Law of Return, page 15
As Elena made her way toward the rocks at the far end of the beach, the smell of salt air was gradually overwhelmed by a fishy odor. A huge collection of gulls congregated just ahead of her. A pair of fishing boats pulled well up from the water explained both phenomena. Four men were sorting their catch into buckets, occasionally tossing away a minnow, which was instantly fought over by the crowd of gulls.
Elena’s immediate impulse was to withdraw and leave the fishermen to their work. But as she hesitated one of them glanced up and saw her, and turning away from him seemed discourteous. She continued toward them, nodding as she did so to the one who had made eye contact with her. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Señorita.” It was the oldest of the men who spoke to her. “You’re up early.” His accent was unfamiliar to Elena and she guessed him to be a Basque.
Elena smiled. “It looks like a cloudy day.”
The old man squinted at the sky, deepening the crow’s-feet around his eyes. “Don’t worry, Señorita. It won’t rain. You’ll have nice weather for your holiday.”
His voice was kindly but Elena winced. It was not right for him to be so deferential. What about your work day? she wanted to ask. Isn’t that important? Instead, she found herself saying awkwardly, “Thank you. This is my first time in the Basque country. It’s very beautiful here.”
“Yes, Señorita.” One of the other men spoke. His voice was polite; the voice one would use for a pretty, spoiled child. “You should see Irún, where I’m from.”
Elena smiled, and then, perhaps because she was tired, or because her memories of Madrid had made her nostalgic, or simply through carelessness, she said absently, “I remember the broadcasts about the defense of Irún.”
There was a sudden fraught silence and Elena tensed as she realized what she had said. All of the men had looked up to stare at her, and she got the impression for the first time that they were looking at her, instead of at yet another tourist. Then one of them said in a carefully casual tone, “You’re from Madrid, Señorita?”
“No . . . I . . .” Elena tried to meet the blank stares. They were wary, but not hostile. “I lived there until the end of the war though.”
“Until Madrid was ‘liberated,’ you mean.” It was the old man again, his eyes twinkling with amusement under raised brows.
“Yes.” Elena smiled back, relaxed, and wondered why the men trusted her. It did not occur to her that most tourists would not have stayed to talk to them, much less that her own face was as communicative as the fishermen’s raised eyebrows. “I suppose I must mean that.”
One of the men grunted, a sound somehow conveying amusement. Another turned, and made a remark to his companions in a language completely unfamiliar to Elena. Another replied, laughing, and Elena realized that they were speaking Basque. The man who had first spoken to Elena turned back to her. “You enjoy your stay here, dear,” he said.
When he had first spoken Elena had suspected that his courtesy was false. Listening now, she realized that her suspicion had been the merest shadow of the truth. “Thanks,” she said, knowing that the word couldn’t convey her gratitude for the men’s unexpected warmth. “Thanks a lot.”
The fishermen nodded and returned their attention to their nets. Elena, looking at the boats, and then out to sea, had a sudden idea. She did not think that they would betray her, but to trust them further was dangerous. Exchanging pleasantries was one thing but to ask them to risk prison. . . . What choice do I have? she thought wryly, and then said quickly, before fear closed her throat, “Do you go out fishing every morning?”
“Just about.” One of the younger men looked back at her.
“You couldn’t . . . take a passenger, could you?” Elena had the miserable feeling that she was not handling the conversation with any grace, but at least she had managed to frame the question.
“Fishing’s a boring sport for a young lady.” The man did not answer directly.
“I’d like to see more of the coast.” Elena’s voice was quiet.
Once again, there was a conversation between the fishermen that Elena could not understand. She held her breath. Finally, the oldest of them turned back to her. “Whereabouts along the coast would you like to see most?” he asked.
The time for seemingly innocent conversation was past. “Biarritz,” Elena said flatly.
The intricacies of the Basque language fluttered around her like the cries of the gulls. “We can take you,” the old man said finally. “But it’s putting our boat at risk. And our lives.”
“I can’t pay very much,” she said, opening negotiations.
“Two hundred pesetas.”
