“A good start, in any case. Thanks for your help.”
“It was nothing.” If Tejada had not been armed and in uniform, the librarian would have asked him why he wanted the information. Even as it was, he was tempted to crack a joke about wanting to poison someone. But he only smiled and assured the lieutenant that it had been his pleasure to be helpful.
When Tejada returned to the post, he found that Sergeant Rivas was still interrogating Alberto Cordero. “He was being difficult, Lieutenant,” Guardia Medina explained, in response to Tejada’s question. “If you know what I mean.”
Tejada looked at Medina’s leer with dislike. “Knows how to keep his mouth shut, does he?” he said shortly, reflecting that if Guardia Medina had known how to keep his own mouth shut, Doña Rosalia’s death would never have given rise to a long distance phone call to Potes.
“He doesn’t have too many teeth left,” Medina confided. “But don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’ll get a confession out of him.”
“Interrogate a lot of guerrillas, do you?” Tejada asked, with the irrational feeling that he was being patronized. He was torn between a desire to say that the guerrillas in Potes were far tougher and better organized than anything in the south and a feeling that this particular boast might reflect poorly on his own skills as a commander.
“Not too many,” Medina conceded. Because he was a more accomplished boaster than the lieutenant, he added, “They know what happens when we catch them here, so there aren’t too many.”
The clocks began to strike the hour. Tejada was not anxious to go home, but he had no desire to remain in Medina’s company, and he could not shake the nagging feeling that Alberto Cordero’s ties to the Reds were irrelevant. On the other hand, if one member of Doña Rosalia’s household had been sympathetic to the Reds, another might be as well.
“Anything the sergeant finds out about the bandits in the Alpujarra is all to the good,” he said. “But let’s try to remember the point here.”
Medina was instantly grave. “Yes, sir. We all want to find out who killed your lady aunt, sir.”
“Tell Sergeant Rivas to check the family connections of all the rest of her household,” the lieutenant ordered. “You never know.”
Swelling with importance, Medina promised to deliver this order to the sergeant. Tejada waited for him to leave the office, and then wrote a note to Rivas, giving the same order, in more detail, in case Medina messed it up. He put the note on the sergeant’s desk where he was sure to see it and then left the post with the satisfaction of a job well done. His feeling of accomplishment peaked as he stepped out of the post, ending the day’s work. Unfortunately, it waned steadily as he walked back to his parents’ house. As he reached their home, it occurred to him that he was going to have to face his father across the dinner table. He would almost have been willing to change places with Alberto Cordero for the evening. But not quite.
Chapter 12
Tejada’s precipitous departure that morning had left his wife the pleasure of a solitary breakfast with her in-laws. The evening with Nilo had put Elena in a good mood, though, and she was able to answer with smiling calm when Doña Consuela asked if Elena wanted her to babysit for Toño for the morning. “You must want to go shopping, dear,” her mother-in-law added. “I’d be happy to take care of him.”
“It depends on what Toño wants to do,” Elena said sweetly. “He’s not used to being left without me. But I would like to look up an old friend here.” She was certain that her mother-in-law had intended a veiled reference to her wardrobe, and she managed to take a certain pleasure in blunting Doña Consuela’s attack, although she knew that any acquaintance she admitted to having exposed a new flank to the enemy.
“Surely you’ll want Carlos to go along if you’re visiting friends.” Doña Consuela was bland.
“I try never to interfere with his work,” Elena lied politely. “And Cristina is my friend, not his. If you have a directory of the city, perhaps I could borrow it? I’m sure I can find my way.”
Doña Consuela frowned. “If you have to see this . . . person”— her tone made it clear that she thought Elena was lying about the gender of her acquaintance—“Juan Andrés will accompany you. It’s not appropriate for you to be wandering around the city by yourself.”
Juan Andrés looked up, not at all pleased. “I can’t, I have business today, Mother.” It occurred to him that this was an ungracious comment and he added to his sister-in-law, “Of course I can show you the way, if you can find your way back.”
