“Yes.”
“H-he hasn’t been well, you know.” Dolores stammered a little, but her voice was admirably level. “I’ve heard him, in the night sometimes. I hope he’s all better before we go to Santander.”
Elena said nothing, but Dolores suddenly leaned toward her and said in a rush, “You’ve been so kind to come and visit me, Señora. And to take messages to Concha and everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you. And poor Pedro has-n’t had anyone. Do you suppose you could go see him? Just to tell me how he’s doing? And to give him my . . . my best wishes?” Unconsciously, Dolores reached out and clasped the older woman’s hand.
Elena sighed, knowing that the kindest thing to do would be to squeeze the girl’s hand in silent sympathy. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” she said quietly. “But I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” The words were a whisper.
The rest of the visit was awkward. Dolores clearly wanted Elena to leave immediately, and Elena was dreading the visit’s end. After a few stilted minutes, she rose and walked to the door of the cell. “I’ll come back when I can,” she said.
Guardia Torres was on duty again. He nodded to her as he let her out of Dolores’s cell. Elena took a deep breath, knowing that Dolores could clearly hear what went on in the corridor. “Do you suppose I could see your other prisoner as well?”
She was expecting a flat denial, or at best more questions. So she was surprised when Torres said easily, “Of course, Señora. This way.”
Her surprise became flat astonishment when Torres opened the door at the other end of the hall with the words, “Hello, Pedro. Good news. I’ve managed to swing a visitor for you.”
“Not another priest, I hope.” The voice was light and mocking.
“Don’t worry,” Torres laughed, exuding genial good humor, and Elena wondered a little if she had stepped into some alternate reality. “I wouldn’t push that crap on you on a weekday.” The guardia turned to Elena. “Here you are, Señora. Try to cheer the poor man up a little.” Then the cell door swung shut, and Elena was alone with Dolores’s Pedro.
His cell was the twin of the one in which Dolores was imprisoned, but where the girl’s room was scrupulously clean, its starkness softened by the hairbrush and clothes Elena had brought, this cell stank faintly of blood and urine. The prisoner was stretched full length on his cot, with the blanket that Dolores always folded neatly across the foot of her bed wrapped around his shoulders. He was wearing shorts, and a bandage rusty with dried blood was wound around one knee and thigh. He shrugged off the blanket as he saw Elena, and flung it awkwardly over his bare legs. “Forgive me, Señora. If I’d had more notice that you were coming I would have made myself decent. I’m afraid standing to greet you is out of the question.”
Elena was too unnerved to do more than stare for a moment. The man was unshaven, hollow-cheeked, and badly in need of a haircut. His shirt was torn, and he had a cut above his right eye and a bruise across his left cheekbone that looked like the result of a determined and experienced backhand. His nose had been recently broken. But his voice was cheerful and faintly amused; a voice that defied pity, equally ready to laugh at himself or at others. It was really his voice, and his calm, appraising look, that made Elena understand Dolores’s ill-concealed infatuation. Both voice and look would have been caressing, under other circumstances. Since Elena was only tangentially aware of these things, her conscious thought was that he had probably been quite handsome before his encounter with the Guardia. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, straining to match his tone. “I’m here on behalf of Dolores Severino, Señor—?” She paused as she realized that Dolores had only called him Pedro.
“Surely she told you my name?” He was amused. “Señora—?”
“Fernández,” Elena said. And then, in the interest of honesty, “Fernández de Tejada. She didn’t tell me your surnames. And it seems rude to call you Pedro.”
“I could only be flattered to have a beautiful woman use my first name.” He spoke the exaggerated compliment with a touch of malice, and she knew that he had recognized Tejada’s name. “And I think we ought to honor little Dolores’s discretion, don’t you?”
“She didn’t tell me because I didn’t ask,” Elena said, irritated by his mockery. “I’m not a spy, even though I am the lieutenant’s wife.” She stressed the word wife a little more than necessary, and then flushed because she had emphasized it.
“You mean to say no one has asked Dolores about me?” Pedro was still smiling, but his voice was suspiciously intense.
