‘Good.’
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence before Chiquita tried to change the subject.
‘The asado tomorrow, before the match, can I help with anything?’ she asked, somewhat strained. ‘Anything at all?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ replied Anna, softening a little. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Chiquita. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with Sofia. She’s so headstrong and thoughtless. The boys give me no trouble at all. I don’t know who she gets it from!’
‘Neither do I,’ replied Chiquita dryly.
‘Tonight is the most beautiful night of the summer,’ sighed Sofia from one of the highest boughs of the ombu tree.
There is no tree in the world like the ombu tree. Gigantic with low horizontal branches, its enormous girth can often exceed forty to fifty feet. Its thick roots radiate out over the ground in long bumpy tentacles, as if the tree itself has begun to melt, spreading like wax over the earth. Besides its peculiar shape, the ombu is the only tree indigenous to those dry plains. The only tree that truly belongs. The native Indians had seen their gods in the boughs and it was said no gaucho would sleep beneath it, even in Sofia’s day. To the children brought up at Santa Catalina it was a magic tree. It granted wishes where it saw fit, and being tall it was the perfect lookout tower allowing them to see for miles around. But above all, the ombu had a mysterious allure that one simply couldn’t put one’s finger on, an allure that had drawn generations of children to seek adventure within its branches.
‘I can see Jose and Pablo. Hurry up, don’t be boring!’ she called down impatiently.
‘I’m coming, be patient,’ shouted Santi to his cousin as he busily tended to the ponies.
‘Santi, will you give me a leg-up?’ Maria asked her brother in her soft, husky voice, watching Sofia climb higher into the spaghetti of thick branches.
Maria had always admired Sofia. She was brave, outspoken and sure of herself. They had been best friends all their lives, done everything together - plotted, conspired, played and shared secrets. In fact Maria’s mother, Chiquita, used to call them ‘Las Dos Sombras' (the Two Shadows) when they were smaller, because one was always the shadow of the other.
The rest of the girls on the farm were either older or younger, so Sofia and Maria, being of the same age, were natural allies in a family dominated by boys. Neither had a sister so they had decided years ago to become ‘blood sisters’ by pricking their fingers with a pin and pressing them together to ‘unite’ their blood. From then on they had shared a special secret that no one else knew. They had the same blood and that made them siblings. They were both proud and respectful of their clandestine bond.
From the very top of the tree Sofia could see the whole world - and if not the whole world then at least her world, laid out before her under an awesome sky. The horizon was a vast cauldron of colour as the sun had almost set, flooding the heavens with splashes of pink and gold. The air was sticky and the mosquitoes hovered menacingly about the leaves.
‘I’ve been bitten again,’ winced Maria, scratching her leg.
‘Here,’ said Santi, bending down and taking his younger sister’s foot in his hands. With a swift movement he lifted her up so she could lean on the first branch with her stomach. After that she could make it on her own.
Santi then scaled the tree himself with a lightness of step that never ceased to amaze those who knew him well. As a small child he had suffered a polo accident that had left him with a slight limp. His parents, desperate that this handicap might hinder him in later life, flew him to the United States where he saw every possible specialist. But they needn’t have bothered. Santi had defied doctors’ predictions and found ways around it. As a little boy he had managed to run faster than all his cousins, even those a couple of years older than himself, even if he had run in a slightly odd way, one foot facing inwards. As a young man he was the best polo player on the ranch. There is no doubt about it,’ said his father proudly, ‘young Santiago has a rare courage not often seen these days. He’ll go far. And he’ll have earned every step of the way.’
‘Fantastic, isn’t it!’ beamed a triumphant Sofia, when her cousin joined her. ‘Do you have the penknife? I want to make a wish.’
‘What are you going to wish for this time? It won’t come true,’ Santi said, sitting down and swinging his legs in the air. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’ He sniffed. But Sofia’s hand was already running over the trunk, searching the bark for traces of their past.
‘Oh yes it will, maybe not this year, but one day when it’s really important. You know the tree knows which wishes to grant and which wishes to ignore.’ And she patted it fondly.
