What Happened When the War Was Over; further stories of Gonzalo Llorente and Carlos Tejada Alonso y Leon

by Rebecca Pawel

  “No. I had to wait for a cab though,” the captain glanced at his watch and made a face. “Is my wife home yet?”

  “Yes, sir,” José confirmed. “The kids were all picked up early today, because of the weather.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  The concierge laughed. “Why? What’s in the package? Another of your gadgets?”

  “A microwave oven,” the captain admitted, as the elevator arrived. “It’s my wife’s birthday next month,” he added a little defensively, as José lifted the shopping bag and set it easily down in the elevator.

  “I’m sure she’ll like it,” José looked amused, but his voice was perfectly respectful. “You have a good evening, sir.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  José resumed his post under the stairs, smiling slightly. He had worked at number 24 since it had first opened its doors, nearly fifteen years ago, and he liked to think that he knew most of the quirks of the tenants. Captain Tejada had two: an inveterate love of hi-tech appliances, and a fiercely protective devotion to his wife. As far as José could tell these were the captain’s only consistent traits. Otherwise, he seemed made up of contradictions. He was a quiet gentleman, conservative in dress and manner, but he had a subscription to El País. His self-assurance and obvious financial well-being had led José to assume that he was a retired army officer of good family, until a chance look at the captain’s mail had revealed an envelope bearing the crest of the Guardia Civil. Most bizarrely, although the Tejadas’ frequent trips abroad and to a family home in the south suggested considerable wealth, the captain’s wife worked three days a week as a tutor at a nearby elementary school. The cousin of the best friend of José’s son was a pupil of Doña Elena’s, and the concierge felt that this gave him a special interest in the captain and his wife. José settled himself into his alcove, turned on the portable radio his nephew had bought him for Christmas, and reflected comfortably that there was nothing wrong with gadgets.

  *****

  Captain Tejada lugged his parcel down the hallway, and then paused on the threshold of his apartment fumbling for his keys. After a moment’s thought, he bent, and pulled off his wet shoes. Then he unlocked the door as quietly as possible. He was embraced by a warm wave of salsa music and frying onions from the kitchen. He hung up his coat as quickly and quietly as possible, but not quickly or quietly enough to avoid detection. “Carlos?” His wife’s voice carried over the music, indistinct but recognizable.

  “Be right there!” the captain picked up the parcel again, and headed out of the foyer into the extra bedroom that they had turned into a study. His wife had filled the bookshelves with the novels that she loved, and had added an armchair and low table for reading. He had surrounded his desk with the filing cabinets that had been a part of his life as long as he could remember. As usual, papers were piled carefully on the desk, in a pattern that looked random to a stranger. The captain hastily shoved the plastic bag under his desk, and dragged his chair in front of it, so that it would be hidden from a casual observer, glancing at the pile of mail on the typewriter as he did so, to give himself an excuse for entering the study first.

  “How are the kids?” his wife threw a quick smile at him over her shoulder as he entered the kitchen, and reached over to lower the volume of the tape deck.

  The captain shrugged. “Fine.” He had in fact spent relatively little time with his grandchildren. His daughter had aided and abetted his plot to shop for his wife’s birthday by putting in a false request for emergency baby-sitting when she knew that her mother was unavailable. “Anita tells me that she’s never going to marry.”

  His wife looked amused. “Why? Does she have a religious vocation?”

  “No,” Tejada’s voice was half-laughing and half-rueful. “She says she won’t marry if it means she has to promise to obey anyone.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I thought ‘love, honor, and give due consideration to friendly suggestions’ lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  Elena laughed, and nearly dropped one of the freshly scrubbed potatoes. “More power to Anita. What does she intend to do with her life then?”

  “Be a paleontologist, and assemble dinosaur skeletons,” the captain sighed. “I don’t think I even knew what a paleontologist was when I was her age. Can I help?” he added, as his wife began to peel the potatoes.

  “Please,” his wife’s voice was faintly surprised, but she passed him a potato and a knife without comment.

