It was not fair, but it was more than probable if she didn’t apologize, she acknowledged drearily, after an hour of furious crying. He might apologize as well, eventually, but she knew the limits of his tolerance, and knew it was up to her to make the first move. She washed her face, blew her nose, and then washed her face again. Her head was throbbing and her back was in spasm and all she wanted to do was lie down. But she went back to the kitchen, covered the soup, and put away the bowls that they had not used for lunch, grimly determined to be as good a wife as possible, so that he would have no more cause for complaint.
She allowed herself to fall asleep a little before four o’clock. Carlos would not be home for another three hours, and it would not be hard to prepare dinner quickly. She woke a few hours later because someone was pounding on the door. Afraid that her husband had returned early, Elena hurried to open the door, worried that he might interpret the delay as a further sign of defiance. She was relieved as she reached the foyer to hear a voice calling, “Lieutenant! Lieutenant Tejada!”
She straightened her shoulders, glad that she would have an opportunity to speak to a neutral third party before talking to Carlos again. A faint, sickly sweet smell made her wrinkle her nose and hope that the odor did not reflect on her housekeeping. “I’m sorry,” she began politely, pulling open the door, “my husband isn’t here now. You could try at the post or—”
Everything happened so quickly that Elena had no time to sidestep, much less struggle. She identified the smell as chloroform as a soaked rag was clasped firmly over her nose and mouth. She twisted her neck wildly, trying to break free of the gag without inhaling, but the grasp on her head was implacable, and a second man had pinioned her arms. Finally, she gasped, choked, and then gasped again. Her last conscious thought was that they could as easily have knocked her out with a club, and that perhaps this unexpected gentleness meant that they would not harm the baby.
Chapter 18
Tejada left the fonda without knowing where he was going. He had left Elena because he knew that if he stayed longer he would do something unforgivable, and some small part of him knew that if he so much as raised a hand against her he would regret it for the rest of his life. But the satisfaction of having the last word was insufficient consolation for the inability to continue fighting with somebody. She should have stayed in Salamanca, he thought, as he paced the empty, rain-slickened streets. I could have come back to her then and none of this would have happened. The sound of knives rattling on plates and the hum of conversation behind shutters mocked his thoughts. On the other side of the dirty adobe walls that loomed over the street, people were warm and dry and enjoying a hot meal. He looked up as a sudden shout of laughter on the second floor mingled with the clinking of glasses, and water ran down the back of his neck. He had wanted Elena to come so that he could live like the people behind the walls. So that he could laugh with her over meals, instead of bolting down food in a barracks, listening to endless work-related conversations about patrols and requisitions, or—he scoffed mentally— maudlin reminiscences of loved ones. He had wanted her to come because for the first time in his life, the idea of family had meant something besides an obligation to be fulfilled.
Idiot, the lieutenant thought bitterly. Better to have said goodbye to Elena in Salamanca, and promised to write to her. Stupid to have forgotten that his place was with the Guardia, outside the warm circle of light and laughter, waiting, guarding, as he had waited in the dark and cold that night in the woods above Argüébanes to capture Vargas and his companions. He had been a fool to take Elena to the mountains; to drag her from the warmth and domesticity where she belonged into the darkness with him like a child clutching a teddy bear for reassurance. If I hadn’t told her to visit Dolores, he thought, none of this would have happened. And if Vargas hadn’t been such a plausible bastard, damn him.
It was easier to think about Vargas than about Elena’s anger and contempt, or about what might have been behind the dawning horror in her eyes at his last words. It’s his fault, Tejada told himself violently. She would still be in love with you if he hadn’t corrupted her somehow. And if you hadn’t said that to her about the baby. Firmly quashing this last thought, the lieutenant headed for the post, his free-ranging rage focused on a specific point. He was going to find out what Vargas had said or done to Elena, or make the maquis die in the attempt. Tejada did not really doubt that he would be successful. Carvallo had interrogated the prisoner under orders, without personal malice. The lieutenant was fairly sure that Carvallo’s efforts had been halfhearted.
The other guardias were still at lunch in the barracks attached to the main building. The prison was deserted. Tejada shoved open the door of Vargas’ cell with so much force that it flew against the wall. The prisoner had already finished his lunch. He looked up as the door slammed with an expression of mild inquiry. “Hello,” he said. “You’re new. Are you Torres’s replacement or Carvallo’s?”
The nonchalant tone was a bad mistake. Tejada crossed the cell in a few strides, grabbed the prisoner by his collar, and dragged him upright, slamming him against the wall. Vargas gasped in pain. “Listen, smart-ass,” the lieutenant said quietly. “I’ve been trying to keep you alive in case you have information. But after what you’ve done to my wife, I’m not sure that I care.”
Vargas managed to catch his breath. “Your wife? Señora Fernández?”
“Have you seduced anyone else lately?”
Amusement flickered in the guerrilla’s eyes. “Be reasonable, Lieutenant. Aside from the fact that I’m hardly in the ideal position for a seducer, your wife isn’t really a candidate for seduction in her present condition.”
