Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  “At least I never learned Greek.” She spoke because she knew that silence would betray her. “That’s where my impossible name comes from.”

  Tejada frowned. “Elena? Helena? Oh, Helen of Troy?” Then as she nodded and rolled her eyes, he added, “It suits you.”

  “A fickle adulteress? Thank you!”

  “I’ve never thought of Helen like that,” said Tejada, who had not thought of Helen at all since his last final exam in literature. “I think . . . I think she was just very young and . . . impressionable. Very idealistic. And Paris came along and he was handsome and spoke well, and she was too innocent to know that he had made an infernal bargain to seduce her. And when she found out it was too late.”

  “That’s an interesting interpretation. Have you ever read—” Elena Fernández choked, as she realized that she was about to ask a self-confessed Fascist if he had read Jean Giraudoux. “Racine?” she finished hastily, wondering what on earth had possessed her.

  “Not to remember,” Tejada admitted. “Are you fond of French literature?”

  As it happened, Señorita Fernández was fond of French literature, but she had the distinct impression that the Guardia Civil would disapprove of most of the modern authors she liked. She returned a noncommittal and modest reply. To her surprise, the sergeant said, “I don’t suppose you can remember any character named Micaëla?”

  She frowned. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Someone said something to me earlier that reminded me of a quote: ‘Ce doit être Micaëla,’” Tejada explained, somewhat embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to place it. And there’s a piece of a song that goes with it.” He thought a moment, and then hummed the melody.

  “I don’t think I . . . no, wait!” Elena set down her fork, and began to laugh. “May I ask if you. . . .” She paused and inspected Tejada. He was looking politely puzzled, but her eyes passed over his face quickly and dropped to his hands, steepled below his chin. They were ringless. “If you are an opera lover?” she finished, her courage failing her.

  “My mother is.” Tejada was unaware of his own grimace. “I’ve seen a few.”

  “It’s Bizet.” Elena stifled another laugh. “From Carmen. Micaëla is the soprano role. The good, virtuous heroine.” It was Elena’s turn to grimace unconsciously. She wanted to ask the sergeant what had called the quote to mind, but did not quite dare.

  Tejada noticed her expression, but misinterpreted it as agreement with his own opinion of Carmen. His French tutor had forced him to memorize some of the opera, and although he had not objected to the music, he had thought the plot an unparalleled piece of idiocy. Impressed by Señorita Fernández’s erudition, and pleased by her good taste, he allowed the subject to drop, and instead asked her about her favorite authors.

  By dint of not mentioning anyone who had written in the last hundred years, Elena managed to have a pleasant and uncontroversial conversation with the sergeant. “Coffee?” Tejada asked at the end of a friendly argument about Lope de Vega.

  Señorita Fernández’s eyes widened. “Coffee!” she repeated, stunned. “Really?”

  “It’s a flexible term,” Tejada admitted with a smile. “But one can’t say to a guest after dinner, ‘hot brown liquid?’”

  Elena laughed. “If you will drink also.”

  “Of course,” Tejada agreed. He rose and returned shortly with two carefully balanced cups. She thanked him and sipped at the bitter liquid without complaint. He raised his own cup and tasted the contents. “Swill, isn’t it?” he commented cheerfully.

  “From what I have seen, the guardia civil have no cause for complaint.” She spoke quietly, but with absolute assurance.

  Sergeant Tejada was abashed. “We’re not starving,” he agreed gravely. “But even we don’t have real coffee often.” His voice slowed and dropped almost to a whisper as he spoke. When he set down the cup it clattered and a little of the liquid slopped over the edge.

  Elena was surprised by her own rush of sympathy. The man was . . . whatever he was. But he had been very kind to her, and he looked as if he had seen a ghost. “What’s the matter?” she asked, and her voice was the voice she used to comfort a student who had lost a treasured possession.

  “Nothing,” Tejada lied automatically. “I’m fine.”

  There was nothing she could reply. She sipped at her drink in silence. He drank silently as well, frowning heavily, and a little of her fear returned. He’s a guardia, Elena thought. Better educated, and maybe brighter than most, but one of Them. They can be human, off duty, even pleasant, but they’re . . Them. She drained her cup and set it down. He was on his feet before she realized he had moved. “I’ll take you home.”

