Death of a Nationalist (16 page)

As the corporal left, Alejandra pushed herself onto one elbow and followed him with her eyes. Tejada’s mouth twisted with annoyance. Somehow he was the villain, even though he’d nursed her back to consciousness, and Ventura had become a hero. It didn’t seem logical. The tramp of marching boots distracted his thoughts. “Sir!” Guardia Jiménez’s voice bounced off the walls of the infirmary like a bugle call. “Reporting for duty, sir!” The young guardia’s stamp could have crushed marble to powder beneath his heel. His arm was ramrod straight when he saluted. Even for Jiménez, he was formal.

Tejada turned from Aleja to inspect the young man. “What’s that you’re wearing, Jiménez?” he asked mildly.

“A sweater, sir!” Jiménez stood rigidly at attention.

“At ease. May I ask why?”

Jiménez obediently clasped his hands behind his back but he could not have been said to be at ease. “I was told your orders were to report immediately, sir. I have just returned from leave, sir.”

Tejada inspected the recruit. The boy was wearing dark and unremarkable trousers and a rather baggy sweater, knit according to the most basic pattern possible. The front and back panels were a yellow wool that would have been loud under any circumstances. In contrast with bright red sleeves, they were an abomination. Jiménez looked like a walking fire engine.

“I see,” Tejada said, expressionless.

“The sweater was a gift from my grandmother, sir.” Jiménez’ face matched his sleeves.

“I see.” Tejada’s face and voice were absolutely serious. Mentally, he thanked his patron saints personally and by name that his own grandmothers limited themselves to crocheting lace.

“It’s supposed to be a Spanish flag, sir,” Jiménez explained, with a hint of pleading in his tone. “She’s very patriotic.”

Tejada nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Fortunately, there was an interruption at this point. “The Spanish flag has purple, too.” The sergeant realized, to his amazement, that Aleja had spoken. “But it’s a pretty sweater,” she added politely.

Jiménez gasped with relief, and turned to the little girl. “Who’s this, sir?” he asked, smiling. “She’s young to be a Red.”

Tejada smiled, but did not risk laughter, afraid that Jiménez would misinterpret—or rather, interpret correctly—the cause of his amusement. “Let her tell you herself.”

Jiménez squatted, to be at eye level with the cot. “What’s your name?”

Aleja stared past him to Tejada, eyes brimming with terror. She said nothing. Tejada leaned over Jiménez’s shoulder, concerned. “Don’t you remember? You told me this morning.” Aleja slid sideways and put out one hand to grab Jiménez’s sweater with a little squeak of unhappiness.

The guardia glanced up over his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid of the sergeant, sweetheart. He won’t hurt you.”

Aleja’s lip trembled, but she remained stubbornly silent. She is young to be a Red, Tejada thought. But she’s tough. In ten years she’ll be able to withstand torture, I bet. The Reds start training their young ones early. The sergeant looked down at Jiménez’s brilliant sweater, and suddenly remembered Ventura’s white coat. “Jiménez,” he said, “leave her alone for a moment.” When they had withdrawn a few paces, the sergeant said quietly, “Do you have any other civilian clothes?”

“No, sir.” Jiménez looked puzzled. “Well, not a complete outfit anyway. Why?”

Tejada inspected the guardia narrowly, and without particular enthusiasm. They were about the same height and build although Jiménez still retained traces of a gawky adolescence. “Then I’d like to borrow those. You should be in uniform now, anyway.”

“Sir?” Jiménez was not unwilling, but he was amazed. Sergeant Tejada was the only person on the post who had not grinned broadly at the sight of his sweater. This, in Adolfo Jiménez’s opinion, merely showed that Tejada was a kind and considerate gentleman. Sergeant Tejada was, in Jiménez’s opinion, as close to a perfect officer as it was possible to be. But this request was a test of faith.

“I think she’s frightened of the uniform,” Tejada explained. “And I need to ask her some questions without having her too scared to answer. Call Ventura, tell him to sit with her until I get back, and then bring me your clothes, when you’ve changed.”

“Yes, sir.” Jiménez beamed, pleased at being taken into the sergeant’s confidence, and once again convinced of Tejada’s judgment and sanity.

“Oh, and Jiménez—” The sergeant’s voice was casual.

“Sir?”

“Your . . . grandmother’s gift is a personal keepsake. I understand it must have great sentimental value. There’s no need to lend it to me.”