‘Now you’re going to tell me the damn tree thinks and feels,’ he scoffed, pushing his thick blond hair off his forehead with a sweaty hand.
‘You’re just an ignorant fool, Santi, but one day you’ll learn. You wait. One day you’ll really need a wish to come true and then when no one’s looking, you’ll sneak up here in the dark to carve your mark in this trunk.’ She laughed.
‘I’d rather go and see La Vieja Bruja in town. That old witch has more chance of directing my future than this silly tree.’
‘Go and see her then if you like - if you can hold your breath long enough not to smell her. Oh, here’s one,’ she exclaimed, finding one of their latest wishes carved into the wood. Like an old wound, it had left a tidy white scar.
Maria joined them, flushed and hot from exertion. Her tawny brown hair fell about her shoulders in wispy curls, sticking slightly to her glistening round cheeks.
‘Look at the view, it’s magnificent!’ she gasped, gazing about her. But her cousin had lost interest in the view and was busy scanning the bark for her artistry.
‘I think that one was mine,’ she said, stepping onto the branch above Santi’s so she could study it a little closer. ‘Yes, definitely mine - my symbol, you see?’
‘It might have been a symbol six months ago but it’s a smudge now,’ said Santi, pushing himself up and settling on another bumpy arm of the tree.
‘I drew a star - I’m quite good at drawing stars,’ she replied proudly. ‘Hey, Maria, where’s yours?’
Maria edged her way up her branch with unsteady steps. After orientating herself a moment she crossed over Santi’s and sat down on a lower branch close to the trunk. Finding her scar she fingered it nostalgically.
‘My symbol was a bird,’ she said, and smiled at the recollection.
‘What was that for?’ asked Sofia, jumping confidently down to join her.
‘You’ll laugh if I tell you,’ she replied bashfully.
‘No, we won’t,’ said Santi. ‘Has it come true?’
‘Of course not, and it never will, but it’s still worth wishing for,’ she said.
‘Well?’ urged Sofia, intrigued now that her cousin was reluctant to tell them.
‘Okay. I wished for a beautiful voice so I can sing with Mama’s guitar,’ she said, then raising her hazel eyes saw that they were both laughing.
‘So, the bird symbolizes “song”,’ said Santi, grinning broadly.
‘I suppose so, although that wasn’t exactly why I drew it.’
‘Then why did you, dopey?’
‘Because I like birds and there was one in the tree as I made the wish. It was really close. Adorable. You know, Papa always said that the symbol doesn’t have to have anything to do with your wish. You just have to make your mark. Anyway, my bird’s not that funny - and it was a year ago. I was only fourteen at the time. If mine’s so funny what was your wish, Sofia?’
‘I wished for Papa to let me play in the Copa Santa Catalina.' she replied haughtily, waiting for Santi’s reaction. As she had expected he exploded into exaggerated laughter.
‘The Santa Catalina Cup? You can’t be serious!’ he exclaimed in amazement, narrowing his pale green eyes imperiously and pulling a face to show his disbelief.
‘I’m very serious,’ she replied challengingly.
‘So what was the star for?’ asked Maria, brushing her shoulder where some of the moss had soiled her shirt.
‘I want to be a polo star,’ Sofia told them both casually, as if she had just declared she wanted to be a nurse.
lMentirosa! Chofi, it’s probably the only thing you can draw - Maria’s the only artist in this family.’ And he lay back on the branch chuckling. lLa Copa Santa Catalina. You’re only a child.’
‘Only a child, you patronizing oaf?’ she retorted, pretending to be cross. ‘I’ll be sixteen in April. That’s only three months away, then I’ll be a woman.’
‘Chofi, you’ll never be a woman because you’ve never been a girl,’ he said, referring to her tomboy nature. ‘Girls are like Maria. No, Chofi, you’re not a girl at all.’
Sofia watched him flop down over the bough of the tree. His jeans were loose and worn, hanging low on his hips. His T-shirt had ridden up his chest revealing a flat brown tummy and hipbones that stuck out as if he needed feeding. But no one ate more than Santi. He devoured his food with the urgency of someone who hasn’t eaten in a very long time. She wanted to run her fingers over his skin and tickle him. Any excuse to touch him. They mobbed around most of the time and the physical contact excited her. But she hadn’t touched him for an hour or two, so the desire to do so was irresistible.
