Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  Tejada had a considerably longer trip home. He got lost in the darkened streets a few times, but hardly noticed the extra steps. It was several hours past midnight when he finally reached the post. Sergeant González, the ranking officer on the night shift, greeted him with some surprise. “Tejada! Something happening? Do we need backup?”

  “No, it’s nothing.” Tejada did not break stride.

  “You been out on the town?” González asked sociably. “The lieutenant told me you had dinner with a girl. Thin, he said, but not bad looking. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  Tejada froze, halfway up the stairs, and for an instant his knuckles gleamed white on the banister. “Go to hell, Gon-zález!” he said quietly. Then he was up the stairs and away.

  Chapter 14

  Good Friday dawned, clear and brilliantly sunny. Gonzalo had just finished shaving and Carmen was scrubbing Aleja’s face when someone pounded violently on the door. Brother and sister exchanged glances. Then Gonzalo snatched his razor and headed for the bedroom. The knocking continued. “Who is it?” Carmen called, as loudly as possible. The closet door swung shut behind Gonzalo.

  “Me,” said a voice faintly. “Carmen, mujer, let me in, it’s important.”

  Carmen warily opened the door, and discovered Manuela Arcé on the threshold, breathing heavily. She gave a sigh of relief. Manuela pushed her way hastily into the apartment and closed the door carefully behind her. Then she shepherded her friend into the living room. “Where’s Gonzalo?” she said in a low voice.

  “Gonzalo?” Carmen repeated, disconcerted. “I don’t know.” She would not have grudged the knowledge to Manuela, but it was not the sort of question one answered lightly.

  Manuela heaved a sigh of relief. “He got away already then. That’s good. Never mind. Sorry to disturb you so early.”

  She turned as if to go, but Carmen laid a hand on her arm. “What do you mean, already? Why did you come?”

  “You don’t know?” Manuela lowered her voice, and then spoke very quickly. “A friend of Javier’s said he saw Old Tacho last night. You know, the churro vendor. He said Tacho was drunk as a skunk and blubbering into his wine about how thirty pieces of silver ought to buy more bread.”

  “What?” Carmen went white.

  “Javier’s friend finally managed to get out of him that he’d run into Gonzalo yesterday. Tacho’s ratted on him for the reward. The guardia civil know about Gonzalo. They could be here any minute.” Manuela turned to leave again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Carmen protested.

  “I only just found out,” Manuela snapped. “I was hoping for news of Javier, if you must know.”

  “Who is this friend?” Carmen demanded.

  “A friend. Someone you can trust.” Manuela was already in the foyer.

  Carmen’s mind was working frantically. “Did he tell you anything about Javier?”

  Manuela shook her head, her face bitter. “Nitchevó.”

  The Russian word confirmed Carmen’s half-formed suspicion. “Manuela!” She seized her friend’s arm and held it. “Gon-zalo’s still here. If this friend of yours can help him . . .”

  Manuela hesitated. “I’ll ask,” she said. “But I don’t know. And it won’t come free.”

  “Where can they meet?”

  “Try the Cathedral of San Isidro,” Manuela said quickly. “Sometime this afternoon. The burial chapel, and look below the undamaged window. Someone will ask him if he’s seen anything of Isabel lately. He should just say, ‘Not since she was married.’ But I’m not making promises.”

  “Bless you!”

  Carmen embraced Manuela, who quickly disengaged herself. “Let me get out of here, you idiot. The Guardia are probably already on their way.”

  She slipped out, and Carmen ran for the bedroom. She yanked open the closet door and hastily told her brother what Manuela had said. Gonzalo, swearing softly, reached for his coat and slid his gun into the pocket once more. “No point taking any bags,” he said. “I’m trying to stay inconspicuous.”

  Carmen felt her eyes beginning to tear. “Manuela said they might want money. But maybe if you can persuade them . . .”

  “We’ll see,” Gonzalo said, although he was not optimistic.

