Death of a Nationalist (12 page)

“And did you?” the teacher asked, reflecting that she had never thought about why someone might wish to become a guardia civil. They were born, or perhaps sprang fully grown from the head of some general.

“Well, I did become interested in criminal law but I’d wanted to be a soldier for as long as I could remember. The Guardia Civil seemed like an obvious compromise.” Tejada grinned. “My mother says that I shortened my father’s life by years when I told him.”

Elena laughed, as she was supposed to. She had a pleasant laugh, Tejada thought. Unaffected. “What did Señor Tejada want you to become?”

The sergeant shrugged. “How would I know? He certainly had no need for me at home. My brother’s more than able to manage the farm.”

“The farm?” Elena raised her eyebrows, wondering where the sergeant was from. He spoke, she realized, like an educated man, without strong regional accent.

“Mostly grain,” Tejada explained. “Although we do have a few vineyards. It’s . . . oh, maybe five thousand acres . . . my brother could tell you the exact number. Outside Granada.”

“You grew up there?”

“In the summers. We have a house in Granada as well.” Perhaps in an attempt to put Elena at her ease, and perhaps because she seemed genuinely interested, Tejada talked about himself far more than he had intended to over dinner. He talked about his childhood, about the academy, and then, somewhat against his better judgment, about meeting Paco. Aware that he was monopolizing the conversation, he tried a few times to draw her out but many subjects seemed taboo. He did not wish to ask her what she had done in Madrid during the war. Nor would it be courteous to press her for the details of her background.

Elena, who was as tense as a crouching cat, had been acutely aware of his earlier questions, and relieved by his willingness to let her remain silent. She ate steadily, at first with a desperation that precluded shame and then with increasing embarrassment. The sergeant ate little. He had placed a loaf of bread on the table between them and seemed to expect that she would eat it all. She ate, hating herself at first for accepting his charity, fearful of the payment he might demand. As he continued speaking, her fear dulled to a bearable level, but she found she was more ashamed of showing weakness in front of him. She made some attempts to respond to him, or at least to make comments, partly to prolong the meal, and partly to prove that she had some manners. “So,” she said, a little awkwardly, during a pause in the conversation, “you . . . you’ve been a Falangist for some years now?”

“I first became interested in the Falange at the end of my university courses.” Tejada saw her raise her eyebrows and realized that she had sensed his evasion about when he had actually joined the party. “It seemed like a party that had a lot of answers to questions I was interested in.”

“Oh.” Elena felt her smile freeze on her face, remembering the blue-shirted youths who had roamed the streets during the last years of the Republic, wielding coshes and bicycle chains. She concentrated on chewing, although the food tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

The sergeant took her silence as a further question. “I didn’t actually join the movement until General Franco took command, when the war started,” he said, somewhat embarrassed.

The teacher gave a little gasp of relief. Tejada, misinterpreting the smothered gesture, hastily expanded his explanation. “It wasn’t just a question of expediency,” he justified himself. “I’d been very interested in the Falange’s land redistribution programs for some years. It’s just that they might affect my family quite directly, and. . . .” He paused, uncertain how to explain that he had been unwilling to strain his parents’ patience further by coming home wearing not only a guardia’s uniform but a fasces in his lapel.

“Your parents wish to retain the title to their family home?” To Tejada’s surprise, Señorita Fernández helped him finish the awkward sentence. Her eyes were twinkling slightly.

He laughed. “Shall we say that my grandfather was a rather prominent Carlist?” he said, relieved that she seemed to be sympathetic.

“Understood.” Elena nodded firmly, although she really did not understand at all. She could see why the sergeant’s family had no love for the Falange. For all his pointed self-deprecation, his voice and manners belied his uniform; he was clearly a member of one of the old landowning families who formed the monarchist Carlist party. But she could not understand why the sergeant would disoblige his parents by abandoning the Carlists for the radical populism of the Falange. He did not seem like the type of man who enjoyed gratuitous brutality, or one of those who were overly concerned with making sure that Spain was as European as possible. He would not have been attracted to the Falange simply because there were successful Fascist parties elsewhere in Europe. Surely he could not have been impressed by the Falange’s pretended concern for peasant laborers? If he were a little brighter he might have turned into a Socialist, she thought. She looked at the uniform in front of her and brushed away the idea. It was ridiculous. He was simply a gentleman who enjoyed playing at being a policeman.

