Law of Return (15 page)

“I’ve found saying ‘no’ usually ends those discussions fairly quickly,” Tejada commented dryly. “It’s always interesting to see how well they control their disappointment. Or how badly, as the case may be.”

Jiménez was shocked. “Disappointment! How can you think that a young lady would
want
—” He broke off suddenly. “Wait a minute,
you
tell them no?”

“They’re like cats,” Tejada said, ignoring the second half of the corporal’s statement. “Beautiful, fluffy, and cruel beyond belief.”

Jiménez undoubtedly would have argued the point but a train whistle echoed out of the night, distracting him. Betances glanced toward the sound, which heralded the chug of a locomotive, and then turned to the lieutenant. “You’re going north in the morning, then, sir?”

“Yes. Just for a few days. I want to check on some property of Arroyo’s,” Tejada explained.

There were only a few hours left before dawn when they finally reached the post. The other officers went straight to bed. Tejada was about to undress when he remembered that he had left his notebook in his office and that he wished to take it with him to San Sebastián. He headed toward that room, crossing the post’s main waiting area on the way. As he was returning the door opened, and Guardia Gómez entered, looking slightly worried. He relaxed when he saw the lieutenant. “Sir! You’re still up!”

“What is it?” Tejada asked, surprised.

“I was assigned to the Fernández surveillance this evening, sir,” Gómez explained hastily. “And Fernández and his daughter headed for the train station at around ten o’clock. Fernández put her on the night train north. Then he went home. You said she had permission to travel, so I suppose it was all right, but I thought you might like to know.”

“Thank you, Gómez. Good job.” Tejada spoke automatically, wondering if the whistle in the night had come from the train carrying Elena to San Sebastián. What is she up to? he thought uneasily. And then, with a flash of annoyance, and hasn’t she learned any better than to travel alone?

Chapter 13

E
lena looked out over the sweep of the wrought-iron promenade and sighed. The trip from Salamanca had been remarkably smooth and uneventful. She had even managed to get some sleep on the train. There had been cabs at the station and she had easily found her way to the hotel where her father had reserved rooms. Paying the cab had been her first worry. The driver had demanded what seemed an exorbitant amount, and Elena had remembered her mother saying, many years ago, “
The prices are outrageous at all these resort places!
” She paid, uncomfortably aware that if all the prices in San Sebastián were equally inflated she would have no money left for the bribes that inevitably would be needed.

Her misgivings had not been soothed by the hotel manager. He had been dubious about a young lady traveling alone, but when Elena explained her mother’s unfortunate accident, and added that she hoped to be joined soon by family, he relaxed somewhat and offered to show her to the rooms Señor Fernández had reserved. Elena, who knew that her father had exclaimed over their cost, was distressed when the manager showed her to a suite on the top floor, at the back of the hotel, overlooking the street instead of the ocean. They were clearly the cheapest rooms the hotel offered. And if this is cheap, I’ll be bankrupt within a week, the professor’s daughter thought grimly.

She declined the manager’s suggestion that she go down to breakfast, fearing the expense, and claimed great weariness from the journey. She unpacked, ignoring her stomach’s treacherous pangs, and considered what to do next. Given the cost involved in staying in San Sebastián, the obvious course of action was to contact Meyer as quickly as possible. After some hesitation, she decided a telegram might be worth the money. Unfortunately, it was Sunday. She would be unable to contact Meyer—or anyone else—until tomorrow.

After a brief rest, which did not really make up for the breakfast she had missed, Elena headed downstairs, determined to act normally. She walked out into the town, noting absently that the fashions of the dresses around her seemed to mimic
Blanco
y negro
far more closely than her mother had predicted. Long experience with hunger had taught her that unnecessary walking was unwise, but she had the feeling that spending the entire day in her hotel room would be conspicuous. She was unwilling to part with more of her dwindling funds for the sake of a movie theater’s anonymity, and so, with a slight sense of distaste, she entered the cathedral and played at devotion. The markets were closed so she was forced to spend more money than she would have wished at a restaurant that afternoon.

She rose early Monday morning, glad to have something definite to do, and asked for directions to the telegraph office. “I would like to wire my parents, to tell them that I made the trip safely,” she explained. She sent two telegrams, despite the expense. One went to Salamanca, to make good her excuse to the manager. “ARRIVED. STOP. AM WELL.” The other went to the Poste Centrale in Biarritz care of Jean Samuels with the carefully chosen words: “IN SAN SEBASTIAN. STOP. HOTEL MARIA CRISTINA. STOP. WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU.” Then, made reckless by the expenditure, she had sacrificed even more money for a croissant and coffee at a nearby bakery.

