The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  Rivas looked embarrassed. “I made up the duty roster last week, Lieutenant. And I only heard that you were coming yesterday.”

  “Then I won’t need anyone today,” Tejada said. The sergeant began to express his gratitude, but the lieutenant cut him off, a little sharply. “Don’t look so dumbfounded, Rivas. I was sergeant at a metropolitan post. I know what the job’s like. I’m here to smooth things over, not to make waves. Get going.”

  The sergeant left, relieved and cautiously optimistic about Señor Tejada León’s younger son. Rivas was a second-generation member of the Guardia, as proud of his professionalism as he was of having escaped the drudgery of the Ordoñez cane fields that had claimed his mother’s family. He could not imag- ine why a member of the great landowning families would join the Guardia, and had mentally dismissed the lieutenant as “a señorito who’s probably as dotty as his aunt.” Rivas had assumed that Lieutenant Tejada had joined the Guardia as an officer, perhaps coming from the amateur militias formed during the war or after some hushed-up scandal had ended an army career. But if the lieutenant had served as a sergeant, and understood clearly what the job entailed, perhaps he would be easy to work with. On the other hand, a señorito who was so unexpectedly competent could prove disturbing.

  The first thing Lieutenant Tejada did was settle himself in Sergeant Rivas’s chair and read everything in the file about the late Rosalia Tejada de Ordoñez. He skipped hastily over her family connections and focused on her contacts with the Guardia. According to Sergeant Rivas’s records, she had first approached the Guardia in the spring of 1943, a few months after her husband’s death. The report’s tone was carefully neutral:

  According to Señora de Ordoñez, agents of the Russian government have bugged her telephone and are keeping her house under constant surveillance. She has suggested that they plan to revenge themselves on her for the part her late grandson played in the Blue Division in Russia in 1941. She says that her servants are either in league with the Reds or terrified by them and afford her no protection. Her fear and concern are unquestionably genuine.

  Tejada smiled. Sergeant Rivas had managed to suggest that Doña Rosalia’s fears were as groundless as they were genuine with exceptional eloquence and restraint. Anyone reading the report would have correctly wondered why Russian agents would have concerned themselves with the elderly grandmother of one of the many young men who had volunteered to fight Communism and had already given his life doing so.

  The next report, dated six months later, was substantially the same, although Doña Rosalia had claimed that the Reds trying to kill her had not only bugged her telephone but planted spies in the house who were watching her every move and reporting to unnamed superiors. “No new servants have been hired at the Casa Ordoñez,” the report noted dryly. “Censors’ reports (see attached) show no evidence of unusual correspondence.” Four months after the second report, the roof of the Casa Ordoñez had suffered damage in a windstorm, and Doña Rosalia had gone to the Guardia demanding the instant arrest of the repairman, who, she insisted, was building a secret compartment in the attic to hide revolutionaries. No secret compartment had been found. The following summer, when new wallpaper was hung in the bedroom, Doña Rosalia had called not only the Guardia but an eminent physician to test the paste and paper, which she was convinced were soaked in a slow-acting poison that would seep into the air and smother her in her sleep. “According to Dr. Navarro, the paste used would only be poisonous if ingested in large quantities,” read Sergeant Rivas’s report. “I was able to reassure Doña Rosalia that reasonable precautions about what she eats would protect her from being poisoned by the wallpaper.” Three months after the wallpaper incident, a chance visit by begging Gypsies had convinced Doña Rosalia that her house had been the subject of a reconnaissance party and was slated to be taken over as a command center by the invading Red army, which was poised to cross the straits from Morocco. There were more reports. Doña Rosalia had possessed a morbid streak of creativity, and none of the plots were exactly the same.

  By the time Tejada finished reading, he was torn between amusement at his great-aunt’s eccentricities and disgust that she had wasted so much of his colleagues’ time. He also had a high opinion of Sergeant Rivas’s narrative skills. Anyone who had known Rosalia de Ordoñez would be able to recognize her from the pages of Rivas’s reports, in all her querulous and self- absorbed glory. At least, the lieutenant thought, her terror of death had gained her a sort of earthly immortality. She would live on in the Guardia’s archives, if anyone ever cared to read them after the case was closed.

