The door handle was made of intricately wrought iron, roughly at his eye level. He dropped Rodrigo and tugged at it with both hands. It moved, but not enough to engage the mechanism, and he found himself trapped. After a minute or so of vain attempts to open the door, he jiggled it with a little cry of frustration. To his amazement, the handle turned smoothly and slowly under his hands, and he had to leap backward to avoid being hit on the nose as the door opened.
A girl was standing on the other side of it. She peered around the door to make sure that he was in no danger of being hit, and then pushed it open all the way. Toño inspected her and classified her as “not quite grown up but almost.” She wore braids and a matching vest and skirt, which Toño, who had never before seen a school outfit, nevertheless recognized as a type of unfamiliar uniform. She was thin, and even the little boy could guess that she was not tall for her age. The corners of her mouth turned downward in repose, giving her face a grave but not unpleasant expression. “Sorry about that, Señorito.” Her voice was musical, although the accent was slightly unfamiliar to Toño. “There’s a trick to the door. I hope I didn’t hit you.”
The child shook his head. He remembered what his grandmother had said about being polite, and saw an opportunity to atone for his behavior. He smiled widely and put on his best party manners, with an aplomb quite unaffected by his bare feet and pajamas. “My name is Carlos Antonio.”
The girl’s mouth twitched in an answering smile. “I know. You’re Lieutenant Tejada’s son, aren’t you?”
Toño nodded, unphased by her good information. Everyone in Potes knew he was the lieutenant’s son. “What’s your name?”
“Alejandra.”
Toño gravely held out his right hand. “Nice to meet you, Alejandra.”
Alejandra’s smile grew a little wider as she shook his hand. “Likewise. Where were you going in such a hurry, Señorito?”
“I wanted to find my mama.”
“You should probably get dressed first,” Alejandra advised. She paused. “Do you need any help?”
Toño decided that he liked Alejandra. He was pleased that she had thought to ask him if he wanted help dressing, instead of insisting on treating him as if he were a baby or a doll. His answer was courtly. “No. You can wait outside. Except,” he added honestly, “sometimes I don’t line up my shirt buttons right.”
“I’ll check on them,” the girl promised gravely and withdrew.
In the end, Alejandra only needed to tie his shoelaces. “There.” She patted his foot. “All done.”
She rose and turned to go. “Wait!” Toño hopped up. “Where are you going now?”
“I have to finish cleaning the other bedrooms,” Alejandra explained.
“Can I come with you?” Toño asked. She hesitated and he added, “I can help you. My mama says I’m a good helper.”
“I thought you wanted to find your mama.” She smiled a little.
“She’s probably busy now.”
“All right, then.” Alejandra held out her hand, and Toño put his into it.
There was a basket with a duster, several rags, and a pile of clean linens sitting outside in the hall. Alejandra picked up the basket with her free hand, and started along the corridor. Toño trotted along beside her, wondering a little if she was a relation. He hoped she was, but he had not met her earlier, so perhaps she was not. “Are you my cousin?” he asked.
“No. My mother is a servant here.”
“Oh.” Toño thought about the word “servant.” He had heard the word before, but was not quite sure what it meant. A housekeeper kept house, and a laundrywoman did laundry. He had gathered that being a servant was something like this. But servants also appeared in Father Bernardo’s biblical stories, and Toño had the vague feeling that ancient Israelites probably had not worried about houses and laundry. “Are you a servant?” he asked, tactfully fishing for information.
“Yes.”
Toño suddenly remembered that one of his playmates in Santander the preceding summer had been cared for by a woman who was not his mother. “Is a nanny a servant?” he asked.
“A kind of servant, yes.” They reached the next room, and Alejandra pushed the door open.
“So you could be a servant and help Mama take care of me?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Toño squeezed her hand. “Good,” he said, and then added with a confiding smile, “You’re nicer than my cousins.”