Elena nodded at him and smiled, acknowledging but excusing his rudeness. Relieved, he smiled back.
“If this person lives in a safe neighborhood,” Doña Consuela interjected, pursing her lips. “Elena doesn’t know the city. She could easily find herself in a bad part of town.”
“What would you like, Toño?” Elena spoke quickly, determined to avoid leaving her son to his grandmother’s tender mercies.
Her son was unenthusiastic about both plans. “If you went out, would you come back soon?” he asked, with a glance at his grandmother.
“I don’t have to go,” Elena said hastily. “Or you could come with me.”
“To the toy store?” Toño asked.
“If you want. And there’s a lady I used to know whom I’d like to see.”
The little boy wrinkled his nose. “I’ll stay here. You can go visit the lady. Unless you want me to come,” he added generously.
“No, no, we can both stay here,” Elena reassured him, resigning herself to another interminable day with her mother-in-law. She would have liked the chance to talk to Cristina and find out what had become of the funny, unconventional girl she had known, but it was not fair to drag Toño on expeditions he did not enjoy, and she was not going to leave him with Doña Consuela.
“Maybe I could stay with Alejandra?” Toño suggested. “I like Alejandra.”
“I think she is in school now,” Elena pointed out gently.
Unexpectedly, Elena’s sister-in-law spoke up. “What about Alejandra’s mother, Carmen? She used to take Marta and Paco out to the park when they were little. She could take Toño for you for a few hours.”
Doña Consuela glared at her elder son’s wife. “Rosa, most women don’t like to leave their children with people who aren’t family.”
Rosa glared back at Doña Consuela, solidarity with a fellow daughter-in-law temporarily overriding her dislike and distrust of Carlos’s wife. “I thought Elena might like to know that there’s someone trustworthy to take care of her son,” she shot back, emphasizing the word trustworthy a little more than necessary.
“I don’t have to go visiting today,” Elena said, in a vain attempt to keep the peace. “I can take Toño out to the park myself, but I’ll introduce him to Señora . . . err . . . Carmen after breakfast so he’ll know her for another time.”
She drained her coffee, willing Toño to eat quickly so that she could escape from the breakfast table. Rosa, with renewed helpfulness, volunteered that Carmen could be found in the kitchen and Elena hurried her son out of the room with the excuse of going to meet Alejandra’s mother.
The kitchen was a narrow, stuffy room with an enormous black stove in one corner, noisy with the clatter of plates. Isaura, the Tejadas’ maid, was dumping used breakfast dishes in the sink as they arrived. At the far corner by the stove, a squarely built woman wearing an apron was polishing a set of silver. Both women looked up as Elena and Toño entered and stopped what they were doing. Isaura spoke first. “Señora Fernández? How can we help you?”
Elena felt awkward. “I wondered if”—she hesitated, uncertain what to call the quiet woman in the corner—“if Carmen—Señora Llorente—would be willing to look after my son for a few hours when she’s free. Rosa—my brother-in-law’s wife—suggested it.”
Carmen set down the sugar bowl she was holding, wiped her hands on her apron, and came forward. “Of course, Señora. It would be a pleasure.” She squatted to be at eye level with T
oño and added, “Hello, Señorito. I’m sure we’ll have a good time together.”
Elena looked down at the kneeling woman and saw threads of gray in the straggling hair. A memory rose in her throat like bile: a chestnut-haired mother, kneeling in the school playground on a golden September morning and tightly hugging her little girl, saying cheerfully, “I’m sure you’ll have a good time in second grade, Aleja.”
Toño inspected Carmen. “Are you Alejandra’s mama?”
(Elena had memorized the class list the night before and she had been able to smile at the shy little girl and say, “You’re María Alejandra, aren’t you? And this must be your mama?”)
“Yes, Señorito. It’s Carlos Antonio, isn’t it?”