  Sergeant Rivas found the lieutenant still occupying his office when he returned from patrol that afternoon. “Well, sir?” he asked. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  Tejada stood up, with the trace of a smile. “Your records are very complete, Sergeant. A shame that an elderly lady felt so vulnerable.”

  Rivas gulped. “We did everything we could—” he began.

  “You can’t fight phantoms,” Tejada interrupted him. “I don’t see any credible evidence for a murder plot here. We should get the results of the autopsy by the end of the week, and then we can bury her and be done with it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rivas said, with relief.

  “You dealt with all those complaints personally?” Tejada asked, curious.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant whistled. “Congratulations. I don’t know if it’ll be any good for promotion, but you ought to get years remitted from purgatory for it.”

  Rivas smiled, a little uncertainly. “I try to do my job.”

  “So I gather.” Tejada frowned. “Off the record, Rivas, why did you open this dossier in the first place? You don’t think she was murdered, do you?”

  The sergeant made a quick decision. Against all expectations, Lieutenant Tejada struck him as trustworthy. “No, sir. But your father was very anxious . . . to see justice done.”

  “I thought that was it.” Tejada smiled briefly. “I’ll get out of your way for now, Sergeant. I’ll stop by Thursday or Friday to check on the autopsy report, and then we can both get back to real work.”

  “Yes, sir.” To his own astonishment, Rivas found himself adding, “But you’re certainly welcome at any time, sir. If there’s anything we can do for you . . .”

  “No, thanks.” The lieutenant was definite. He did not add that he had already decided to spend the afternoon showing his son the playground by the Río Genil.

  Tejada had deliberately avoided saying how long he intended to spend at the post, so his family had not waited to eat with him. He arrived at his parents’ home as the family was finishing lunch. His parents and his brother were still lingering over coffee in the dining room. His sister-in-law and her children had adjourned to the alcove beyond the dining room, where his nephews were absorbed in comic books and his niece was finishing her homework. His brother, Juan Andrés, greeted him first. “Hello, Carlos. Have you eaten?”

  “No, not yet.” Carlos Tejada’s eyes were roaming around the table, counting place mats. “Where’s Elena?”

  “She went upstairs to put Toño down for his nap,” Juan Andrés volunteered.

  Señora de Tejada clicked her tongue as her older son spoke. “Honestly, Carlos, you might have the consideration to tell your family when you’re coming home so you can eat decently. It’s very inconvenient, now that everything’s been cleared.”

  Her younger son shrugged. “I don’t want to trouble you, Mama. I can get something from the kitchen.”

  “Get something from the kitchen!” his mother echoed. “You’ll want to go to the side door next! For goodness’ sake, you’re a member of this family. You might try to act like it, instead of behaving like a”—she made a little moue of distaste— “like a servant.”

  Tejada gritted his teeth. “I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, Mama. I’m used to eating in a hurry.”

  Señora de Tejada sniffed. “It’s a shame that a married man isn’t
used to proper meals. In my day, women had more pride.”

  The lieutenant’s nostrils flared, but he bowed his head and said nothing. He was already turning to leave when his father said peaceably, “Don’t peck at the boy. His job has difficult hours. Sit down and relax, Carlos.”

  “I really should get something to eat.”

  “It’s no trouble to get something for you,” His father pulled a bell cord as he spoke. “And I’d like to hear what you’ve found out about your aunt.

  “Bring a plate of soup and some bread for the señorito, Isaura,” he added as the door opened and a maid appeared.

  The lieutenant felt his teeth grind together as he sat. Fifteen years in the Guardia, a hard-won rank, a painfully acquired habit of independence, and a reasonably happy family life—his parents had managed to deny him all of this in under five minutes. His lunch arrived as he reported on his morning activities to his father, trying to divulge as little information as possible, and feeling like a sulky child all the while.

