Death of a Nationalist (7 page)

“Oh.” Doña Clara was blushing faintly. “I assumed you knew . . . it was nothing serious really. Just . . . well, it’s not a woman’s place to judge these things.”

“I’m sure Paco was always the soul of honor,” Tejada said, fighting against a disloyal and discourteous desire to pursue the subject. He tried to recall some clue to Doña Clara’s embarrassment.

“Of course.” Doña Clara smiled at him warmly. “That was what
I
said. Francisco—may he rest in peace—was . . . well, a good husband, of course, but perhaps more . . . susceptible himself. But
I
knew that my son would never get entangled with that painted hussy.”

Tejada choked on his coffee.
Hussy? Jesus, Paco, you could
have told me!
He struggled with an unreasonable sense of betrayal. He was just hurt enough to commit a further breach of good manners. “I assume he . . . er . . . didn’t give his father any more cause for concern?”

“Not the slightest,” Doña Clara agreed complacently. She bit her lip, perhaps aware that she had expressed herself rather strongly. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Tejada, awash in surprising disclosures, felt his feet strike solid ground. “It’s delicious,” he added truthfully.

Doña Clara smiled, but her eyes were tear-filled. “It was my last gift from Paco. He knew how hard rationing was for civilians, so he always tried to send me supplies. The coffee came last month, with a pound of sugar as well. He must have starved himself to be so generous.”

Tejada nodded. “That’s like him. I remember, during the siege, it must have been the middle of August, I thought I’d go insane. He handed me half his morning’s rations and said, ‘Here, eat, Carlito. You need it.’ And God help me, I ate it. I don’t think I even thanked him.”

Doña Clara wiped her eyes. “You didn’t have to, Carlos. You know, before each of the girls were born, he kept saying to me, ‘Remember, Mama, I want a little
brother
this time.’ And afterward, oh, he was so angry he wouldn’t speak to me. He found a brother in you.”

“I’m honored,” Tejada said softly.

He would have liked to linger over the coffee, talking more of the siege, of Paco, and Paco’s father, and the early days of the war, when he had believed that victory would be quick and painless. But the chiming of the little clock over the piano was insistent. “I must go,” he said, at five-thirty. “I’m supposed to be on duty. And my men and I have to return to Madrid tonight.”

Doña Clara rose, and gave him her hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

He kissed her on both cheeks again, before leaving. Another phrase from a past life came unbidden to his lips. “I am always at home to you.”

José showed him out.

A few minutes after six, Tejada and his men rolled out of Toledo. Jiménez and a few of the others would have dearly liked to question the sergeant about the deployment of troops during the siege and about several prominent pockmarks in the walls of the alcázar. But Tejada was in an abstracted mood, and none of them dared to raise the subject. Finally, Durán said hesitantly, “Did you have a good afternoon, Sergeant?”

“Hmm?” Tejada had been staring out at the dry yellow fields. “Yes, thanks. I visited . . . an old acquaintance.”

The guardias civiles were forced to be content with that.

Chapter 7

C
armen Llorente had not been among the crowd at the railroad station who had seen the Guardia Civil transporting prisoners to Toledo. She heard an account of it from her employer that afternoon though, and came home white-faced. Her brother was pacing the floor when she arrived.

“I have an idea,” he announced, as soon as she came in. “Those people you work for . . . they’re rich enough to buy things on the black market. Where do they go, can you find out?”

Carmen had taken off her coat. It took some effort for her to hang it up as she said shakily, “No.”

“Damn it, Carmen. Are you sure?” Gonzalo had spent all day indoors. The little piece of silver foil that had seemed like such a good lead yesterday now seemed to mock his hopes. He had started at every creak in the boards, and gone so far as to hide himself in the closet a few times. This contact with the black market had been his only idea all day. It had seemed sure-fire.

