The Watcher in the Pine

by Rebecca Pawel

  Their complaints became more pronounced as the maquis learned of the Guardia Civil’s increased numbers, and expressed their disapproval. The warning shots that the Potes guardias had learned to expect as a routine part of patrol became more frequent, and less benign. Four days after the arrival of reinforcements, Guardia Ortíz returned from a patrol with one of the new guardias, indignant. “Pablo Roldán took a potshot at me!” he exclaimed. “And the bastard wasn’t even aiming to miss! I winged one of his friends, at least. I’d expect it of a foreigner like Vargas! But Pablo! I never would’ve believed it! We went to school together!” The next day one of the new guardias was hit in the arm while on patrol. Then a group of four was ambushed near Camaleño. The shooting that followed left one maquis dead and three of the four guardias injured, one of them critically. The wounded men had been hit in the stomach and shoulder, and a bullet had grazed the head of the third. The maquis were shooting to kill.

  Knowing that his force was rapidly being reduced to its original size, Tejada wondered with alarm if he had done the right thing in asking for reinforcements. He communicated his theory to Madrid about how the maquis had been financing their purchases of arms, and received no reply. When he asked if there was any suggestion whatsoever that the maquis had received arms from a foreign government, he was told that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would communicate with the Ministry of Defense as soon as any definite information was known. Colonel Súarez, displeased with Tejada’s casualties, began to hint that there had been no problem in the Liébana until his arrival there. The lieutenant’s only comfort was that the Policía Armada’s force was being similarly preyed on, and that they, too, were suffering casualties.

  Preoccupied with these worries, Tejada also suffered from a vague feeling that he was neglecting Elena. He had hoped that she would make friends with some of the other guardias’ wives, but although she dutifully visited them, she did not show any enthusiasm for pursuing the acquaintances. She walked less, and spent a good deal of time napping, and Tejada was torn between the conviction that this was good for her health and the fear that it meant she was depressed. When he hesitantly apologized about not being able to walk to Santo Toribio with her on Saturday, she rolled her eyes. “I doubt I could make the walk anyway now,” she snapped. “My back is killing me.” Tejada hastily expressed sympathy, and escaped to the post, unwilling to listen to a detailed review of his wife’s symptoms. When he arrived, he was greeted by a detailed review of the wounded Guardia Moreno’s symptoms, which failed to improve his mood.

  Monday morning, the lieutenant met with Márquez and Battista to review the post’s duties during Holy Week, and to try to come up with possible ways of minimizing injury to the force. He also summarized his theory about ways the maquis were obtaining arms. “If you’re right, sir, why not have more men guarding Devastated Regions?” Battista suggested. “That should cut off the maquis’ piggy bank. Don’t send out any pairs of new men without at least one experienced guardia. That’ll get them used to the countryside.”

  “And the countryside used to them,” Tejada agreed. “It’s not a bad idea. But I feel like I have to justify the reinforcements to the colonel.”

  “And it’s stepping on the Policía Armada’s toes,” Márquez objected. “Besides, with all due respect, sir, what if your idea about them bartering construction materials for arms is wrong? I don’t think the stuff they took would buy the kind of guns they have, unless the English or somebody were helping them out.”

  Tejada snorted. “I’d rather not be the man who didn’t notice an invasion,” he said. “But it’s hard to start beating the hills for English spies when the maquis are getting so much local help, and I don’t know where to start. The colonel’s stonewalling me, and Madrid is stonewalling, too.”

  “They probably don’t know anything about it,” the sergeant pointed out.

  “That or it’s not politically expedient to tell me,” Tejada sighed. “Either way, it doesn’t help.”

  “We need information,” Márquez summarized.

  “And the only question is where we can get it,” Tejada finished.

  There was a short silence. All three officers looked glum. Then Battista said, “Our best bet is Vargas.”