“You talked to her,” Tejada hissed, infuriated by the man’s flippancy. “You with your damn ‘man of the world’ pose! What the hell did you say to her?”
“Nothing that couldn’t be repeated to you,” Vargas said. “In fact, I rather assumed that it would be repeated to you.”
Tejada backhanded the lingering smile off the guerrilla’s face. “She visited you out of kindness!” he spat. “And you . . . you suborned her! You took advantage of her! You made her lie to me! To me, her husband!”
At least Vargas had stopped being amused. When he spoke, his voice was serious. “I seem to have underestimated the lady. I hope she won’t suffer for this.”
“What business is it of yours if she does?” Tejada demanded, suddenly terrified that Vargas had more than a political interest in Elena.
“None.” The maquis’ voice was soothing. “But I will tell you again: Nothing that we said could not have been said in front of you or anyone.”
“You’re worried about her!” Tejada accused. “You think that I would hurt her?”
Vargas shrugged. “The thought does occur.”
Tejada’s pistol came out of its holster almost of its own accord. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he said, his voice shaking.
The maquis had instinctively turned his head to avoid the gun, but his back was to the wall, and the barrel remained firmly pressed just below his ear. He sighed and turned back to meet the lieutenant’s eyes, with the sad resignation of a man who has accepted his own death. His voice was quiet. “Whether you kill me now or later won’t make any difference in the long run. But your wife believes you’re a decent man, Lieutenant.”
Vargas felt the pistol trembling under his chin. He closed his eyes. He was therefore unprepared when Tejada seized his shirt again and flung him at the corner of the cell as hard as he could. He fell against the stones heavily, unable to suppress a gasp of pain.
“Damn you,” the lieutenant whispered. He spat at the prone form, and then fled the cell, his hands shaking. As he went downstairs, he heard Dolores Severino crying. Why couldn’t he have stuck with the Severino chit? Tejada wondered angrily. She loves him. Why my Elena?
Márquez was waiting for him in his office when he arrived. “Good, you’re back,” the sergeant said. “I’m sending o
ut the patrols, and if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to go over to Lebeña this afternoon. Ortíz says there’s a man selling a motorcycle there, and I thought I’d take a look and see how much he wants.”
“Fine,” Tejada said automatically. He was more than happy to not have to talk to Márquez all afternoon, and if the sergeant was actually doing something useful, so much the better.
Left alone at the post, his thoughts began inexorably to circle around Elena. She would try to see Vargas again. She had never broken her word, once given. He could give orders that would bar her from the prisoners, or that would allow no one access to Vargas. And announce to the entire post that you can’t control your own wife? asked a cynical voice in his head. How long do you think it will take before the whole town knows it as well as the post? He could not lock her in the fonda. She would see the maquis again, and see the bruise across his face. Tejada knew it was futile to hope that Vargas would not tell her who was responsible for his latest injury. He could practically see the maquis’ smirk and hear the mocking voice pronouncing his name. He could send her away. For her own safety, until the child was born. Everyone would expect her to give birth in Unquera, near a doctor anyway. No one would think it was unusual after that for her to return to her parents’ home with an infant. The best thing was to send her away.
Tejada received a certain amount of bitter pleasure from imagining speeches to his wife, explaining why their separation was in everyone’s best interest. He also came up with a number of cutting remarks he had been too upset to think of at lunchtime. In his various mental scenarios, he was always perfectly calm and collected, and replied to imprecations and entreaties with detached and witty sarcasm. However, as the afternoon lengthened into evening, he was by no means enthusiastic about returning home to actually confront Elena. He did a number of nonurgent chores, read and wrote several reports, and thoroughly organized his desk. The routine tasks helped clear his mind, but his resentment simmered away on a back burner, steaming gently, and casting a mist of rage over his brain. Several pencils broke instead of sharpening, and his attempt to refill a fountain pen resulted in ink all over his hands and the blotter. He mopped up the spilled ink, muttering curses, and decided he had done enough desk work for one day.
Márquez returned a little after seven, and the pairs on patrol began drifting back over the next half hour. Three sets of men would not be back until the following day. Unwilling to socialize, Tejada excused himself and said good night. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were blocking the sunset, enveloping the town in premature grayness and obliterating the mountains. Tejada hurried away from the post, but slowed as he reached the river, disliking the prospect that lay ahead of him.
He stopped completely at the Torre del Infantado, and then, with sudden decision, turned along the Quiviesa and began to head away from the town. He needed a walk. And if Elena was worried that he was late, it was too bad for her. I won’t go far, he thought, though he knew that wandering in the mist was stupid in the extreme, and that the weather was not cold enough to make the bandits lie low.
He avoided the road parallel to the river, picking his way along the riverbank instead. Fighting his way through bushes was something of a relief. The rain and the relatively warm weather had swollen the stream, and the water rushed steadily along, many of the rocks that created white water later in the year fully submerged. Tejada came around a bend, and then froze as he saw a dark figure silhouetted against the gray, with a long stick in its hands. Then the stick took on the shape of a fishing pole, and Tejada relaxed. It was just some lone peasant with a taste for salmon, wrapped in a greatcoat against the rain. He was starting to see bandits hidden behind every tree. He started forward again silently, knowing that no fisherman would thank him for a sudden loud hail.