The corners of Alejandra’s mouth had been turning ever more firmly downward as Toño questioned her, but now she laughed, and squeezed his hand back. “Thanks,” she said, stooping to deposit the basket, and then handing him a rag. “Here. Run this along the baseboards.”
Toño obediently squatted by the wall and began to dust with more goodwill than efficiency. To his delight, Alejandra seemed very interested in hearing about Rodrigo and about the train set. By the time they had finished cleaning two more bedrooms (and Toño had told her all about the train ride from Potes and the taxi in Madrid and how he was learning to ride a pony and the big salmon he had caught that summer), they were fast friends. Toño explained to Alejandra the origin of his new lion’s name, and added some slightly confused information about El Cid. Alejandra, sensing that Toño would be grateful for a more complete history, volunteered to go and get one of her school textbooks and read the entire story of El Cid to him.
They were deep into the history of the conquest of Valencia when Elena interrupted them. Toño was happy for the opportunity to introduce his new friend to his mother, and only a little disappointed that Alejandra seemed to know his mother already. Then he got a good look at his mother’s face and wondered if she was still mad at him. She did not look angry exactly, only puzzled for a moment and then a little white and sick. “Aleja?” she whispered. “Why . . . yes. Yes, of course I remember you. You . . . you’ve grown.”
Alejandra looked embarrassed at this supremely inane comment. Toño went over to his mother. “You know Alejandra already?” he said. “How come?”
Elena knelt to be at eye level with her son. From this position she had to look up at Alejandra. “Aleja was my student,” she said quietly. “In Madrid, before I met Papa.”
Chapter 8
“Carlos!”
The lieutenant was just addressing his letter when Elena opened the door, calling his name. He dropped the envelope and stood rapidly, alarmed by her tone and expression. “What happened? What’s the matter?”
“Aleja.” Elena held out her hands to him unconsciously. “Alejandra Palomino. She’s here. She’s in Toño’s room.”
Tejada closed his eyes briefly and for a moment his clothing sat too lightly on him and he missed the familiar weight of a pistol at his waist. Once, long ago, he had used the pistol too quickly and killed someone who had been merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. The murder had introduced him to Elena, so he could not thoroughly regret it. But it had also made him responsible for Alejandra, then a child of seven. His conscience had forced him to make sure that Alejandra’s mother was employed and had made him pay for Alejandra’s schooling. But he had been content to provide for the girl at a distance. Seeing her brought back too many uncomfortable memories. Damn, he thought, as he took his wife’s hands between his own and squeezed them. She’s already unhappy here. And now this reminder. “I suppose Alejandra helps her mother after school,” he said aloud, trying to keep his voice steady. “I hope she’s being good to Toño.”
“Of course she is!” Elena defended her student. “She was reading to him. She—she reads aloud very nicely.”
“She had a good teacher,” the lieutenant murmured gently, as he embraced his wife. “She must have been glad to see you?”
“I don’t know. I—oh, God, Carlos, I was so ashamed.”
“Ashamed? Don’t be silly. Why?”
“She knew I was Toño’s mother.” The stresses of the day were starting to tell on Elena. There was a catch in her voice. “So she knew that I’m you
r wife. I felt like such a hypocrite. Everything I taught her when she was little—. She must hate me.”
“Nonsense.” Tejada stroked his wife’s hair, wondering exactly what she had said about the Guardia to her students during the war. “Fascists” he could accept. It didn’t really insult him, any more than she would have been insulted by being called a Socialist. Rebels, perhaps? He disliked the term because it implied that the Movement that had installed General Franco as dictator and saved Spain from the Republic had been nothing more than a band of disobedient malcontents, but that wouldn’t have been a malicious falsehood, just a half-truth. He gave up trying to imagine how the Reds might have brainwashed their young, and focused on the problem at hand. “Why should she hate someone who’s always been good to her?”
