Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (32 page)

‘I can smell the change.' said Sofia, snuggling up to Santi.

‘I hate the end of summer.'

‘Oh, I don’t mind it. I like the dark evenings in front of the fire,’ she said and shivered.

He drew her in close and kissed her forehead tenderly. ‘Imagine what mischief we could get up to in front of Mama’s fire,’ he murmured.

‘Yes! You see, winter’s not so bad.'

‘Not with you. Nothing’s bad with you, Chofi.’

‘I can’t wait to spend a winter with you, and a spring, and another summer. I want to grow old with you,’ she said dreamily.

‘Me too.' he told her.

‘Even if I grow as
loca
as Grandpa?’

‘Well .. .' He hesitated, shaking his head in jest.

‘I have a lot of Irish blood in me,’ she warned him.

‘I know, that’s what I’m worried about.’

‘You love me because I’m different from everyone else. You told me so!’ She laughed and nuzzled her nose under his chin. He gently pulled her face up and stroked her cheek.

‘Who couldn’t love you?’ He sighed and lowered his lips onto hers. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warm, familiar feel of his mouth and the spicy scent of him as he kissed her.

‘Let’s go to the ombu tree,’ she suggested and he smiled at her knowingly.

‘To think you were an innocent child a couple of months ago,’ he mused, kissing the end of her nose.

‘And you were the devious seducer,’ she replied.

‘Why, Chofi, is everything always my fault?’ he joked.

‘Because you’re a man and it’s chivalrous to take the blame for my misconduct. You have to protect my honour.’

‘Honour indeed. What’s left of it!’ he smirked.

‘I have plenty of honour left,’ she protested, grinning broadly.

‘How could I have been so careless? Let’s go immediately to the ombu so I can get rid of it once and for all,’ he said and, taking her by the hand, they disappeared into the darkness.

The following morning Sofia awoke to the same nagging nausea she had felt the two previous mornings. Running to the bathroom she threw her head down the loo and proceeded to vomit up all of Encarnacion’s supper. After brushing her teeth she ran into her mother’s room. ‘I’m ill, Mama, I’ve been sick!’ she said, dramatically falling onto her mother’s large white bed.

Anna placed a hand on her daughter’s forehead and shook her head. ‘I don’t think you’ve got a temperature, but I’d better call Dr Higgins all the same. It’s probably just a bug.’ She hurried off to the telephone.

Sofia lay on the bed and suddenly terror gripped her heart. What if she was pregnant? She couldn’t be, she thought, dismissing it again. Not once had they made love without condoms. Besides, it was scientifically proven that condoms were ninety-nine per cent safe. No, she simply couldn’t be pregnant. But fear cast a dark shadow over her soul and as much as she tried to push the thought away, she trembled at the possibility that she might belong to the unlucky one per cent.

Dr Ignacio Higgins had been the Solanas’ family doctor for years and had dealt with everything from Rafael’s appendicitis to Panchito’s chickenpox. He smiled at Sofia reassuringly and after chatting to her about her holidays proceeded to examine her. He asked her questions, nodding knowingly at every answer she gave. When his old, crinkled face frowned gravely and the grin was

replaced by an expression of the deepest concern she felt her heart accelerate and wanted to cry.

‘Oh, Dr Higgins, please don’t tell me it’s serious,’ she begged, her large hazel eyes filling with water because she already knew the answer. Why else would he have asked her about her periods?

Dr Higgins took her hand in his and caressing it affectionately with his thumb, he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid, Sofia, you are pregnant.’ He knew she was unmarried. Having been the family doctor for so many years he also knew how the family would react to a pregnancy outside of marriage, especially in a child as young as seventeen.

His words knocked the air out of Sofia and she felt her stomach plummet like it did sometimes when the car went over a large rise in the road. Her father used to tell her that she had lost her tummy. She wished she
had
lost her tummy. She slumped back weakly against her pillows. That cursed one per cent, she thought bleakly, watching those long afternoons of loving swirl away like water down a drain.

‘Pregnant! O
Dios,
are you sure? What am I going to do?’ she choked, biting her nail. ‘What am I going to do!’

