The Swallow and the Hummingbird(49)

In the afternoon George accompanied Jose Antonio on horseback to survey the farm. The sun still burned, but it was less intense. In spite of his uncle’s coarse nature George found his company enjoyable. They rode across the plains where wheat and maize grew in fields of gold and sunflowers turned their faces to the light. Brown cows roamed among wild grasses and flowers in vast herds, their coats thick and shining with health. Jose Antonio had an army of labourers who seemed to do most of their work on horseback. They were dressed in the traditional gaucho attire: baggy trousers tucked into leather boots, and woven sashes tied around their waists, upon which rested elaborate belts decorated with silver coins. They looked flamboyant with their wide-rimmed hats, hide chaps, glittering spurs and the all-important knife, tucked into their belts. But Jose Antonio was much more interested in talking about George.

‘La Gorda tells me you have a woman in England,’ he began. But before George could reply he added, ‘What good is a woman you cannot make love to, eh?’ He laughed boisterously. ‘If you want a whore I know a good, clean place in town. A man has to fuck like he has to eat and shit, no?’ George was speechless, not that Jose Antonio would have noticed. ‘A wife is for children,’ he continued. ‘She organizes your life and takes care of you. A whore is for pleasure. If I had wanted to spend the rest of my life making love to my wife I would have married Molina. But Molina is only good for that. Every man should have a woman for love and a woman for lust, no?’ George had been quite happy to engage in bawdy talk in the mess, but it seemed inappropriate to discuss such things with his aunt’s husband. Jose Antonio fixed him with his mahogany eyes and said with a smirk, ‘I see you are in love.’

‘I’m going to marry Rita,’ said George, feeling gauche. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

‘Then what you need is a woman to keep you occupied,’ Jose Antonio suggested, obviously an authority on the subject. ‘A year is a very long time and you are young. When I was young I made love whenever I could because, as you get older, you no longer have the energy or the time to indulge so often. You will see that I am right.’ When George said nothing, Jose Antonio added thoughtfully, ‘Rita must be a very beautiful woman.’

‘She is,’ George replied, envisaging her face, wondering what she would make of Jose Antonio. He rather looked forward to telling her in his next letter.

‘I have always liked women. Young girls lack the experience. They are like green fruit on a tree. They get better once they have been exposed a little to the elements. They need to ripen.’

George thought of Susan and felt a wave of regret. He should have asked for her address at the very least. The knowledge that he might never see her again made her all the more enigmatic and intriguing.

‘There is something very attractive about a woman who has seen a bit of the world,’ George agreed.

‘And who has tasted the forbidden fruit. Young girls are naïve, trusting, adoring. They lack personality. I was attracted to La Gorda because she knew her own mind. She is a strong and capable woman. It does not matter that she speaks Spanish like a tourist.’

‘I must say, Jose Antonio, your English is admirable,’ said George truthfully, wondering how on earth he was ever going to learn Spanish.

‘I had an English nanny who left when I was twenty. No, no,’ he was quick to add, once again roaring with laughter, ‘I was potty trained by then, I assure you.’

When they returned to the puesto two brown children sat on the fence waiting for them. Seeing them approach they jumped down and ran up to the ponies. Pia was eight, Jose Antonio, nicknamed Tonito to avoid confusion, was ten. Their father leapt to the ground and gathered both children into his arms. They giggled excitedly and Pia placed her small hands on his rough face and kissed him. ‘Come and meet your cousin George.’

They clung to him shyly, watching George with the same dark eyes as their father’s. Neither resembled their mother. Pia was destined to be a beauty and Tonito a giant. They belonged to the Argentine as the ombu belongs to the pampa. George was surprised to discover that neither spoke good English for their parents talked to them in their native tongue, more out of laziness than intention.

‘Vamos a casa a tomar el té,’ said Tonito. He turned to George and translated in pidgin English. ‘Teatime.’

Tea was laid out on the veranda, the silver and china neatly placed on a clean white tablecloth. The children drank their milk and told their parents what they had done at school. Jose Antonio was indulgent, Agatha mindful of their manners and deportment.