  “No!” The vehemence of the single word startled Tejada, returning him to the present. “I mean”—Señorita Fernández was flushing—“I don’t want to put you to the trouble. You’ve been so kind . . . please don’t.”

  Tejada had enjoyed much of the evening more than he had intended. Fifteen minutes earlier he would have been puzzled by Señorita Fernández’s distress, and would have demanded an explanation. Now, his certainty had peeled away like a strip of ill-hung wallpaper, leaving bare cynicism beneath it. He remembered his doubts about her truthfulness when she had first come, and the pauses in the conversation that he had tried so hard to ignore. She obviously did not want him to know where she lived. He could think of only one possible explanation. “As you wish,” he said formally. “I’ll show you out then.”

  Elena heard the change in his tone, and was sorry for it, even though she was grateful for his acquiescence. She almost regretted her words, and then her stomach clenched in terror and disgust. He might be the best of his kind, but she would not willingly take him home. In the courtyard of the post she put out her hand. “Thank you.” She knew the words were insufficient. “I wish . . . thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Tejada said dryly. He shook her hand because she would suspect that something was wrong if he did not, and then watched her cross the street and head east.

  Then, as silently as possible, he followed her. He did not know what had pulled Paco into the sordid world of the black market but he knew that only that world could have produced the coffee that Doña Clara had given him in Toledo. If Paco could lie to him, then there was no reason why a Red schoolteacher would not. And if Señorita Fernández had gone to the risk and trouble of trying to throw him off the trail of a killer, then he was very anxious to see where she was going, and who—if anyone—she was going to meet.

  Chapter 12

  Gonzalo sketched his meeting with the smuggler for Car-men as she cleaned the potatoes. She, in turn, described Tejada’s visit as best she could while she cooked. There was no oil for the potatoes, but the meat was some unidentifiable ground mixture and Carmen happily dumped it into the frying pan, trusting the fat to provide grease. Scalding a pan was a small price to pay for food, in any case. Aleja, who had returned home only a few minutes after Tejada’s departure, was lured to the kitchen by the smell, and danced up and down with impatience until Carmen finally gave her a small slice of raw potato. The surviving members of the Llorente-Palomino family sniffed the air with a mixture of desire and fear. It was impossible not to fall in love with the aroma, even saltless and dry as it was. But their joy in the rapidly blackening meat and potatoes was tempered by jealousy. If the fragrance penetrated too far it would bring the neighbors down on them.

  Gonzalo realized, as he told his story, that he had just robbed a man at gunpoint, and was ready to laugh with joy at the results. Some feeble prewar self hammered at the ice crystal that imprisoned it, and tried to protest this immoral behavior but its cries and gesticulations remained safely locked away. Carmen, as she listened to the story, feared for Gonzalo’s safety, but not his scruples. Food was food. “We can’t eat it all,” she said firmly, as she set the lid over the frying pan to imprison the treacherous smell. “We’ll just each take a little, and save some for tomorrow. And don’t eat too fast, Alej
a. You don’t want to get sick.”

  This praiseworthy restraint proved impossible. Aleja obediently savored her portion, as did Carmen and Gonzalo. But the mass of fried meat and potatoes seemed hardly smaller when they had finished, and surely a little more could not hurt. The second helpings disappeared more quickly, and then there was so little left that it seemed silly to try to keep it, when it could be appreciated right away.

  After dinner, Aleja went over to Gonzalo and put her arms around his waist. “Thank you, Tío.” She hugged him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Gonzalo stroked her hair. It was, he found, easier now to forgive his niece for the carelessness that had cost Viviana her life. Perhaps it was being almost able to identify Viviana’s real murderer. Perhaps it was only being less hungry. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

  Aleja raised her head. “I haven’t told anyone you’re here,” she said seriously. “Not even Señorita Fernández.”

  “That’s good, sweetheart.”

  “I had to tell Señorita Fernández I lost my notebook, though.”

  Carmen, watching her brother intently, could not see any change in his expression as he said quietly, “Of course.”