“No,” Elena said firmly. “And I doubt she’d say anything about you, even under torture.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?” Pedro’s voice was politely interested, but his body was rigid with tension. “That she will be tortured if I don’t provide the necessary information?”
“No,” Elena snapped, glad that he had stopped pretending gallantry. “She asked me to see how you were doing, and tell her, and she said to send you her best wishes. You’re both being taken to Santander later this week, and she wants to have news of you before you’re separated. If you have an ounce of humanity, you’ll send her your love.”
Pedro raised his eyebrows. “I will?”
Elena snorted. “You’d have to be blind not to see that she’s in love with you!”
There was a pause, and when Pedro spoke his voice was serious. “Dolores is a good, sweet, capable girl. Pretty, too. I respected her father greatly. But I’m not in love with her.”
“I said that she was in love with you!” Elena retorted. “And that she would be happy to hear the message, no matter how casual.”
“Especially since it’s unlikely she’ll ever see me alive again?” Pedro smiled crookedly, a real smile this time. “I suppose you’re right. Give her my love if that will make her happy. But really, Señora, I’m twice her age. You make me feel like Don Giovanni.”
Elena smiled wickedly, suddenly glad of an opportunity to return his mocking humor. “Don Giovanni? How unpatriotic to pick an Italian opera when there are Spanish plays available!”
Pedro laughed. “But Don Giovanni epitomizes your Spain! A German and Italian collaboration on Spanish themes!”
Elena laughed also, amazed by his courage. “Whereas Spain should be epitomized by La vida es sueño? Russian in costume but Spanish in essentials?”
“Exactly.” Pedro nodded appreciatively. There was a slight pause and then he said, “Forgive me, Señora, but you’re not exactly what I would have expected of Lieutenant Tejada.”
“A lot of people say that,” Elena said dryly. “Especially his colleagues.”
“I’ll bet!” He grinned. “Why are you really here, chatting with a man who tried to stab your husband?”
Elena blinked. Tejada had given few details of the raid on the cabin. “You tried to stab my husband?”
“Only after I ran out of ammunition.”
Elena swallowed, remembering the wounded Guardia Riera. Carlos would never have seen the baby, she thought. And then, confused, But the maquis are fighting for freedom. For what I believed in, during the war, at least. “I’m here in Potes because I love my husband,” she said slowly. “And I’m here talking to you because I don’t believe in everything he does.”
“That is somewhat difficult to comprehend,” he admitted.
“Why?” Elena demanded, annoyed. “I thought one of the things the Republic stood for was equality between the sexes. Do you find it so difficult to believe a woman has a mind of her own?”
His faintly mocking smile disappeared, and he thought a moment before replying. When he spoke, his voice was serious. “I beg your pardon, Señora. I only thought that the lieutenant might not appreciate an independent mind in his wife.”
“And what business is that of yours?” Elena snapped.
“None whatsoever.” He smiled with disarming charm. “I seem to have underestimated your husband a second time.” He gestured to his wounded
leg and added sardonically, “Although perhaps with less grievous results. In any case, Señora, I do thank you for the visit, and be sure to send Dolores my love.”
“I will.” Elena knew that the visit had been a success. She could return to Dolores with a clear conscience now, having done the girl a kindness. But she hesitated. “Is there anything I can bring you? Food? Tobacco?”
“No, thank you. Guardia Torres has been cultivating my acquaintance, and has spent a fair amount of cigarettes and treats doing so.” Pedro smiled. “He even offered me a shave, but I distrust guardias with razors in their hands.”
“You’re being well treated then?” Elena spoke with some relief.
“By Guardia Torres. Guardia Carvallo is responsible for this little souvenir.” He indicated the bruise along his cheek. “And a few others.” Seeing Elena’s frown, he added, “I have no doubt that your husband has mandated both forms of treatment, Señora, so if you were planning to inform him, save both your breath and your illusions.”