‘Where’s yours then?’ she asked, demanding his attention again.
‘Oh, I don’t know and I don’t care - it’s rubbish anyway.’
‘No it isn’t,’ insisted the girls in unison.
‘Papa used to make us carve our wishes every summer, remember?’ said Sofia wistfully.
‘They used to do it as children, too. I’m sure their scars are still here if we look for them,’ added Maria enthusiastically
‘They’ll be long gone, Maria. They disappear within a year or two I think,’ said Santi knowledgeably. ‘Anyway, you’d need a lot of magic to make Paco let Sofia play in the Copa Santa Catalina! And he began to laugh again, holding his stomach with his hands to show how ludicrous her ambitions were to him. Sofia jumped lithely from her branch to his and then ran her hand over his lower belly until he shrieked with pleasure and pain combined.
‘Chofi, don’t do that up here. We’ll both fall off and be killed!’ he gasped between gales of laughter as her fingers skipped across the line that separated his tan from the secret white skin that hid from the sun beneath his shorts. He
grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed it so hard she winced. Santi was seventeen years old, two years older than his cousin and sister. It excited Sofia when he used his superior strength to dominate her, but pretending she didn’t like it was all part of the game.
‘I don’t see that it’s such a long shot,’ she argued, nursing her wrist against her chest.
‘It’s a very long shot, Chofi,’ he replied, smirking at her.
‘Why?’
‘Because girls don’t play in matches.’
‘Well, there’s always a first time,’ she told him defiantly. ‘I think Papa will let me play in the end.’
‘Not the Copa Santa Catalina. There’s a lot of pride riding on that match, Chofi-anyhow, Agustin’s the fourth.’
‘You know I can play just as well as Agustin.’
‘No, I don’t - but if you do end up playing it will have nothing whatsoever to do with magic. Foul play, manipulation - they're more your style. Poor Paco's wrapped around your little finger and he doesn’t even know it.’
‘Everyone’s wrapped around Sofia’s little finger, Santi,’ laughed Maria,
without the slightest hint of envy.
‘Except Mama.’
‘You’re losing your touch, Chofi.’
‘With Anna, Sofia’s never had a touch.’
The Santa Catalina Cup was the annual polo match played against the neighbouring estancia, La Paz. The two estancias had been rivals for many years, generations even, and the year before, Santa Catalina had been beaten by only one goal. The cousins at Santa Catalina, and there were many, played polo most afternoons during the summer months, in the same way that Anna’s cousins used to play hurling back in Glengariff. Sofia’s father Paco and his elder brother, Miguel, took the most interest and bullied the boys in order to refine their game. Santi already played a six-goal handicap, which was excellent as the best handicap was ten and one had to be a very accomplished player to qualify for a handicap at all. Miguel was fiercely proud of his son and did little to hide his favouritism.
Fernando, Santi’s elder brother, was only a four-goal handicap. It irritated Fernando that his younger brother beat him at everything. It was even more humiliating that not only was he a superior athlete but he was superior and
lame. It hadn’t escaped his notice, either, that Santi was not only the apple of his parents’ eye, but the entire fruit bowl. So he willed his brother to fail, he ground his teeth together at night from willing so hard, but Santi seemed invincible. Now the bloody dentist had given him an ugly mould to wear in his mouth at night to save his teeth - another nail Santi had happily hammered into his coffin.
Sofia on the other hand had two elder brothers, Rafael and Agustin, who made up the four players of the team. Rafael also played a four-goal and Agustin a two. Sofia, much to her fury, was not considered.
Sofia wished she had been born a boy. She hated girlie games and had grown up following the boys around hoping to be included. Santi always allowed her to join in. He often took the time to help her with her polo and insisted she practise with the boys, even when he had had to withstand fierce opposition from his brother and cousins, who hated playing polo with a girl, especially as she played better than some of them. Santi claimed that he only let her join in to keep the peace. ‘You could be extremely demanding, it was easier to give in,’ he told her. Santi was her favourite cousin. He had always stuck up for her. In fact, he was a better brother to her than Rafael and the
hapless Agustin could ever be.