He stepped carelessly, and a piece of the bank nearly gave way under him. He grabbed at a nearby tree to steady himself. He regained his footing, but the dead branch snapped loudly, and the fisherman turned toward him. “Good evening.”
Tejada saw as he came closer that what he had taken for a greatcoat was actually a cassock. “Good evening, Father.”
“How are you?” the priest asked.
“Fine. And you?” Tejada moved to go around the priest.
“Well enough.” Father Bernardo watched the lieutenant with narrowed eyes for a moment and then said, “May I ask what you are doing on the river at this hour?”
“I wanted a walk.”
“Your wife informed me that you were not a sportsman.”
Tejada’s mouth tightened. “That’s correct. I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled your fishing for this evening, though. I was just leaving.”
“Lieutenant!” The priest spoke with authority, and Tejada paused, unwillingly.
“Yes, Father?”
“I come here most evenings,” the priest said simply. “This is the first time I have seen you. If your walk was to settle some matter of conscience, perhaps I could be of service?”
“That’s kind of you, Father, but unnecessary.” Tejada was annoyed that his preoccupation was so obvious, and his annoyance showed in his tone. “But my conscience is clear, thank you.”
“You are perhaps worried about your wife’s?”
Tejada turned back to the priest and stared. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been a parish priest for more than fifteen years,” said Father Bernardo, keeping his tone neutral. “I find that among married parishioners, disturbances of the spirit frequently involve the spouse.”
Tejada gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Do I display the typical attributes of a cuckolded peasant, then?”
Father Bernardo took a few moments to wind his line and cast it again before replying. His eyes scanned the darkening water as he spoke. “Is that your fear?”
“That Elena’s been unfaithful? No! Or . . . well, nothing that simple.”
Pause. Wind. Cast. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Tejada took a deep breath, and the story tumbled out without a pause: the raid on the cabin, his suggestion that Elena visit Dolores Severino, the visits to Vargas, how he had found out about them, his confrontation with Elena, and his meeting with the captured guerrilla. The priest stood like a statue, the water swirling around his ankles. He was silent for a little while after Tejada had talked himself to a standstill. Then he nodded slowly and said, “She should not have met with this unfortunate without your knowledge.”
“That was what I told her!” Tejada agreed. “That’s what bothers me most! It’s dishonest.”
“Do you think there was anything else . . . dishonest about these meetings?”
Tejada scowled. “I suppose not. But that’s not the point!”
Pause. Wind. Cast. “When is your child due, Lieutenant?”
“The end of this month.” Tejada’s voice sounded sulky in his own ears. “But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“You’ve been married long?”
“Eight months.”
The priest sighed. “Your wife,” he said slowly, “struck me as a highly intelligent woman. She mentioned to me that she had graduated from university, and had worked to support herself for several years. That would have been during the Republic?”
Tejada braced himself for the familiar pinprick hostility. “Yes,” he snapped.
Pause. Wind. Cast. “So she has acquired a habit of independence, which is unfortunate,” Father Bernardo said. “But it seems to me that she is trying to break this habit. Often women who marry late and have experience of self-sufficiency have difficulty adjusting to marriage. And your wife is adjusting to marriage, to motherhood, and to a new home all at once. I’m sure she’s making an effort. But she may need you to be tolerant of any lapses.”
“I am tolerant,” Tejada protested. “But this is something that could affect my career. Something that’s important.”
“And how does she feel about your career?” Father Bernardo asked shrewdly.
Tejad
a opened his mouth to complain, and then remembered Elena saying gently, We neither of us want peace of mind. “She understands what it means to me,” he admitted softly.
“That’s a rare blessing,” Father Bernardo cast again, and added encouragingly, “Also, remember, she’s in her last month of pregnancy. Women at that time are always beset with doubts, fears, terrors even. When the baby comes she’ll settle down to taking care of it, and you’ll have to worry less about all this.”
Tejada stared at the muddy ground, and flushed. “I told her I’d take the baby away if she didn’t give way about Vargas,” he muttered, embarrassed.
“That,” said the priest briskly, “would be the worst thing you could do. Aside from being inhumanly cruel to a woman of warm heart and fondness for children, as Señora Fernández obviously is, it would be precisely the thing most likely to push her into more defiance. Think about it: If you crush her maternal feelings, a woman of her intelligence and education is likely to take refuge in exactly the sort of unfeminine intellectualism that you’re trying to avoid.”
Tejada stopped listening shortly after hearing the words “inhumanly cruel,” and started remembering Elena’s face as he had last seen it, drawn with misery. “I didn’t mean it,” he said guiltily. “I’ll apologize to her. I . . . is there anything you think I could bring her? Wine? Roses? Chocolate?”
“The gold of El Dorado?” Father Bernardo suggested, teasing but not unkind. “It’s early in the season for roses, and Fermín hasn’t had a delivery of chocolate in six months, but I have a bottle of a nice local vintage that you’re welcome to, if you think it’s necessary.”
The Watcher in the Pine Page 22