The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  Tejada’s nostrils flared. His brother’s words were too near the truth to debate. “I’m sorry I haven’t been living up to your standards,” he said quietly. “I’ll try to be nicer to Father, if you think I haven’t been.”

  Juan Andrés nodded, satisfied. “Good. Try hard.” Seeing his brother’s still face, he punched him lightly in the shoulder and added, “Come on, hermanito. I’m just looking out for you. For Papa, too. You’re both too stiff-necked.”

  Tejada forced himself to nod and smile. “Thanks, Juan. I— I’m going to go check on Toño.”

  Tejada found the door to Toño’s bedroom closed. No light seeped out under it. He opened the door carefully and peered into the darkness. After a few moments, he made out steady breathing. The boy was already asleep. Tejada closed the door softly, wondering with aching sadness if Toño would grow up to avoid his company and think of him with contempt.

  The door to his own bedroom was also closed, but the light was on. Elena was sitting up in bed, reading. She put the book aside and smiled at him. “How are you?”

  “Tired.”

  “Long day?”

  “Just a lot of stupidities.” He recounted the scene with his brother and felt his own suppressed anger lessened and diluted by her indignation. By an association of ideas too nebulous even for him to understand, he proceeded to a summary of his day: the departure of Alberto Cordero, Sergeant Rivas’s prolonged absence at the Casa Ordoñez, and the possible motives of the Riosecos. Elena asked questions, exclaimed, shared his unease and amusement. Even her quiet sympathy for Alberto Cordero was a relief. It was an echo of the faintly aggrieved disapproval that hung over him after every successful operation in Potes, when farmers and storekeepers eyed him balefully, knowing that he was only doing his job, but still blaming him for the loss of sons, fathers, and brothers. It tasted like home.

  As usual, Tejada was unable to articulate his gratitude to his wife. But it was with a special pleasure that he pulled the half-opened letter Isaura had delivered to him from his pocket. “Corporal Méndez sent me this just after you left,” he said. “It looks like he’s found some information about your friend.”

  Elena was grateful but she felt a knot in her throat. Her husband was holding out the envelope but she was afraid to take it. “Could you read it?”

  Tejada raised his eyebrows at her. “You wanted to know.”

  “Baldo wanted to.”

  The lieutenant put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. “If Méndez has bad news, will you tell him?”

  Elena closed her eyes. “Yes. I’ve promised to. And not knowing . . .”

  The lieutenant nodded without speaking and opened the envelope. There were several papers folded together. He riffled through them and saw that two appeared to be copies of bank statements. The third was a cover letter. He scanned it and felt a sudden bubble of lightness in his chest. Elena heard his sharp indrawn breath. “Well?”

  Tejada read aloud, not trusting himself to paraphrase.

  Esteban Beltrán Monteroso escaped from a transport to Viznar on August 2, 1936, along with two others when a flat tire was being changed. He was presumed to be in the mountains with the bandits. There are no arrest or transfer records available for Cristina Encinas Rosado.

  However, three weeks ago, Félix Encinas Rosado’s account received a wire transfer of five hundred pesetas from Credit Lyonnais (see first attachment). Five hundred pesetas were also transferred to the account of Dr. Beltrán’s mother, M. Mercedes Monteroso, from the same Credit Lyonnais account (see second attachment). Said account is held jointly by a married couple M. and Mme. Montrose. This seems like an obvious French form of Dr. Beltrán’s second surname and in light of the suspects’ former association . . .

  “Thank you, thank you, Carlos!” Tejada got no further with his reading. Elena sprang at him, laughing and crying at once. He closed his arms around her, savoring her joy. It was rare enough that his job brought tears of happiness.

  “Take it easy,” he commanded, smiling. “Baldo’s parents must already know where the money came from. If they haven’t told him yet, there’s a reason.”

  “I suppose,” Elena admitted. “But still, I’ll speak to them tomorrow. I have to. Oh, Carlos, thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.” Tejada was seized with a sudden burst of articulateness. “I like to make you happy. Because it makes me happy.”