Elena hesitated, heartily regretting the cheap edition of the Odyssey and the overpriced breakfast that she had been weak enough to buy. Still, she had budgetted for a ten-day stay in the hotel and had thus far only passed two nights. Very carefully, she said. “I need to return also—”
“No,” he interrupted her bluntly. “We can drop you off, but we can’t hang around in French waters waiting for a rendezvous. It’s too dangerous.”
“Not even for two hundred pesetas?”
‘“Not even for four hundred.” One of the old man’s companions made a quick comment in Basque. Another seemed to concur. The old man turned back to Elena. “Jorge says he has a cousin on the French side. We’ll give you his name, and tell you where to find him if you like, and he can take you back.”
“For the same fee?” Elena inquired softly.
The fisherman laughed. “Two hundred pesetas will take you safely to Biarritz and get you the name and contacts you need there, sweetheart. You work out the price of your return trip once you get there.”
“When can we go?” Elena asked, rapidly calculating whether three nights of saved hotel fees would leave her with sufficient funds to get back from France.
“Tonight, if you like. Daytime’s too dangerous.”
Elena nodded. “All right. Tonight then.” She held out her hand. “For two hundred pesetas.”
There was a glimmer of amusement in the fisherman’s eyes but he took Elena’s hand gravely and shook it. “Meet us here at midnight,” he said.
“Here?” Elena asked, with some surprise.
“It’s as good a place as any, and we don’t have to give you directions,” he explained.
“All right. And thanks.” Elena hurried away, almost afraid to believe that she had achieved her goal.
She spent much of the day sleeping, trying to make up for the previous night’s lack of rest, and for the probable disruption of her sleep the following evening. Shortly before dinnertime she left the hotel, hoping that her departure would not be remarked upon amid the flow of guests leaving to search for restaurants. Once more she wandered through town and then headed down to the beach, this time posing more carefully as a stroller, enjoying the cool of the evening, with her face turned as much as possible toward the fading sunset.
The beach was empty when she returned to the spot where she had earlier encountered the fishermen. She sat on the sand, arms wrapped around her knees, and stared at the darkening water for as long as she could see it, hoping that if anyone noticed her they would think she was merely lost in contemplation. There was no sound except for the endless thud and swish of waves against the shore. She could make out few stars. Low, fast-moving clouds skated across the moon, blocking and then uncovering the pale light. She wondered, a little nervously, if it was going to rain. How long do I stay here? she thought, anxiously. What if it’s past midnight? What if they don’t come? Or if they alert the Guardia? I haven’t done anything wrong yet. . . . but if they arrest me for plotting to cross the border. . . . I wish Tejada was here instead of in Salamanca. She shuddered slightly, knowing that whatever feeling of benevolence the lieutenant might have toward her would not survive if she were arrested.
Waiting alone in the dark was maddening. They may have decided not to come. Or else they’ve been caught by the Guardia. Or maybe I’m in the wrong place. Or they’ve forgotten. Finally, after what seemed like decades, but was in fact less than half an hour, a dark shape appeared on the water, and the crunch of a keel on sand distinguished itself from the slap of the waves. Elena pushed herself to her feet and hurried down to the water’s edge. The moon was behind a cloud again, and she could make out no more than dark shapes, and an overwhelming smell of fish. “All safe and sound, Señorita?” She recognized the voice of one of the men she had spoken to earlier.
“Yes.”
“Come on, then.” A hand cupped her elbow and she felt the waves soak her shoes and skirt as she clambered into the boat. Another dark shape filled the back of the boat.
“Sit on the nets,” one of the men ordered her. “It’s safer, and you won’t throw off our balance. Come on, Jorge.”
The man who had helped her shoved the boat out into the water as the one sitting above her seemed to lever with the oars and the little craft took float. Jorge took a running leap, and landed on the other bench, splashing her slightly.
The oarsman rapidly rowed out past the breaking waves and then, when they were merely drifting on swells, slowed his pace. Elena, who had obediently crouched on the fishing nets, risked sitting up, and hoped that her far from full stomach was not about to betray her. “Payment?” It was Jorge again. “Two hundred pesetas.”
Elena nodded, and reached for her pocketbook. She handed over the money in silence.
