what he looked like, but he imagined he looked bloody and raw. They had abducted him while he walked along the street. A black car had pulled up on the kerb, the door had opened and two men in suits had walked out, grabbed him and forced him into the back seat. It had all happened in less than twenty seconds. No one noticed. No one saw.

  With a gun pressed up against his ribcage, they had blindfolded him and taken him to an apartment block about thirty miles outside the city. Two days ago, three? He couldn’t remember. Names, that’s what they wanted, names. They said he was dispensable. They didn’t need him. They had plenty of other people who would talk. He believed them. He had heard the screams echoing through the building. They could kill him and no one would care. They said his friends had betrayed him - so why protect them?

  When he refused to talk they had knocked him unconscious. When he came to he had no idea how long he had been out. He felt disorientated and afraid. The fear hung so dense on the walls he could smell it. He missed his family and wished he were back home at Santa Catalina; his stomach literally lurched with longing. Why had he got involved with those stup
id people? He didn’t

  really care about his country like he pretended to. Why hadn’t he just kept his head down like his father had told him to? He had felt so pleased with himself Joining the guerrilla movement had made him feel important and powerful; it had given him a purpose, an identity. He hadn’t told anyone close to him about it and he had wallowed in the pleasure his secret had given him. He was doing something worthy, or at least it had felt worthy at the time. It had been exciting. Rather like playing Cowboys and Indians - only the stakes were higher. He had joined clandestine meetings in the basement of Carlos Riberas’s house. He had marched in demonstrations and handed out subversive antigovernment leaflets. He did believe in democracy, but nothing was worth risking one’s life for.

  Fernando sniffed back his misery. He was a coward - he had even soiled his trousers. He had never before felt such pangs of despair; they seemed to tear at his insides - he could almost hear the ripping. If they kill me, he thought, let it be quick and painless. Please God, let it be quick.

  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.

  Chapter 30

  ‘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.’