  “Aleja,” Carmen broke into the little silence that followed. “You know there was a guardia civil here before you got home from school. He’s going to come back tomorrow. What will you tell him if he asks about Tío Gonzalo?”

  “That I haven’t seen him since he went into the hospital,” Aleja said stoutly.

  “What if he says that good little girls tell the truth?”

  “That I haven’t seen him,” the child repeated.

  “What if he threatens to take you to prison?”

  Aleja clung to Gonzalo a little more tightly. “Candela’s father went to the stadium in Chamartín, like they told all the carbineros to, when you were in the hospital,” she said in a small voice. “Candela says her mother won’t take her to the prison, because they don’t allow children there. So I’ll say I haven’t seen you.”

  “What if he asks about your notebook, Aleja?” Carmen suggested.

  Aleja paused. “Can I tell him I lost it?” she asked doubtfully. “He might ask Señorita Fernández.”

  “He may already have the notebook,” Gonzalo interjected. He looked at his sister with sudden hope. “Did you find out his rank? What post he’s from?”

  Carmen reviewed the interview in her head. “I don’t think so.” She saw the direction her brother’s thoughts were headed, and added quickly, “It’s time for you to be in bed, Aleja.”

  “I’m not sleepy,” the child said automatically.

  Carmen began her nightly argument with her daughter. It was briefer than usual tonight, because the unaccustomed feeling of a warm, full stomach had made the child drowsy. When Aleja was safely asleep, Carmen returned to her brother. He was still sitting at the kitchen table, looking contemplative. “I don’t know what you’re planning,” she said quietly. “But you can’t do it. It’s too dangerous.”

  “For God’s sake, Carmen, you said that this guardia came to the house alone.” Gonzalo’s voice was low but intense. “And that he asked for Aleja. How would he even know she exists if he didn’t have her notebook? And how would he have that unless he found it? He may be the one who killed Viviana. And if he is, then what better time to catch him alone and off guard?”

  “And kill my daughter in the crossfire?” Carmen hissed back. “And then what? Shall we wait until the Guardia miss him and come here to find him dead on our floor?”

  “I’ll be gone by then,” Gonzalo promised.

  “Wonderful!” Carmen blew out the lamp, leaving them in darkness. Her whisper could have cut diamonds. “And what do I tell them then? ‘Yes, the officer came to ask my daughter some questions and then was mysteriously shot by a stranger who climbed out through the window?’ I’m sure they’ll believe that!”

  The meal had sharpened Gonzalo’s senses and his satisfaction at a task successfully carried out had dulled his paralyzing grief. He realized, as his sister spoke, that she was leaving a good deal unsaid. She had tacitly accepted that he did not particularly care if he lived or died after carrying out his vengeance, and that acceptance alone showed some generosity. But she had done more than that: His plan placed little value on his own survival, but none at all on hers. She had not openly reproached him for that, and had spoken only of Aleja’s safety. It occurred to Gonzalo that Carmen was already risking prison for his sake and that to kill a guardia in her home would be almost to insure her death. He felt a twinge of horrified compunction from his amputated conscience, as if it were a phantom limb. “I won’t do anything to hurt you or Aleja,” he said quietly. “I won’t do anything in the house. But if I can hide, and then follow him somehow. . . .”

  For a moment, his voice reminded Carmen of the little brother who had plunged into fistfights with boys twice his size for insulting her. Tears started to her eyes as she realized how infrequently she thought of him that way anymore. Loving him had become a habit, and a duty, but the man who had come home to her house after Viviana’s death had been a stranger. “What will you do after that?” she whispered.

  He shrugged, a useless gesture in the darkness.

  “No.” Carmen’s voice was choked. “No, Gonzalo. You can’t just commit suicide. If you follow him afterward, try to slip away. You can flee.”

  “To where?” he asked, and his voice was still gentle.

  “Out of the city. If you could get away for a time . . .” Carmen knew that she was speaking nonsense. There was no safe place in Spain for Gonzalo now. If he killed a guardia, the unsafe places would become even more dangerous. “France,” she whispered.

  “Might as well be the moon.” He was speaking the simple truth.