Dr Higgins tried his best to comfort her, but she could not be comforted. She watched her future disappear into a thick black void in front of her very eyes and there was nothing she could do to bring it back.

‘You must tell your mother,’ he suggested once she had calmed down a bit.

‘Mama? You’ve got to be joking,’ she replied, turning pale. ‘Well, you know what she’s like.’

The doctor nodded his old head compassionately. He had been in this situation countless times; young girls devastated by the seed growing in their ripe bodies, when such a miracle of nature should be something to celebrate. His familiarity with this situation in no way diminished his ability to be touched by it. His grey eyes misted like those foggy Irish days of his ancestors and he wished he could reverse the pregnancy with a pill.

‘You can’t do this on your own, Sofia, you must have the support of your parents,’ he told her.

‘They’ll be furious - they’ll never forgive me. Mama will kill me. No, I can’t tell her,’ she said hysterically, her smiling mouth reduced to a miserable arch that trembled inconsolably.

‘Well, what can you do? They’ll find out somehow. You can’t hide a child

growing inside you.’

She placed her hand instinctively on her belly and closed her eyes. It was Santi’s child inside her. She was carrying a part of him. This was without doubt the worst moment of her life, and yet she felt a warmth inside. She dreaded to think what her parents would do. Yet she had no choice: they had to be told.

‘Can you tell her for me?’ she asked sheepishly.

He nodded. That was normally the way it was done. This thankless task was one of the doctor’s many duties and one of the most sorrowful. He hoped they wouldn’t blame the messenger as so many fraught parents often did.

‘Don’t worry, Sofia, it’ll be all right,’ he said kindly, getting up. Then turning to her, he added, ‘Can you not marry this man, my dear?’ But he recognized the insensitivity of his question as soon as he had said it, for why else would she be so unhappy?

Sofia shook her head in misery and, unable to reply, broke down in sobs. She dreaded her mother’s reaction. She had no idea what she was going to do. How could she have been so unlucky? They had done everything to ensure that this didn’t happen. She waited in terror. She had so often baited her mother for fun by missing school, or sneaking off to a nightclub with a young man without her permission, but those were minor and laughable in comparison to this. This time her mother’s wrath would be well-deserved and terrifying. If she found out about Santi, she might well kill them both.

The door flew open and in marched her mother, her face as white as Christ in one of El Greco’s creepy paintings. Her lips trembled with fury and Sofia recognized the disappointment in her eyes.

‘How
could
you?’ she cried in shrill Irish tones, her face turning purple with anger. ‘How could you? After all we have done for you. What is the rest of the family going to think? The shame of it. What were you thinking? Why did you let it happen? It’s bad enough that you . . . that you . . . out of marriage,’ she stammered, ‘but to get pregnant! I am so disappointed in you, Sofia.'

She collapsed into the chair and lowered her eyes as if to look at her disgraced daughter revolted her. ‘I brought you up in a house where God’s laws are respected. May He forgive you.’

Sofia made no reply. They both sat in silence. The blood sapped from her mother’s cheeks like a recently slaughtered pig and her opaque eyes gazed out of the window as if she might see God among the dry plains and humid sky. She shook her head in despair.

‘Where did we go wrong?’ she asked, wringing her hands. ‘Did we spoil you too much? I know Dad and Paco treated you like a little princess, but I didn’t.’ Sofia stared at the patterns on the quilt, trying to make sense of them. The situation was too surreal to take seriously. It simply couldn’t be happening to her. ‘I have been too strict - that’s it, isn’t it?’ continued her mother miserably. ‘Yes, I was too strict. You felt trapped, that’s why you had to break all the rules. It’s my fault entirely. Yer father always told me to be more lenient, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want the family to accuse me of being a bad mother, along with everything else ...’

Sofia could hardly listen to the ranting of her mother without feeling disgusted. If it were Maria, Chiquita would be sweet and understanding, she’d want to help and look after her, but here was her mother blaming herself. Typical Irish Catholic - she’d be donning a sackcloth and ashes next! She longed to tell her to get down from her cross, but she could see that now probably wasn’t the most sensible time to say it.

‘So who’s the father? Who is it?
Dios
, who could it possibly be? You haven’t seen anyone except yer family.’