Carmen stepped forward and slapped him as hard as she could. “You self-centered bastard.” Her voice was shaking with the effort of keeping it low, when she wanted to scream. “Don’t ask what happened today. Don’t ask how the hell I’m supposed to feed us now that I’m out of a job. Don’t ask what happens to women like me who are
stupid
enough to try to hide carbineros. Just look at that damn chocolate wrapper, and try to find out about the black market!”

“You lost your job?” Gonzalo rubbed his jaw, irritated. There was, he thought, no way he could have known that Carmen would be in a bad mood. It wasn’t his fault. “I didn’t know. Why?”

“Why should you care?” Carmen turned her back to him and leaned on the table. “It doesn’t concern you. You don’t care about anything except getting some stupid vengeance for Viviana.”

“I care if we eat,” Gonzalo retorted.

“We! You mean Aleja and me, too? Big of you!”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Gonzalo whispered, uncomfortably aware that his sister’s voice had gotten steadily louder. “I’m sorry, I just . . . why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Carmen sank into a chair and rubbed her forehead. “Señor del Valle was arrested yesterday evening. They found some articles he’d written before the war. The señora thinks that it would be better for me not to come anymore. Safer.”

“So we’re safe and starving?” Gonzalo transferred his irritation to the absent Señora del Valle. “Brilliant!”

Carmen shook her head and made a conscious effort to hold on to her temper. “It would have happened sooner or later. I overheard them a couple of days ago. They were talking about going to France.”

“Sounds a bit late for that,” Gonzalo remarked.

“Much too late,” his sister agreed. “The señora told me that Señor del Valle was taken out of Madrid today. There was a whole convoy leaving by train. She said she called to him but there were so many people he didn’t hear. And guardias civiles were holding off the crowd.”

“Did the train come back?” Gonzalo asked.

“She stayed until this evening, hoping to see.” Carmen shuddered. “There’s a rumor it went to Toledo. They say it’s a bad sign if it comes back empty too quickly.”

“Shit,” said Gonzalo.

“I know. Señor del Valle was a good man.”

“Shit.” It was the atheist’s equivalent of “May he rest in peace.”

Carmen stood up, and went back to her bag. “Señora del Valle paid me through the end of the week.”

Gonzalo rubbed his eyes. “With what?”

“Bread. Almost a whole loaf. And there’s an orange for Aleja.”

“She’s been saying she’s hungry.”

“At least she’s saying something,” Carmen sighed. “Where is she?”

Gonzalo pointed without speaking.

“Oh. Damn.”

There was still a blanket draped over a string in the living room screening off the bed he had shared with Viviana. Gonzalo had made the bed again after her burial, turning back the sheets and placing the two pillows in an awkward
L
shape, because it was too narrow for them to fit properly. (“You’d think we’d be very uncomfortable,” Viviana had said, laughing, the first time she made the bed.) Then he had continued sleeping on the couch. Carmen walked over to the blanket and then pushed it to one side. Aleja was curled up on the bed, hugging her knees.

“How are you, sweetheart?” Carmen sat down and put one arm around her daughter. There was no reply. “You’re so quiet, I didn’t even know you were there. Are you angry because I snapped at Tío Gonzalo? I didn’t mean it.” Carmen was stroking the little girl’s hair now, her voice coaxing. “Would you like a piece of bread?”

“All right.” Aleja’s voice could not be called enthusiastic but it was a voice.

Relief flooded through Carmen. “You’ll feel better after you eat, precious. And then maybe tomorrow you’ll go to school.”

Aleja tensed and shook her head. “I can’t go to school.”

“But, sweetheart, you’ve missed three days.”

“Tío Gonzalo doesn’t have to go out,” the little girl pointed out.

“Shh-shh,” Carmen said automatically. “Remember, I explained. Tío Gonzalo isn’t going out because he’s hiding. We have to be very careful to say that it’s just us two here. But you have to go back to school, Aleja.”