  The lieutenant nodded, and opened the filing cabinet behind his desk. He flipped through it, pulled out the folder with Torres’s and Carvallo’s reports on the prisoners, and read silently for a moment. “As far as I can tell from this,” he said slowly, “we’ve learned that the prisoner is one Pedro Vargas, presumed Catalan, university educated, veteran of the Red army. Worked closely in the mountains with Luis Severino and Rafael Campos, both deceased. In other words, damn all.”

  “How did he end up with a name like Pedro Vargas if he’s Catalan?” Battista demanded.

  “Phone book, probably,” the lieutenant said dryly. “Get Torres down here, and see if he has anything to add.”

  Torres, when he appeared, was unable to add much more. “He’s a slippery one, sir,” he apologized, in response to Tejada’s questions. “He talks pleasantly enough, seems to enjoy it even, but if you ask a specific question he’ll just turn it off with a joke, or quote some philosopher and spin you a long speech about something totally different. Hard to pin down.”

  “If the carrot’s not working maybe we should just go with the stick,” Tejada said. “What’s Carvallo picked up?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Torres shook his head. “He’s a bloody mess after Carvallo’s through with him, but he won’t say a word if he’s beaten.”

  “We could try him in the bathtub,” Tejada suggested.

  “Carvallo did, three nights running. Didn’t get anywhere. He finally overestimated the timing and nearly drowned him.”

  Sergeant Márquez whistled. “Tough one. Electric shocks?”

  “We could, I suppose.” The guardia looked dubious. “But”—he hesitated and looked at Tejada. The lieutenant nodded encouragingly and Torres continued. “I don’t think he’ll crack. Everything we’ve gotten so far has been from being nice to him.”

  Tejada sighed. “Well, it’s not much, but I guess we don’t have much choice.” Then, because the guardia looked downcast, he added, “You’re doing a good job, Torres. Just keep it up.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Honesty compelled Torres to add, “Really, your wife has done better than all of us, though.”

  “What?” Tejada said.

  “She was the one who figured out he was a Catalan,” the guardia explained, generously giving credit where it was due. “And she’s read some of those books so she can follow him when he starts trying to spin some tale.”

  “I see.” The lieutenant spoke quietly. There was a faint crackle of paper as the report in his hand wrinkled in his grip. “I hadn’t realized she visited Vargas so frequently.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Practically every day. I think he relaxes around women,” Torres added sagely. “Flirts a bit, you know.”

  “I can imagine.” Tejada was acutely conscious that Márquez and Battista as well as Torres were watching him closely. He turned the discussion to other ways of finding information about the bandits, and took notes on his colleagues’ suggestions automatically. Eventually, Torres and Battista left to go on patrol. Márquez, whose wrist had just emerged from a bandage, began to type a requisition. Tejada stayed at his desk, ostensibly making notes on the Vargas file, but actually doodling, barely noticing his surroundings.

  She lied to me, he thought. She knows what’s been happening, and she lied to me. If she’d asked me in advance I wouldn’t have minded. She’s always wandering off on her own—to the carpenter’s and to Father Bernardo and I don’t mind. I’m not jealous. I trust her. I haven’t put any limits on her freedom. But Vargas is different. He’s a guerrilla, an enemy soldier. He’s dangerous. She’s only seen him caged and pathetic and she feels sorry for him, but she doesn’t know what he’s done. Tejada was unable to crush the appalling thought that Elena might know considerably more than
he did about Vargas’s activities in the mountains. No. She would have told Torres. She would have told me. She wouldn’t betray me. But if she’s talked to him frequently, what do they find to talk about if not that? He can’t have that much in common with her. He’s a Catalan. It’s not as if they know the same places or people. Unless he did university in Madrid. They would have been there around the same time. But she would have mentioned that. She would have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she visit him? She can’t be in sympathy with the maquis. Not knowing what happened to Calero. Not after everything that’s happened in the last week. Not after all I’ve told her. But she can’t see anything in Vargas personally. Torres said he flirts. Elena’s never flirted. She’s not the eyelash-batting type, thank God. So why did she visit him? And why didn’t she tell me?

