Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree Page 17

  ‘Encourage her to do something sensible, Dad,’ she suggested. But Grandpa O’Dwyer wanted to buy Sofia a belt just like he’d promised.

  That was why Sofia was in his room. She wanted to tell him that she would love his belt and look after it, because she loved him and it would always remind her of her dear grandfather. Her mother had never understood her fondness for her grandfather, but Sofia and Dermot had a deep affection for one another that united them in an unspoken bond.

  She shuffled awkwardly. Coughed. Shuffled again. Finally, Dermot O’Dwyer

  rolled his big frame onto his back. He narrowed his eyes, believing Sofia to be a leprechaun or some ghoul and put a hand up in alarm.

  ‘It’s me, Grandpa - Sofia,’ she whispered.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, girl. What are you doing, standing at the end of my bed? Are you my guardian angel watching over me while I sleep?’

  ‘I think you’ve scared your guardian angel away with your snoring,’ she laughed quietly.

  ‘What are you doing, Sofia Melody?’

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ she said and shuffled her feet again.

  ‘Well, don’t stand there, girl. You know the floor is full o’ crocodiles waiting to eat yer feet. Get into bed.’

  So Sofia climbed into bed with her grandfather - another thing her mother would strongly disapprove of. At seventeen years old she shouldn’t be getting into bed with an old man. They lay side by side ‘like a pair o’ statues on a tomb’. She felt his body next to hers and was suddenly overcome with affection for him.

  ‘What d’you want to talk about, Sofia Melody?’ he asked.

  ‘Why do you always call me that?’

  ‘Well, yer grandmother was called Emer Melody. When yer mother was born I wanted to call her Melody but yer grandmother wouldn’t hear of it. She could be right stubborn when she wanted to be. So we called her Anna Melody O’Dwyer. Melody being like a middle name.’

  ‘Like Maria Elena Solanas.’

  ‘Exactly like Maria Elena Solanas, God rest her soul.’

  ‘But my middle name is Emer, not Melody.’

  ‘You’ll always be Sofia Melody to me.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘You have to like it. That’s the way it is.’

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know the belt?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, Mama says I won’t look after it. But I will. I promise I will.’

  ‘Yer mother’s not always right about everything. I know you’ll look after it.’

  ‘So can I have it?’

  He squeezed her hand and let out a wheezy laugh. ‘You can have it, Sofia

  Melody.’

  They lay there staring up at the shadows that danced on the ceiling as the cold winter wind blew in through the curtains and skipped across their hot faces with icy feet.

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I want the belt for sentimental reasons,’ she said shyly.

  ‘For sentimental reasons, eh?’

  ‘Because I love you, Grandpa.’ She had never said that to anyone before. He lay in silence a moment, moved. She blinked into the darkness wondering how he would respond to this sudden outburst.

  ‘I love you too, Sofia Melody. I love the bones of you. You better go off to sleep now,’ he said quietly, his voice faltering mid-sentence. Sofia was the only person who had the power to rock his sentimental old heart.

  ‘Can I stay?’

  ‘As long as yer mother doesn’t find you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, I’m up long before her.’

  Sofia awoke feeling cold. A shiver ran right the way down from her head to the end of her big toe. She wriggled closer to her grandfather for warmth. It took a moment before she realized that it was he who was making her cold. He was as cold and stiff as a dead fish. She sat up and looked down at his bristly face. His expression was one of joy. If he hadn’t been cold and stiff she’d have thought he was about to burst into one of his wheezy chuckles. But his face was like a mask; there was nothing behind it and his eyes were open, staring vacantly up into nowhere.

  She pressed her hot face next to his and pulled it against her. Fat tears tumbled down her cheeks, bouncing off her nose onto his, until her whole body shook with violent sobs. She had never felt such misery. He was gone. But where? Was there a heaven? Was he now with Emer Melody in some beautiful place? Why did he die? He was healthy and full of life. No one had been more alive than her grandfather. She rocked back and forth, cradling his big frame in her arms, until her jaw ached and her stomach hurt from crying. Panic seized her as she tried to recall the last words he had said to her. The belt, they had talked about the belt. Then she had told him she loved him. She wailed at the recollection of that tender moment. Once she had started to wail she was

  unable to stop herself, until her wailing woke everyone in the house. At first Paco thought it was an animal being killed outside his window by a vicious prairie dog. But then he recognized the voice of his own daughter as she choked on her breath before letting out another loud cry.

  As her brothers, Rafael and Agustin, and her mother and father ran to her aid she remembered his last words. ‘As long as yer mother doesn’t find you.’ He had always been her accomplice.

  They had to prise him from her. She then clung to her father. The shock of finding her grandfather dead suddenly hit her like the slap of a cold hand and she shivered uncontrollably. Anna allowed the tears to flow freely. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her thin hand over his brow. Taking off the gold cross that hung about her neck she pressed it to his lips.

  ‘God keep you, Father, and bless you. May He grant you entry into the Kingdom of Heaven.’ Then looking up at her family she asked to be given time alone with him. Rafael and Agustin shuffled out. Paco kissed his daughter’s forehead before leading her gently away.