Aleja burrowed her head against her mother’s stomach. “I don’t have my notebook.” Her voice was the whine of a much younger child.

Carmen looked toward her brother for support. But he was standing with his back to them, and the set of his shoulders told her that he did not feel like intervening. “But you can’t miss school forever,” she wheedled. “Think how Señorita Fer-nández would feel if you went away and never said good-bye to her. Maybe she’ll be able to help you get a new notebook.”

“Tía Viviana promised me
my
notebook.” The end of Aleja’s sentence was drowned in tears.

Carmen closed her eyes and rocked her daughter back and forth, murmuring soothing nonsense. I am going to go mad very soon, she thought. Gonzalo had said nothing to reproach his niece since his return home but he had not helped to comfort her either. For all Carmen knew, the two of them passed their days in total silence. Gonzalo either brooded or took insane risks. And now even the tenuous normality of life in the del Valle household was gone. Tomorrow her daily routine would be gone. Tomorrow, she thought, Aleja has to go to school. I’ll take her myself. Get Aleja out of the house first. Then I can see about work. She shuddered. There was no work. There were the women in front of the soldiers’ barracks, who put up with the jeers.
Puta roja
. Red whore. But they ate. She wasn’t that hungry yet. But if Aleja began complaining. . . . Carmen turned abruptly to her brother, determined to shut out the thought. “I’ve heard you can buy things in the Plaza de la Cebada.”

Gonzalo, who had been ignoring his sister and niece, was unaware that she was talking to him for a moment. “Cheaper, you mean?” he asked stupidly, when she repeated her comment.

“No.” Carmen’s voice was dry. “More expensive things. What you were asking about.”

“Oh.” Gonzalo turned. He hesitated a moment and then said, “Will you be all right if I go out now?”

The knot in his sister’s chest loosened almost imperceptibly. It was not all right, and he would go anyway, but at least he was asking. “I’ll be all right if you come back,” she said, trying to smile.

He nodded. “I’ll have to say I forgot my identity card, if they ask,” he said.

She nodded. They both knew that he would not survive a meeting with soldiers without papers. But at least he was trying. Gonzalo took a cap that had belonged to his brother-in-law and tried to make sure that it shadowed his face as much as possible. It was not much of a disguise. He set out for the Plaza de la Cebada, hoping that he would meet no one he knew. As far as he could tell, his luck held. It was a fine evening, and people were beginning to come out again. There was enough traffic in the streets to make him inconspicuous, but he saw no one he recognized.

The Plaza de la Cebada was not far away, and Gonzalo was disturbed by how much the walk tired him. Carmen had given him a hot drink in the morning, which, against all sensory evidence, she had insisted was coffee. He had eaten the night before. It hardly counted as fasting. He crossed the Calle de Toledo with his head down, and then jumped as a streetcar clanged its bell. It was bearing down on him, and the driver was cursing and gesticulating. Gonzalo managed a shuffling run to get out of the way. He leaned against a building on the other side of the street, to recover from the surprise, he told himself, although narrowly avoiding a streetcar should not have been enough to make his temples pound as if he were about to faint.

The plaza was crowded with people. They stood in pairs and groups of three, muttering and glancing over their shoulders. Everyone tried to look casual. No one succeeded. Many people here seemed to be heavily dressed, although the weather was not cold. Occasionally, someone suddenly became thinner as something slid out from under a jacket or shirt. Gonzalo caught a glimpse of a tortilla and found himself salivating. He hesitated, uncertain what to do. A woman, apparently heavily pregnant, was propped against one of the buildings. He wandered over to her.

She met his eyes, and then raised her eyebrows. “You looking for something?”

“I might be.” Gonzalo kept his hands in his pockets.

“I only take Franco’s bills. None of the Republic’s stuff.” She was brisk.

Gonzalo stared. “How do you know I’m not a guardia?”

“You?” the woman laughed. “
Hombre
, the guardia eat. It’s easy to see you don’t.” She tapped her swollen belly. “I’ve got potatoes here, fresh, and some lentils.”