Now Santi threw Sofia his penknife. ‘Go on then, make your wishes,’ he said lazily, pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket. ‘Do you want one, Chofi?’
‘Sure, why not.’
He pulled one out, lit it, then after taking a long drag passed it down to his cousin. Sofia climbed up to the higher branch with the expertise of a Venezuelan monkey and sat cross-legged, revealing her brown kneecaps through the frayed slashes in her jeans.
‘Now, what do I wish for this time?’ she sighed, and opened the knife.
‘Make sure it’s attainable,’ advised Santi, casting his eye over to where his sister was sitting quietly, watching her cousin with undisguised admiration. Sofia sucked on the cigarette before blowing the smoke out in disgust.
‘Hey, give me back my fag, if you’re not going to smoke it properly. Don’t waste it,’ he said irritably. ‘You can’t imagine how difficult it is to get my hands on these.’
‘Don’t lie, Encarnacion gets them for you,’ replied Sofia casually as she began to carve into the bark. The soft wood came away quite easily after the initial
cut, the little shavings falling off like chocolate.
‘Who told you that?’ he asked accusingly.
‘Maria.’
‘I didn’t mean ...’ began Maria guiltily.
‘Look, who cares, Santi. No one gives a damn. Anyway, we’ll keep your secret,’ said Sofia, more interested now in her wish than the squabble that she had ignited between brother and sister.
Santi inhaled deeply, holding the cigarette between his thumb and his forefinger as he watched Sofia drawing on the bark. He had grown up with her and had always considered her to be another sister, along with Maria. Fernando wouldn’t agree; he had always found Sofia trying at the best of times. Her face was fixed into an expression of intense concentration. She had beautiful skin, Santi decided. It was smooth and brown like Encarnacion’s milk chocolate mousse. Her profile revealed a certain arrogance, perhaps it was the way her nose turned up at the end, or was it in the strength
of her chin? He liked her character; she was defiant and difficult. Her almond-shaped brown eyes could change from soft to imperious in a blink, and when she was angry they darkened from chestnut to a rich red-brown colour he had never seen in anyone else’s eyes. No one could say she was a pushover. He admired that quality; she had a charisma that drew people to her even though sometimes they burnt their toes on her coals when they got too close. He enjoyed watching them burn from his unique position of special status. He was always there to run back to when her friendships went awry.
After a while Sofia sat back and smiled proudly at her work of art.
‘Well, what is it then?’ asked Maria, leaning into the tree to see better.
‘Can’t you tell?’ replied Sofia indignantly.
‘I’m sorry, Sofia, but no,’ she replied.
‘It’s a love heart.’ She caught Maria’s eye, who frowned back enquiringly.
‘Oh?’
‘Bit of a cliche, isn’t it? Who’s the lucky guy?’ asked Santi who had flopped back onto his branch and was dangling his arms and legs in the air lethargically.
‘Not telling, I’m wishing,’ she replied, lowering her eyes coyly.
Sofia rarely blushed, but in the last few months she had begun to feel differently about her cousin. When he looked into her eyes in that intense way, her face coloured and her heart hopped about like a cricket for no apparent reason.
She admired him, looked up to him, adored him. Oddly her face had taken to blushing. It had nothing to do with her, she hadn’t been consulted, it just happened. When she complained to Soledad that her face turned red when she talked to boys, her maid laughed and said it was all part of growing up. Sofia hoped she’d grow out of it just as quickly. She reflected on these new feelings with curiosity and exhilaration, but Santi was miles away, exhaling smoke like a Red Indian. Maria took the knife and carved a small sun.
‘May I be blessed with a long, happy life,’ she said.
‘That’s a bit of an odd thing to wish for,’ scoffed Sofia, screwing up her nose.
‘You must never take anything for granted, Sofia,’ said Maria seriously.
Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree Page 3