  Márquez finished his typing, pulled the sheet free, and scavenged for an envelope in his desk. Then he glanced at his watch. It was almost two. “You’re staying for lunch, sir?” he asked easily.

  Tejada looked up. “What? No. I promised Elena I’d be home today.”

  “All right. I’ll hold the patrols until you get back then. We should have someone here, just in case.”

  Tejada escaped from his office with relief. It had been cloudy all day, and it started to rain as he walked home. The wind drove the cold droplets viciously against his cloak. He hurried along with his head bent against the weather. His neighbors in Potes had never been overly friendly, so he did not notice how the few people on the streets slid away from him as they saw his expression.

  The apartment was warm, and smelled of soup. Elena levered herself out of the armchair as she heard the door slam, and came to meet him. “Good, you’re here. I’m sorry it’s just leftovers. I don’t know why I’ve been so tired—” She broke off as she saw his face. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Elena backed up instinctively, and sank into a chair. “Tell you? About visiting Vargas, you mean?” she faltered.

  “Yes, about visiting Vargas!” Tejada’s numbed sense of betrayal finally gave way to fury. “Why do I find out from Torres—from Torres—that my wife has been having cozy chats with a dangerous criminal?”

  Elena gulped. “Dolores asked me to visit him,” she said softly. “To find out if he was all right. I didn’t even think I’d be able to . . . only then Torres seemed to think it was all right.”

  “Who the hell is Torres to be telling you what’s all right?”

  “It wasn’t planned!” Elena cried. “It just happened the first time. And then. . . and then I felt sorry for him.”

  “Sorry for him?” Tejada echoed disbelievingly, beginning to pace back and forth. “The bastard tried to kill me!”

  “And you tried to kill him!” Elena retorted, relieved from the pressure of his eyes on her face. “And he’s tortured on your orders! So, yes, I felt sorry for him. Besides, I liked talking to him. He was easy to talk to. It was like being at home again.”

  Tejada froze, staring at the floor. “At home in Salamanca, or at home in Madrid?” he asked softly, terrified of the answer.

  “Either! Both!” Elena choked on a sob, and all of the misery of her life in Potes bubbled out of her. “Somewhere where people read and write and where there are theaters and concerts and things to do! Where the educated people aren’t all priests and Fascists! I can’t talk to anyone here!”

  “That’s ridiculous. What about the Álvarez kid?” Tejada protested. “What about Dolores Severino, for God’s sake?”

  “They’re children!” Elena cried. “And neither of them has ever even seen a movie! Or ridden a streetcar! I wanted to talk to an adult! Someone who’s read and traveled and . . . and is from my world. The world that used to be my world. I hate it here, Carlos! You have your work, it’s easy for you—”

  “Easy!” Tejada swung around to face her, and squatted in front of her chair, placing his hands on the arms. “Easy? Elena, we’re practically in a state of war! I’ve had six guardias under my command wounded in skirmishes in barely a month! One of them may still die as a result. I am damn near out of contact with headquarters, and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to forget about further reinforcements and handle anything from petty thievery to armed invasion without making a fuss. So don’t talk to me about easy!”

  “You wanted the promotion!”

  Tejada laughed without humor. “Oh, yes, my wonderful promotion! You think I’m here because I requested a posting to the back of beyond? I’m here because of you, Elena! Because someone in Madrid thought this would be a great way to get rid of an officer who married a Red. Park him in the Picos de Europa, where he can’t get into too much trouble. It won’t be much of a loss if the bandits wipe him out.”

  “Don’t blame me.” Elena was crying openly now. “I told you this would happen if you married a Red!”

  “You did,” Tejada agreed savagely. “But I stupidly thought that if we started over somewhere else, and if I did a good job, it wouldn’t matter. How was I to know that you couldn’t be trusted not to get mixed up with that kind of scum again?” Seeing that he had given her pause, he went on with bitter sarcasm, “Márquez has already been giving me hints. That business with Herrera. Little solicitous comments about how you’re adjusting from Madrid. He’s read your file, you know. I do my best to protect you but what can I do? Charge him with insubordination for telling the truth? And then you go and provide him with ammunition like daily meetings with Vargas!”