Elena would have liked to defend the lieutenant, but she had the uncomfortable suspicion that the guerrilla was right, so she only said, “Would you like newspapers then? Or books? Dolores has been saying that she’s bored.”
“That would be very kind of you.” Pedro spoke with grave courtesy. “Guardia Torres is generally on duty starting at ten o’clock.”
“Newspapers then?” Elena asked as she knocked on the door of the cell.
The prisoner smiled. “Novels, if you have them. I prefer fiction without the pretense of truth.”
Guardia Torres promptly opened the door for Elena and escorted her to the foot of the stairs. “Did you find anything out?” he asked in a low voice when they were out of earshot.
Elena reflected that Pedro’s paranoia was absolutely justified. “No,” she said.
“What about his accent?” Torres asked, interested. “He’s not from around here. Or from the south, either. I’d know an Andaluz, for all that he tries to use those fancy words. Castilian, you think?”
Elena unwillingly considered the guardia’s question. “Probably,” she said slowly, although, thinking about it, Pedro’s crystalline consonants had the hypercorrect quality of a radio broadcaster or a movie star. He disguised his voice, she thought. But he’s not Salmantino. Nor Madrileño. “Maybe New Castile, or Extremadura.”
“Far from home either way,” Torres said. “I’ve got to go. Nice to see you, Señora.”
Elena was thoughtful on her way home. She had no desire to betray Dolores’s Pedro to the Guardia, and she was rather relieved that he had been so careful not to give her any information. But their conversation had made her curious, and Torres’s question about his origin had done nothing to quiet her curiosity. Why, she wondered, had such an obviously cultured man taken to the mountains? He had probably fought for the Republic. Had he simply gone underground to flee prison? Was he working his way north, hoping to cross the border? But no, if Dolores had known him for a long time, he was settled in Cantabria. Your Spain, he had said, as if there were two, and of course there were, whatever Carlos might say. Still pensive, Elena dragged out a box of stationery and sat down at the kitchen table to write a letter, wishing mildly for a proper writing desk. She wrote for a long time, unable to keep a lid on her thoughts any longer. Then, after spilling words out onto three pages, she neatly blacked out the lines that she knew would be censored anyway.
She was making dinner when the lieutenant arrived home. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “The table needs to be cleared still. I was writing a letter and I lost track of time.”
“I’ll go and mail it for you, if you like,” Tejada offered. “If it will help to be out of your way.”
“Thanks. Everything should be ready when you get back.”
Tejada picked up the letter and headed outside again in the twilight. The envelope was stamped with the flag and the likeness of General Franco, partially obscured by stamps. He frowned slightly. Elena had plastered the letter with far more postage than was necessary to send a letter to Salamanca, even for such a fat composition. He glanced down at the address:
Hipólito Fernández Ríos
Calle Cinco de Mayo, 12
Veracruz, México
Tejada was suddenly aware of the chill in the evening air. He’s her brother, the lieutenant thought. It’s only natural that she should write to him. She’s loyal to her family. Her brother. And my brother-in-law. Absently, he went through his pockets and came up with a pencil. Then he changed México to Méjico. He carried the letter by one corner, as if it would soil his hands, although he had forgotten his gloves, and his fingers began to suffer from the cold. We’ll have to send him photographs of the baby, Tejada mused. Or maybe someday he’ll be able to come back and see it. The war’s over, after all. He dropped the letter in the mailbox, and blew on his cold hands. I hate the mountains, he thought. You’d think it would stay warm in the evenings by now. Spring never seems to come up here.
Chapter 16
The next day, Simón Álvarez presented himself at the Tejadas’ apartment as they were finishing lunch and announced that he had come to return the book. Elena, who doubted that he could have read all the Cartas de relación in two days, received him kindly but with some disappointment. It was magically dispelled when, after politely thanking her for the loan, Simón said, “I didn’t know there were pyramids outside of Egypt. Do you have any other books about America? Any novels? Histories are fine, but I like novels.”
Elena directed him to the bookshelves, where he browsed for half an hour. “Those are girls’ books,” he proclaimed disapprovingly, surveying the top shelf.