The food had warmed her, but now, standing on the promenade overlooking San Sebastián’s main beach, she was not feeling hopeful. Professor Meyer would need one vital thing to cross the border: money. And she was not able to provide that. Even if he did manage to slip through the mountains and make his way to San Sebastián, providing an explanation for his presence would be difficult. Guillermo had scoffed at the idea of Meyer needing a “chaperon.” The hotel manager’s polite incredulity had reminded Elena that her own unchaperoned state was likely to occasion more comment than an elderly foreigner’s. In Madrid it didn’t matter, Elena thought resentfully, leaning against the wedding-cake swirls of the white-painted iron promenade and staring out to sea so that she would not need to make eye contact with any of the passersby. No one thought it was strange that I lived alone there. She knew it was not the place that mattered so much as the time. In the here and now, a young woman unaccompanied by her husband or parents was an oddity.

As if in response to her thoughts, a young man raised his hat as he passed her. “Good morning, Señorita.”

“Good morning.” Elena turned to face the young man unwillingly. He was her own age, or perhaps a few years younger, and looked like one of the pictures in a fashion magazine: tanned, handsome, impeccably dressed in tennis whites, with a racquet tucked under one arm.

“Smile,” he suggested, suiting his action to his word. “It’s a beautiful day.” Elena obligingly moved her lips, but said nothing. “That’s better.” He lounged against the railing beside her. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Is this your first time in San Sebastián?”

“Yes.” Elena hoped that the monosyllable would discourage him.

“It’s a beautiful place.” The young man spoke with obvious enthusiasm. “We came here every summer until the war.”

Elena nodded coldly, but he seemed impervious to snubs. He was bubbling with good humor, and ready to share it. “We have a house on Monte Igueldo,” he explained. “Or we did. The Reds vandalized it, of course. Pigs! They’d destroy anything beautiful. But we’ve spent the last two weeks cleaning it up and now it’s starting to get back into shape.”

“How nice,” Elena said acidly, since it was no longer possible to say nothing.

“You can say that again. It’s great just being back here. And really, little has changed.”

“That must be a comfort to you.” The wind from the sea whipped Elena’s dress around her legs, emphasizing her stillness. Not changed! she thought, too stunned to be disgusted. He can’t have fought. No soldier could say that, even one of
Them.
A guardia wouldn’t say that. Tejada wouldn’t say that.

“Yes. For instance, there’s a little café up the street that’s been there forever. Not many tourists know it but they serve the best pastries in the province. Would you like to come and have a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Elena’s voice was courteous, but final. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Don’t say your husband!” he exclaimed with comical distress. “No, you don’t have a ring. Tell me that you’re waiting for a female friend.”

Elena bowed her head without speaking, annoyed at the idea of having to invent a male protector, but unwilling to offer any encouragement. Her unknown suitor took the dismissal with good grace. “Some other time then.” He bowed to her, waving the tennis racquet with a flourish. “Welcome to San Sebastián,
bonita
. Enjoy your stay.”

Elena watched him out of sight with relief, and then she set off for the hotel. Drab and cheerless as her room was, it was at least private. She spent the better part of the day there, evolving hopeless and fantastic schemes for sneaking across the border and spiriting Dr. Meyer away, while doing her best to ignore her increasing hunger. The thought of food reminded her that the waiters at lunch yesterday had been politely amazed by her solitude, and that dining alone again was likely to attract unwanted attention. Hating herself for the subterfuge, she unpacked her bag and opened the small jewelry box she had almost decided against bringing. Elena seldom wore jewelry, and only at her mother’s insistence did she bring along a formal dress and some things to wear with it. The little jewelry box was nearly empty. It contained an extra pair of earrings, a chain with a small gold cross hanging from it (“In case you go to Mass,” María had suggested), and a small pewter ring set with rhinestones. “Take it for good luck,” Elena’s mother had said, smiling slightly from her sickbed, as Elena reviewed her packing arrangements with her. “You always wanted to wear it as a child.”

This was true. The ring had been Elena’s favorite piece among all of her mother’s jewelry. She loved the way the glittering stones caught the light and still remembered her shocked disappointment when she learned that they were not really diamonds. The ring was of no great value and María had frequently allowed her daughter to use it to play dress up. Elena picked up the ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of her right hand with the bitter sense that she was committing sacrilege. The ring had belonged to her childhood fantasies, to the world before the war, when anything had been possible. Using it now was a desecration. But the glitter of false diamonds might at least keep unwelcome cavaliers at bay.