(“Yes, Señorita Fernández. I’m Carmen Llorente.)
“Mostly people call me Toño.”
(“My name is Aleja, Señorita.”)
Elena closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Carmen had risen and was facing her with no trace of recognition. I’m sorry, the lieutenant’s wife thought, longing to say the words aloud. I didn’t think it would turn out like this. But she was no longer a young teacher in a public school in wartime Madrid, and the omnipresent smell of burning buildings and sound of distant cannon fire no longer made even strangers confide in each other like friends. “Do you think you could take care of Toño this morning?” she asked.
Carmen Llorente hesitated a moment and then said quietly, “Of course, Señora. You can drop him off here any time. But . . .”
Elena looked up, hoping that the pause meant she had been recognized. Isaura began to run water over the dishes, and Carmen spoke so that the other maid could not hear. “Can I speak to you alone, Señora? Just for a few minutes. I need to ask you something.”
Elena did not reply immediately. Isaura turned off the faucet. “If you take Toño for the morning, I’ll be back in time for his nap,” Elena said slowly. “But maybe you could help me put him down for his nap after lunch, so you know his routine for next time?”
Carmen let out a silent breath. “That would be fine.” A smile flickered across her face. “Just let me put these away, Señora, and I’ll be ready to take care of the little one.”
Elena nodded. She kissed her son good-bye and left him in the kitchen with an oddly hollow feeling. She had never left Toño with a strange babysitter before. She was proud that he was such an outgoing child, of course, but she had expected that he would be a little more worried about being left behind. Her memories of teaching in Madrid came to her aid. Carmen had been one of many parents who hugged their children tightly and watched with hurt eyes as their children scrambled away to explore their new classroom and meet classmates. Elena had always been slightly insulted by the parents who obviously hated to leave their children in her care. Now she understood perfectly.
She went in search of a city directory. Andrés Tejada provided Elena with one, warning her that it was not up-to-date. There were four Encinases listed in the directory: Enrique, María Isabel, Osvaldo, and Ubaldo. Elena tried to remember the names of Cristina’s parents and siblings. She was fairly sure that Cristina had spoken of an Ubaldo. Consulting a map, she saw that Ubaldo’s address seemed close to the Tejadas’ home. She set off without specifying her destination, after assuring her in-laws that no escort was necessary.
A very few minutes’ walk convinced Elena that she had been wise not to tell the Tejadas where she was going. She found her way back to Puerta Real easily, but as she turned into the sunlight and began to head uphill, the neighborhood changed abruptly. The street was almost a parody of the landscape around Potes. It ran up a narrow valley, so steep as to be almost a gorge, that would have been impressive had it been left in its natural state. But where the bubbling Deva in Potes ran plentifully between unspoiled ledges, the Darro was little more than a trickle among muddy rocks, strewn with garbage from the dilapidated buildings clinging precariously to either side of the cliffs. It had more the appearance of a sewer than a river. A number of the houses clinging to the hillside looked as if they had been damaged by cannon fire. Elena, instinctively glancing upward to see where artillery could have attacked from, saw the yellow bulk of the Alhambra looming above her. From this angle, the ancient fortress looked more menacing than picturesque.
Tiny alleys leading up, away from the river, were darkened by laundry crisscrossing the streets. Something about the shadowy figures lurking in the alleys made Elena avoid eye contact with them. Paseo de los tristes, Elena thought. The path of the grieving. The street’s well named. She could feel herself attracting curious stares. She was too well dressed and walked too purposefully to belong in this part of town. She was unwilling to draw more attention to herself by consulting a map, so she contented herself with carefully checking the street numbers and hoping to reach her destination soon.
She was becoming nervous when she saw the number she was looking for on a heavy wooden door in a blank wall on her left unbroken by windows. It was sheer luck that she had not walked past it. Wondering if this had been such a good idea after all, Elena rapped on the uninviting entrance.
Somewhat to her surprise, the door swung open after just a few moments. “Yes? Can I help you?”
