The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  Tejada sighed. “You searched the Villaloboses’ place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll take responsibility for it with the brass and Señor Villalobos,” Tejada said, his voice apologetic.

  Rivas smiled and picked up a manila envelope lying on the desk. “No need, sir,” he said, holding it out to the lieutenant. “I believe this is your lady aunt’s will. Properly signed and witnessed at the offices of Pablo Almeida. October 4, 1945.”

  Tejada stretched out his hand, but it was not until his fingers closed around the thick paper envelope that the reality of the sergeant’s words sank in. “You found it?”

  “In Amparo Villalobos’s desk, under a pile of scented notepaper.” Rivas allowed himself a slightly broader smile.

  Tejada stared at the envelope in his hand, half triumphant and half puzzled. “She hadn’t destroyed it?”

  “No, sir. She said it was given to her for safekeeping.”

  Tejada snorted. “So she naturally proffered it as soon as she was asked to do so by the proper authorities?”

  “Not exactly!” The sergeant shuddered. “She had violent hysterics when we asked to search her room.”

  “I trust she’s over them?” Tejada opened the flap of the envelope and slid out the will.

  “I believe so, sir.” Rivas coughed. “All things considered, I thought it best just to inform Señor Villalobos that we had found what we were looking for and leave him to . . . er . . . comfort her.”

  “She may have to prolong her hysterics for a while then,” Tejada said absently. “Villalobos has a reputation for having a temper.”

  After a moment’s thought, Rivas decided he was grateful the lieutenant had withheld that information about Villalobos. He shifted from foot to foot as Tejada silently scanned the will. The lieutenant seemed absorbed. After a moment, Rivas coughed again. “Is there anything unusual in it, sir?”

  “No,” Tejada said slowly, although the first page confirmed Doña Rosalia’s spleen against her daughter and Felipe. “Nothing that was unexpected.” He skimmed through the vitriolic condemnation of Felipe’s irresponsible and immoral lifestyle and tried as best he could to take comfort in Doña Rosalia’s final disposition of her liquid assets: “To my nephew and executor, Juan Andrés Tejada León, who maintains the honor of the Tejadas and has ever behaved with the consideration and kindness that my own children have never shown me.” He wondered how much money the will was worth to his father.

  “I suppose we’d better take it over to her lawyer then,” the sergeant said, after an awkward moment. “After all, it’s really nothing to do with the Guardia.”

  Tejada nodded and slid the will back into its envelope. The dry paper resisted his touch for an instant and then slipped downward so fast that it gave his index finger a paper cut. He pinched the envelope between thumb and forefinger, leaving a tiny smudge of blood on one corner. I’ve got it, he thought. This is what Father called me from Potes to get, and I’ve found it. I can go home now and be proud. “I’ll take it over to Don Pablo,” he said aloud.

  If he had been less preoccupied, Tejada would have noticed that Rivas was looking a little sour. In the sergeant’s opinion, sending other men to search a place like the Villaloboses’ and then hogging the credit for finding what other men had looked for, was a pretty shabby trick, and bad for esprit de corps to boot. Typical of a señorito. “I hope your morning was productive,” Rivas said with a touch of malice.

  Tejada shrugged. “Not very. I went through the files and managed to cross a few names off the list, I think.” He summarized his research and his trip to Arturo Perea’s home.

  Rivas softened a little during the lieutenant’s recital. Señorito or no, Tejada was genuinely conscientious, and at least he didn’t shirk boring work. He nodded when Tejada mentioned his opinion about a servant’s collusion. “Maybe we should just pull them in and question them until one cracks,” he said.

  Tejada nodded. “Might not be a bad idea.”

  “You think we should go now?” Rivas glanced at his watch.

  Tejada saw the glance and guessed what it meant. “After lunch,” he said. “I told my family I’d be home for the meal. I’ll drop the will off on my way, and we can meet back here.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant. At your orders.”

  The sergeant coughed. Tejada raised his eyebrows. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, Lieutenant. It’s just . . .” Rivas hesitated.

  “You had other work to do this afternoon,” the lieutenant guessed.