Tejada, sensing that his guest was uncomfortable with the extended discussion of politics, cast about for a change of subject. “Do you enjoy teaching?” he asked finally, and then kicked himself, remembering that she had just lost her job.

“Oh, yes!” Her enthusiasm was obvious, and untempered by resentment. The school was, at least, a safe subject. “I love working with children. It’s so fascinating to watch them grow and change. And they’re so generous!”

“Generous?” Tejada asked.

There was a long pause. Then she said slowly, “Well . . . for instance . . . most of the children, if they come to school at all now, they don’t go home for lunch—to save the extra walking, you know—and, well . . . of course, the rule is that we share anything that’s brought to class. And it’s terribly hard for the little ones, never being full, but they
always
share. They’ve even offered to share with me.” She blushed. “Of course I couldn’t take food from them.”

Tejada, who had watched her eat, wondered about the “of course” and privately thought that if her students were generous it was because their teacher set them the example. “I’m surprised you’ve never married,” he said. “You ought to have children of your own to raise.”

“It’s never come up.” Her voice was unembarrassed, but Tejada was suddenly ashamed of the comment. The only men she would have met in Madrid would have been the Reds, who did not marry their women anyway, and the liberal apologists for the Republic. It was inconceivable that she would have lived in sin with some grubby miliciano, and as for the so-called better classes—Cowards, Tejada thought. Pasty little half-men like that Herrera. Probably fairies anyway, most of them. They haven’t got half her strength and they couldn’t appreciate her. And how could she respect them?

Señorita Fernández could not guess his thoughts, but she saw that he was looking grave. Since she much preferred it when he was smiling, she said lightly, and as jokingly as possible, “I suppose it’s a distinction to be the living embodiment of a proverb.”

“Which one?” Tejada asked, noticing her forced gaiety and thinking that she would never pity herself for having no shoes when there were others with no feet.

“Oh, you know. A girl who studies Latin . . .”

Tejada had in fact forgotten the saying, possibly because it was one of his mother’s favorites.
A girl who studies Latin will
never wear white satin
. He mentally clothed Elena Fernández in his sister-in-law’s wedding gown. It was an attractive picture, and startlingly easy to visualize. “Surely you don’t actually know Latin?” he suggested.

“I’m afraid I do.” Elena returned his smile. “My father is a”—she remembered to whom she spoke, and caught herself quickly—“very devoted admirer of classical literature. He taught me, at home.”

“He’s also a teacher?” The sergeant’s question was casual, but Elena knew it was dangerous.

“He was,” she answered carefully. “But I don’t know. I haven’t seen my parents since the war started.”

“I’m sorry.”

Elena bit her lip, remembering her mother’s last letter.

Your father has been arrested, because they say he is a Marxist. He told them the truth—that he was a friend and colleague of Don Miguel’s for years, and that he had felt compelled to protest what had happened to him, but that he is no revolutionary. I’m sure this will all be settled soon, and I’ll write again as soon as I have news.

“At least I never learned Greek.” She spoke because she knew that silence would betray her. “That’s where my impossible name comes from.”

Tejada frowned. “Elena? Helena? Oh, Helen of Troy?” Then as she nodded and rolled her eyes, he added, “It suits you.”

“A fickle adulteress? Thank you!”

“I’ve never thought of Helen like that,” said Tejada, who had not thought of Helen at all since his last final exam in literature. “I think . . . I think she was just very young and . . . impressionable. Very idealistic. And Paris came along and he was handsome and spoke well, and she was too innocent to know that he had made an infernal bargain to seduce her. And when she found out it was too late.”

“That’s an interesting interpretation. Have you ever read—” Elena Fernández choked, as she realized that she was about to ask a self-confessed Fascist if he had read Jean Giraudoux. “Racine?” she finished hastily, wondering what on earth had possessed her.

“Not to remember,” Tejada admitted. “Are you fond of French literature?”

