Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘He’s married. I’ve seen him a bit about town. He’s still dashingly handsome.’ Eva blushed. She hadn’t forgotten his kisses. She traced a long finger across her lips absentmindedly. ‘His limp is worse for some reason and he has aged. But it suits him. He’s still the same old Santi.’

  ‘Who has he married?’ asked Sofia, trying to disguise the tremor in her voice

  lest it betray her. She averted her eyes and cast them out somewhere into the half distance.

  ‘Claudia Calice,’ Eva said, her voice lifting at the end of the name enquiringly.

  ‘No, I never knew her. What’s she like?’ Sofia asked, struggling with that familiar emptiness that now threatened to engulf her once again. She was crushed by the news that he had committed to someone else, and she recalled once more that moment under the ombu tree when he had begged her to run away and marry him. The ghostly resonance of his words still echoed through the corridors of her memory.

  ‘She’s very elegant. Dark, glossy hair. Very groomed. Typically Argentine,’ said Eva, unaware of Sofia’s unremitting attachment. ‘She’s charming. She’s quite social, more at home in the city than in the country. I don’t think she likes the country. At least, she confided to me once that she hates horses. She said she had to pretend to Santi who as we all know, lives for them.’ Then Eva added in a more gentle tone: ‘You didn’t know he had married?’

  ‘Of course not. I haven’t spoken to him since-well, since I left,’ she replied hoarsely and lowered her eyes.

  ‘Surely Santi can’t be the reason you haven’t been back?’

  ‘No, no. Of course not,’ Sofia said a little too quickly.

  ‘Haven’t you communicated at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even to your parents?’

  ‘Especially not to my parents.’

  Eva sat back against the bench and studied Sofia’s features in amazement. ‘Don’t you miss it?’ she asked, aghast. ‘Don’t you miss them?

  ‘I did at the beginning. But it’s incredible how you can forget when you’re this far away,’ she lied forlornly. Then added, ‘I have made myself forget.’

  They sat in silence, Eva pondering on possible reasons for Sofia’s exile and Sofia reflecting sadly on Santi and his life with Claudia. She tried to picture him older, with a heavier limp but she could not. In her mind he was as she had left him, eternally youthful.

  ‘You know Agustin now lives in America, in Washington? He married an American,’ said Eva after a while.

  ‘Really? And Rafa?’ Sofia asked, trying to sound interested, but all she could think about was Santi and she longed for Eva to talk about him again.

  ‘He married Jasmina Pena years ago. Not long after you left, in fact. Now they are blissfully happy. I don’t see much of them. They spend most of their time at Santa Catalina as he looks after the farm. I always liked Rafa, he was somehow safe when all the others were baying for blood. He could always be relied on, not like Agustin,’ she said, recalling Agustin’s unwelcome attention. While he had been in Buenos Aires he had earned himself something of a reputation, taking girls out, sometimes running a few at the same time. He was the sort of young man mothers warned their daughters about and later girls warned their girlfriends about. No wonder he had married an American, thought Eva. A whole new patch to play around on.

  ‘Is Santi happy?’ asked Sofia suddenly, biting her lower lip.

  ‘Yes, I think so. But you know what it’s like, people marry, have children and somehow you lose touch with them. I see them every now and again, but Roberto and I travel so much. His polo takes him all over the world and I go with him. I’m rarely in Buenos Aires and I haven’t been to Santa Catalina since Fernando left. Fernando and Roberto were so close, now we don’t seem to have time to see even him. But when I last saw Santi it was at a wedding in the city,’ she recalled.

  ‘Will you tell me about it?’ asked Sofia, risking exposing her feelings for a glimpse of Santi. Eva looked at her curiously. She knew Sofia had been sent away to get over an infatuation she had had for her cousin, but Eva had no knowledge of the depth of feeling between them. How could she have known that within, Sofia still wept silently for Santi, that like a balloon she had let him go only to find that he drifted eternally among the clouds in her memory.