  His sister was rummaging frantically through the top of the chest of drawers. “If that officer comes back today, to speak to Aleja, I’ll try to find out who he is,” she promised.

  “Thanks.” Gonzalo found himself oddly touched by the useless gesture.

  “Here.” Carmen held up a scrap of paper, triumphant. “Here’s that American boy’s address. Take it. Maybe it’ll be useful.”

  Gonzalo obediently slipped the scrap of paper into his pocket.

  “And here’s some money.” She held out a handful of bills. “Manuela’s friends might take it.”

  Carmen knew as well as Gonzalo did that this was nonsense. No one in the city took Republican currency anymore. But he slipped it into his coat pocket as well. Then he hugged his sister. “Now, you take good care of Aleja,” he ordered.

  “I will,” she choked.

  Aleja, who had watched the proceedings, wide-eyed, from the doorway piped up. “Be careful, Tío.”

  Gonzalo knelt and hugged her as well. “I will, sweetheart. You listen to your mother and be a good girl.”

  He rose, rumpled his niece’s hair, and headed for the door. Carmen heard it swing shut and waited, heart in mouth, for the shout of the guardia civil or the sounds of struggle in the stairs. There was nothing. Five minutes later, there was still no sound and she began to hope that he had gotten away. Carefully, she began to go over the apartment to make sure that there were no recent traces of Gonzalo’s presence.

  An hour passed. Nothing happened. Carmen’s hasty attempt to remove traces of Gonzalo expanded into a thorough housecleaning. Aleja helped her, singing the chorus of some silly tune that Viviana had taught her. “Remember,” Carmen cautioned her, “when was the last time you saw Tío Gonzalo?”

  “When he went into the hospital,” Aleja replied obediently.

  “Good girl,” Carmen smiled.

  It was nearly noon. Aleja was dusting, and Carmen was on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. The window had been thrown open to air out the apartment, and the noises of the street filtered in. Aleja was still singing, “Three little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away. . . .” The pounding on the door was distinct from Manuela’s knocks. This time it was made not by fists but by rifle butts. “Guardia Civil!” The shout carried clearly through the thick wood. “Open up!”

  Carmen dropped her sponge, and all of the fears she had scrubbed out of darkened corners and out from under chairs, along with the cobwebs, came rushing back. She rose and headed for the door of the apartment where the tattoo of blows suggested that the guardias were breaking down the door. Aleja, who had laid down the dust rag she had been using, trailed her mother into the hallway, hands clasped behind her back. She had stopped singing.

  Carmen opened the door and looked down the barrels of a set of guns. There were four guardias there. “Hands up!” one yelled. “All of you, hands above your heads! Turn around!”

  Carmen turned, hands raised, and felt one of the men poke her in the back with his gun. Aleja shrank against the wall, her hands obediently stretched above her head. Carmen allowed the guardia to shepherd her into the living room. Aleja tailed her, lips pressed tightly together, eyes wide.

  “Where is he?” It was the one who had yelled before. Car-men had lived the scene over in her nightmares so often that she felt as if she were performing a rehearsed script. The rehearsals did not save her from stage fright, though.

  “Who?”

  “You know damn well. Gonzalo Llorente Cardenas, first corporal, of the carbineros.” The voice was grim. “He’s charged with treason.”

  “My brother.” Carmen’s voice sounded like a bad recording: scratchy and breathy. “My brother,” she repeated, trying to adjust the volume, “isn�
�t here.”

  “We’ll see about that.” The one who had spoken was obviously the ranking officer. “Gómez, you keep her and the brat covered. The rest of you, search. Start with the bedroom.” The men under his command moved to obey him. Carmen, sitting on the couch and facing the man called Gómez, heard the sound of the closet door being yanked open and then a scraping noise, as the guardias prodded under the bed with their rifles. Then a series of crashes, as the dresser drawers were methodically yanked out, one by one, and their contents dumped onto the floor. The officer paced toward the open window. “Did he get out this way?” He leaned suspiciously out the window, as if Gonzalo might be clinging to the brickwork. Then he headed for the kitchen.