  The captain noted the surprise. “I’m in training for when she grows up,” he explained gloomily. “She’ll probably want to put me in a glass case with her dinosaurs otherwise.”

  “Her other dinosaurs,” Elena corrected him, with a grin. “Oh, by the way, Juan Hernández called.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “He wants to know if you can go to Geneva on Friday.”

  “This Friday?” Tejada looked up. “Why? For how long?”

  “Four days. To give a paper on the use of sniffer dogs at airports for an interpol conference on narcotics trafficking,” Elena said, her voice quivering with amusement.

  “But I don’t know the first thing about using dogs!” the captain protested. “Why don’t they send Mendoza? He lives and breathes kennels.”

  “They did,” Elena explained. “Juan said that he went a week early and broke his leg skiing yesterday. And no one else is available to go on short notice.”

  “I am retired,” the captain pointed out.

  “I told Juan that. He said that was why you were probably free to go.”

  Tejada laughed. “Damn his keen observation. Do you want to go to Geneva?”

  Elena shrugged. “Not particularly. I’d choose someplace warm to go on vacation.”

  “Me too. When does he have to know by?”

  “He said to give him a call at the office tomorrow.”

  Tejada sighed. “All right. We can go somewhere tropical next year.”

  “Havana?” his wife suggested, with a twinkle.

  “Very funny,” the captain finished peeling a potato, and began to slice it.

  “Take a look at this then,” Elena plucked a card from between the canisters, and held it out to him. “It came today.”

  Tejada took the colored rectangle she was holding, and found himself looking at a photograph of a grim sixteenth century fortress, dotted with oddly frivolous coconut palms. He turned the postcard over, and squinted at the miniscule handwriting. “What do you think?” asked his wife.

  Tejada, taking the question as an invitation to read, abandoned the potatoes with relief, wiped his hands, and reached into his breast pocket for his glasses. “Dear Doña Elena,” he read.

  After a week of just catching up, my uncle is finally starting to take me to regular tourist places, so I have a chance to buy postcards. I would have sent a picture of the beach, but I thought the captain might prefer El Morro. My uncle sends his respects to both of you. We’ve had some good long talks. I’d like to talk to the captain too, when I get home, if he doesn’t mind. See you soon,

  Alejandra

  The captain absently tapped the postcard against his hand, cold for a moment in spite of the warmth of the kitchen. The words of the song covered the silence. The music curled around him, brazenly tropical in the February twilight. “…y créanme, gente, que aunque hubo ruido, nadie salió…no hubo curiosos, no hubo gritos, nadie lloró…” The photo on the front of the postcard came into sharper focus under his reading glasses. He raised his eyes from the brilliant colors of San Juan, and looked out into the gray evening, and down the decades.

  Elena touched his arm. “Will you speak to Aleja?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “Whatever her uncle hasn’t already.” His voice was quiet and even. Elena kept one hand on his arm, uncertain what to say. He set the postcard down, and shook himself slightly, glancing at the clock between the cabinets. “It’s alr
eady six. Do you mind if I turn on the news?”

  “No,” Elena spoke gently.

  The captain moved towards the living room, turned on the television set, and sank onto the couch. Elena sociably turned off the music to listen as well. TVE was running an interview. The pundit’s careful tones filtered through to her in the kitchen, punctuated by her husband’s comments. “…So tell us, what exactly does the resignation of Suárez mean for the future of the Alianza Popular?…Naturally, this is an unquestioned part of the democratic process, if one looks at England…”

  “We’ll be like the Italians soon,” Tejada spoke more to the television set than to his wife.

  “…disagree completely. This shows the inherent weakness of a party without clear direction…”

  (“Or a party setting a firm course to hell in a handbasket!)

  “…provides an excellent opportunity for the left…”

  (“God, no!”)

  “…I think that when we see Calvo Sotelo’s appointment confirmed this evening…”

  Tejada stood rapidly, making a disgusted noise. “For God’s sake, there must be international news!” he flipped the channel.

  Elena had come out of the kitchen. “It’s all about El Salvador and Beirut,” she warned. “I had it on before.”