  ‘Bueno, it was the wedding of a cousin of Roberto’s. They have a beautiful estancia not far from Santa Catalina, about two hours from Buenos Aires. I had never met Claudia before, but she and Santi had been married for about two years. Yes, it must have been well over two years because they married in 1983,

  I think, and it was last summer. Santi was stressed out, anyway - there was a mala honda between them; they had obviously had a disagreement because they barely spoke to each other. Claudia spent all her time with the little children. She’s very good with children. I noticed that they all followed her around like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. I also love children; at that time Roberto and I were trying for a baby. I suspect they were trying too, because they had been married a couple of years and she was so obviously wanting them.

  ‘Anyway, I talked to Santi,’ Eva told Sofia. ‘He still plays a lot of polo, not

  professionally like Roberto - actually, I don’t think he likes Roberto that much.’ She smiled to herself, wondering whether his wariness of her husband might have been due to the fact that he may have wanted her for himself. She remembered once again his kiss and a pink glow diffused across the apples of her cheeks. ‘I don’t think this is a very good example, because I know he’s happy. He’s very happy with Claudia. They must have been having a bad day. He was distracted. But he couldn’t have been more charming. They both were. Your parents were there, too, by the way. I’ve always liked your parents, especially your mother. She’s warm and kind.’

  If Sofia had been listening she would have frowned at that description of her mother, but she was in the clouds with her balloon, thinking about Santi.

  ‘I just don’t understand why you can’t go back,’ Eva said urgently. The most difficult part would be seeing everyone again, but after the initial “hellos” surely things would return to normal. I know they’d all be so happy to see you again.’

  ‘Ah, there’s Roberto,’ said Sofia as Roberto came striding up towards them. He had aged a little. His good looks were undermined slightly by a heavy jaw that seemed to pull his mouth down with it. But he was still handsome.

  ‘I see you’ve met my wife,’ he said, running his hand down Eva’s long white hair.

  ‘We had met once before.’

  ‘I’ve never been in love with anyone like I’m in love with my wife,’ he said pointedly. ‘She’s made me a complete man.’

  Sofia smiled. He had always been transparent, she thought as he tried to indirectly tell her that their romance all those years ago had meant nothing. He needn’t have bothered; it had meant nothing to her either. After a while she couldn’t think of anything else to say to him.

  Eva and Roberto watched Sofia walk off towards the tent, where the buffet lunch was being served.

  ‘She’s still very beautiful,’ Eva said. ‘She’s a strange girl, you know. Imagine leaving your home like that, without even a word. What sort of person can do that?’

  ‘She was always as stubborn as hell,’ Roberto shrugged. ‘She was spoilt and independent. Fercho couldn’t stand her.’

  ‘Well, she was sweet to me. She really made an effort that time I stayed at Santa Catalina. I’ll never forget that. I’m very fond of her - I’m fond of her

  whole family.’

  ‘Are you going to tell them you saw her?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell Anna. I don’t want to stir things up, it seems to be a sensitive subject.’ Then she added thoughtfully: ‘I might be wrong, but I suspect she still cares for Santi. She asked me lots of questions.’

  ‘After so many years? I can’t believe it’s possible.’

  ‘Oh, it’s possible. You don’t think she refuses to go back becaus
e of him?’

  ‘No. Fercho said she fell out with Anna and Paco and blamed them for making her go to Geneva. He said she was just making a point and that she’d go back in the end. When things get boring over here, she’d go back to put the wind up them at Santa Catalina. Believe me, I know Sofia. She’s not capable of a quiet life. She’s always caused trouble and she’s not going to change now, however wonderful her husband is.’

  ‘Roberto, you’re being unkind,’ Eva said, shaking her head. ‘I’m going to tell Anna that she’s well and happy. I think I might get her address from Zaza, then at least Anna can write to her if she wishes to. It’s all so unnecessary,’ she sighed, standing up. ‘I’d never leave you for anything in the world,’ she added, embracing him.