“What about meat?” Gonzalo asked, thinking of what Manuela had told him.

She shook her head. “No. The potatoes are a better value, though.”

Gonzalo’s hand closed on the scrap of silver foil in his pocket. “I’m looking for someone who sells meat,” he said firmly. “And, better than that, chocolate.”

“Chocolate!” She laughed again. “You don’t want much,
hombre
. How about a private yacht, while you’re at it?”

“There must be someone here who sells it,” Gonzalo persisted.

Her eyes narrowed. “You want the chocolate, or you want to find the person who’s selling it?”

“What’s it to you?”

She clasped her hands below the bulge on her stomach, and the bundle shifted in a most un-fetuslike fashion. “You want chocolate, you have to deal with the soldiers.”

Gonzalo felt his pulse beginning to pound in his temples. Count to five, he reminded himself. “Soldiers?” he asked, keeping his voice as nonchalant as possible.

It was no use. The smuggler turned away from him to a woman with a leather purse and a shawl over her head. “You looking for something, Señora?”

“How much would a kilo of potatoes be?” Like Gonzalo, the woman tried to sound nonchalant, but the pleading in her voice was painful to hear.

Gonzalo drifted away, cursing himself for a fool. Information wasn’t free. And he had nothing with which to pay for it. He wandered along the edge of the plaza, wondering if he would dare approach a soldier. None seemed to be in evidence. Did that mean the Plaza de la Cebada was not the place for chocolates?

“For the love of God, it’s my engagement ring!” The voice flashed suddenly out of an archway—angry, desperate, and louder than it was intended to be. “The diamond alone is worth thousands of pesetas!”

There was a low murmur in reply. Gonzalo turned. The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman. She wore a hat and a coat that, although ancient and tattered, was undeniably fur. He loitered closer. The woman’s voice had dropped again, but he heard her protesting and heard someone else steadily denying her pleas. After a few minutes, she passed by him, clutching something under her coat. He wondered for a moment if the smell of meat was only a phantom born of his own desires, and then marched through the archway. Two men lounged there, with a pair of well-worn suitcases in front of them.

“Where would I find chocolate?” Gonzalo asked quickly, before the men could take in his appearance.

“In Switzerland,” one replied promptly.

Gonzalo gritted his teeth. “How many times have you told that joke today?”

The other man laughed. “Only once today. Not many people bother to ask anymore.” He inspected Gonzalo. “Why are you asking anyway? It looks like you need more than that.”

“Someone told me I should ask the soldiers,” Gonzalo fenced.

The first man spat between his teeth. “Someone shoots off his mouth a lot.”

“Taking cheap shots?” Gonzalo tried to keep his voice light.

“Any shot at the army’s expensive, buddy,” the smuggler replied.

Gonzalo had kept his hands in his pockets. He fingered the silver foil for a moment. Then he drew it out. “Suppose I was looking for something like this?”

One of the men leaned forward and looked at the wrapper. Then he said, “You’d pay?”

“Sure,” Gonzalo lied. “I can’t until I know who to pay, though.”

The two men exchanged glances. Then one of them said, “You know the Guardia Civil station up along the Calle Alcalá?”

“Sure.” Gonzalo was afraid of uttering more than the monosyllable. It was an effort to hide his excitement even then.

“You know the entrance to the park, a little ways from it?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me there tomorrow, at around five. I’m not making promises. But I might be able to help you.”

Gonzalo considered how to explain that he was really more interested in information than in chocolate. No good idea occurred to him. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and turned to go.

“One thing.” The man’s voice stopped him.

“Yes?”

The two men exchanged glances again, and then one of them said, “Bring an identity card. Our supplier has been a little touchy lately.”

“Got it.” Gonzalo left, wondering how he would justify not bringing an identity card, and whether it would be worth his effort to bring a gun.