Elena heaved a long sigh without raising her head from Tejada’s shoulder. Five years of marriage had taught her that trying to explain a classless society—much less its benefits—to her husband was like trying to describe a snowball fight in the tropics: the basic materials were outside both his experience and his imagination. There was no way to explain to him that less than a decade ago she had tried to teach Alejandra that the very wealth he had tried to use for the girl’s benefit was evil when kept in private hands. “It’s not about being good to her or not,” she managed. “It’s that she thought I was on her side then, and now . . . I’m one of the winners.”
“You have a mania for dividing people into winners and losers.” Tejada tried to speak lightly, censoring the memory of barely overheard rumors that inevitably circled with respect to Elena among the men under his command. They say the lieutenant’s wife is one of the losers. He married the daughter of a loser. Her father was one of the Reds. “I’m sure Alejandra is too sensible for that.”
“No doubt your family make her feel so welcome.” Tejada was grateful for the humor, however acid. Elena was recovering.
“Well, she’s not one of the family, so they probably mind her less,” he said honestly.
Elena sighed. “I guess I overreacted. It’s just it was such a shock, seeing her sitting there with Toño.”
“It would have caught me off guard, too,” Tejada admitted. He glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes before seven. “Why don’t we go for a walk? We’re supposed to be in the Plaza Bib-Rambla at eight-thirty, but we might walk around the cathedral a bit, if Toño’s awake already.”
Elena agreed with alacrity. Tejada considered suggesting that since Toño had provided himself with a babysitter, they could enjoy the afternoon alone together, but he thought better of it. He volunteered to go and collect his son, and a little while later the three of them set out along the Gran Vía toward the cathedral. Toño was only politely interested in the tombs of Fernando and Isabel despite his father’s attempt to dramatize the story of Granada’s conquerors. But he liked the broad, shallow flight of steps in the Plaza de las Pasiegas. There were alley cats slinking through the afternoon shadows, and, at the far end, near the shuttered marketplace, a group of children hopped through boxes chalked on the flagstones. Toño, who had never played hopscotch, was intrigued. He took a few steps toward the children and felt his father’s restraining hand on his shoulder. He looked up. “I want to go play.”
“Why don’t you play on the steps,” Tejada suggested, glancing at his watch. “We have time.”
“But I want to see what they’re doing.” Toño shook himself loose. He noticed that many of the children seemed to have their mothers with them and was struck by a good idea. “I could play with them for a little while and you could go back and look at the paintings like Mama wanted.”
Elena smiled, amused and touched by Toño’s consideration. She opened her mouth to say that perhaps they should go and introduce themselves before asking someone else’s mama to look after a strange little boy. Her husband forestalled her. “No, Toño, you can’t play with them. They’re Gypsies.”
Elena frowned, disapproving. “Carlos—”
He shook his head at her. “No. It’s too dangerous.” He turned back to his son. “I’ll bet you can’t hop down all the steps to the first landing on one foot.”
“Yes, I can!”
“And back up?” Tejada feigned skepticism.
Toño smiled, knowing he was being teased. “I’ll race you.”
“You’re on.”
Elena stood in the shadow of the cathedral and watched her family hop, at a safe distance from the Gypsy children. From a distance, the Gypsies did not look so terrible. No poorer or dirtier than some of the village kids in Potes. A better woman, Elena decided, would have walked down the steps to meet them. But Gypsies had not been part of her childhood, and a lurking fear for Toño held her still. All the old stories about Gypsies kidnapping children were ridiculous, of course. And if they turned to begging or theft it was because they were desperately poor, the last hired and the first fired even in good times, persecuted and despised beyond all reason. But Carlos had grown up here, and she was a stranger, and he had been very positive. She wondered if he would have let Alejandra play with Gypsy children. Then, thinking of Alejandra, Elena wondered if she would have gone over to speak to them ten years earlier, before she had known her husband. She shivered as the shadows grew longer and wished that she was at home.