  ‘Amorcita, you wouldn’t leave me, because I wouldn’t let you,’ he smirked and kissed her. Eva watched Sofia over Roberto’s shoulder as she left the tent with a man who must be her husband. They were both carrying plates of chicken and salad. A troubled expression clouded Eva’s placid face as she thought of the suffering that Sofia’s exile must cause her and she was determined to put an end to it.

  Eva’s intentions were good ones - but she had underestimated the recipients of her goodwill. When Anna received a letter from Eva, recounting the conversation she had had with Sofia and embellished with details of Sofia’s life in England, she turned the attached address over and over in her long white fingers. Eva hadn’t anticipated that mother might perhaps be as stubborn as daughter.

  Anna had been deeply wounded by her daughter’s rejection. Why on earth should she be the one to fly the white flag first? Why, Sofia hadn’t even called during the Falklands War, she hadn’t called to tell them they were grandparents - she hadn’t called, ever. She knew where they were, their numbers hadn’t changed, and now she expected them to extend the olive branch to her. Well,

  life wasn’t that easy.

  Did she think they were heartless? Did she think they didn’t care? She had always been difficult and stubborn, but to disappear to the other end of the world without so much as a letter of explanation was very cruel. Paco had never recovered. He had aged, become more introverted. It was as if Sofia had died. Except death would probably have been preferable, understandable, less hurtful. At least they could have mourned her properly instead of the interminable misery of not knowing. Death isn’t a rejection. Sofia’s disappearance was a deep rejection. She had hurt the whole family, shaken the very foundations of it, and the splinters of their once-treasured unity were scattered across the plains, never to be recovered. No, it wasn’t for Anna to make peace, but for Sofia. So she folded the letter away in the drawer which contained her most private things and decided not to tell Paco. He would only try to persuade her to contact their daughter and she didn’t want to ignite another row about Sofia.

  Chapter 36

  November, 1997

  How strange it is that a person can love someone for a lifetime. That however far away they are, for however long, one can carry their memory in one’s heart for an eternity. That is how it had always been for Sofia. She had never stopped loving Santi and little Santiguito. She knew she should not, and in many ways she had closed the book, written the last line, signed off. She had let them go. Like a treasure chest she had dropped them with all her secrets to the bottom of the ocean. But some things never die; they just go quiet for a time.

  Sofia had left Argentina in disgrace in the autumn of 1974. She had never thought for one moment that it would be almost twenty-four years before she would return. She had never planned for it to be that way. She had never planned. But the years had somehow rolled on into decades and then one day her past beckoned her home.

  Buenos Aires, 14 October 1997

  Dearest Sofia,

  I gather that you and Maria stopped communicating many years ago. That is why I am writing. There is no easy way to tell you this but Maria is dying of cancer. I watch her fade each day - you have no idea how difficult it is to watch someone you love disappear little by little before your very eyes when there is nothing you can do to help. I feel quite useless.

  I know your lives have taken you in different directions, but she loves you very much. Your presence here would be wonde fully healing. When you left us there was a dreadful void and a deep sadness we all shared. We never expected you to shut us out for ever. I regret that no one made more of an effort to convince you to return. I don't really know why none of us did. We should have - I blame myself I know you, Sofa, and I know you will have suffered in your ‘exile’.

  Please, dear Sofa, come home, Maria needs you. Life is precious: Maria has taught me that, I only regret that it has taken me so long to write this.

  With my fondest love,

  Chiquita

  Chiquita’s letter burst the abscess that contained Sofia’s repressed memories.

  In a fevered torrent of images they fell about her, dragging up bitterness and

  regret from their long hibernation. Maria is dying. Maria is dying. She turned those words around and around in her head until they were nothing but meaningless, empty syllables. But still they meant death. Death. Grandpa O’Dwyer had always said that life was too short for regrets and for hatred. ‘What’s gone is gone and what’s in the past is in the past and should be left there.’ She missed her grandfather. At times like these she needed him so badly. But she was unable to heed his advice when the past invaded her present through all her senses. She wished now that she had had the courage to return years ago. Eva had been right, she had left it too long. She was forty-one years old. Forty one! Where had all those years gone? Now Maria seemed a stranger to her.

