By
Sante Montefiore
Cara sat back in her chair, stunned. The words, written in Spanish, seemed cold and remote on her computer screen, desperately inadequate for the terrible news they communicated. Pancho had been diagnosed with a tumour in his stomach and the outlook was grim. The word ‘aggressive’ that described it seemed to have prickles of its own that tore the scabs off old memories and caused her heart to bleed. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of sorrow on her chest, and pictured Pancho as he was back then when he had ridden off with her heart.
Twenty-one years ago, she considered in amazement. So many years and yet, when she thought of him she was nineteen again, an Irish girl in Argentina for the first time, poised to spend ten months teaching English to his young cousins. If she closed her eyes she could believe she was on the ranch once more. On the flat, fertile pampa west of Buenos Aires where the horizon is so vast it is hard to tell where the land ends and the sky begins. She could smell the eucalyptus trees and gardenia, feel the warm breeze on her face and the damp humidity on her skin. She could see the avenue of tall plane trees that lined the dirt track like sentinels, and the yellow and white colonial house that stood at the end of it with its distinctive green shutters and red tiled roof. Standing in the dappled light of her imagination she could hear the barking of dogs and the maid chatting to Loro, the parrot, in her lazy, Spanish drawl.
She had fallen in love with the countryside first; the bright, cerulean sky, the rich soil and long grasses; the pale, liquid light of morning and the clamour of birds high up in the plane trees. She had fallen in love with Pancho later when he had become synonymous with the country she had already given her heart to.
He was twenty-five and insouciant, with dirty blond hair and sentimental eyes the colour of moss. He rode with confidence and played polo with flair and all the girls fluttered around him like butterflies, keen to catch a smile or a glance tossed carelessly their way. But it wasn’t long before he had settled those green eyes onto her and unaccustomed to such attention, she soon faltered beneath them.
His persistence flattered her. He sought her out at every opportunity, sweet talking in his lyrical Spanish, listening patiently as she stumbled on her words. He didn’t tease her when she made mistakes, but corrected her gently, caressing her with his gaze, encouraging her with praise. He taught her how to ride the polo ponies and swing a mallet, and they galloped across the plain side by side, laughing into the wind. They swam in the pool at midnight when the pampa sang with the chirruping of crickets, and chased each other in the water. Then one balmy night when the family gathered together for a barbeque, he drew her away from the crowd to walk across the darkening plain, beneath a sky twinkling with stars and a big, pregnant moon. Taking her hand he told her she was more beautiful than the night. “I can’t eat or sleep and my game is suffering because I can’t get you out of my head,” he said, then pressed her hand to his chest. “Though, I don’t think I want to let you out of my heart.” Little by little his words had corroded her resistance, and although her instinct warned her against him, she yielded to his kiss.
From that first kiss the whole nature of their relationship changed. Pancho claimed he wanted to keep it secret so that he could have her all to himself. So, they met in darkened rooms where the blinds were shut, behind walls and trees, swapping little notes, stealing kisses when no one was looking. To protect their secret he stopped flirting with her in public and the less attention he gave her, the more she craved. He begged to make love to her but something in her head warned her not to trust him, so she held him off with all the strength she could muster. She saw him with other girls, giving them the attention he had once given her, but he reassured her that she was the only one that mattered, and she wanted to believe him so badly that she convinced herself he was telling the truth.
It was raining the night they finally made love in the pool house. The air was thick with humidity, the rain warm as it fell heavy and fast. She’d never forget the way he had loved her – or the way afterward he had lost interest in her, having scored the one goal he had always been after.
She switched off her computer and rubbed her eyes, dispelling the memories. She considered the years that separated them. He had never married, propelled by an unquenchable desire, or fear, perhaps, that prevented him from ever committing to one woman. She, on the other hand, had married, had children, built her happiness on top of her injured heart and tried, as best as she could, to remember only the good times in Argentina.
Now she was consumed with a terrible urgency. How long did Pancho have left? Was this it? The thought that this man whom she had once loved with all the ardour of her youth would suddenly be living no more sent her into a fever of motivation.
When life is reduced to its bare essence there is no place for resentment or regret. She knew what she had to do and was sure her husband would understand; they had never kept secrets from one another. As she expected, he supported her decision and encouraged her to fly out at once, buying her a return ticket on-line. He helped her pack and sort out some photographs to take with her, then drove her to the airport. “You’re very brave,” he said, embracing her. “But if you change your mind at any point, just get on a plane and come home.” She held onto him tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude, knowing that as much as she wished he could come with her, this was something she had to do alone.
The flight was long and cramped. She had cherished the good memories for so long it was hard to recall the bad. But little by little they resurfaced, and the scar across her heart burned with each recollection.
