‘I’m not going for long, sweetheart. I’ll be back before you miss me,’ said Sofia, pulling the tearful child into her arms. ‘Oh, I love you so much,’ she breathed, kissing her wet cheek.
‘I love you too, Mummy,’ sobbed India, hanging around Sofia’s neck like a koala bear. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘Daddy will look after you and it’s the holidays soon. Lots to look forward to,’ she replied, wiping the child’s face with her thumbs. India nodded and tried to be brave.
Honor grinned as she kissed her mother and wished her a safe flight, drawing herself up like a grown-up and patting India on her quivering shoulder.
David embraced his wife and wished her luck.
‘Call me when you arrive, won’t you,’ he said, placing his lips on Sofia’s for a long moment during which he silently prayed that she would be returned to him safely. Sofia waved at her small family before disappearing through passport control. India had managed to force a smile, but once her mother had gone, she disintegrated once more into tears. David took her by the hand and the farewell-party left the airport for home.
It was only when Sofia’s plane was near landing in Buenos Aires that the reality of her situation began to sink in. It had been twenty-three years since she had last stood on Argentine soil. She hadn’t seen any of her family for all that time, although she had heard through Dominique that her parents had desperately tried to track her down at the beginning. But Sofia had cut them all off completely. Having deeply resented them for sending her away she had, in a perverse way, enjoyed making them suffer. Dominique had protected her. But as time wore on she had found the longing for her homeland increasingly difficult to bear until she had had to admit to herself that pride was the only thing standing in the way of her return.
David had tried on countless occasions to encourage her to make a visit. ‘I’ll come with you, I’ll be there by your side. We’ll go together. You must let go of this bitterness,’ he had said. But Sofia hadn’t been able to do it. She hadn’t been able to let go of her pride. She wondered now how her family were going to react when they saw her.
In her mind’s eye she could still see and smell Argentina as she had left it all those years ago; she wasn’t prepared for the change. But as the plane descended into the Eseisa Airport, at least the skyline of the city, bathed in the flamingo-pink light of morning, was still very much as she had last seen it. She was overwhelmed with emotion. She was coming home.
There was no one to meet her at the airport, but why should there have been? She hadn’t told anyone she was coming. She knew she should have called, but whom? She had chosen to dispense with them all; there was no one she could have turned to — no one. In the old days she would have contacted Santi. Those days were gone.
The moment she stepped out into Eseisa Airport she drew into her nostrils that intoxicatingly familiar smell of caramelized, humid air. Her skin immediately felt damp and her senses swam in the stirring sea of her memories. She
looked about her at the dark-skinned officials who stalked around the airport with great importance, bristling with authority beneath their starched uniforms. While she waited for her luggage she glanced at the other travellers, listened to their conversations in Spanish, with the bubbling Argentine accent, and felt that she was truly home. Shedding her English skin like a snake she slunk through customs like the Porteha she used to be.
On the other side bustled and jostled an ocean of brown faces, some with placards inscribed with the names of the people they were meeting, others with their children and even their dogs screaming and barking into the stifling air, awaiting relatives and friends returning from lands afar. Their dark eyes watched Sofia as she pushed her trolley through the crowd that parted like the Red Sea to allow her to pass.
‘Taxi, Senora?’ asked a black-haired mestizo, twisting the corners of his moustache with lazy fingers. Sofia nodded.
‘A! Hospital Alemanshe replied.
1De donde es Listed?’ asked the man as he pushed her trolley out into the dazzling light. Sofia didn’t know whether she recoiled because of the intensity of the sunshine or because her taxi driver had just asked her where she was from.
‘Londres,’ she replied hesitantly. She obviously spoke Spanish with a foreign accent.
Once in the back of the black and yellow taxi, she sat next to the open window, which she wound down as far as it could go. Her driver lit a cigarette and turned on the radio. His dry brown hands ran roughly down the cool figure of the Madonna that hung from the mirror before he started the engine.