When the church bells tolled eight o’clock, Tejada gently suggested an end to his game with Toño. They kept Toño firmly between them as they passed the Gypsies. They reached the Plaza Bib-Rambla early, but Nilo was waiting for them, enjoying the curiosity he had aroused. The waiters in the plaza all knew Nilo Fuentes. The porter at Number Five frequently spent an hour or so in the square after work before limping home, and he bought a drink or something to eat whenever he could. Some of the younger waiters were impatient with his endless stories of the past, but, after all, Old Nilo didn’t seem to have any family, and a man needed to talk to someone. So Manolo, the waiter at the Café-Bar Durandal, had nodded kindly at the porter when he hobbled into the café that evening and took a seat at a table by the window. “Evening, Nilo.”
“Evening, son.” Nilo propped his cane against the table.
“How are you?” Manolo asked with real concern. “Is your leg bothering you?”
“No, no, can’t complain.” Nilo was hugging a pleasant secret to himself. He smiled. “Bring a bottle of costa, will you. And some bread.”
“Here? To the table?” Manolo was hesitant. Table service was an extra three pesetas, and Nilo didn’t normally have that kind of money to waste. Sometimes, if his leg was bothering him and business was slow, the manager gave him a seat at a table by the kitchen, instead of making him stand at the bar, and quietly forgot to charge him extra, but a window table was reserved for paying clients.
“I’m dining with friends,” Nilo explained grandly. He was clearly receiving three pesetas’ worth of pleasure from the explanation. Manolo shrugged and went to get the old man his wine, wondering who on earth would be dining with the porter.
The waiter’s curiosity was piqued further when the Tejadas arrived, a few minutes later. Nilo beamed at the group as they entered the café and levered himself out of his chair to greet them. “Hello, Señorito! And this must be your lady.” He shook Tejada’s hand and then kissed Elena’s.
“My wife, Elena Fernández,” the lieutenant confirmed. “And this is our son, Carlos Antonio. Toño, this is Guardia Fuentes.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Nilo bent to greet Toño and then straightened again. “Sit, sit! I’ve ordered wine, but I didn’t know what else you’d want. The cheese is good here usually.”
“You know the place,” Tejada replied, deferring to his host. He looked around for a waiter, and Manolo, who had been hovering nearby trying to figure out who Old Nilo’s guests were, appeared quickly.
The business of ordering took some time, but once their drinks arrived and were tasted, a little silence fell. Nilo broke it by turning to the lieutenant and saying, “And now, tell me what you’re doing in Cantabria.”
Tejada answered briefly, and then went on at more length under Nilo’s prompting. The old guardia listened and asked questions with both interest and intelligence, and by the time the first of their tapas arrived, he had somehow shifted to telling a funny story about a rural patrol in the Sierra Nevada thirty years earlier, when his partner had mistaken a bear’s den for an outlaw’s hideout. The story reminded Tejada of someone he had known at the academy who had nearly ruined a set of exercises by firing on his own side because he was too stubborn to admit he was color-blind. And then Elena couldn’t resist describing the time her students had been tested for color blindness and one of them had switched the color codes on the answer cards as a prank. That led, naturally, to Nilo asking about Elena’s career as a teacher, and although she knew it was a dangerous subject, she ended up talking about it more than she usually did with strangers. Thankfully, the old man was not shocked by the revelation of her life in Madrid during the Civil War. “It was a bad thing, happening in the summer like that, when so many were away from home,” he said, when Elena explained that the war had cut her off from her parents. “Too many people got caught in the wrong zone.”
“People who went to Mallorca for two weeks and ended up staying for three years,” Tejada agreed, still smiling but serious.
“At least they got home.” The old guardia spoke gravely. “Too many didn’t.”
Tejada was chastened by the old man’s tone. “They say the reprisals in Cataluña were terrible.”
Nilo nodded. “And not just in Cataluña. Folk guilty of nothing more than belonging to the wrong party.” He trailed off, staring into his wine, and then shook himself, as if remembering where he was. “A bad thing, all around. But we’re all here, and safe. That’s something to be grateful for.”
The Summer Snow Page 8