  “I give up,” the captain switched off the set, and went to the cabinet where the plates were kept.

  “Maybe there’ll be a movie on later,” Elena comforted.

  He smiled at her, and the set of his shoulders became less tense. “I’ll check the guide,” he agreed, reaching for the silverware drawer. The smell of the cooking tortilla gradually filled the dining room as the captain set the table. The wind rattled the windowpanes, but they had been recently weatherproofed, and none of the cold leaked in.

  A timer beeped in the kitchen. It was exactly 6:09.

  *****

  Seven minutes later, Carlos Felipe Tejada Montero, known as “El Chino” to his friends, and as “Carlito” to his everlasting embarrassment, stepped out of the shower and considered what to wear. Logically, there was no reason for him to change out of his school clothes to attend a study group. But studying for the upcoming baccalaureate exams had become an important part of his social life, and several delicate factors influenced his dress.

  Blue jeans were de rigeur, of course. Given the weather, his mother would probably insist on a heavy outer jacket, and a sweater would be more reasonable than a blazer. But that left the all important question: T-shirt, polo, or formal? El Zorro (known to his family members as José María) would unquestionably be wearing a t-shirt, most likely the one with the picture of John Lennon on it. Rita had admired it the preceding week, and Carlos was not so foolish as to imagine that El Zorro had been immune her flattery. A t-shirt would unquestionably make the best impression on Rita, and Carlos devoted much more of his hours at the study group to studying Rita than to studying English.

  Unfortunately, Rita was not the only person who would probably be inspecting El Chino. His study group met across the city, in the apartment of Juana’s older sister, a recent University graduate. The sessions frequently ran late, and since they resembled parties rather more closely than the scholars’ parents realized, leaving early was unthinkable. It was quite possible that Carlos would miss the last metro, and getting a cab would be next to impossible. His parents, in spite of their age and prejudices, had come to an understanding with their oldest son: in the event that he missed the last train, he was to stay overnight with his cousin Andrés, a University student who lived nearby. This arrangement had worked well in the past. Unfortunately, Carlos had received an urgent and confidential message from Andrés, stating that due to a budding romance, the presence of a third party in his room would be extremely unwelcome. “Tell them you tried my room, and I wasn’t there,” Andrés had said firmly. “And then find a bed somewhere else.” Since Carlito did not quite have the courage to impose himself on one of his classmates, this left him with only one option: his grandparents.

  Carlito’s paternal grandparents lived only ten minutes walk from the group’s meeting place. They would unquestionably be at home. Carlito, beloved oldest son of an oldest son, was fairly sure that they would take him in on no notice, and tell no awkward tales to his parents. On the other hand, they were likely to be annoyed if he appeared on their doorstep and woke them up in the small hours of the morning. He preferred to annoy them no more than necessary. If his grandfather was in a forbearing mood (which he was not likely to be at 2:00 in the morning), the blue jeans might provoke no more than a raised eyebrow. But to go out wearing a t-shirt as well... Carlito El Chino ran a comb through his hair, and felt damp curls clinging to his neck. The dark tendrils of hair decided him. “When was the last time you had a haircut?” was probably unavoidable. “Do your parents know you left the house like that?” was an unnecessary and unbearable humiliation. He pulled on a polo shirt, hoping that Rita would understand that there was a difference between stuffiness and filial respect.

  He left the house rapidly, calling a farewell to his mother as he did so. She was supervising his younger brother’s homework, and replied somewhat absent-mindedly. The Metro was crowded with rush hour commuters, and Carlos, who had hoped to finish the chapter the club was theoretically discussing this week on the train, found that opening his bag was impossible. His slight pangs of conscience were relieved as soon as he reached their meeting place. This was clearly not going to be one of the club’s rare studious meetings. Juana and her sister Ramona were bringing trays of food from the kitchen, and El Zorro (wearing his reprehensible t-shirt) was bent over the record player, cursing at it with the slightly self-conscious pride of a boy who has learned to curse late in life. (It was a source of secret satisfaction to Carlito that El Zorro could not really use foul language convincingly. Actually, the only one of them who could was Rita herself, who not only knew Spanish obscenities, but had gleaned a few English ones, growing up around a American base. It was one of the many reasons Carlos respected her.) “This piece of shit isn’t working,” El Zorro explained, after they had exchanged greetings.