  Anna Melody O’Dwyer drew her father’s lifeless hand to her face and kissed it sadly. Pressing her lips into his rubber palm she cried not for the corpse that lay inert before her, but for the father she had known growing up in Glengariff There had been a time when she had shared his heart with her mother, before Sofia had crept in there like a cuckoo and squeezed her out. He had probably never forgiven her for leaving Ireland to marry Paco all those years ago, or at least for never returning - not even once.

  Having lost her he had replaced her in his affections with his granddaughter who seemed to combine all that he had loved in Anna with all that was lovable in Sofia as a unique human being. She had seen it; first in Paco and then in her father. Sofia had stolen them both. But she didn’t ask herself why because she was afraid of the answer. Afraid to admit that maybe Paco had been right. Perhaps she had changed. How else was it that she had managed to alienate the two men she loved more than anyone else in the whole world?

  But instead of reflecting on herself, Anna gazed down at all that was left of a cantankerous old man and searched his features for the father she had lost somewhere over the years. And now it was too late to reclaim him. Too late. She remembered her mother telling her once that the two saddest words in the dictionary were ‘too late’. Now she understood. If he would only breathe again she would show him how much she loved him. In spite of the years that had

  corroded the ties that had bound them, in spite of life that had somehow forced a wedge between them, she really had loved him with all her heart, and yet she had never told him. He had been more of a nuisance to her, like an untrainable, mangy dog that she had found herself constantly apologizing for. Yet he had been a tormented soul, happier descending into madness than facing the reality of a life without the warm love of his wife. His madness had been an anaesthetic to numb him against his growing desolation. If only she had taken the time to understand him. To understand his pain. ‘Oh God,’ she prayed, squeezing her eyes closed, releasing a glistening tear that caught on her long pale eyelashes, ‘just let me tell him that I loved him.’
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  To show how much she had loved him, Anna organized for him to be buried on the plain, among the ponies and birds, in the long wild grass under a crooked eucalyptus tree. Antonio and the boys from the stables helped dig the hole and Padre Julio stammered a few prayers and gave an agonizing address beneath the bleak winter sky. But his stammer had always amused Grandpa O’Dwyer, so in a way it was fitting.

  The whole family had come to pay their respects. With bowed heads they

  mumbled the prayers and with downcast faces watched as the coffin was lowered unsteadily into the ground. As the last of the earth was patted down, the clouds suddenly parted and a bright ray of sunshine burst forth, flooding the early winter plains with a strange warmth. They all looked up in surprise and delight. Anna crossed herself and thanked God for delivering her father to Heaven. Sofia watched the light with a heavy heart and thought how dark the world had suddenly become. Without Grandpa O’Dwyer even the sunshine seemed muted.

  Chapter 13

  Brown University, 1973

  Santi ran a hand up the inside of Georgia’s dress to discover she was wearing stockings. He felt the rough lace with his fingers and then the smooth, silky skin of her thigh. His heartbeat quickened with anticipation. He pressed his mouth to hers and tasted the sweet peppermint of the packet of gum they had shared when they had left the dance together. He had been impressed by her forwardness. She lacked the inhibition of well-bred Argentine girls and there was a coarseness about her which he found appealing.

  Her kiss was eager. She seemed to relish his strong young body, clawing his skin with her long red nails, licking the salt that mingled with his own scent. She smelt of expensive perfume and he could taste the powder on her skin when he ran his tongue down her body. Her belly was round and plump. When he fiddled with her suspender belt she coolly pushed him away saying in her deep, chocolate voice that she preferred to make love with her stockings on, and proceeded to slip out of her black panties.

  He opened her legs, which she then voluntarily opened even wider and he knelt between them, smoothing his hands over her hips and thighs. She was blonde, a natural blonde he noticed, looking at the tidy triangle of hair that revealed to him her charms. She watched him with brazen eyes, enjoying him admiring her. For the next two hours she showed him how to caress a woman, slowly and sensually, and gave him more enjoyment than he thought possible. By two in the morning he had come enough times to prove that Georgia really was a fantasy of the bedroom, and she had come with the ease of a woman comfortable with her own body.

  ‘Georgia,’ he said, ‘you’re not for real. I want to hold you all night to ensure you’ll still be here in the morning.’ She had laughed, lit a cigarette and promised him they would do nothing for the whole weekend except make love. ‘Long, slow and passionate, right here in Hope Street,’ she had said. She told him how much she loved his accent and made him talk to her in Spanish. ‘Tell me you want me, that you love me - let’s just pretend,’ she said. So he told her, ‘Te quiero, te necesito, te adorn.’

  When they were spent, their bodies aching from their pleasure, they slept. The lights of the occasional car bathed them momentarily in gold, exposing naked limbs that were limply draped over each other. Santi dreamed. He was in

  the Ancient History class with Professor Schwartzbach and there was Sofia. She sat with her long dark hair tied into her usual plait, knotted with a silky red ribbon. She was wearing jeans and a lilac shirt which enhanced her glowing tan. She looked beautiful, smooth, dark and glossy. She turned to him and winked, her mahogany brown eyes smiling capriciously at him. Then suddenly she was Georgia, sitting naked, grinning at him. He was embarrassed that she was naked in front of the whole class, but she didn’t seem to mind. She gazed at him sleepily. He longed for Sofia to come back, but she had gone. When he awoke, Georgia was between his legs. He looked down at her to make sure that it was Georgia and not Sofia. His body relaxed when he saw her lustful blue eyes looking up at him.