“Understood, sir,” Jiménez agreed. Then, because he was grateful for the sergeant’s tact, he added, “I have a jacket that might fit you, sir. I’ll bring that instead.”

Tejada waited until Corporal Ventura was settled beside Aleja, ordered him not to leave her under any circumstances, and went to change his clothes.

Chapter 16

G
onzalo, hurrying north with a hat pulled over his face, was extremely grateful he had eaten a large dinner the night before. At least he was feeling rested and relatively strong. He realized that he had no idea what to do or where to spend the next eight hours. Manuela had specifically said not to get to the cathedral until the afternoon. Wandering aimlessly was a sure way to attract attention and probably to encounter more people who would know him. The trick was to look purposeful. Where could he go?

He had headed toward the center of the city unthinkingly, the way an injured animal seeks its den. He could not have said whether this was the wisest or the most foolish place to go. But it was likely to be the most crowded place, and all of his instincts and experience told Gonzalo that safety lay in crowds. He deliberately took the little streets, where the houses leaned against each other like wounded comrades, avoiding the broad avenues where bombs had opened holes between the buildings.

He stopped when he reached the Puerta del Sol, no longer sure where to hurry. This was the center of the labyrinth: the heart of Madrid. But the labyrinth had been penetrated. The balconies of the buildings were draped with the red and yellow flags of the Nationalists and the red and black of the Falange. The city’s heart was pierced. Gonzalo, staring across the expanse, remembered why he had avoided the Puerta del Sol until now. The gaping hole in the cobblestones where a German bomb had ripped an obscene parody of a building’s foundation was still there. It still hurt to look at it. He had seen the hole for the first time with Viviana on his arm. It was the first time he had seen her cry. My love, my dear one, my precious, how could they have done this to you? And how could I have let them? He did not know if the lament was addressed to his lover or his city. Perhaps both.

On the other side of the square, a battered metal signpost proclaimed the entrance to the Metro. Gonzalo looked at the proud blue
M
inside the red and white diamond, and the sign above it: OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. No one had bothered to take the signs down, although there was no longer any need for bomb shelters. The Metro had sheltered madrileños throughout the war. It could shelter him now. He fumbled in his pocket for the bills Carmen had given him. Perhaps one would still be good for a ticket.

The stench of sweat and urine hit Gonzalo like a slap as he descended into the Metro, and with the smell came the memories of the last time he taken the train. He had kissed Viviana and squeezed onto a train that was ready to burst at the seams. And voices had been roaring the
Internationale,
and he had tried to roar it too, although his face was practically smashed into someone else’s armpit. And thank God it had been a short ride because he wouldn’t have been able to stand the smell much longer. It was a good thing the front wasn’t more than ten minutes away. But no, that was not actually the last time he had taken the Metro. He vaguely remembered Jorge yelling, “Shit, Gonzalo, are you hit? Medic! Medic!” and then being lifted onto a stretcher with a jolt, and swimming in and out of consciousness as he was bumped down an endless stairwell, filled with curses. “Goddamn it, watch him, he’s slipping. Move it, move it, there’s a train coming to evacuate them. . . . I don’t fucking care if this train’s full, he’s been fucking gut shot, he needs to be moved
now
!” He did not remember the last ride back, in the hospital train, and he was grateful that he did not.

There were a pair of guardias civiles at the foot of the staircase, apparently on patrol. Gonzalo caught sight of them and almost stopped. If he were caught passing the Republic’s money he might well be asked for an identity card. Admitting that he didn’t have one would be fatal. But he could not enter the Metro without a ticket and to turn around and go back up the stairs now that the guardias had seen him would invite attention. He walked slowly toward the ticket counter, trying to decide what to do. He could fumble in his pocket, and then say something like, “Oh, sorry, I thought I had my wallet. Drat, I’ll have to go back and get it.” But even that would mean passing by the guardias a second time. And what if they—or the ticket agent—were solicitous? “Check your other pockets, Señor,” they might suggest. And then how would he explain the presence of the carbinero’s weapon?

Heart thudding in his throat, Gonzalo approached the ticket counter. There was no line at this early morning hour. “One. Round-trip. To Cuatro Caminos, please,” he managed, picking the station farthest away. He had meant to make his voice sound imperious, or at least absentminded, but it sounded pathetically choked and guilty to his own ears.

“Five centimos,” the girl behind the grill said.