Sofia watched in dreadful anticipation as her mother slowly worked it out for herself. Her expression gradually changed from self-pity to disgust and she writhed with revulsion.

‘Oh my God, it’s Santi, isn’t it?’ she gasped, her curt Irish accent biting into the word ‘Santi’ with distaste. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? My God, I should have seen it coming. Why didn’t I see it coming? Yer disgusting - both of you. How could he have been so irresponsible? He’s a man now - how could he have seduced you, a child of seventeen?’ Then she burst into tears. Sofia watched her impassively and thought how ugly she looked when she cried.

‘I should have guessed, I should have noticed you both sneaking around like thieves with yer dirty secret. I don’t know what we’re going to do. The child will probably be mentally ill as you’re so closely related. How could you be so devious? I must tell yer father. Don’t leave the room until I come back!’

And Sofia heard the door slam behind her. She wanted desperately to run to Santi and tell him, but for once she hadn’t the strength to disobey her mother. She lay there unmoving, awaiting her father.

As it was in the middle of the week, her father had to drive down from Buenos Aires. Anna couldn’t tell him what the problem was over the telephone so he had to wait in suspense, his stomach churning with worry, until he

arrived at Santa Catalina. Anna informed him immediately and they sat down to discuss the situation for over two hours. After a weary battle Paco had to give in to his wife, who had managed to convince herself that the child would be mentally ill. Sofia would have to terminate the pregnancy. When he finally entered his daughter’s room he saw her lying asleep, curled into a pitiful ball, on her bed. He felt his heart break as he approached her. In his eyes she was still his little girl. Sitting on the edge of her bed he ran a tender hand through her damp hair.

‘Sofia,’ he whispered. When she opened her eyes he was looking at her with such love she threw her arms around him and cried like a child into his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, shaking with shame and fear. He held her close and rocked her back and forth, rocking himself to ease his pain as well as hers.

‘It’s all right, Sofia, I’m not angry. I’m not angry. It’s all right, it’s going to be all right.’

It felt reassuring to be in his safe embrace. All the responsibility she passed over to him with a deep sense of relief.

‘I love him, Papa.’

‘I know you do, but Sofia, he’s your cousin.’

‘But there’s no law against marrying your first cousin?’

‘That’s not the point. We live in a small world, and in our world marrying your first cousin is seen to be like marrying your brother. It’s shameful. You can’t marry Santi. Besides, you’re very young. It’s just an infatuation.’

‘It’s not, Papa. I love him.’

‘Sofia,’ he said gravely, shaking his head. ‘You can’t marry Santi.’

‘Mama hates me,’ she wept. ‘She always has.’

‘She doesn’t hate you - she’s disappointed, Sofia. And so am I. But your mother and I have discussed it at length. We will do what is best for you, trust me.’

‘I’m so sorry, Papa,’ she repeated tearfully.

Sofia padded sheepishly into the sitting room where her parents awaited to inform her of their decision. She sat down on the chintz sofa, her eyes lowered. Anna was perched stiffly on the window seat, her legs tightly crossed under her long dress. She looked pale and wan. Paco, his face drawn with worry, paced impatiently up and down the room. He looked older and greyer than before.

The doors to the corridor and the dining room were shut firmly. Rafael and Agustin, anxious to know what the icy atmosphere was all about, had been told to disappear. So they had reluctantly wandered over to Chiquita’s house to watch television with Fernando and Santi.

‘Sofia, your mother and I have decided that you simply cannot keep the child,’ her father began gravely. Sofia swallowed hard and was about to speak but he silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘You will go in the next few days to Europe. Once you have . . .’ He hesitated, struggling with the idea of a termination that would weigh heavily on his conscience, being, as it was, against his faith and principles. ‘When you are well again you will study there rather than here at the University of Buenos Aires as planned. This will give you, and Santi, time to get over this infatuation. You can then come home. No one must know about this, do you understand? It will be our secret.’ He deliberately kept from her the information that she would stay with his cousin Antoine and his wife Dominique in Geneva and study at a school in Lausanne so there would be no chance of Santi finding out and following her there.