  “Of course, if you think there’s any risk of flight we can go right away,” Rivas said quickly. “But I did wonder if perhaps tomorrow morning . . . “

  “Fine.” Tejada tucked the will under his arm, said farewell to the sergeant, and left the post, mildly astonished at his success and wondering why he did not feel more cheerful. Another quick glance at his watch made him decide to go directly back to his parents’ house. He could drop the will off with Don Pablo on the way back to the post. And his father would be happy to see it. Tejada walked home, imagining his father’s relief, and carefully not remembering that he would have to pass Nilo on his way to Pablo Almeida’s office.

  Chapter 21

  Tejada was at a loss as to what to do with the will when he reached home. He did not want to walk into the dining room brandishing it, but he was wary of putting it down lest it get lost again. He headed for his bedroom and then, after a moment’s thought, unbuttoned his jacket and slid the envelope along his chest. Elena entered the room as he was rebuttoning his coat. “Carlos? What are you doing?”

  He explained, a little shamefaced, and Elena laughed. “So that’s what you wear next to your heart instead of the Virgen del Pilar? I should tell Father Bernardo!”

  “Stop!” Tejada protested, his chest crackling slightly. “If you make me laugh I’ll crumple the envelope.”

  “Why can’t you just leave it here?”

  “Because I’m not taking responsibility for it getting lost again.”

  The lieutenant’s voice was still light, but Elena did not press the question. She wondered for a moment if he realized that his excessive caution suggested he did not trust his own parents’ integrity. “How did you find it?” she asked.

  Tejada summarized his morning briefly, avoiding his encounter with Nilo.

  “I knew Amparo Villalobos was a sneaky little hussy.” Elena spoke with satisfaction. “Did you arrest her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “We recovered the will,” Tejada pointed out. “There’s no harm done, after all. And she didn’t kill Doña Rosalia.”

  Tejada suspected that Elena was not perfectly satisfied with this information, but she was intent on other matters. She sat down and gestured for him to sit as well. “I visited Cristina’s mother again today.”

  “Oh?” With a victory of his own to enjoy, Tejada was less pleased with his wife’s tendency to visit the relatives of convicted criminals, but he was unwilling to condemn her.

  “She says that Félix hadn’t told Baldo anything because he wasn’t sure who Montrose was. He and his wife had known about Dr. Beltrán’s transfer order, you see, but they didn’t know he’d escaped.”

  Tejada nodded. “Transfer order” had been a euphemism for taking prisoners out into the country and shooting them “while trying to escape.” It had been logical to assume that Esteban Beltrán was dead. “They didn’t think it was odd that Beltrán’s mother received money also?” he demanded.

  “They didn’t know about it. They haven’t been in contact with her. With Señor Encinas in prison it’s—well, it looks bad for them to meet.”

  “Well, I’m glad you took good news to Señora Rosado,” Tejada said, preparing to dismiss the subject.

  “She was very happy,” Elena assured her husband. “She couldn’t stop thanking me. And she told me to thank you as well, when I explained how I’d found out.”

  “Did she?” Te
jada raised his eyebrows, wondering how genuinely grateful a Red’s wife would be to any guardia civil.

  “Oh, yes.”

  There was a little pause, and then Elena cleared her throat and said. “Actually . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, actually, she wondered if you’d be willing to do the family a favor.” Elena saw her husband frown and hurried on before he could stop her. “The thing is, Baldo’s parents want him to go on with his education, and they feel that he’s been marked out here, being from a Red’s family, you know. They say there aren’t many opportunities for him, and he’s a bright boy. He’s sixteen now, and his parents were hoping that if Esteban— or Cristina—were alive and doing well enough to send money, that maybe they could get Baldo to France to stay with them. It would be such an opportunity for him.”

  “They would have to get in touch with the Montroses, wouldn’t they?” Tejada demanded.

  “Of course,” Elena agreed. “Baldo’s father has already asked the bank to find the address of M. Montrose, and he’s got a letter all ready to send. But if Cristina and Esteban—if it is Cristina and Esteban—agree to take the boy, he’ll need a passport. So his grandmother was wondering if perhaps you could help with that. You know, with the avowal that he’s not politically suspect? And if you knew any priests here, to find one to vouch for him as well?”