“Sorry, I don’t have change.” He handed her a bill at random, hoping that she would not inspect it any more closely than he had.

She glanced at the bill, a note for five pesetas, and then up at him. Then she looked more closely at the serial number on the bill. His heart sank. “This isn’t valid,” she said softly. And then, more loudly, “Do you have a one-peseta note, Señor? I could make change more easily for that.”

Gonzalo stared at her, uncertain of what she meant. “I . . . I’m not sure,” he muttered.

“You have any Burgos currency?” she muttered back.

“I’m not sure.” Gonzalo felt himself flushing, and wished that he was a better liar.

“Thank you, sir.” Her voice was once again loud and bright. In a rapid undertone she added, “I won’t give you change. Carbineros should ride free, comrade.” She slid a ticket under the grill.

Gonzalo stared at her. No one had called him comrade since before his fever. She winked. Suddenly overjoyed, he winked back. The Metro was still the Metro: still madrileño to the core. “Thank you, Señorita,” he said loudly, and took the ticket. The smell of the tunnels did not bother him after that. Madrileños had taken refuge in the Metro when there was nowhere else to go, and this was their smell: the smell of those who chose to take refuge—not in a foreign camp but in the depths of their own city. It was what he was doing, after all.

Gonzalo strolled down to the platform, not loitering, but not rushing either. Most of the posters proclaiming DEFEND MADRID and VIVA LA REPÚBLICA had been ripped down. A few still clung to the tunnel walls, their edges peeling, with swastikas or giant black
X
s painted across them, or obscenities scrawled in red. He had expected crowds. He remembered the platforms filled with homeless empty-eyed refugees sitting on ragged rolls of blankets that held all their possessions. The platform was empty now except for a few early morning commuters. He wondered where the refugees had gone.

The train was late although not late enough for Gonzalo. The ride to Cuatro Caminos was all too short. But he had a stroke of luck. Few ticket collectors were on duty and no one demanded his ticket. The round-trip ticket would still be good for two more trips. As he left the train, he realized that the wisest thing to do would be to transfer to the number two line, which also terminated at Cuatro Caminos. It was the longest route and he could ride it back past the Puerta del Sol and then back to Cuatro Caminos again. That would take up about an hour. It was another hour and a half’s walk back to the Cathedral of San Isidro. He glanced at the station clock. It was just past nine-fifteen. There was still too much time to kill.

He left the station, wondering if there was any place around Cuatro Caminos where he could rest for a while. But the streets around the station were silent and dead. Cuatro Caminos had been built as a shiny new suburb, along with the Metro line. The streets were broad and paved. But shelling along the northern front had shattered the windows of the once-luxurious apartment buildings, and stray bombs had hit a few. The buildings were dark and silent, and grass grew between the cracks in the sidewalk. Birds were singing loudly, as if making up for the silence of the buildings. Soon, Gonzalo knew, the buildings would fall away into the vast, dry emptiness of the Castilian plains and he would be in the country. It would be impossible to hide in that flat, barren land and impossible to find his way in the uncharted, featureless desert. He turned and headed back toward the Metro as quickly as possible.

The station was deserted although it was after nine-thirty now. Before the war the platforms would have been jammed with commuters. Gonzalo realized, as a train pulled into the station, that he could easily let it pass and wait for the next one, as long as no one saw him waiting. He turned and stepped into the empty stairwell, where he would be out of sight of the train’s conductors. He waited in the stairwell for over an hour, allowing several trains to pass. Finally, the presence of a ticket agent forced him to get on the next train.

At the other end of the line, Gonzalo repeated his actions: He left the station, wandered aimlessly for a time, and then returned, allowing as many trains as possible to pass him by before boarding one. It was nearly one o’clock when he once again got out at Cuatro Caminos. This time he began to walk with more purpose, back toward the city center, toward the Cathedral of San Isidro. He took an indirect route and tried to walk slowly. It was unexpectedly difficult. He would not have admitted to being nervous but he had a goal and it seemed stupid not to get there as quickly as possible.

It was a little before three when he reached the cathedral. It was a flame-blackened, seventeenth-century building, impressive despite the smashed panes that had once held stained glass. Gonzalo’s steps slowed as he approached it. It had been a long time since he had entered a church. He took off his hat as he stepped into the shadowy space, hoping that the dim light would hide his face. To his surprise, the church was almost full. Then he remembered: Good Friday. And aren’t we all devout, now? he thought bitterly. Cross yourself and pray to Franco, Son, and Holy Ghost. He wondered, as he slid into a half-empty pew at the back of the church, how many of the people kneeling around him had hurled stones at the colored windows and the black-clad priests at the beginning of the war.

