Law of Return (29 page)

Elena felt her lips trembling. “Yes,” she whispered, determined not to let him see her cry. To her surprise, she felt no satisfaction at the lie, although she had obviously succeeded in hurting him. Hurting his
amour propre
, at any rate, she thought, desperately searching for spitefulness.

“I’m sorry.” Tejada’s voice was shaking. “I didn’t know. I . . . forgive me.”

Elena shrugged, wishing that she could simply believe him and walk into his arms and cry. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters if you’re with child,” Tejada retorted, too shocked to properly formulate his opinion that a woman’s virginity was of moral as well as practical importance.

Elena went white. “I’m not pregnant!” She retreated a step, wondering if his uncanny ability to put her worst fears into words was a trick learned as an interrogator, or if he was particularly attuned to her preoccupations. To add weight to her denial she added forcefully, “And even if I were, why should you care?”

Tejada was suddenly sick of negotiating the minefield of Elena’s perplexing values. “Because I’d like my child to bear my name!” he snapped. “
And
my child’s mother. That’s what any normal, decent man would want, and what
you
would want, if you weren’t so hell-bent on proving that you’re as warped as any Red whore!”

“And why didn’t your daughter’s mother get this handsome offer?” Elena blazed. “Was she too poor to have any decency? Or did she turn you down?”

“My what?” Tejada said, taken aback.

“Your ‘little protege’s’ mother. The one you foisted onto your brother.” Despite her best efforts, Elena heard her voice crack treacherously. The lieutenant stared at her, open mouthed, and she swept on, before her wave of righteous anger could abate and leave her stranded. “His letter fell out of your coat. He seems very tolerant about raising your bastard.”

Automatically, the lieutenant’s hand went to his coat pocket and drew out the crumpled letter. He looked from it to Elena’s face several times, his lips working silently. Then he said quietly, “My brother likes to imagine scandal. The child’s a war orphan.”

“All war orphans are cared for by the state!” Elena cried.

“Not Aleja Palomino!” the lieutenant said shortly, his eyes on the letter.

It took a moment for Elena to place the name. Then she said slowly, “Aleja Palomino? My student, Aleja?”

“Probably none of your students receive government pensions,” Tejada muttered, still avoiding her eyes.

“No,” Elena agreed softly, yearning to believe that he was telling the truth. “But why?”

Tejada’s fingers tightened into a fist. “I’d rather not say.”

“Why?” Elena’s eyes narrowed. “Was her mother—?”

“No,” the lieutenant interrupted hastily. “Elena, look, I’ve never . . . I’ve done things that would probably make you hate me, but I swear to you none of them involved women. I mean not
because
they were women. I’d rather not explain about Aleja because . . . it’s not a story I’m proud of . . . and not all of it is completely mine to tell. . . .” He glanced up, saw her face, and added hastily. “But I
will
tell you, if you ask. Because I won’t lie to you. Isn’t that worth anything?”

Elena took a deep breath. Then she retreated to the window seat and sat down. “Tell me,” she said quietly, gesturing for him to be seated in a rocking chair facing the window, and then folding her hands in her lap.

Tejada perched himself on the edge of the rocking chair, and gazed downward. Without raising his eyes he began to explain why he had made provision for Aleja and her mother, and why he had made himself responsible for the daughter and widow of one of the men who had fought against him. Halfway through his recital, he slid out of the chair to grasp her folded hands. She did not move. She remained still when he had finished speaking. Finally, desperate, he looked up. “You do believe me?”

“Yes.” She sounded slightly dazed. “And I’m glad Aleja’s not your daughter.”

He swallowed. “Elena, I’m so sorry.”

She stood, dislodging his hands, and he scrambled to his feet, feeling foolish. When she spoke he realized that she was crying. “I’m not a priest to grant absolution. But thank you for telling me the truth.”

“I love you.” He knew the words were inadequate.

Elena turned away from him and bent her head. “I love you too,” she admitted softly, reflecting wearily that in another time and place he might have been a good man, and wondering if she was really grateful for his honesty.

Tejada lightly put his hands on her shoulders. “Then marry me,” he said quietly.

Elena shuddered. She wanted to turn around and be kissed and comforted and reassured that fear and hunger would never touch her again. But faces she had known during the war appeared like ghosts, and held her still: the children killed by bombs; the young men, barely more than children, who had frozen and died at the Front; or been starved and shot as prisoners. She folded her arms across her stomach. “I can’t.”

His hands slid down her shoulders, and over hers. “Why not?” His voice was gentle. “Is it because I support General Franco’s government?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Tejada sighed. “Elena, love, the war’s over. It’s not that I . . .” He paused, trying to formulate his thoughts carefully. “It’s not that I don’t care that you were a . . . a Socialist, but there can’t be two Spains forever, Elena. We’re compatriots, after all. We can’t go on holding ourselves separate.”

“It’s not that,” Elena protested faintly, aware that she should be trying to break free.

“Suppose you were with child,” the lieutenant said softly. “That child would have a new history, no? A history without war. He could be a new beginning. But you wouldn’t want him to cut off half his heritage, would you?”

Elena finally turned around. “No. But you would.”

“No,” Tejada protested.

“Yes, you would.” Elena sighed. “And your child would have to. To survive.” She choked slightly. “
You
may believe that, about how there can’t be two Spains, but other people don’t. And you couldn’t marry me, Carlos. For your own good.”

