Chapter 10
George awoke in a sweat. His heartbeat raced and his body trembled with fear. It took him a while to shake off his dream and remember that he was aboard the Fortuna, bound for Argentina. Then he thought of Susan and he was suddenly thrown back into his dream, feeling lonelier than ever.
As he dressed he could feel the vibrations of the ship as it docked in Buenos Aires. He raced up the corridors and out onto the deck, hoping that by some small miracle he would catch a final glimpse of her as she disembarked. It was hopeless. He stood against the railing watching the passengers walk down the ramp onto the dockside, his eyes scanning them for that familiar blonde hair, neatly combed into an elegant chignon. The port was teeming with uniformed officials but, unlike England where they exuded efficiency, here the atmosphere was languid. Although still early morning, the heat of the sun was intense. The flow of passengers dwindled and he resigned himself to the fact that she had long gone. One more face in the millions of unfamiliar faces of Buenos Aires.
He returned to his cabin and threw his things into a bag. He hesitated when he came across the letter he had written to Rita and the dove pendant he had bought her. He fingered it thoughtfully before placing it at the top and clipping shut his bag. Then he left the ship and its sweet memories. He had nothing to remember Susan by: no photograph, no letter, no small token to mark their meeting and their parting. Nothing. Once he left the ship it would be as though they had never met.
Buenos Aires was a fragrant, romantic city. He imagined Susan in the small cafés and beneath the violet jacaranda trees that had burst into blossom with the unexpected flowering of his own fragile heart. He envisaged her walking down the wide, tree-lined avenues, perhaps residing in one of those pretty Parisian buildings, with their high roofs and ornate façades. He had time to kill before his train to Córdoba so he wandered into a plaza that was ablaze with flowers and trees in bloom, the air thick with the heady scent of gardenia and the happy twittering of birds. It was peaceful there beside a fountain.
The delicate trickle of water soothed his spirit and he was able to appreciate the change of scenery and the promise of something new that this country offered him. He lunched alone in La Recoleta, at a table that looked out from under sinewy rubber trees onto the wall of the cemetery. A flower stall was set up at the entrance and the smell of spring mingled with the aroma of cooking meat and diesel. He ate Argentine beef, a steak that spilled over the sides of the plate, juicy such as he had never tasted. He drank wine and allowed it to numb the sense of rejection that still gnawed at his heart, and watched the scenes play out around him through lazy eyes.
This was a country untouched by war. People sat in the sunshine, sipping cocktails, chatting happily and eating luxuries that were a rarity in Britain. It felt good to be a part of this carefree world. It made it easier to forget. He shook off the winter and let in the spring. But as much as he tried to think of Rita, Susan’s face still invaded and lingered in his mind. He was too drowsy with wine to fight it. So he looked upon her with wistfulness and longing, his eyes staring ahead but focusing on nothing. He realized with a shudder that if he had really loved Rita he would have married her there and then and brought her with him. But she was tied to Frognal Point, to his past, to the ghosts from which he was running. He was running from her too.
This thought disturbed him. Surely he had loved Rita for as long as he could remember? Besides, Susan was gone. He would never see her again. He paid the bill and took a taxi to Retiro station. The driver was a jolly man with a large belly and a keen sense of patriotism, for blue and white Argentine flags were stuck in every possible place in his cab. Disappointed that George didn’t speak Spanish, he chattered away regardless, sure that the young foreigner would pick it up after a while. George let him talk on, nodding and saying sí and no in agreement, depending on the driver’s tone. When he was dropped at the station he was amused to see that it was a replica of London’s Waterloo, built by the Victorians in the same cast iron as the original. Even the details of the ticket windows were identical. He felt a sudden nostalgia, remembering the trains he had so often taken at the beginning of the war when coming home on leave.
When he found a seat on the Rayo del Sol train bound for Córdoba it was strange to look out of windows free of blackout fabric, to sit comfortably in an uncrowded carriage, to find himself opposite a brown-skinned woman with a parrot perched contentedly on her shoulder. He watched the city for a while, the buildings becoming shabbier the farther they travelled until they were little more than shacks with corrugated iron roofs. He must have drifted off to sleep for when he awoke countryside had replaced the concrete of the city.