Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (47 page)

The first pages were of David and Ariella at Oxford, a cold picnic on hills somewhere. Ariella was very pretty, Sofia thought grudgingly. Her hair was flowing and almost white, her skin pale pink and her face long and angular. She wore a heavy coat of black mascara that accentuated the feline slant of her green eyes, and there was a sly expression on her surprisingly thin lips. She was beautiful and yet if you took each feature individually there was nothing remarkable, they just all fitted together rather well. It’s only due to her white hair that she seems to stand out in all the photographs, thought Sofia, determined not to grant her charisma as well as beauty.

She turned the pages, smiling at photographs of David as a young man. He was skinny and raffish-looking then, before time and prosperity had rounded him off at the corners. He also had a head of thick sun-bleached hair that flopped over his forehead. David was always surrounded by people, always laughing, playing the fool, whereas Ariella was always demure, watching everyone quietly, and yet she seemed to glow in a strange way; one’s eye was immediately drawn to her in each photograph.

Sofia searched for albums of their wedding and subsequent years together but found none. That one book seemed to be the only one he possessed. She was happy it was covered in dust, stuffed at the bottom of a cupboard he probably never opened.

When David returned a couple of days later, Sofia ran out to meet him with the dogs who jumped up leaving muddy paw-prints on his trousers. She kissed his face all over until he dropped his bag in the hall and carried her upstairs.

Sofia soon forgot about Ariella as she adorned the house with Christmas decorations. David, who usually spent Christmas with his family, decided it wasn’t fair to force so many strangers on Sofia just yet and came up with a compromise. ‘We’ll spend Christmas in Paris,’ he announced over breakfast.

Sofia was astounded.

‘That’s not like you. Paris?’ she gasped. ‘What’s come over you?’

‘I want to be alone with you in a beautiful place. I know a small hotel by the Seine,’ he replied nonchalantly.

‘How exciting. I’ve never been to Paris.’

‘Then I’ll show you. I’ll take you shopping in the Champs-Elysees.’

‘Shopping?’

‘Well, you can’t spend your life in jeans and T-shirts, can you?’ he said and drained his cup of coffee.

Paris enthralled Sofia. David travelled in style. They flew first-class and were picked up from the airport by a shiny black car that drove them straight to their discreet hotel on the water’s edge. It was a crisp morning. The sun shimmered in the pale winter sky and a thin layer of snow melted on the pavements and trees. The streets glittered with Christmas decorations and lights and Sofia pressed her nose to the window and looked out in excitement across the stone bridges that straddled the icy water.

As he had promised, David took her shopping. In his old cashmere coat and felt hat Sofia thought he looked both distinguished and handsome. He’d stride

into each shop, take a seat and give his opinions as Sofia tried things on for him. ‘You need a coat.' he’d say, ‘but that one’s too short,’ or, ‘You need an evening dress - that looks stunning on you.' He even went as far as taking her into a lingerie boutique where he insisted she choose lace and silk to replace her cotton underwear. ‘A beautiful woman such as you should be wrapped in beautiful things,’ he said. He didn’t let her carry any of the bags but organized for them to be sent back to the hotel that evening.

‘David, you must have spent a small fortune,’ she said over lunch. ‘I really don’t deserve it.’

‘You deserve every bit of it and more, darling. We’re only just beginning,’ he replied, clearly taking pleasure in spoiling her.

When they arrived back at the hotel Sofia was delighted to find all their purchases neatly piled in their glossy bags in the sitting room adjoining their bedroom. David left her to unpack and wandered downstairs to ‘have a look around’. Sofia pulled each item out of the tissue paper and laid them all across the sofas and chairs until the room itself looked like an expensive boutique. She then turned on the radio and listened to the sensual French music while she lolled in a steaming hot bubble bath. It was blissful. She had been so happy she hadn’t thought about her home or Santiguito for many months, and she wasn’t going to start now. At that moment the past ceased to chase her and allowed her to enjoy the present unharassed.

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.’

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 stupid 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.