At least the multitudes of the faithful hid him. Gonzalo had been confirmed when he was eleven because his mother had wanted it. He had stopped going to church the following year, the same year he left school, because he was the man of the house and it wasn’t right to make Carmen and his mother struggle on alone any longer. At twelve, he had regretted giving up neither the classroom nor the confessional. He had regretted leaving school later, but never leaving the church. He had all but forgotten the words and ceremonies, first from carelessness and later from principle, but he moved his lips when the rest of the parishioners spoke, and he rose and knelt with them. They moved jerkily up and down, and Gonzalo followed as if he were a marionette.

When the cross had been revealed and the service was over, the crowd slunk out the door, talking very little. Do the priests think we’re repenting our sins? Gonzalo wondered as he shuffled out among the others. Do they really believe that we’re silent and sorry because an innocent man died nearly two thousand years ago? As if we had no other problems! He began to move sideways through the parishioners, edging his way toward the chapel at one side of the nave. Candles were burning and guttering here. He waited until the church had emptied out. A little hesitantly, he knelt in front of the image of the Virgin, uneasily aware that he was early and wondering how long one could plausibly remain lost in prayer.

After what felt like an eternity but was really less than ten minutes, he heard footsteps behind him. He bent his head, heart pounding, not sure whether he most hoped or feared that the person behind him would stop. The footsteps paused and then came closer. There was a creak as a bearded man knelt on the wooden bench beside Gonzalo. “Seen anything of Isabel lately?” he asked quietly.

Gonzalo swallowed. “Not since she was married,” he breathed.

“A shame,” the man said. There was silence for a few moments, and then the man said softly, “Turn right when you go out and walk slowly toward the Plaza Mayor.”

Gonzalo bowed his head, mumbled a prayer that had stuck with him from childhood, crossed himself, and rose. The man remained, apparently absorbed, in front of the candles.

Gonzalo was only a few yards from the entrance to the Plaza Mayor, wondering what he should do next, when someone touched his arm. “We meet again,” said a familiar voice. Gon-zalo blinked in surprise, and then recognized the bearded man from the church. He was wearing a pair of thick glasses now. “Are you Gonzalo?”

Gonzalo felt something clench in the pit of his stomach. He did not want to give his name into the keeping of this stranger. And yet . . . “Who are you?” he asked.

“Just call me Juan. Come on, the others are waiting.” The bearded man began to walk briskly across the plaza, apparently blind to the guardias civiles circling the perimeter.

“Others?” Gonzalo asked, falling into step beside him.

“Do you play soccer?” the stranger called Juan asked, apparently deaf.

“Not since I was a kid.”

“Me neither, but you should see my nephew. There’s not a goalie born who he can’t get past. He’ll be famous one day, I swear! I knew it years ago.”

“Oh.” Gonzalo felt idiotic. “How old is he?”

“Just nine, but even the teenagers want him on their team. Why, you know what he did last week?” Juan launched into an involved anecdote, which lasted until the two men were north of the Gran Vía. He stopped in front of a nondescript row house, took out a key, and entered, drawing Gonzalo in behind him. “Come on, it’s down the stairs.” He headed down a flight of ill-lit steps, too narrow to need a banister, which creaked ominously under his tramping feet. Gonzalo followed, aware that his life was in the hands of a rather eccentric stranger and wondering if he was making a fatal mistake. Juan was hurrying down the basement hallway now, apparently by feel, since it was completely dark. He stopped abruptly and knocked. Gon-zalo, who had been following closely, bumped into him.

“Who’s there?”

“Andrés, with news of Isabel.”

Gonzalo blinked, shocked at the casual way that Juan had lied. Then he realized that it was far more likely that the bearded man had lied to him, and that “Juan” was really “Andrés.” Or, more likely, someone else entirely. The door opened and he was pulled into a smallish room that he realized was intended as a kitchen. It opened onto a garden sandwiched between buildings. There were two people already in the room. One was a man, probably in his late fifties, with a white mustache. The other was a woman, dressed in black and wearing a black veil that obscured her features. Both of them stood as Gonzalo and Andrés (or Juan) entered. The man spoke first.