  ‘Honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she laughed.

  ‘I have,’ he replied and allowed himself to drift on the sensual sensation of her tongue working its magic on him again.

  Santi had spent the first six months of his two years abroad travelling extensively around the world with his friend Joaquin Barnaba. They went to Thailand where they trawled the red-light district in search of entertainment and whores.

  Santi had been appalled as well as fascinated by the things women could do with their bodies, things that he wouldn’t have been able to invent even in his most lurid dreams. They smoked cannabis in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia and watched a sunset that turned the hills to gold. They travelled to China where they walked along the Great Wall, admired the Hall of Supreme Harmony in the Forbidden City and discovered to their disgust that the Chinese really do eat dogs. They backpacked their way through India where Joaquin vomited outside the Taj Mahal before spending three days in bed with dehydration and diarrhoea. They rode elephants in India, camels in Africa and beautiful white horses in Spain.

  Santi sent postcards back to his family from each country he visited. Chiquita despaired that she was unable to contact him. For six whole months he was in places where they could not reach him, and moving on every few days without knowing where he was going. They were all relieved when at the end of the winter they received word that he was in Rhode Island finding a place to live and registering for his courses, which included Business Studies and Ancient History.

  For the first few days at Brown, Santi stayed in a hotel. However, when he

  attended his first lecture on campus he met a couple of affable Americans from Boston who were looking for someone to share their house in Bowen Street. By the end of the lecture, given by an ancient professor with a small mouth hidden behind a thick white beard and an even smaller voice that gobbled up the ends of his words, they had discovered almost everything there was to know about each other and had become the best of friends.

  Frank Stanford was short but strong, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles, the sort of young man who made up for his lack of height by working out in a gym to ensure he was as toned as possible and by endlessly practising games such as tennis, golf and polo so the girls would overlook his stature and admire him for his accomplishments. He was immediately impressed with Santi, not only because he came from Argentina, which was in itself immensely glamorous, but because he played polo and no one played better polo than the Argentines.

  Frank and his friend Stanley Norman, who preferred to sit in a corner smoking cannabis and strumming his guitar to throwing around a tennis racket or polo mallet, invited Santi back to Bowen Street to show him their house. Santi was impressed. It was typical American East Coast with tall sash windows and imperious porch in a street lined with leafy trees and elegant cars. Inside, it was immaculately decorated with newly painted walls, pine furniture and navy blue and white upholstery in stripes and checks.

  ‘My mom insisted she do it up for me,’ said Frank casually. ‘She’s one of those mothers who’s vastly overprotective. As if I’d mind. I mean, look at the place - it should be in a magazine. I bet it’s the grandest house in the street.’

  ‘We don’t have house rules, do we, Frank?’ Stanley asked in his slow Boston drawl. ‘We don’t mind chicks.’

  ‘Yeah, we don’t mind, we only request you bring back her sisters if they’re cute. Know what I mean?’ Frank winked at Stanley and chortled.

  ‘I imagine they’re cute here,’ said Santi.

  ‘With your accent, buddy, you won’t have any problems. They’ll love you,’ Stanley assured him.

  Fie wasn’t wrong. Santi was chased by the bestlooking girls on campus and it didn’t take him long to realize that they didn’t want to marry him, they just wanted to sleep with him. In Argentina it was different. You simply couldn’t sleep around; women demanded more respect. They wanted to be courted and they wanted to get married. But at Brown Santi made his way through them like

/>   a strawberry picker. Some he put in a basket to keep for later and others he ate straight away. In September and October he spent weekends with Frank and his family at Newport where they played tennis and polo. Santi became a hero with Frank’s younger brothers who had never seen a real Argentine polo player before and was worshipped by Josephine Stanford, Frank’s mother, who had seen many Argentine polo players before, but none so handsome.

  ‘So, Santi - that’s short for Santiago, isn’t it?’ said Josephine, handing him a glass of Coke and wiping her face with a white towel. They had just completed their third set of tennis against Frank and his younger sister Maddy. Santi nodded. ‘Frank tells me you’re just doing a one-year course, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. I finish in May,’ he replied, sitting down on one of the garden chairs and stretching his long brown legs out in front of him. His white shorts accentuated the rich honey colour of his skin and Josephine tried not to allow her eyes to linger there.

  ‘You go back to Argentina after that?’ she asked, attempting to ask mother-type questions. She sat down opposite Santi and smoothed her short white tennis skirt over her thighs with elegant fingers.

  ‘No, I’m going to travel a bit, then return home at the end of the year.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be nice. Then you start all over again in Buenos Aires.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know why you don’t just do the university thing over here.’

  ‘I don’t want to be away from Argentina for too long,’ he told her earnestly. ‘I’d miss it.’