Finally, she landed in Buenos Aires. It was spring. The air was infused with the smell of caramel from the sweet stalls and diesel from the worn out old buses, the streets and parks ablaze with violet jacaranda trees in full bloom. She gazed out of the window of the taxi, smiling wistfully at the city she loved, remembering the young girl she once was, walking down those pavements without a care in the world. Much had changed, but the heart of the city was the same, and she recognised it with the intense passion of a prodigal child returning Home.
Hospitals smell the same all the world over, a mixture of detergent and disinfectant, but this one smelt so strongly of jasmine she could think only of death and the urgency of her mission. She had telephoned Pancho’s mother from London to warn him that she was coming. Twenty-one years had passed since their last meeting; she didn’t know what to expect. She wondered whether he was thinking the same thing.
It was three in the afternoon when the receptionist directed her to his private room, a pale green door on the second floor. She hesitated in front of it, suddenly unsure whether she was doing the right thing. She inhaled deeply, preparing herself for possibly the hardest assignment of her life, then knocked. His voice was unmistakeable and the familiarity of it assuaged her fears. She opened the door and stepped inside.
Pancho was sitting up in bed, leaning back against white pillows. He was the same Pancho, just older. His hair had thinned and darkened over the years, the skin around his eyes lined and weathered. The body of a young man had thickened into that of a middle aged man, though he was somehow better looking in a rugged, broken way, as if the gravity of his illness had given his face a softer, more gentle focus. He grinned, his lips curling in the arrogant way they once had, but there was no arrogance in them now, just an ironic sense of humour. His eyes looked her up and down and he nodded appreciatively. “Well, you’ve aged well,” he said. “If I had known you would mature into this I wouldn’t have let you go.”
She bent down to kiss him on his bristly cheek. “Oh, I think you would have. Seems no one has managed to tame you yet.”
“You still speak Spanish.”
“It’s a little rusty.
“I taught you well.”
“I’ve forgotten how to play polo, though.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“I do hope so, Pancho.”
He sighed. “It’s good to see you, lovely Cara. I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
She took the chair beside the bed. “So do I.”
“So, here we are, two decades later. What have you done with your life?”
“Married, had children.”
He looked wistful. “I should have done the same. But who knew it would come to this?”
“Did you ever get close?”
He chuckled. “When I got too close, I ran. We had fun, though, didn’t we?”
She felt her eyes sting. “We did.”
He looked sad and reached out for her hand. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
He squeezed it affectionately. “I’m sorry for that. I was young and too pleased with myself. But I did care about you.”
“I was young, too, and naïve to expect more than you could give me.”
“You gave me everything, Cara, and I was foolish not to cherish you.”
She felt his eyes wander regretfully over her features and a warm sensation rippled across her heart. “I’ve only remembered the good times, Pancho. The times we rode across the pampa, the nights we swam in the pool and lay on our backs to dry, gazing up at the stars. I made a conscious effort to erase the ending.”
“Was I that bad?”
She laughed. “You were dreadful.”
“Well, now I’m sick and full of regret.”
“Regretting is a waste of energy.”
“I could have lived better. Now I’ll die, leaving nothing behind but broken hearts. What a waste of a life.”
“Mine is no longer broken, Pancho.”
He smiled gratefully. “So, tell me, what’s your husband like?”
“He’s a character, very funny, very loving, my best friend.”
“I’m glad. How many children do you have?”
“Three.”
“Are they all as beautiful as you?”
“Much more beautiful than me.” She opened her handbag. “I’ve brought you some photographs.” She pulled them out. “This is our daughter, Rosie. She’s twelve.”
He took it and gazed at the blonde child with wide blue eyes. “She’s the image of you, Cara. She’ll be trouble. I’d watch out for her.”
“Well, she’s not coming out here, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I have no sons to seduce her, so you needn’t worry!”
“Then this is our son, Jack. He’s ten.”
“He looks like you, too.”
“Well, my husband has blue eyes and was fair when he was little.”
“They’re adorable.”
She held out the last photo, her heart suddenly racing. “And this is Frank.”
He took it, then recoiled in surprise. “Wow, he’s grown up.”
“Twenty-one,” she replied significantly.
Pancho stared into the face of the young man with dirty blond hair and moss green eyes, his lips curled into a roguish grin. The resemblance was unmistakeable. His hand began to tremble.
Out of the ruin came the bright flicker of hope. He turned to her incredulously. “I have a son?”
Cara didn’t bother to wipe away the tears. “You have a son, Pancho. I named him after you.”
He looked at her steadily and his face flushed with determination. “Oh Cara, Lovely Cara, you have not only given me a son, but something to live for.”
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