  Tejada relaxed. Nobody received a passport without a declaration from the police and the parish priest stating that they were politically and spiritually healthy. Practically speaking, no one received a passport without intervention of some kind. “Sure,” he said. “He should fill out the application now, before he gets any nearer the age for military service. They might not even like to give it to someone who’s already sixteen.”

  Elena nodded, both relieved and grateful. “Shame he isn’t a couple of years younger,” she commented.

  “He’s lucky to have relatives abroad,” Tejada said. “I’ll ask Felipe about a priest to sign the declaration. I take it he hasn’t been in any kind of trouble?”

  “Oh no. Señora Rosado says that his parents have been sending him to mass and communion every week since they got the wire transfer.”

  Worth it to attend mass for the sake of a passport, Tejada thought. Of course, if he gets to France, his people there won’t make him go. A shame, really. That’s the age when you really need to be forced. The lieutenant remembered his own horror of confession at sixteen with nostalgic amusement. It was always most agonizing when you did not have any really grave sins to confess. At least we can make him go through the rites for a few more months for the sake of his future. “It’s a pity we can’t send Aleja with him,” he said lightly. “That would solve her problems with school too.”

  He had meant the words as a joke, but Elena sat up, shocked. “So far from her mother!”

  “I wasn’t serious. Besides, why should Encinas and Beltrán want to take on another kid who’s no relation of theirs?”

  Because that’s what being a Red means: being closer to strangers than you are to your own brother, Elena did not answer. And because Cristina’s father made taking on strays his life’s work. Because they only got to France due to a lot of strangers who risked their lives to help them and now they’ll help a stranger as payment. “No reason, really,” she admitted. “But I think they’d do it.”

  “Even if it meant another mouth to feed?” Tejada asked. Elena gave him a reproachful look and he added defensively, “Well, why should I pay for her to run off to be with a bunch of subversives?”

  “Because you promised,” his wife retorted.

  Tejada shook his head, the strain of the day starting to tell on him. He was tired of people twisting his words into false meanings, and his voice was sharp as he said, “Absolutely not. I promised to take care of her, and I’ll see her raised a good woman and a good Spaniard. That is taking care of her, whatever her family might think.” He made an emphatic gesture, and the hidden will rustled.

  Elena caught the noise of the folded envelope and frowned. There was something Carlos was not telling her about his morning, she guessed. Something that made his temper short and his eyes tired. “Never mind,” she said soothingly. “Come on, we’re late for lunch.” She retrieved Toño from Alejandra on her own, unwilling to rouse her husband’s demons by having him cross paths with the girl. The lieutenant waited for them docilely, and they headed for the dining room together.

  Tejada met his father across the table wondering why he did not feel more triumphant. Andrés Tejada greeted his younger son graciously. “Is your investigation making any progress, Carlos?”

  “A little. Not nearly as much as I had hoped.” Elena, watching her husband, saw his hand stray toward the hidden will and clutch briefly at his chest as he spoke. “But I believe I’ve found something of interest to you, Father.”

  “I’m always interested to hear about your work.” Andrés Tejada might have spoken in the same voice to Toño about electric trains.

  “We know you’ve always encouraged him.” Doña Consuela’s tone made it clear that her son’s current plight was the fault of his father’s reckless encouragement.

  The lieutenant looked at his plate. “I know. I’ve always been grateful.”

  Only until Friday, Elena thought. Only three more days until Friday. Carlos sometimes annoyed her by his arrogance. But it was painful to watch the self-assured man she knew dwindle into a quiet shadow. He ate quickly, speaking only when he was spoken to, like a well-brought-up little boy. Fortunately, Toño had learned a new story about El Cid and was anxious to tell it to his father. The lieutenant listened intently to the child’s careful recitation of “Afuera, afuera Rodrigo” and even managed to sound like himself in some of his responses.

  When the meal was over, Tejada stood and turned to his father. “If I could see you in your study, Father?”

  Andrés Tejada raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”

  The lieutenant silently followed his father out of the room, uncomfortably aware of the last time he had demanded a similar audience. Andrés Tejada obviously shared his awareness. He sat at his desk and opened a cigarette case without offering one to his son. “You’ve found Aunt Rosalia’s killer?” he demanded without preamble.