  And that was the key to much of his life, he thought a little later after they had turned out the lights. He had married her because he had felt an almost unbearable urge to protect her and would have cheerfully killed or died to make sure that she was safe and happy. And her happiness was still the key to his own. Staying in Granada had been difficult so far partly because she had been so miserable.

  It occurred to him that he had asked nothing about her day and that she had volunteered nothing. They had been talking about other things. He wondered uncomfortably if he was really still the one who protected her or if sometime during their marriage their roles had become reversed and she had become the guardian of what might loosely have been called his soul or perhaps simply his sanity. It was a disturbing revelation, and he comforted himself that in times of real danger he was still the strong one.

  As if to offer confirmation of his shaky self-sufficiency, his memory sweetly offered the name of the little place near Órgiva that Sergeant Rivas had mentioned: Tíjalo. And then suddenly he remembered the name of another little place near Órgiva and why it was significant, and the dual memory had the force of simultaneous thunder and lightning. He shivered and clung to Elena, once more dependent on her half-acknowledged strength. Sleep was a long time in coming.

  Chapter 19

  Tejada woke the next morning with a stuffy nose and an ache in his throat that he hoped was an infection but suspected was only unresolved sadness. He was gentle and deferential to his father at breakfast, so much so that Elena looked at him with concern and questioned him with her eyes. He avoided her gaze, unwilling to drag her down into the murky depression that had enveloped him.

  Elena wondered how late he had fallen asleep the night before. She was worried when he refused to meet her eyes, and her worry grew into outright alarm when he said softly to his father, “I’d like to go over to the post now if it’s all right with you. I think we’re close to an arrest of Aunt Rosalia’s murderer. Perhaps I’ll be able to make an entire report to you this afternoon.”

  “Really?” Andrés Tejada’s tone was one shade short of disbelief. “That’s good news. Who did it?”

  Tejada swallowed. “I’m not sure yet. That is, I think I know, but I don’t have proof, and I don’t want to lay blame until I’m positive.”

  “This afternoon then.” His father spoke with such good grace that Tejada wondered if Juan Andrés had taken him aside as well.

  “Thank you.” The lieutenant’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  On other days he had gulped his coffee with barely decent haste and hurried away to the post, determined to escape, but today Elena thought he dawdled. He expressed interest in his mother’s plans for the day and complimented his sister-in-law on her earrings. He asked his brother about land in the Vega and devoted his entire attention to the response. The lieutenant’s nephews and niece had left for school, and his father and brother had departed for work before Tejada finally pushed back his chair, kissed his mother and his wife, and headed for the post.

  He walked slowly, and the careful serenity he had cultivated for his family blew away in the morning wind. He stopped in the Plaza Bib-Rambla and looked at the churrería next to Pablo Almeida’s office. He could stop there and have a coffee before going to the post. Or stop and talk to Nilo once more informally, for old times’ sake. He sighed. Any delay would only make his errand more difficult. But still, Tejada stared at the doorway to Pablo Almeida’s offices for a long time without moving. Finally he rang the bell. Nilo greeted him with a salute and a broad smile. “Come in! Come in! How are you? Ar
e you here to see Don Pablo?”

  As soon as the old man spoke, Tejada regretted stopping. It would have been better to go on to the post. Better to have spoken to Sergeant Rivas. But it was too late now. “No.” Years of experience kept his voice even. “I’m here to see you.”

  “Really? Again?” Nilo still smiled, but he was a little confused by the grim note in the lieutenant’s voice. “That’s kind of you. I’m afraid I can’t offer you more than a chair. . . .”

  He gestured to a wooden seat by the stairs. Tejada ignored the gesture. “I wanted to confirm a few things with you. Jesús del Rioseco found you a place here, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s ‘correct.’” For a moment, Nilo mimicked Tejada’s formal tone. Then he smiled. “Don’t forget how to speak andaluz way up north, son.”

  Tejada paid no attention to the old man’s digression. “Your family were tenants of the Riosecos, and you yourself were stationed in Órgiva, correct?”

  “Right.” Nilo looked uncertain now. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Near Tíjalo?”

  “That’s right.” Nilo was surprised. “I didn’t know you knew the area.” He shifted on his cane, wishing that he could sit down but unwilling to be impolite, although the lieutenant showed no sign of taking the empty chair.