‘Do you follow football?’ he shouted into the back. ‘Argentina beat England in the World Cup of 1986. You must have heard of Diego Maradona?’
‘Listen, I’m Argentine, but I’ve lived in England for the past twenty-three years,’ she replied in exasperation.
‘No!’ he gasped, dragging the sound of the ‘O’ out of his throat in a long hiss.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly.
‘No!’ he gasped again in disbelief that anyone would want to leave Argentina. ‘How did you feel during the war of Las Malvinas?’ he asked, watching her face in the mirror. She would have preferred him to look where he was going, but the years of being British had refined her manners. If she had been a real Argentine she would have shouted at him rudely. He hooted loudly at a stalling
car in front of him and overtook on the wrong side, showing his fist to the equally irate driver by sticking it out of the window and waving it furiously.
‘Boludo!’ He sighed, shaking his head and inhaling the cigarette that hung limply out of the side of his mouth. ‘So, how did you feel?’
‘It was very difficult. My husband is English. It was a difficult time for both of us. Neither of us wanted that war.’
‘I know, it was between the governments, nothing to do with what the people wanted. That piece of shit, Galtieri - I was there in the Plaza de Mayo in 1982 with thousands of others to applaud him for invading the islands, then again a few months later baying for his blood. An unnecessary war. All that bloodshed, for what? A distraction. That’s what it was, a distraction.’
As they weaved their way precariously up the freeway that took them straight into the centre of Buenos Aires, she gazed out of the window onto a world that looked to her like an old familiar friend, but wearing a new expression. It was as if someone had built over all her memories, polished away the rust that she had grown up with and loved so deeply. As they drove through the city she noticed the parks were beautifully clean and full of well-trimmed flowerbeds. The shop windows were framed with shiny brass borders and displayed the latest
European collections. It looked more like Paris than a South American city.
This place looks really amazing,’ she said. ‘It looks so . . . well, I suppose the word is prosperous.’
‘You say you haven’t been here for twenty-three years, qu barbaridad! You missed the Alfonsfn years when inflation reached such heights I had to print a new price sheet every day, sometimes twice a day. It got to the stage where I asked for dollars, the only way not to lose money. You know, people lost their life’s savings from one day to the next. Terrible. But now things have improved. Menem has been a good President. A good President,’ he said, nodding his head in approval. ‘The austral was replaced by the peso - one peso to the dollar. Now that changed everything. We can depend on our currency again and have pride in it. One peso to the dollar - imagine that!’
‘The streets look fantastic - look at those boutiques.’
‘You should see the shopping malls. Patio Bulrich and now that fancy Paseo Alcorta. You’d think you were in New York. The fountains, the cafes, the shops. There’s so much foreign investment now, it’s incredible.’ Sofia gazed out of the window as they passed a beautifully manicured park. ‘Companies look after the parks - it’s good advertising for them and means they’re clean for our
children to play in,’ he said proudly.
Sofia’s head swam as she breathed
in the smell of diesel mingled with the shrubbery and flowers from the park and the sweet scent of chocolate and churros from the kioscos. She noticed a brown-skinned boy striding across the road towards the park with about twenty pure-bred dogs on leads trotting eagerly behind him. When her driver tuned into the football match between Boca, whom he obviously supported, and River Plate, Sofia knew she had lost him. When Boca scored he swerved so violently across the road that he would have crashed had all the other cars not done the same. Once more he stuck his fist out of the window and tooted his horn to the other cars to display his delight. Sofia watched the small porcelain Madonna swing from the mirror and after a while she found herself drawn into its hypnotic rhythm.
Finally, the taxi halted outside the Hospital Aleman and she paid him with unfamiliar pesos. There had been a time when you wouldn’t have stepped out of the car until the driver had done so in case he drove off with your bags still in the boot, but Sofia was too eager to get out. She felt carsick. Her driver placed her two bags on the pavement then returned to his radio. She watched him rattle his way up the street and disappear into the swarm of buzzing vehicles.
