Free Swedish Tango / the Rhythm of Memory by Alyson Richman Page B

film, for she knew that once the studio began its promotion, she and her husband would have even less time to themselves.
    They each agreed to make the most of their weekends when he was not busy with work at the studio. Octavio suggested that they scatter some vegetable seeds in the garden in the hope that they might have a small harvest to coincide with the birth of their first child. He mixed a sack of tomato and squash seeds and carriedhis pregnant wife through their already blossoming backyard—encouraging her to throw the seeds into the air.
    “You’re ridiculous, Octavio.” She giggled as he walked over the vines of wild strawberries and petunias. He was holding her tightly in his arms and pressing his nose into her thick mane of hair.
    “You smell better than all the roses in our garden,” he said.
    “Octavio.” She giggled again, as she withdrew another fistful of seeds. “Do you think they’ll grow?”
    “Of course they’ll grow, my little Fayum.”
    He stood still for a moment before letting Salomé down. He placed her on her feet so that she now stood in the middle of the garden. Behind her the branches of the large fig and avocado trees framed her delicate face. “This is fertile ground here,” he said as he tapped her belly with the back of his hand and smiled.
    “I want to sit here and watch the sunset with you,” she whispered as she placed the burlap sack of vegetable seeds by her toes.
    That evening Octavio smoothed out a large blanket in the middle of their garden. He took Salomé in his arms and brought her close to his chest. And as the sky turned pink and gold, the sun sliding into the Andes, he told her again and again how much he loved her.
    They fell asleep to the sound of the crickets. And when they awakened, they were struck by the glimmer of the stars, the fireflies circling above, and the light of each other’s eyes, radiant in the night.

Twelve

S ANTIAGO , C HILE
    J ULY 1966
    Unable to get away from the set in time, Octavio missed the birth of his first child. Doña Olivia and Don Fernando accompanied their daughter to La Clinica Santa Maria in Santiago and waited nervously in the waiting room as the hours passed and Salomé went through the pains of labor.
    Before traveling by car to the clinic, Doña Olivia had telephoned her son-in-law to tell him that the baby was on the way. The studio assistant told her that Octavio was in the middle of a shoot and that he would get there as soon as the last scene was completed to the director’s satisfaction.
    Octavio didn’t arrive, however, until the following morning; wearing his clothes from the previous day, unshaven and weary, he came to Salomé’s bedside, carrying a bouquet of pink and white peonies.
    “I’m sorry, Fayum…I couldn’t get away.”
    Salomé nodded, trying hard to fight back her tears. Unable to look at Octavio, she gazed down at their infant son, who was now nursing at her breast. “I named him Rafael,” she whispered as she nursed the tiny boy.
    “God heals all,” Octavio said, acknowledging that he remembered the significance of the name’s meaning. “He’s beautiful.”
    Octavio reached down to caress the child’s forehead. “Just like his mother…”
    “Please, don’t…Octavio,” Salomé whispered. She knew if she spoke any more, she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself. Her eyes were still red from exhaustion and she knew if she told Octavio how truly disappointed she was, she would be unable to stop her tears.
    She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t remember the last time they had held hands, that those nights they had fallen asleep in the garden, under the canopy of stars, seemed like ages ago. She wondered if he had even noticed that their garden now had patches of tomatoes and squash. They had appeared only weeks before, but she had been unable to pick them herself because of bed rest. She imagined now that the vegetables were spoiling on their vines.
    She wanted to ask him where