  Sofia re-read the letter with a floundering heart. She wondered how Chiquita had found her. Looking at the envelope she noticed the address was correct, even down to the postcode. She thought about it, turning the letter over and over in her trembling hands. Then she remembered; Eva must have obtained it from Zaza. Her stomach reeled. After all this time Argentina had finally found her. She didn’t have to hide any more and she was grateful.

  Eleven years had passed since she had sat under that cedar tree with Eva. Eleven years. How different things might have been had she listened to her and

  returned home as she had suggested, to let bygones be bygones. But now eleven more years of estrangement added on to the previous twelve made twenty-three years. A lifetime. Could the decomposition of relationships be reversed at such a late stage? Would they even remember her?

  Sofia rode over the icy hills. The countryside looked as if it had been sprinkled with a pale blue glitter as the sun rose up behind the forest to melt the frost away. Above her the sky shimmered aquamarine, not a cloud in sight to mar its perfection. She reflected on the last ten years of her life. India had been born in the winter of 1986, giving Honor a little sister to play with, not that she had been very interested in the baby at first. But now they were firm friends and did everything together in spite of the three-and-a-half year age difference. Honor was independent and outspoken; India was quieter, more of a home-bird.

  The years had passed swiftly. They had been happy years - sunny years. Yet beneath the fragile surface of her happiness lay the haunting memory of Santi. Rarely a day passed when something had not occurred to remind her of him. However fleeting the thought, however brief her acknowledgement of it, she still remembered him. And she still kept Santiguito’s muslin under her mattress. More out of habit than attachment. She had two daughters to occupy her heart. Santiguito was lost somewhere out there in the world and she knew she would never find him. But she couldn’t let go. The muslin was all she had left of him and in a strange way, it was all she had left of Santi. So it lay squashed between the bed and the mattress in spite of the little attention she gave it.

  As Sofia galloped over the hills she was acutely aware of being alive. She thought about life. Life with all its energy, with all its emotion - with all its adventure. Maria was going to leave it all behind. Suddenly the past became incredibl
y important because there would be no future for her to share with Maria. Sofia wanted to cling onto it, but like sand in her hands the past slipped through her fingers leaving her with no option but to go forward. She had to go to her.

  ‘I’m sorry that your cousin is ill, but I’m glad that something has finally happened to force you to see sense,’ was David’s reaction to the news. Sofia was reluctant to leave the children, but he insisted that he could take care of them himself; her trip was too important. She wanted to go and yet at the same time she worried about what she’d find there. David only knew half the story; he had

  no idea that the man she had loved and lost lived at Santa Catalina. Had he known, she doubted he would have been so happy to send her back. She wondered whether her decision not to tell him about Santi might have been influenced by a subconscious desire to keep the door open. For that very reason she decided not to tell Dominique she was going.

  David insisted she pack at once. There was no time to waste deliberating on what it would be like once she got there. He told her to be practical. She was going back to see Maria, she shouldn’t think any further than that. He accompanied her to the airport with Honor and India to whom airports suggested holidays and sunny climes, and bought her far too many magazines to read during the long flight. Sofia could tell he was feeling emotional. He always adopted a brisk tone when he was anxious, talked too fast, dwelt on unnecessary details.

  ‘Darling, do you want a novel as well?’ he said, picking up one by Jilly Cooper and turning it over to read the back.

  ‘No. These magazines are quite enough,' said Sofia, thanking India who skipped up with a bumper packet of Snickers. ‘Sweetie, I couldn’t possibly eat all these. If you ask Daddy nicely he might let you choose something for yourselves,’ she added, watching Honor making her way through a bag of chocolate raisins, which hadn’t been paid for.

  Leaving them was difficult. She lingered too long saying goodbye, which reduced India to tears with the stress of it all. At almost eleven years of age, she was still dependent on her mother and had never been separated from her for more than a couple of days at a time. Honor, who was fiercely independent and confident, put her arm around her little sister and promised to cheer her up in the car.