  “Who bought the Rioseco land there when the family went to Cuba?” Tejada rapped out.

  The old man shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t been back since I was wounded. And my girls aren’t there either, so I don’t get much news.”

  “You knew the Rioseco family had left the country though?”

  “Yes.” Nilo was somber.

  Tejada took a deep breath. “Why did they leave?”

  Nilo shook his head as if to clear it, his eyes on the younger man’s face. “It’s all ancient history,” he said gently. “Don Jesús was a fine man and Don Ramiro as well. He just had some bad luck.”

  “What kind of bad luck?” the lieutenant pressed.

  Nilo closed his eyes for a moment. “Don Ramiro lost his oldest boy during the war,” he said finally. “They say it broke his heart.”

  “Not in combat.” Tejada’s voice was harsh.

  “No.” Nilo sighed. “I know you wore a blue shirt before it was fashionable. But not everybody did you know, son. Miguel del Rioseco—”

  “Was a Red,” Tejada finished brutally.

  Nilo shook his head. “He wasn’t anything. He was just a kid, barely out of university. They say he wanted to be a professor, but his father wouldn’t let him. He—” The old man became aware of Tejada’s scrutiny and broke off. “He wasn’t even arrested by the Guardia,” he finished, his voice shaking. “It was one of the militias. His mother said he recognized two of them.”

  “How do you know what his mother said?”

  “Because his father came to me to ask if I still knew anyone in the Guardia.” Nilo reached for the chair and then lowered himself into it, sounding very tired. “It was a bit like that revolution the Falange was always talking about. The head of the Riosecos coming to ask an old man like me for help.”

  “You felt sorry for him.” Tejada respected Nilo’s need to sit, but regretted that he had not taken the chair earlier when it was offered. He, too, was tired. The ex-guardia nodded without speaking and Tejada continued. “The Riosecos had done everything for you. And you watched them lose everything they had because of an accusation brought by a man whose family bought the land they’d owned in Tíjalo.” He saw Nilo’s eyes widen and guessed that the old man had known who had lodged the denunciation. “Doña Rosalia chatted with you about her will,” the lieutenant continued, his voice relentless, although he was avoiding Nilo’s eyes now. “She must have told you about purchasing lands in the Alpujarra. Lands bought cheaply, because the owners were desperate to sell. You saw her every time she came to change her will; a bitter, cranky, obnoxious old woman who’d gained from the Riosecos’ loss. You must have hated her.”

  “No,” Nilo said softly. “The poor lady wasn’t right in her mind after her husband died. I didn’t hate her.” He waited to see if the lieutenant was going to respond and then stretched out one hand, not quite touching Tejada’s elbow. “Why are you raking up the past, kid?”

  If his voice had been less gentle, Tejada would not have been angry. But the old man spoke as he would speak to a frightened child, not to a colleague—and a superior officer!—Tejada thought, indignant. “My aunt was poisoned,” he said sharply. “You have a good motive. And you questioned me about the case even before we had established a cause of death. You’re a suspect.”

  The lieutenant met Nilo’s eyes squarely as he spoke to show that he had no compunction about making such an accusation. So he was able to see the dawning horror on the old man’s face; he remembered the expression for the rest of his life. “Well?” he demanded sharply. “Aren’t you going to deny it?”

  Nilo said nothing. He merely looked at Tejada with wide rheumy eyes. The lieutenant saw that he was trembling and did not know if it was from fear or anger or merely old age. “I wanted to speak to you privately,” he said, wishing that Nilo would say something. “Sergeant Rivas is drawing up lists of the Riosecos’ dependents, and I wanted to talk to you before he did.”

  “Thank you, Señorito. That’s kind of you.” Nilo’s voice was barely above a whisper. “But Sergeant Rivas knows me.”

  “You had no way of tampering with her food,” Tejada said, with the vague feeling that he was carrying both sides of the argument. “And, of course, you were a guardia. That speaks in your favor. But I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  “Sergeant Rivas knows me,” Nilo repeated.