For a horrified instant, Elena feared that the woman facing her was Cristina. Then her common sense reasserted itself. War, starvation, and suffering had aged many people prematurely, but the lines bitten into faces that should still have been young were harder and sadder than the gentle wrinkles of the woman who had opened the door. The woman’s hair, caught up in a bun, was still thick, although frosted lightly with age. But the features, build, and coloring all strongly suggested the laughing student Elena had known. She smiled. “Señora de Encinas?”
“Yes?”
Elena hesitated, uncertain how to introduce herself, although she was now sure that she had found the right address. “My name is Elena Fernández. I was a student in Madrid, in the early thirties. In the school of education.”
Cristina’s mother smiled. “You’re a teacher then? Come in.” She stepped back, welcoming Elena with a gesture. Elena followed her into a tiled courtyard with a practical-looking well in the center. A stone bench had been set under a lime tree. Señora de Encinas led her guest through the carmen into a sitting room open to the courtyard. The room contained a pair of easy chairs, a low table, and an ironing board in one corner. “Please, sit.” Elena’s host indicated a chair and moved toward a cabinet along one wall. “It’s so good of Ubaldo’s friends to remember him.”
“I was interested in Señor Encinas’s work,” Elena said. “But actually I was a friend of Cristina’s. I was in Granada and I thought I’d look her up.”
“Oh!” Señora de Encinas had drawn a tray out of the cabinet drawer and had apparently been rummaging for something to put on it. Now she left the tray sitting on the cabinet and turned around, her face completely expressionless.
Elena recognized the woman’s set look. With a sinking feeling that was all too familiar she said, “Cristina and I lost touch a few years after we graduated. I didn’t know if she was . . . still here. But I wanted . . .” She said nothing, hoping that Cristina’s mother would offer some information. The older woman said nothing, but her eyes shut for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” Elena whispered.
“Thank you, dear.” Señora de Encinas was obviously a woman of grace and control. Her voice was steady as she took the chair opposite Elena. “There was no way for you to know. Cristina . . . passed away nine years ago.”
The war and its aftermath had given Elena enough experience with the need for unexpected condolences to enable her to match her hostess’s self-control. She apologized for the intrusion and offered her sympathy with a fluency born of agonizing practice. The rules for the situation were clear: you did not ask for any information about the cause, or time, or place of death, in case dwelling on such details was shameful or dangerous for the family; you did not mention your own losses; and, above all, you did not
cry, because once your tears started they might never stop.
Señora de Encinas was unwilling to speak of her daughter, but she was warmly, almost eagerly polite to Elena. She spoke willingly about her son, Félix, and his wife, and about her grandchildren. Then she asked about Elena’s connection with Cristina. She seemed almost desperate to hear stories of the girls’ years at the university. Elena found herself digging out old memories of exams and classes, of heated political debates and hopeful ambitions. When she mentioned that Cristina had spoken of her father’s work as a teacher, her hostess looked pained for a moment. “Ubaldo was the commissioner of public education for two years,” she said quietly. “But his life’s work was really the Home.”
“The home?”
“The Home for Indigent Children of the Albaicín,” the older woman explained. “It wasn’t just an orphanage. It was a place for abandoned children as well and a free school for the poorest. Ubaldo was so proud that it was the first of its kind that wasn’t run by the church.”
“It sounds like a wonderful idea.” Elena’s voice was gentle.
“We provided vocational training for the older ones and a clinic.” Señora de Encinas spoke with obvious pride. “We were just expanding into basic health care for the community.”
“You were involved with Señor Encinas’s work as well?”
“I’m a trained nurse.” The older woman smiled. “I was the director of the clinic.”
Elena felt a slight catch in her throat at this unexpected vision of marriage. It was partly envy of the easy equality that Señora de Encinas seemed to share with her husband that made her cruel enough to say, “Was Cristina—?”
The Summer Snow Page 16