“Yes, they were mine when I was a child,” Elena said.
Simón sighed and shook his head. Then he turned a little timidly to the lieutenant. “I don’t suppose you have any books from when you were a child?”
“I’m afraid most of mine went to my nephew,” Tejada said, amused.
“Oh, well.” Simón returned his attention to the shelves, discouraged.
Tejada took pity on him. “I kept a few of my favorites,” he admitted. “You can borrow them if you promise to take good care of them.”
Simón promised enthusiastically, and went home with Zane Grey’s El espiritú de la pradera and Al último hombre under his arm. At Elena’s gentle suggestion he also took one of her despised girls’ novels for his sisters. Tejada, who had liked the boy, approved of his wife’s plan to provide reading matter for the carpenter’s son, and thereafter assumed that the gaps in their bookshelves were the result of Simón’s research. This was largely true, but he only learned many years afterward that Elena had loaned several volumes of Unamuno not to Simón but to Pedro.
Elena had not intended to visit Pedro again, but when she dropped off the books, he thanked her gravely and then said, “I expect I’ll be done with these by tomorrow. Friday at the latest. Be sure to reclaim them before I’m taken to Santander.” Trapped by the casual assumption that she would return, Elena visited him again the next day. He greeted her cheerfully, spoke of his reading, and asked her opinion. He listened to her answer with interest, and then began an argument. Had she read Ortega y Gasset? Américo Castro? Did she think of Unamuno more as a novelist or more as a philosopher?
Elena watched him gesture animatedly, her back propped against the wall of the cell, and felt that she had come home. His arguments were solidly conventional, and though his opinions were well expressed, she sometimes found them trite. But he spoke a language that she understood, and spoke it fluently with flawless grammar. She answered eagerly, with the relief of a well-assimilated traveler who finds a compatriot in a foreign land. The conversation ranged wider, and he became more unguarded, perhaps for the same reason. He was fond of opera, but also of the theater, and he had an encyclopedic knowledge of specific performances. Had she seen Margarita Xirgu’s Mariana Pineda? What had she thought of Dalí’s sets? And what about that George Bernard Shaw play—the name would come to him in a
second—about a patriot being hanged for treason? Elena reflected that a careful review of old newspapers’ culture pages would give the Guardia fairly accurate dates of his stays in Madrid and Barcelona. He was an enthusiastic admirer of “la Xirgu,” and his pronunciation of the name made Elena wonder a little if he was actually a Catalan. Although perhaps he merely took the trouble to say the actress’s name correctly, just as he enunciated the English playwright’s name precisely.
“See you tomorrow, Señora Fernández,” he said easily, when Elena finally excused herself.
“Until tomorrow, Señor—um—Pedro,” Elena answered automatically, and then flushed as his namelessness slid the invisible barrier between them back into place.
He smiled at her. “You really are welcome to use my name, Señora. But as I would never dare to use yours, you can call me, oh, say . . . Vargas. Pedro Vargas.”
“It isn’t your real name?” Elena said, still anxious.
He laughed. “It is now. Tell your husband you wormed it out of me with feminine wiles. Or better still, tell Guardia Torres. Your husband would be jealous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elena snapped, aware that she had not told Carlos of her visits to the wounded guerrilla, and annoyed with herself for not telling him earlier.
“It’s not ridiculous. I would be, in his place.”
Elena left annoyed, resolved to tell Carlos what she had learned and wash her hands of the guerrilla. But that evening the lieutenant told her in a somewhat put-upon voice that he had received orders from Santander to hold the prisoners until their trial date, which would almost certainly be after Easter. “At least they’re sending us reinforcements finally,” Tejada said. “Although they’ll probably want them all on patrol all the time.”
“Surely no one will be overseeing how you deploy them that closely?” Elena said.
Tejada snorted. “Don’t bet on it. Thanks to your happy idea about English arms, Súarez told me he was getting phone calls from some civilian in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Madrid’s jumpy. A lot of people are going to be looking very closely at what these guardias do.”
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