“What do you mean?” He frowned.

She smiled sadly, touched by his naïveté. “It would be the end of your career. You’d lose your friends, your colleagues—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, although her words shook him a little.

“You’d be a security risk.” Elena saw that she had given him pause and unthinkingly touched his cheek to comfort him. “Everyone would know that you’d married a Red.”

“My private life is no business of the Guardia’s,” Tejada protested vehemently, tightening his arms around her.

“And my father’s is?”

“That’s different.”

“Yes,” Elena agreed. “Because my father’s life really
isn’t
political. But yours is. And you’d never be able to trust me, you know. You might avoid talking about your work with me, but sooner or later you’d take something home to work on, or leave something in your coat pocket like that letter of your brother’s.”

“Don’t be silly.” Tejada absentmindedly kissed her palm, and Elena smiled at him.

“I’ve seen your desk, darling. You leave papers out all the time.”

Tejada stiffened suddenly. “That’s true,” he said in a subdued tone of voice.

Elena, who had unconsciously been leaning against him, suddenly felt as if a large bucket of ice water had been thrown at her. But she straightened her shoulders and pressed her advantage. “You might remember to be careful for a while, but not for the rest of your life,” she persisted. “And what do you think I would do if it was something about my father? Or Dr. Velázquez?”

“Yes.” Tejada dropped his arms. His voice was distant. “That’s it, then.”

Elena swallowed. She tried a watery smile, which was a miserable failure. “At the very best, it would end any chance of promotion,” she finished, wishing that she felt more triumphant.

Tejada blinked, and then, to her astonishment, smiled brilliantly, seized her shoulders and kissed her. “Promotion be damned,” he said when he let her go. “This is the second time you’ve helped me solve a murder and I’d be an idiot not to discuss my work with you whenever the opportunity presented itself. Here, take a look at this.” He dug out his notebook, flipped it open to his notes on the Arroyo case, and handed it to her.

Elena stared at him, too bewildered to speak. “Because I trust you,” the lieutenant said, smiling at her. “Read that. And that part there.” He pointed.

Elena blinked, sat down, and automatically began to read. “So?” she asked, puzzled. The lieutenant squeezed himself onto the window seat beside her, and indicated several more passages. Then he gave her a few more pieces of information. Elena frowned, and then advanced a hypothesis.

Tejada nodded. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“The only thing that doesn’t fit are the dates,” she pointed out.

“I know.” Tejada sighed. “That was what made me think that Arroyo had disappeared in the first place. Because he was so scrupulous about all his other parole dates.”

“We all are,” Elena pointed out dryly. “No one wants the Guardia knocking on the door at three in the morning.”

Tejada laughed briefly and then suddenly seized her hand. “Elena! Did your father miss any of his parole dates?”

“Of course not!” She stared at him, surprised.

“That’s it then,” Tejada said quietly. “Your father’s last appointment with Captain Rodríguez wasn’t checked off. I assumed that it was just the captain’s carelessness. But Rodríguez must have checked off the wrong folder—Arroyo’s. He probably never got the petitioners straight. Damn idiot.”

Elena laughed. “Tactful way to talk about a superior officer!”

The lieutenant grinned at her. “I have implicit trust in my fiancée.”

“I didn’t say—” Elena began a half-hearted protest, and Tejada kissed her.

“You were saying?” he asked a little while later, when she was resting her head comfortably against his shoulder.

Elena flushed. “I was saying you’ll never find proof. And he’s not the sort of person you can just arrest.”

“No.” The lieutenant spoke with obvious regret. “And Rodríguez wants to start prosecuting Rivera on Monday.”

“This would be Rodríguez, the damn idiot?” Elena inquired mischievously.

Tejada raised his eyebrows. “This would be the future Señora de Tejada who’s asking?”

Elena sighed. “All right. You win.” She grimaced slightly. “Again. I don’t know how I’ll tell my parents though.”

“That’s my job,” Tejada reminded her gently. “Now, either kiss me, or tell me how I can find enough evidence to save Rivera’s neck.”

“You could try a telegram to Switzerland,” Elena said, choosing the second option, to his disappointment. “Now that you know the right questions to ask.”

“I doubt they’d answer. And it wouldn’t be fast enough anyway.”

“A confession?”

“How? If I can’t lay a finger on him?”

They discussed the problem for a while longer, reached no thoroughly satisfactory answer, and ended up kissing anyway.

Finally, Tejada’s dormant conscience yawned and stretched. He reluctantly disentangled himself and stood up. “I suppose I had better speak to your father,” he said. And then, in consideration of Elena’s liberal upbringing, added, “Do you want to come?”

“Of course!” Elena’s indignant surprise at his question made the lieutenant very grateful that he had thought to ask.

They went downstairs with their fingers intertwined but Tejada’s sense of propriety made him drop her hand before knocking on the door of the professor’s study. He had the vague feeling that Elena should not be present for his interview with Professor Fernández, but when he pushed open the door in response to the professor’s muted, “Come in,” he forgot his scruples and was simply glad for the moral support.

Guillermo was sitting in an armchair with a pad on his lap, apparently absorbed in a lengthy piece of writing. He stood a little awkwardly, allowing the pad to fall to the floor. “Lieutenant?” And then, with some surprise, “Elena? I hope nothing’s wrong?”