Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (27 page)

Finally the day of his return had arrived and all that waiting and longing now seemed to her to have passed in a moment. Once Maria had pinned up her hair, Sofia took one last look at herself in the mirror before setting off to Chiquita’s house to await the arrival of the young hero.

‘What are we going to do till midday?’ said Maria as they walked through the

trees to her house.

‘God knows,’ shrugged Sofia. ‘Perhaps we can help your mother.’

‘Help Mama? I can’t believe there is anything left for her to do!’

Chiquita was wandering around her flowerbeds tending to the watering in an attempt to keep her impatience at bay. The tables for lunch had been set by Rosa, Encarnacion and Soledad and the drinks were cooling in ice buckets in the shade. As the two girls approached she looked up and smiled broadly. She was a slender, elegant woman with style and good taste that permeated everything she did. At once she recognized the new Sofia and putting down her watering can approached her joyfully.

‘Sofia,
mi amor
, I can’t believe it is really you. You look fantastic. Your hair suits you so well like that. I imagine Anna must be thrilled you’re wearing the dress she bought you. You know we chose it together in Paris.’

‘Really? Well, that’s why it is so pretty then,’ replied Sofia, feeling a lot more confident now that her beloved aunt had approved.

The three of them sat out on the terrace in the shade of two parasols, chatting away about nothing and everything, occasionally glancing at their watches to see how much longer they had to suffer the wait. After a while Anna arrived.

In a pale blue dress and sunhat she looked ghostly but beautiful in a pre-Raphaelite sort of way. Paco arrived next with Malena and Alejandro and their children, followed shortly by Fernando, Rafael and Agustin. As soon as her brothers laid eyes on Sofia they couldn’t resist but tease her mercilessly.

‘Sofia’s a girl!’ goaded Agustin, looking her up and down in amusement.

‘No, really. What gives it away,
boludoV
she retorted sarcastically and for once her mother, thrilled that at last her daughter looked decent and pretty, silenced them with a sharp lashing of her tongue. The rest of the family arrived in small groups until they all waited together, drinking wine amid the smoke-filled air of the
asado.

As usual the packs of skinny dogs greedily sniffed the ground around the barbecue. Panchito and his little cousins ran after them squealing each time they managed to pull a tail or pat a furry head without their mothers noticing and sending them in to wash their hands.

Finally, Sofia noticed a small cloud of dust gather in the shimmering distance and slowly approach.

‘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.

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.

^l
Che,
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 her 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.’