  Elena put her head in her hands. “I always told Torres what we talked about. There was never anything clandestine about those meetings.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “At first because it didn’t seem important. He was going to Santander in a few days.” Elena’s voice was weary. “And then I didn’t say anything because I thought Torres already had. And because I thought you’d get upset for no reason.”

  “On what planet is a man not supposed to get upset when his wife meets privately with another man without telling him?” Tejada demanded.

  “Most of this one!” Elena retorted. “Spain is backward!”

  “Don’t start that shit now!”

  Elena hissed, a long in-drawn breath, and then lashed out, no longer arguing rationally, but only seeking to hurt. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe that was why I enjoyed talking to Vargas? Because he doesn’t see why Spain should be backward?”

  “And looking forward means what?” Tejada snapped. “The freedom to sink to Vargas’s level?”

  Elena made a derisive noise. “You mean the level of a man who has the taste to appreciate literature and the strength to withstand torture? Someone who’s brave and intelligent and funny and actually cares about his fellow creatures? I doubt you could reach that level if you tried!”

  Tejada gritted his teeth, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of hearing him curse. “You won’t see him again,” he said softly.

  Elena’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not one of the men under your command.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “And that means that I have no more freedom than a . . . a prize of war?” Elena choked.

  “It means you’ll obey me.”

  There was a pain in Elena’s rib cage, and her temples were throbbing, but her voice only shook a little as she answered. “Not in something that goes against my own conscience or judgment.”

  Tejada’s fists clenched. “And you think visiting a Red prisoner is one of those things?”

  “If I’ve promised to, yes.”

  For a few seconds, the only sounds in the room were the soft crackle of the wood in the stove, and two sets of harsh breathing. Then Tejada stood up and said, very quietly, “I won’t have my child raised by a woman who feels that way. As soon as the baby is weaned, I’m sending him to my parents in Granada.” He had the satisfaction of seeing her shrink back in her chair, clasping her hands over her belly. “You can stay here with me, if
you choose,” he continued, merciless. “Or go back to your parents in Salamanca. But you won’t be allowed to see the baby.”

  “You can’t,” she whispered. “You have no right.”

  Tejada smiled bitterly. “Thank God Spain is ‘backward,’” he said. “I have every right. I’ll see you this evening.” He turned on his heel. A moment later, the door slammed.

  Elena began to tremble. She wanted desperately to break something, but everything in the room was either a treasured possession or something that would make Carlos angry if she broke it. Make him angrier, she amended. She stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to stifle sobs. She would go, flee, slip away and hide, and never let him find the baby. The thought died even as it was born. She had no money and no family besides her parents who could take her in. A woman could not legally travel without her husband’s permission. She could not take to the hills like the maquis with an infant. He can’t take the baby. She shuddered, willing the thought to be true. But she knew that he was absolutely within his rights. He could and he would, unless, she choked on another sob, unless he forgave her. Unless she begged his pardon and promised to obey him.

  Elena’s pride and her reason rebelled equally against a groveling apology. She had done nothing wrong—except possibly not telling him about meeting with Vargas earlier. Everyone had known she was meeting with Vargas. No one at the post had objected. Torres had been glad of her help. She had defended Carlos from the maquis’ accusations. She had kept quiet when he described his torture, and had not interfered, even though every instinct had screamed at her to reproach her husband. She had borne Bárbara Nuñez’s malice and Quico Álvarez’s obscene deference, and the cold shoulders of her neighbors without complaint. The smell of the stew began to nauseate her and she took the pot off the stove, without bothering to eat. She had agreed to come to this hateful place, hemmed in by peaks and cut off from civilization because she loved him. She hiccuped and almost retched. She had tried to be happy here, had tried to drink the revolting milk that he insisted on pressing on her every morning and to make friends he would approve of and to furnish their miserable apartment comfortably. He couldn’t take the baby away for no reason. It wasn’t fair.