  “What about that English boy, Miguel, who was Pedro’s friend?” She was clutching at straws. “He left us his address. I’ve been thinking since you came home that if I could write to him . . .”

  Gonzalo, who knew that it cost her something to say Pedro’s name, made the useless effort of recalling the young volunteer she had mentioned: red-haired, snub-nosed, friendly as a puppy, a boy who had taken the trouble to learn some Spanish before coming to Madrid, but spoke with a bizarre and barely comprehensible accent and idiom. “He was American, I think,” Gonzalo said absently, recalling the accent. “Remember, he said his teacher was from Cuba, or Santo Domingo, or somewhere.”

  “Yes, of course,” Carmen agreed eagerly, hoping against hope. “If I could send him a letter, I’m sure he’d help. You would just need to lie low until the papers came through.”

  “A letter would never get through,” Gonzalo reminded his sister, as gently as possible. “It would only put them onto your trail. You can’t risk that, for Aleja’s sake. Besides . . . I don’t want to run.”

  “But . . .”

  “I don’t want to run,” Gonzalo repeated softly.

  Carmen was still for a moment. Then she put her arms around him and wept silently in the darkness. “It was always a risk,” Gonzalo said, although he knew that was cold comfort. “You knew, ever since the war started. . . .”

  “Not like a rat in a trap.”

  “At least I’ll bite the rat catcher one last time,” Gonzalo said.

  Carmen went to bed soon after that. Gonzalo curled up on the couch and reviewed the day’s events. He felt strangely emotionless, not with the numbness of his by-now familiar grief for Viviana, but with a dreamlike calm. Suspicious of his serenity, he stuck a cautious toe into the sea of memory. Freezing turbulent waves did not sweep him off his feet. The best parts of the past lapped gently around him, like ripples on a summer lake: the park on summer Sundays; his first paycheck; the reading room at the union headquarters, where he had discovered Marx and Dickens and Freud and Galdós, whom he had secretly loved best of all; nights in the plaza, when he and Pedro had flirted with the passing girls; the night he had realized that Pedro no longer flirted and the evening his best friend had
come to him and said, “Carmen and I wanted you to know . . . it’s serious . . . you don’t object?” and it had not occurred to him to object, because he was not jealous of his sister’s honor, only—a little—of her happiness. Gonzalo took a deep breath, and immersed himself in more recent memories. They, too, lacked sting: the way the bells had rung the day the Second Republic was proclaimed, and it had seemed as if the April flowers would bloom forever. Aleja’s birth, the May Day parades, and a thousand fists raised together. The tense first days of the militias and the shock of having women training beside them. The shock of one woman, who had always been the loudest and most beautiful of the group: “Why should you pay the streetcar fare for me, Gonzalo? We’re comrades. Equals.” And he had been surprised into the truth: “Because I love you.” By all logic, the memories of Viviana, and the unmoving front, and the slow, bitter losses should have hurt. But Gonzalo found himself dwelling on moments of calm: on the incomprehensible songs and battle cries the foreign volunteers had taught them and the impromptu language classes (frequently devoted to swear words) they had given the volunteers; on the days when he and Viviana had planned out impossible futures; on the jokes that had made the milicianos roar with laughter not because they were funny but because it was so good to still be alive. Good memories, Gonzalo thought. A good life. I can’t complain.

  It felt late, but Gonzalo was still not sleepy. He had no way of telling the time. The church bells were silenced for Good Friday. They would not ring again until Easter. The city was dark and still, with the stillness that usually only came in the hour before dawn. After a while, he rose and walked softly to the window. The usual ragged black curtains covered it. He pulled one of them back and looked out. It was a small risk. An observer was unlikely to see him in a darkened window. He could make out the bulk of the opposite buildings, their lights all extinguished for the night. The sky was cloud-streaked, and the moon hung like a gigantic streetlight, pale and full, just above the buildings. It extinguished the stars around it as effectively as real streetlights would have. Gonzalo stared upward for a while. He had never particularly enjoyed watching the night sky. He was a city dweller and he believed in watching the lighted streets. But when he had gone to the front he had learned to be grateful for moonlight and starlight. The moon was a comrade from the front. He was glad of the opportunity to say good-bye to her.