  Tejada shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But we have found this.” He opened his jacket and drew out the will. “I believe it’s what you were looking for,” he added, with the lightest tinge of sarcasm.

  Andrés opened the envelope, frowning, scanned the document, and then smiled, suddenly cordial. “It certainly is! Well done, Carlos! How did you find it? And where was it?”

  Tejada shrugged and explained in some detail, although the explanation gave him no pleasure. His father was warmly sympathetic and eager, prodding him frequently with questions. “Well,” he said finally. “That puts any question of Amparo and Felipe’s marriage to rest! I always thought Fernando and Bernarda were fools to push it anyway. Felipe’s so crazy there’s no telling what he’d do if he married the chit.”

  “I don’t think he’d marry her under any circumstances,” Tejada said, feeling an obscure desire to defend his cousin.

  “No, he never had the sense he was born with,” Andrés agreed amicably. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a girlfriend stashed away somewhere and thinks marriage would interfere with his little friend.” He remembered, too late, that he was speaking to his son and added hastily, “Of course, any decent man treats his wife with consideration. . . .”

  “Which doesn’t mean he’s a stone-cold saint,” the lieutenant finished.

  “Exactly,” Andrés agreed with relief, privately thinking that it was rather nice to finally be able to treat Carlos as a grown-up, and that it was a shame the boy had not arrived at this realization in time to escape from a disastrous marriage. He did not notice the faint curl of the lieutenant’s mouth or guess that the words were anything other than completely sincere.

  Tejada held out his hand. “I told the sergea
nt I’d take the will over to Pablo Almeida this afternoon, on my way back to the post.” He held his breath, half wondering if he would have to invoke the power of the Guardia to retrieve the document. He relaxed as his father readily returned the envelope to him.

  “Well done, Carlos. I’m sure that you’ll find poor Aunt Rosalia’s murderer soon, too. We can’t let people get away with murdering family members.” Andrés spoke with genuine warmth.

  Tejada nodded, made a respectful reply, and escaped. It was odd, thought Andrés Tejada as the door closed behind his son, that Carlos could be so competent in many ways and such a fool in others. But after all, the boy was still young and could learn. And he had apologized properly for his initial disrespect.

  The lieutenant headed for his own room. There was a bad taste in his mouth, compounded of the sour remains of his lunch and something that tasted like bile or grief. He wanted a cigarette and he wanted to hide and to hold Elena and pour out his foolishness about Nilo, and he wanted more than anything to go home, to where the problems were simple and clean-cut: maquis vs. guardias, Reds. vs. forces of law and order. His room was empty and he guessed that Elena was reading to Toño before the boy’s nap. There was a cigarette pack lying on the night table by the bed, but to his annoyance he discovered that it was empty and remembered, too late, that he had smoked the last one the preceding evening. All the tobacconists would be closed for the siesta already. He had three days before he could go home. Three days to find a killer.

  Desperate to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth, he turned to the pitcher of water and glasses sitting on the side table. He picked up the handsome cut-glass pitcher and poured himself a drink with relief. A few chips of ice tinkled into the glass, and he took a long swallow with relief. Fresh from the wells of the Alhambra, he thought, remembering the cry of the water carriers in his childhood. He smiled a little, wondering if there were still water carriers anywhere in the city. Perhaps up in the Albaicín, where Felipe and Lili lived. He himself could only vaguely remember a time when his family had not had running tap water during their winters in the city. He had a faint memory of his father lifting him up and saying, “Look, Carlito, turn the faucet,” and being startled by a noisy rush of liquid, but the novelty had worn off too quickly to leave a lasting impression. He wondered if Alejandra was the one responsible for leaving a fresh pitcher of water in his room every day. He had noticed it on his first day back in Granada and thought ruefully that his parents were treating him as they treated guests. It was a piece of foolishness, to provide a pitcher of water when you could walk down the hall to the bathroom and get a glass from the tap yourself. A waste of good ice and water, too, to have to change it every day regardless of whether it was used. Today was the first day he had used it and he doubted that he would finish the pitcher, but still it would be emptied out and replaced fresh tomorrow. Something to keep poor Alejandra busy.