Weary from her thirteen-hour flight and over-emotional, Sofia went right in, bags and all, and asked for Maria Solanas. When she mentioned her name the nurse frowned momentarily before nodding in acknowledgement.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. She wasn’t used to people using Maria’s family name. ‘You must be her cousin - she has spoken a great deal about you.’ Sofia felt the colour rise in her cheeks, she wondered what exactly she had been told. ‘You’re lucky, she’s going home this afternoon. You might have missed her.’
‘Oh,’ Sofia replied blankly. She didn’t know what to say.
‘You are very early - we don’t usually allow visitors until nine a.m.’
‘I have come all the way from London,’ she explained wearily. ‘Maria isn’t expecting me. I’d like some time alone with her before her family arrive. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Of course.’ The nurse nodded sympathetically. ‘I have seen your photos. Maria loves to show us photographs. You look . . .’ She hesitated uncomfortably, as if suddenly aware that she was on the brink of making a faux pas.
‘Older?’ Sofia suggested helpfully.
‘Perhaps,’ the nurse mumbled and her cheeks glowed. ‘I know she will be so happy to see you. Why don’t you go on up - it’s the second floor, Room 207.’
‘How is she?’ Sofia ventured, wanting to prepare herself a little before seeing her cousin.
‘She is a very brave lady, and popular. Everyone has grown enormously fond of Señora Maraldi.’
Sofia made her way towards the lift. ‘Señora Maraldi’ - the name sounded alien to her and Maria suddenly drifted further out of reach, like a small boat disappearing into the mist. Back in England Sofia had tried to absorb the news of her cousin’s illness, but it had seemed so far removed from her life that it hadn’t touch her like it touched her now. The smell of detergent, the sound of her shoes on the shiny plastic floors that lined the long hospital corridors, the nurses striding purposefully up and down with trays of medicine, the gloom that always lingers in such places penetrated her understanding and suddenly she felt afraid. Afraid of seeing her cousin after all this time. Afraid she might not recognize her. Afraid she wouldn’t be welcome.
Sofia hesitated at the door, not sure of what she would see on the other side. With some difficulty she assembled her flagging courage and entered. Through the early morning dimness she saw an unfamiliar figure lying under white sheets. She realized she had foolishly stumbled on some poor invalid sleeping peacefully in the shadows. Embarrassed, she mumbled a quick apology. But then as she was about to turn and leave, a small voice called out her name.
‘Sofia?’ She turned and blinked into focus. Lying on the bed was indeed her angelic friend, gaunt and grey, smiling over at her. Choked, she stumbled to her bedside and kneeling on the floor buried her face in Maria’s outstretched hand. Maria was too overwhelmed to say any more, and Sofia was too moved to look at her. She stayed there for a long while, crushed by what she saw. Maria’s illness had changed her; she looked so different Sofia hadn't even recognized her.
Sofia took a while to compose herself. Managing to look up at her cousin once, she only broke down again; all the while Maria remained calm and serene as Sofia abandoned herself to grief. Finally she was able to see her clearly. Pale and emaciated, Maria lay there smiling in spite of the ill fate that was sucking the life out of her.
‘I so hoped you’d come back. I missed you so much, Sofia,’ she whispered, not because she didn’t have the strength to speak, but because the moment was too sacred to shatter with loud words.
‘Oh Maria, I missed you too. You have no idea,’ sniffed Sofia.
‘How funny, you speak Spanish with an accent!’ she exclaimed.
‘Do I?’ replied Sofia sadly. Another part of her home that she had lost along the way.
‘Who told you?’ asked Maria, gazing into Sofia’s livid eyes.
‘Your mother - she wrote to me.’
