Of course she knew I was pretending, but, since she was very fond of me, too, she acted as if she did not know about it. Affection was something my stern mother could not express. So it became a petty yet important game I loved to play. But the time came when I had to leave. I did not want to go back, but they said I had to, otherwise I would lose my first year at school. Besides, my mother had recovered by then.
My mother was a pious woman who hammered into us Biblical stories and prayers.
To go to church was compulsory, as we had to live by her strict moral codes. Even though there were times when she was in a good mood, she would get so worked up when she found one of us at fault, venting her wrath on all of us. She would also quarrel with my father when he came back late. Perhaps it was that strained atmosphere which had made of me a withdrawn, shy boy who did not speak enough to assert himself and who had trouble relating to his classmates.
But I was sensitive and had an intense inner world. I had learned to love the open, green spaces where life sprouted lavishly and quietly everywhere. That is why every year, when the school began, I escaped the cold, strident urban world and ran to shelter under my aunt’s affectionate care for more than two months. I did not feel lonely by her side, since she was the only one who really understood me. My mother never objected to my going away every year, but she would always say to my uncle, “make him pray,” before we left.
Although Aunt Jane was born in Argentina, her parents were from Durham, a small city in northern England. My aunt’s father was an experienced foreman who came to work for the railways, which were run by the British at that time. They arrived in Argentina in the late twenties, spending five months in Buenos Aires and two years in Rosario. Then her father was transferred to Cordoba where they lived five years, moving again at the end of that period to finally settle in the Northwest. It was here where my aunt was born. Athough Mr Cavendish had bought a farm by then, he still worked for the railways, but as the manager for the local station this time.
Thinking that it would be a matter of months before the strife came to end, Mr Cavendish left South America to serve England at the outbreak of World War II. But once he had left they never heard of him again. Deprived of her husband, my aunt’s mother became feeble at the end of the war and eventually fell victim to a chronic disease. When she died, away from her mother country, her eldest son, George, took charge of the farm.
Five years later, under Peron’s regime and in a country which held meager prospects, George and his younger brother decided to go to England. The three of them agreed to sell the farm, house, and furniture, sharing the money among themselves in equal lots. But my aunt, who was twenty now, decided to stay in Argentina. After her brothers’ departure she found herself alone and married a man who was forty-two.
My uncle was a tall, slender man with handsome features, but, like my mother, he seemed to be unable to express much affection. He was a God-fearing believer who, like most of the Argentinians, was narrow-minded and followed the fetishistic ritual of lighting candles to a motley collection of plaster saints, virgins, and faded, black and white pictures of Evita. He was a man who slid along his cultural groove.
In sharp contrast with him, my aunt never went to church, nor did she talk about religion. Although she had attended only primary school, she was a broad-minded woman to whom one could talk about any subject. She could speak, read, and write both Spanish and English.
But it was the latter which she had more knowledge of, since her mother had taught her to read and write it properly. She kept an old trunk full of books which her parents had brought from England. She read them every evening in the amber light of an oil lamp.
As summer went by, I came back to the country bigger and taller as I developed into my teens. Although I had lost interest in fishing at the river and roaming about in the forest looking for nests or shooting birds with my slingshot, it was the need to be myself by my aunt’s side, in that quiet spot, which brought me back. I was now at secondary school and had begun studying English. So, spending time with my aunt was a big help. She was the best teacher I had ever had. She was so poised and collected when she taught me. I would always sit close to her to listen to the English words which she carefully pronounced for me as she read one of her books. It was very nice to feel her warm breath when she spoke looking into my eyes. She made me feel as if I still were her little child.
But I was a teenager now. I was more than sixteen and had already started to strongly feel the sex drive inside. Once when I was seventeen, I was staying at my uncle’s for a weekend. On Saturday, he had left early to the city to attend the Lady of Mercy celebrations and was expected back in the evening. I had checked if the hired man had harrowed the patch of land in which corn was going to be sown and then helped my aunt do her daily chores when we were having lunch in the shade on the verandah.
It was hot and quiet; there was no noise, except for the steady chirp of cicadas and the occasional whinnies of a horse in the pen. From where I was sitting at the table I could see the heat waves rise from the ploughshares lying in the parching midday sun, at the side of the thatch-roofed shed.
We had not said anything yet. We just ate, looking into each other’s eyes from time to time, communicating in a language known only to us, as a warm breeze played gently with her loose, red hair. Something subtle and tender lay in those eyes which made me feel at ease and complete.
“Have you asked her out yet?” she said.
“Yes, I did, but she turned me down. I’d thought of taking her to the student day party, but at first the words wouldn’t come out, and when I finally had the courage to ask her to come to the party with me, she said that she was going out with somebody else. I felt like a clumsy idiot,” I said.
“Don’t you ever feel like that. Wherever and whoever you are with you will always be a gorgeous boy and a wonderful human being,” she said, as she put her hand on mine to reassure me.
“How do you like the meal?” she asked.
“You always cook wonderfully, Jane,” I said.
“How about going to the river for a swim? It’s quite hot today. It would be nice to splash about for a while in the cool water. They say after the last rain the river rose, leaving some deep pools where you can swim,” she said.
“It sounds like a good idea,” I said.
Walking a path that ran along the middle of the farm, we set off for the river at around three. Reaching the property limit, we crossed a barbed wire fence and began threading our way through the lush vegetation. Here and there flocks of birds, perched in trees, would suddenly soar up with a whirr, startled at the sight of two human beings.
A sense of anxious expectation, which I could not account for, quivered inside me as she held my hand leading the way. The warbling of birds and the constant chirping of cicadas reverberated in my ears, as the fresh scent of bracken and aromatic herbs filled my nose and lungs. I heard the sound of running water as the path began winding through willow trees. The sun-flecked ground became sandy; then the trail tilted, ending up at the river shore.