  “Oh, well, then. . . .” Tejada felt vaguely ridiculous. It would have been so much better if Nilo had been offended or angry or disbelieving or even frightened. Anything rather than hurt. “I’ll try to come back to say hello if I can.”

  He raised his hand in a wave, and Nilo gestured vaguely in reply. “You’re always welcome, Señorito.”

  Tejada left the Plaza Bib-Rambla shaking with a fury that even he knew was irrational. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Nilo had only been angry. Maybe he was just a very calculating murderer who knew that as a former member of the Guardia, with no evidence to link him to Doña Rosalia’s house, he was unlikely to be prosecuted. Tejada clung hopefully to the thought that perhaps Nilo really was a murderer until he reached the post.

  Rivas, who had been at work for some while already, greeted him cheerfully. “Here’s the information on the Rioseco girls,” he said, holding out a folder to the lieutenant without bothering to rise from his desk. “And here’s a list of Miguel del Rioseco’s friends, those who are still around and not active members of the Movement.”

  Tejada took the second folder automatically. “What about the family’s dependents?” he asked hollowly.

  “Bit harder, but we’re working on it. I want the list to be comprehensive,” the sergeant explained.

  Tejada took the only free seat in the office. “I can add one,” he said quietly. “An old man from the Alpujarra. He owed the Riosecos everything and made no secret of it. And he knew Doña Rosalia and knew the terms of her will. He knew she’d changed it to disinherit her children, which might give . . . someone else a good motive for her death. And odds are he’d know enough about poisons to manage to obtain cyanide.”

  “Great!” The sergeant was enthusiastic. “Could he have slipped cyanide to her somehow?”

  “Probably not without the cooperation of someone in her household,” Tejada admitted. “But I don’t think that would have been impossible, do you?”

  “No. Whoever did it would have used one of them,” Rivas agreed. “Likely Alberto, since he could be blackmailed. So, who’s our suspect?”

  Tejada’s lack of sleep was catching up with him. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “His name is Nilo Fuentes. He’s the porter at the Plaza Bib-Rambla, Number Five.”

  “Nilo?
Nilo Fuentes?” Rivas was incredulous. “Not Nilo the cripple?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “B-but—” The sergeant frowned, searching for a way to remind Tejada of the obvious. “Nilo’s a guardia, sir. He couldn’t—”

  “He was stationed in Órgiva until he was wounded,” Tejada interrupted. “Jesús del Rioseco found him work. He knew the family well. And knew that Rosalia de Ordoñez had bought up their land in the Alpujarra and had just changed her will.”

  “I know where Nilo was stationed,” Rivas protested. “But, sir, he spent nearly twenty years in the Guardia. He had an exemplary record. He—”

  “Had means and motive,” Tejada finished.

  “Nilo Fuentes is a guardia,” Rivas repeated, inarticulate.

  Tejada met the sergeant’s eyes and read dislike and contempt and bewildered hurt there. He thought of his father saying, “How dare you accuse me of murder?” and of his older brother saying, “You have the nerve to claim your rights as a family member?” He thought of an old commanding officer in Madrid saying to him with exasperation, “The man’s an officer, Tejada. I can’t go around making accusations like that against him.” He thought about Nilo Fuentes telling him he had done well for himself. “I’m a guardia, too,” he said. “And I told you to pull my file for investigation also.”

  “I know, but—” Rivas made a last desperate attempt. “Well, that was a formality, sir, wasn’t it? And Old Nilo—he’s not like you, sir. He’s never been anything but a guardia. It was his whole life.”

  Tejada had the odd feeling that this was a variant on an old conversation. A real guardia was incapable of murder. A real member of the family was incapable of murder. He wondered for an insane instant if somewhere in the mountain cottages where the maquis’ contacts lived, an indignant peasant had ever told the story of a family member’s arrest, exclaiming that a real Red didn’t commit murder, and if a wild-eyed bearded anarchist with a machine gun had ever felt an urge to throw back his head and howl at the moon when he heard the words. “I’ve already spoken to him,” he said. “He denies everything. But add him to the list and keep in mind we’re dealing with someone clever who knows the Guardia’s procedures.