  “That’s just been washed!” Carmen protested, years of habit overriding even terror.

  “Tough luck.” He strode into the kitchen, and then swore as he slipped on the wet floor. Carmen bit back a smile.

  The guardias were chillingly thorough and Carmen spent the next few minutes silently thanking Manuela over and over again. Their commanding officer finally stood in front of Car-men again. “Who tipped him off?” he demanded.

  “What?” Carmen knew that “I don’t know what you’re talking about” would be more convincing than the monosyllable but her throat was closed and forcing the air through it even for a single word was an effort.

  “Who tipped him off?” the guardia repeated menacingly. “We know he was here.”

  “My brother,” Carmen swallowed, “was hospitalized some months ago. I haven’t seen him . . . since the end of the war.” “Bullshit,” he said succinctly. He gestured to one of the other men, who reached out, grabbed Carmen’s arm, and yanked her to her feet. Aleja, who had been tightly clutching one of her mother’s hands with both of her small ones, was dislodged by the sudden movement and began to whimper. “Come on, then. You can think over when you last saw him— in prison.”

  Carmen had not struggled as the guardia pulled her arms behind her back, but as they began to march her to the door she twisted. “Wait! What about my daughter?”

  The march paused. “Where’s her uncle?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Then let him take care of her.”

  “Look, just let me take her downstairs to a neighbor,” Car-men begged. “It’ll just take a minute. Please!”

  Aleja, who had listened intently rushed at her mother and clung to her. “I want to go with you!”

  “No, Aleja,” Carmen struggled for a moment to free her arms so that she could comfort her daughter, but her captor was uncompromising. “No, don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon. But. . . .”

  “Nooooo!” Aleja’s voice became a wordless wail.

  “You’re making it harder on the kid, Señora,” suggested one of the men who had not spoken until now. “Just tell us where Llorente is. Save yourself some grief.”

  “I don’t know,” Carmen repeated, profoundly thankful that she was telling the truth, trying to forget that Gonzalo might be at the Cathedral of San Isidro in a few hours. She realized with sudden cold clarity that if they threatened to hurt Aleja she would probably tell them anything and everything they wanted to know. “Please,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Just let me drop her off with a neighbor. Just let me tell someone what’s happened, so they can come for her! Please!”

  Aleja heard the rising note of panic in her mother’s voice, and screamed. The guardias civiles were taking her mother away. The same guardias who had made Tía Viviana and Tío Gonzalo go away, too. She clung to her mother as far as the stairs in the hallway, screaming and crying, and heard her mother crying as well, and then the officer commanding the guardias snarled a command, and a rifle butt came down on her head, and then the world exploded and went black.

  Chapter 15

  Tejada had passed a nearly sleepless night. He finally fell into an uneasy doze shortly before dawn and dreamed that Paco was being shot before his eyes. He killed the sniper as Paco fell, and when he reached the bodies he realized that the Red was a miliciana with Elena’s face, and then Paco’s corpse clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t feel badly, buddy. She’s just a Red whore,” and he turned on the corpse with ferocity and beat it until it lay still again as dead people were supposed to. He woke up sweating.

  Tejada spent the morning doing paperwork and trying not to think about Elena. He tried to focus on what he had learned about Paco’s death instead, carefully avoiding any thought about the source of his latest information. He almost decided against going to question Alejandra Palomino. If Paco had never had her notebook in the first place, it was unlikely that she knew anything about what or who had drawn him into the black market. But Tejada was forced to admit to himself that if Alejandra had actually seen Paco’s killer, she might be in a position to give valuable information. After arguing with himself all morning, the sergeant finally set out for the Calle Tres Peces.

  His first thought when he reached the top of the stairs and found Aleja in a crumpled heap was that Paco’s killer had struck again, to silence a witness. A quick inspection revealed that the child was still breathing. The door to her apartment was ajar, as if someone had left hastily without bothering to close it. Tejada picked up the unconscious girl and deposited her on the couch in the living room.