  “It’s a shame Aunt Rosalia felt threatened so frequently,” Andrés Tejada said, when he’d finished. “I suppose in among Rivas’s reports there’s no suggestion of any real threats?”

  “None at all,” his son pointed out.

  “Still, she was in perfect health. And her death was so sudden.”

  “She was eighty-five.”

  “Eighty-four,” Señor Tejada corrected primly. “Her birthday was in December.”

  “Surely a woman that age—”

  “Carlos,” his father interrupted, with a hint of asperity, “everyone who knew her thoroughly expected Aunt Rosalia to live another ten years. You might have received the impression she was frail, but since you do not live here, you did not have the same opportunities for observation.”

  “I’m sorry.” The lieutenant accepted his father’s implied reproof. After all, Doña Rosalia had been irritating and joining the Guardia had provided him an escape from dealing with her. “I’m sure she was in good health. But even so, I’ve known peo- ple who looked indestructible but who were carrying around time bombs in their chests. One minute they’re climbing mountains and the next—boom, there isn’t even time for a priest to get to them. Why do you suspect she was murdered?”

  Andrés Tejada was annoyed. “I thought the guardia were supposed to be zealous about crime! I didn’t expect to have to talk you into believing that one had been committed! I thought you became a guardia because you enjoyed doing this sort of thing.”

  The lieutenant flushed and opened his mouth to say that he had chosen his career because he believed that what he did was vitally important to the security of the country he loved, not because he wanted to play detective and look for an imaginary murderer like a little boy playing at being the Masked Warrior. He swallowed the retort, telling himself that he did not want to fight with his parents on his first day at home, although the knowledge that fury would have made him inarticulate probably also had something to do with his decision to keep quiet. “I do what I have to do,” he said briefly. “And I was asking that question officially: Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill your aunt, Rosalia Tejada de Ordoñez?”

  His father laughed. “Come off your high horse, Carlos. I don’t have any idea. That’s why I asked you to look into it.”

  “In that case, what makes you think she was murdered?”

  The lieutenant met his father’s eyes. For the first time in the conversation, Andrés Tejada looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Just a feeling, I suppose. She was an irritating woman— may she rest in peace. And I guess with all that talk of plots . . . no smoke without fire, don’t you think?”

  “And on the basis of a ‘feeling’ you pressure Rivas into taking me away from a serious campaign in the mountains?” Tejada exclaimed. “We’ve only just secured the Valle d’Aran, and there’s some real danger of guerrilla activity in the Asturias.”

  “I’m sorry, Carlos.” His father was once more indulgent. “But I wanted a family member in charge of the investigation. I wanted to be sure that if there was any evidence of murder someone would discover it.”

  Carlos finished his soup and stood up. “Well, there will be an autopsy,” he said, picking up his plate. “We should get the results by Friday at the latest. Then we’ll see if you’re right.”

  “Where are you going?” his father demanded.

  “I’m finished.” The lieutenant heard himself sounding like a defiant adolescent. Trying to soften his tone he added, “It was very good.”

  “I’m glad you liked it. But why are you walking off with the dishes?” Andrés Tejada was genuinely bewildered.

  Carlos Tejada looked down at the delicate porcelain in his hand and saw a battered tin plate, lone and abandoned on a long trestle table, fifteen years earlier. The voice of his first sergeant echoed in his ears. “What the hell do you think this place is, Guardia? A restaurant? Clean that up!” He turned and set the bowl and plate down on the table. “I don’t know,” he said, staring at the tablecloth. “I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “You’re still tired from the journey,” his father said kindly. “Go and get some rest, and everything will be much clearer.”

  “Yes, Father,” Tejada mumbled, and beat a retreat.

  He negotiated the halls and stairs of the family mansion automatically and found himself in front of Toño’s bedroom. Elena was just emerging from it. She smiled at him and put one finger to her lips in caution. “I just got him to sleep,” she murmured, as the latch clicked softly behind her.