‘My mother? I didn’t even know she had your address. She must have kept it a surprise in case you didn’t come. Qu divina,’ she said, and smiled the small, grateful smile of a young woman who cherishes each kind gesture, for in the face of death love is the only comfort. ‘You look so well.’ She ran her hand down Sofia’s cheek, wiping away the tears. ‘Don’t be sad, I’m stronger than I look. It’s because I’ve lost my hair.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t have to bother washing it now - such a relief!’
‘You’re going to get well,’ Sofia insisted.
Maria shook her head sadly. ‘I’m not going to get well, not now. In fact, I’m such a hopeless case, they’re sending me home to Santa Catalina.’
‘But there must be something they can do? They can’t give up. You have so much to live for.’
‘I know. My children for a start. I worry about them constantly. But they will grow up with love. Eduardo is a good man. Let’s not sit here being all negative, there’s no point. You have come home, that is all that matters. Right now I am so happy.’ And her large eyes glittered with tears.
Tell me about your husband. I feel I’ve lost you over the years. Please tell me about him.’
‘Well, he’s a doctor, he’s tall and gawky and kind. I couldn’t love any man more than I love Eduardo. He makes me smile on the inside. He’s been so strong through all of this mess.’
‘And your children?’
‘We have four children.’
‘Four!’ exclaimed Sofia, impressed.
‘That’s nothing in this country, surely you remember?’
‘I just can’t believe your little body was able to produce so many.’
‘It wasn’t little then, I assure you. I was never little.’ She laughed.
‘I want to meet them all. I want to know them. They’re my cousins too!’
‘You will. You’ll meet all of them at Santa Catalina. They come and see me every day. Eduardo will be here in a minute. He comes in the morning and after lunch and spends most of the evening with me. I have to tell him to go home,
or back to work. He looks so tired. I worry about him. Worry about how he’ll cope when I’m gone. In the beginning he was my rock, but now, in spite of my illness, I feel I’m his. I can’t bear to leave him behind.’
‘I can’t believe how calm you are about dying,’ Sofia said quietly and her heart flooded with love and sadness. Humbled by Maria’s courage she reflected on her own selfish pride, the pettiness of which seemed churlish to her now. Oh, the frustration of hindsight that enables you to see the error of your ways when it is too late to make amends, she thought miserably. Neither dared talk about Santi.
‘And what has become of the Sofia I grew up with? Who has broken your spirit?’
‘Maria, you never used to be this strong. Por Dios, I was always the strong one.’
‘No, you always pretended to be strong, Sofia. You were
naughty and rebellious because you craved your mother’s attention. She gave it all to your brothers.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’ve had my moments of despair, of fear, believe me. I’ve asked, “Why me?
What have I done to deserve this miserable ending?” But finally you just have to go along with it, accept it and make your last days as happy as possible. I have put my trust in God. I know death is nothing more than a gateway into another life. It’s not goodbye but farewell. I have faith,’ she said serenely and Sofia believed that she had, indeed, found some sort of inner peace.
‘So, you married a theatre producer?’ said Maria brightly.
‘How do you know?’ Sofia asked in surprise.
‘Because there was a feature on you during the Malvinas War in one of the papers.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, an Argentine living in England during the conflict. There was a picture. We all saw it.’
‘How strange. I thought of you all so much then. I felt I was betraying my country,’ Sofia confessed, remembering that difficult time when she was torn between her homeland and the new home she had adopted.
‘Look how English you are. Who’d have thought? What’s he like?’
‘Oh, he’s much older than me. He’s kind, very clever, a wonderful father. He treats me like a princess,’ said Sofia proudly and pictured David’s intelligent
face.
‘Good for you. How many children?’
Two girls. Honor and India.’
‘What beautiful names. Honor and India,’ she repeated. ‘Very English.’
‘Yes, they are,’ she replied and pictured India crying at the airport. She was debilitated momentarily by a pang of anxiety before Maria’s questions brought her back to the present.
‘I always knew you’d have something to do with the theatre. You were a pri-ma donna from the moment you were born. Do you remember all those plays we put on as children?’
Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree Page 43