Armed against further attentions, she set off into the town again, in search of an only slightly overpriced place in which to eat lunch. She ate peacefully and without interruption, either due to the costume jewelry, or to her grave expression. Afterward she returned to the hotel, relieved but also somewhat woebegone. It was difficult having no one to talk to. Elena had lived alone in Madrid, but she had acquaintances and colleagues there, and the war years had fostered a fatalistic camaraderie that made friends even of strangers. She felt very solitary surrounded by the crowds of brightly dressed tourists, calling and laughing to each other.

The siesta passed quietly and Elena was just debating whether her pose as a light-hearted vacationer required her to go and sit in the hotel lounge in the evening when there was a knock at her door. She felt her stomach clench and wondered automatically if there was anything incriminating in the room. I’ve done nothing wrong, she reminded herself. I have permission to travel. I haven’t broken any laws. And even that telegram. . . . She pulled the door open, and gave a silent gasp of relief to see one of the hotel porters standing in front of the door. “There’s a telegram for you, Señorita,” he said politely.

Elena took the message eagerly, and tipped the porter reluctantly, when she realized that he would wait for a reply until he received some money. It was an international wire. The knot in her stomach was from excitement as well as fear now. He’s responded fast, she thought. Oh, good. If we can just get this over with. . . . As she looked at the message, her heart sank. Professor Meyer had written in French: “SEE TELEMACHUS BOOK XVI. STOP. EUMAIOS AT PENSION D’OR. STOP. DON’T WRITE. STOP. HURRY.” The bald command—or was it a plea?—shocked her a little. Why is it so urgent? she thought. What’s
happening
in France that he’s so frightened? And why shouldn’t I write? Although Elena knew the
Odyssey
well, she was uncertain what happened in Book XVI, and she had not thought to bring along a copy. Exhaustion forgotten, she hurried out in search of a bookstore, realizing as she did so that many stores would be closing, and also that Meyer would undoubtedly have a Greek edition in mind, and that another translation might well break up the text slightly differently.

The streets were crowded in the evening. The sandy sports clothes of the morning had given way to a general air of cool, freshly bathed elegance. Families strolled together, blocking the sidewalks, and beggars and hawkers of souvenirs took up strategic positions in doorways and on corners. Elena, who had idled away the morning hours that should have been devoted to physical activity, found herself once more out of step with the crowd. She forced herself to stroll although she dearly wanted to hurry. The seemingly unbroken line of cafés and souvenir and clothing stores irritated her. Surely there must be a bookstore somewhere in San Sebastián.

Elena crossed the river and wandered inland, away from the more fashionable parts of town. She finally found a bookstore in the sedate little Plaza de Cataluña across the street from a red stone church. There was a grille across the display window, but a sign proclaimed that it was open from 10 A.M. to 2 P.M. and from 5 P.M. to 8 P.M., Monday through Friday, and on Saturday mornings. There was a light on inside the store, and she could just make out a figure moving among the shelves, but when she tried the door it was locked. Just as she was resolving to return the following morning, the figure made its way toward the front and there was the sound of bolts rattling. Then the door opened and a white-mustached man said, “Can I help you, Señora?”

“Errr . . . no, thank you. That is, I only wondered if the store was open.” Elena floundered, unhappily realizing that she had made herself conspicuous.

The old man consulted a pocket watch. “Come in.” He pulled the door open wider. “I was closing up early. But since you’re here . . .”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.” The man bowed her toward the towering stacks. “It’s not quite eight yet, after all. Were you looking for something specific, Señora?”

Elena swallowed, realizing that to ask for a specific book would oblige her to buy it, and worried whether she had enough money. “I’m looking for a copy of the
Odyssey
.”

The bookseller laughed. “That’s some light beach reading!” He headed for the back of the shop and clambered up a ladder that was leaning against the shelves. “Here, I have two editions actually.”

Elena looked at the books that he was holding out. She would have liked to inspect Book XVI in both of them at leisure, but she did not feel equal to reading them under the gaze of the store owner. She quietly asked the prices of the books and then bought the cheaper edition. It was, in fact, no more expensive than her breakfast had been, although the slick paper had all the durability of newsprint, and she was not surprised to find, when she returned to her hotel room, that the spine cracked as soon as she opened the volume to Book XVI.