  Aleja’s injury was fairly obvious. One side of her head was bloody. Tejada headed for the kitchen, searching for water to clean the girl’s wound, and found a sponge, lying by a pail of soapy water, in the middle of the well-worn tiles. Near the pail was a set of footprints, brown outlines against the newly washed floor. The heel of one of the prints was smudged, as if someone had slipped. Tejada looked at the footprints for a moment, and then raised the sole of his own shoe and inspected it. The outline matched the footprints too closely for comfort.

  He washed Aleja’s face and, in the absence of ice, left a cool rag on her head to help reduce the swelling. Then he wondered what he should do next. The terrified woman whom he had interviewed the day before was not present. A quick tour of the apartment revealed that it had been searched. In the sergeant’s judgment, the searchers had been professionals. He thought about the footprints, which could so easily have matched his own soles, and unwillingly remembered Elena Fernández’s voice saying, “Her testimony implicates a guardia civil.” Elena would not lie to him. He winced away from the painful spot in his own brain and focused once more on Aleja’s. It occurred to him that whoever had visited the apartment earlier could certainly have made sure that Alejandra was dead. The blow she had received might easily have been fatal, and might still be, but a second blow would have finished her off and could have been delivered easily. Whoever had hit the girl must not have cared greatly whether she lived or died. Which made no sense whatsoever, if she had been attacked to prevent her from revealing a secret. But then the search and Señora Llorente’s absence made no sense either.

  Tejada tried to recall what he knew about head injuries. The longer a man was unconscious the worse the injury, he knew, but he had no way of telling when the little girl had been struck. He was just resolving to take Aleja to the nearest hospital to ask for a professional opinion, when he heard her speak.

  When she woke up, she was lying on the sofa and someone had placed a damp rag on her forehead. Her head hurt, worse than it had when she had had the flu a year ago. She tossed restlessly, trying to remember why her head hurt. “Mama?”

  “Thank God!” It was a man’s voice, not one she knew. A face appeared, bending over the top of the sofa. Aleja blinked at him. Her vision seemed fuzzy, and he swam in and out of focus. She did not know him. She shut her eyes again. “I want Mama!”

  “Ssh-ssh. Just lie quietly.” The man came around and sat on the sofa by her feet. He sounded like a teacher. Or maybe a doctor. Or like Señor del Valle, whom Mama had worked for.

  “My head hurts,” Aleja told him, in case he was a doctor and wanted to know what was wrong with her.

  “I’m n
ot surprised.” Aleja had no word for irony, but she recognized the tone of voice. When the man spoke again he sounded grave. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “I’m Aleja.”

  “And what’s that short for, Aleja?”

  “Maria Alejandra.”

  “Have you learned to count yet, Aleja?”

  “Of course!” Aleja had the feeling that he was making fun of her. “I’m not a baby!” She opened her eyes and glared at him.

  He smiled. “Good. Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

  She squinted. “Three.”

  “Very good.” He seemed as pleased as if she were a tiny baby who couldn’t be expected to count to three. “Have you studied geography, too? Can you tell me the capital of Spain?”

  “Madrid, of course!” He was definitely treating her as if she were a baby. “It’s always been Madrid.”

  “Close enough, I guess.” To her annoyance, the man sounded as if he thought she had said something funny.

  Aleja decided that he asked silly questions. She asked one of more importance. “Where’s Mama?”

  The man frowned. Then he asked another question. “Do you remember what happened before you . . . woke up here?”

  Aleja strained to remember. Tío Gonzalo had left that morning, but she wasn’t supposed to say that to anyone, even a doctor. She knew that his leaving was important, though. After he had gone, Mama had been careful to put away all his things. Then they had cleaned the house. “I was dusting,” she said, fairly certain that it was all right to say that. “Mama was washing the kitchen floor.”