  “Let me take a look,” suggested El Chino.

  The other boy moved aside, rivalry forgotten in time of crisis. El Chino was known to be good with gadgets. And music was an indispensable part of any meeting.

  (“It’s not just conversation,” Carlito had explained earnestly, at a family dinner, some months ago. “We also study culture.”

  “You mean Shakespeare, and things like that?” his mother had asked.

  “We-ell, yes. We’ve read a little Shakespeare,” Honesty had compelled Carlito to add. “But it’s really more modern culture....after all, the exams cover modern literature.”

  “William Faulkner?” his father had suggested. “Graham Greene?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Mick Jagger?” his grandfather had interjected sardonically. Carlito, who had wondered whether the old man was even listening, had started and flushed crimson, wondering how on earth his grandfather even knew the name.)

  El Chino delicately lifted the phonograph’s needle. To his relief, the head jiggled under his hand. He leaned closer, inspecting it, and found what he had hoped: the bronze screw that held the head to the arm was nearly unscrewed. “Did you try tightening this?”

  “Of course. I’m not an idiot. It didn’t do any good.”

  “Then one of the wires has probably worked itself loose.” El Chino turned his attention back to the player, and carefully unscrewed the head the rest of the way. He relaxed slightly as he saw the piece of wire sticking free from its clip. With any luck, there were no awkward breaks in the arm itself. “Ramona,” he called, without looking up. “Do you have a tweezers?”

  “Just a sec.”

  El Chino held the phonograph’s needle tenderly while he waited, restraining the urge to try to poke the wire back into place with a clumsy finger. He wished that he had his own tools to work with. He had received his first record playe
r five years ago, a gift from his grandparents, and the loving care he lavished on it was a family joke. Ramona returned with the tweezers, and El Chino gently nudged the connection back together, and screwed the head back with infinite care. “Try it now,” he suggested.

  El Zorro hastily provided a record, and stood back. Still holding the phonograph’s needle by the arm, El Chino gently lowered it onto the surface. There was a burst of static, and then the opening chords of “Yellow Submarine.”

  “All right!” Ramona, who had been hanging over El Zorro’s shoulder, cheered slightly.

  El Chino grinned. “It should be okay for the evening. But hold the needle gently. And you’ll need to take it to be fixed properly, probably.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Carlito El Chino swelled with pride. “Man.” Not “Carlito,” or “kiddo” as she usually called him. It was a shame that Rita had not arrived yet. Juana and El Zorro had already started singing along to the first chorus of “Yellow Submarine.” Carlito picked up the tune, smiling contentedly, as someone pounded on the door, and Ramona went to let in the newcomers.

  It was an auspicious beginning. Several hours later, the room was filled with cigarette smoke and the volume of the music had risen considerably, possibly in an attempt to drown out the conversation which was attempting to drown out the music. The business of the English Conversation Club had been permanently derailed almost as soon as the meeting came to order. All the members had conscientiously listed and summarized the books that they were reading in English. Nina’s statement that she was reading The Feminine Mystique had touched off a loud and increasingly passionate argument about the Women’s Movement. To be accurate, Nina, Juana, Ramona and Rita were agreeing loudly and passionately. Roberto was courageously offering a series of reasonable arguments in the face of (from his point of view) overwhelming and hysterical opposition. El Zorro was occasionally making snide comments, and enjoying the fireworks that they produced. El Chino, who had shyly ventured the opinion that a woman might be happier and a better mother if she worked part-time, once her children were no longer infants, had been rewarded by Rita’s proclamation that he was the first Spaniard she had met who was not a total pig. Made reckless by this encouragement, he had treacherously switched sides (to Roberto’s disgust, and José’s surprise).