  Tejada started. He had assumed that Toño was already asleep, and he had intended to search for Elena in their own bedroom. But his body had steered itself to the room he had occupied as a child, not to the guest room where he and Elena were staying. He gave Elena a quick hug, reassured by her presence and his own pleasure in it. “How was your morning?”

  Elena shrugged. “All right. Yours?”

  “I’m on a wild-goose chase.”

  “You knew that was probably true before you started,” Elena reminded him.

  She started toward their room, and Tejada fell into step beside her with relief. In the privacy of their bedroom, he said, “I knew it was probably a waste of time, but I didn’t think that the whole thing was set up by my father like—like some sort of game to keep me amused.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The lieutenant sat down, avoiding her eyes. “I talked to Sergeant Rivas this morning. He’s got good records, and he runs a decent post. There’s no evidence whatsoever of murder. He opened the case because my father told him to. And my father amuses himself by cross-examining me on what I found in the records, and then tells me that he has a ‘feeling’ that Rosalia was murdered, and that I’m supposed to enjoy this sort of thing because I’m a guardia! As if I were about ten years old and didn’t have a real job!”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean that,” Elena said soothingly.

  “It wouldn’t bother me if he’d just say that he disapproved of my being in the Guardia and be done with it.” Tejada did not answer her directly. “It’s that he treats it as some kind of joke. Oh, let’s give Carlos a crime to investigate! If he just ordered me to come home, and threatened to disown me otherwise—”

  “You wouldn’t obey him,” Elena pointed out with a smile. “And I thought he did say that he disapproved of your being in the Guardia.”

  “Well, once,” Tejada admitted. “Fifteen years ago. But he’s never said a word about it since then.”

  “Some people would call that forbearance.”

  “If you could have heard him just now! Telling my mother when she started in about my being late that the job has long hours and that I should relax.”

  Elena grimaced. “Did she mention how much weight you’ve lost?” she demanded bitterly. “She thinks that in the mountains we should eat well, especially with a guardia’s ration coupons. Of course, if a woman wastes her family’s coupons on frivolous items . . .” />
  The rancor in her voice recalled Tejada from his own self-pity. He squeezed her hand. “Oh, God, love, I’m sorry,” he said. “She didn’t go on at you like that all morning, did she?”

  “No, not exactly. She likes Toño.”

  “That’s good.”

  “She sent for a seamstress because she says he needs proper clothes.”

  Tejada winced. “Fourteen more days,” he said. “And maybe if I can convince my father I’m not interested in playing games, we can close the case and get away early.”

  “It will be nice to see some of the sights,” Elena offered. “The Alhambra, perhaps?”

  “I thought we could take Toño to the park along the Genil this afternoon.”

  “That will be nice.” Elena glanced at the clock on the night table. It was just before four-thirty. “He should be up in an hour or so.”

  The lieutenant sighed and pulled off his shoes. “I’m going to relax a little until then.”

  Elena, still tired from the journey, elected to take a siesta as well. Tejada propped his pillow against the bedstead, lit a cigarette, and felt his nerves grow calmer as he listened to his wife’s peaceful breathing. When he finished smoking, he lay down and stared at the patterns of afternoon sunlight on the ceiling.

  He was not aware of falling asleep until he heard his wife say gently, “Carlos,” and he woke up.

  “Mmm?”

  “I was thinking about your father.”

  Tejada groaned slightly. “Why did you have to bring him up?”

  “He was very decent to me, really.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I was thinking.” Elena was hesitant. “I mean, about him being decent. I suppose if he’s decent to me, it’s because he wants to be decent to you.”

  “Maybe.” The rings of sunlight on the ceiling were no longer soothing.

  “I mean”—Elena paused, and then plunged on—“maybe he isn’t wasting your time. Maybe he actually has a reason for thinking your aunt was killed, but he doesn’t want to say so.”

  “He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get me here to then not say so,” Tejada retorted. “Especially since he’s never been diffident.”