“I don’t know. I hoped …”
He shrugged and took a sip of tea. “The problem you have with your stepmother is your problem, not hers. Don’t let what happened in the past control who you are now.”
Clementine was taken aback by his comment. She had thought he understood. But when all was said and done, he was a man like every other man, he just had a more beautiful face. In one morning, Marina had managed to wrap her tentacles around him like Medusa. Clementine had lost him as an ally.
That night, after dinner, Rafa went into the garden to call his mother. He sat on the ground beneath the cedar tree and pulled out his BlackBerry.
Maria Carmela seemed to sense when it was her favorite son and hurried to pick it up before it had the chance to ring.
“Hijo.”
“Mamá. Are you well?”
“I am, Rafa. Thank the Lord, I am in good health. A little tired, but what can one expect when you are as old as I am.”
“You’re not old.”
“I feel old. I’m full of worry.”
“I’ve told you not to worry.”
“I wish your father were alive.”
“If he was, I wouldn’t be here, and I’m glad I’m here.”
“So tell me. What do you do with yourself all day?”
Rafa told her about his excursion to the forgotten church with Clementine and their swim in the sea. “I had a proper English tea this afternoon in a place called Devil’s. I had scones.”
“What are they?”
“Like alfajores de maizena, more or less. I’ll bring you some when I come home.”
“Have you said anything?”
“Not yet. The time isn’t right.”
“If you leave it too long, you might miss the moment.”
“I have to be sure, though I’m pretty certain this is the right place. All the clues lead to here.”
“If you’re not sure, come home and forget the whole silly venture.”
“I’ve come this far; I’m not giving up now.”
“No one can say you’re not a man of courage. For that I’m proud of you.”
“So be proud and stop worrying.” There was a long pause and a crackle over the airwaves. “Mamá, are you still there?”
“I feel guilty, Rafa.” Her voice was quieter now.
“Why?”
“If I hadn’t told you, you’d never have set off on this mad quest. It’s all my fault. Your father and I promised we’d keep it all secret. While he was alive he gave me the strength to hold my tongue. He took it to the grave, as he always said he would. But I … it is because I love you that I couldn’t hold it in any longer. You had a right to know the truth. But now I have told you, I’m frightened of what you might dig up. I’m afraid I have given you the key to Pandora’s box.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know the people you are dealing with. They are dangerous.”
“That was many years ago. Times have changed.”
“I worry that I have put you in danger again.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Oh, Rafa, you give me such strength. I will try not to worry.”
“I’m going to come home at the end of the summer, and everything is going to be just the same as it always has been. Trust me.”
“I trust you, hijo. I just don’t trust … them.”
Rafa distracted her with questions about the farm, his siblings and their children. Little by little, her voice grew less strained and she sounded more herself. When he hung up, he felt a little better. He hated to think of her sitting alone in the middle of the pampa, worrying about him. He knew how precious he was to her, and that since the death of his father he had become even more so. He stood up and put his hands on his hips, staring out into the eternal blackness of the night, lost in thought. He wasn’t ready to go back inside, there were so many knots to unravel in his head. So he took a walk.
The scents of the garden were intensified by the dew, and he was reminded of the midnight walks he used to take as a younger man across the pampa. As his mind delved deeper into his past he felt the sharp pain of longing pull at his heart.
When Rafa was a small boy, Lorenzo was already an old man in his sixties. His other children were all grown up, and his wife worried that he no longer had the patience or the energy to endure the constant demands of a small child. But little by little Rafa had won him over with his enthusiasm and curiosity, following him around the farm like a worshipful dog. When his older children were small, Lorenzo had been too busy to indulge them, but in his old age he had found to his delight that he had all the time in the world to indulge his youngest. He taught him how to ride and took him on long excursions across the pampa, telling him about the history of the land and his own childhood in Italy. He taught him to play cards and to smile when he lost, and at night, by the warm light of the fire, they’d sit on the grass with the other gauchos and sing songs while Lorenzo strummed his guitar. The old man relished having one child to dote on instead of four, and he spoiled him with the indulgence of a man who has little else in his life to afford him pleasure.