As it happened, Señorita Fernández
was
fond of French literature, but she had the distinct impression that the Guardia Civil would disapprove of most of the modern authors she liked. She returned a noncommittal and modest reply. To her surprise, the sergeant said, “I don’t suppose you can remember any character named Micaëla?”

She frowned. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Someone said something to me earlier that reminded me of a quote: ‘
Ce doit être Micaëla
,’” Tejada explained, somewhat embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to place it. And there’s a piece of a song that goes with it.” He thought a moment, and then hummed the melody.

“I don’t think I . . . no, wait!” Elena set down her fork, and began to laugh. “May I ask if you. . . .” She paused and inspected Tejada. He was looking politely puzzled, but her eyes passed over his face quickly and dropped to his hands, steepled below his chin. They were ringless. “If you are an opera lover?” she finished, her courage failing her.

“My mother is.” Tejada was unaware of his own grimace. “I’ve seen a few.”

“It’s Bizet.” Elena stifled another laugh. “From
Carmen
. Micaëla is the soprano role. The good, virtuous heroine.” It was Elena’s turn to grimace unconsciously. She wanted to ask the sergeant what had called the quote to mind, but did not quite dare.

Tejada noticed her expression, but misinterpreted it as agreement with his own opinion of
Carmen
. His French tutor had forced him to memorize some of the opera, and although he had not objected to the music, he had thought the plot an unparalleled piece of idiocy. Impressed by Señorita Fernández’s erudition, and pleased by her good taste, he allowed the subject to drop, and instead asked her about her favorite authors.

By dint of not mentioning anyone who had written in the last hundred years, Elena managed to have a pleasant and uncontroversial conversation with the sergeant. “Coffee?” Tejada asked at the end of a friendly argument about Lope de Vega.

Señorita Fernández’s eyes widened. “Coffee!” she repeated, stunned. “Really?”

“It’s a flexible term,” Tejada admitted with a smile. “But one can’t say to a guest after dinner, ‘hot brown liquid?’”

Elena laughed. “If you will drink also.”

“Of course,” Tejada agreed. He rose and returned shortly with two carefully balanced cups. She thanked him and sipped at the bitter liquid without complaint. He raised his own cup and tasted the contents. “Swill, isn’t it?” he commented cheerfully.

“From what I have seen, the guardia civil have no cause for complaint.” She spoke quietly, but with absolute assurance.

Sergeant Tejada was abashed. “We’re not starving,” he agreed gravely. “But even we don’t have real coffee often.” His voice slowed and dropped almost to a whisper as he spoke. When he set down the cup it clattered and a little of the liquid slopped over the edge.

Elena was surprised by her own rush of sympathy. The man was . . . whatever he was. But he had been very kind to her, and he looked as if he had seen a ghost. “What’s the matter?” she asked, and her voice was the voice she used to comfort a student who had lost a treasured possession.

“Nothing,” Tejada lied automatically. “I’m fine.”

There was nothing she could reply. She sipped at her drink in silence. He drank silently as well, frowning heavily, and a little of her fear returned. He’s a guardia, Elena thought. Better educated, and maybe brighter than most, but one of Them. They can be human, off duty, even pleasant, but they’re . . Them. She drained her cup and set it down. He was on his feet before she realized he had moved. “I’ll take you home.”

“No!” The vehemence of the single word startled Tejada, returning him to the present. “I mean”—Señorita Fernández was flushing—“I don’t want to put you to the trouble. You’ve been so kind . . . please don’t.”

Tejada had enjoyed much of the evening more than he had intended. Fifteen minutes earlier he would have been puzzled by Señorita Fernández’s distress, and would have demanded an explanation. Now, his certainty had peeled away like a strip of ill-hung wallpaper, leaving bare cynicism beneath it. He remembered his doubts about her truthfulness when she had first come, and the pauses in the conversation that he had tried so hard to ignore. She obviously did not want him to know where she lived. He could think of only one possible explanation. “As you wish,” he said formally. “I’ll show you out then.”

Elena heard the change in his tone, and was sorry for it, even though she was grateful for his acquiescence. She almost regretted her words, and then her stomach clenched in terror and disgust. He might be the best of his kind, but she would not willingly take him home. In the courtyard of the post she put out her hand. “Thank you.” She knew the words were insufficient. “I wish . . . thank you.”