A lantern flared briefly as Jorge took the bills and carefully counted them. Then he put out the lamp once more. “No sense attracting attention,” he explained. “We have a right to have a lantern in Spanish waters, but there’s no need to advertise that we’re here either.”
Elena nodded. “How long will it take?” she asked, trying to distract herself from an increasingly nauseous feeling.
“A few hours. We’ll get you there and be away before dawn.”
“Good.” Elena forced herself to reply although she found herself wondering how she would be able to stand the bobbing of the boat for a few hours. She slumped, leaning her forehead against the edge of the gunwale, swallowing rapidly.
It was a smooth trip, although it did not seem so to Elena. She did not vomit, although she would have liked to, in order to relieve her agonizing seasickness. She felt as if days, if not weeks, had passed by the time the crash of breakers made the little boat pitch even more wildly, announcing the end of their journey. She stumbled out of the boat, into knee-deep water, and very nearly lost one of her shoes in the darkness.
“Look,” said Jorge, as he guided her up onto the shore. “There’s a bar on the Rue Gambetta called the Magdalene. You go there, and tell the owner you’re looking for Jorge’s cousin Daniel. And tell Daniel that I said Conchita’s gone to the dogs. He’ll help you, if he can.”
“Thanks.” The feel of solid beach under her feet had done wonders, and she spoke with real gratitude.
“We’ve put you down a little distance from the town. If you walk that way,” the fisherman gestured with his right arm, “you should start seeing houses within a couple of miles. There’s a road inland that runs parallel to the coast, too. You’ve got about two hours before dawn.” Jorge held out his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. And you.” They shook hands.
Then the boat ground over the pebbles and pulled out to sea again, and Elena found herself alone on French soil.
Chapter 14
The summer home of Manuel Arroyo Díaz and his wife was set high on Monte Igueldo, on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea. A broad porch at the back of the house led into what had once been a elaborate flower garden. Straight ahead there was only the endless blue of the Bay of Biscay. To the right lay the golden horseshoe of the Playa de la Concha and the green bulk of the Isle of Santa Clara, so far below the garden that the lighthouse on Santa Clara looked like a white sheep on a green field. The patio and garden faced northeast, and received breezes from the sea, making them pleasantly cool, even in the full heat of a July noon. Tejada paused a moment on the threshold of the patio to admire the view and render a silent homage to his former professor’s good taste in real estate. It was a beautiful spot.
Glass crunched underfoot as he stepped onto the balcony. The garden had grown wild in the last four years, the more delicate plants dying and the hardier weeds spreading their tendrils onto the porch, climbing the foundation and sinking their roots into the stone, as if determined to finish the destruction that the Reds had begun. The lieutenant took a deep breath, and tasted the salt air with relief. An acrid smell of smoke still clung to the inside of the house.
Captain Alfanador, who headed the Guardia in San Sebastián, had readily supplied Tejada with the address of the Arroyo property, and offered an escort to assist the lieutenant in entering, if necessary. As it had turned out, the two guardias who accompanied the lieutenant were superfluous. Every pane of glass in the window had been smashed, and the door, half ripped off its hinges, had creaked open without the pressure of rifle butts. The three men had found themselves inside an empty hallway, thick with dust, and rancid with the stench of old fire. “Search the bedrooms,” Tejada had ordered. “You’re looking for any signs of recent habitation. And for any papers or documents,” he had added, although the hope seemed a faint one in view of the ashes that mingled with the dust in the ruined hallway.
The guardias had obediently tramped up the stairs and fanned out. Tejada had made his way through what he guessed to have been the parlor and dining room, and found a long, narrow chamber with one wall looking out over the sea, filled with overturned bookcases and the remains of a rolltop desk. With distaste he picked over the remnants of what seemed likely to have been Arroyo’s study. Charred lumps of twisted leather, which might have once been the covers of legal tomes, were all that he found. The mob—or subsequent thieves—had taken everything of value. He searched with increasing haste and impatience, more and more convinced that Arroyo’s house had stood empty since its destruction at the beginning of the war. It was too difficult to imagine anyone breathing the air of this sooty ruin for long.
The clean smell of the ocean and the rhythmic thump of breakers was a relief to the lieutenant. He moved out across the patio, eyes fixed firmly on the distant view, trying to ignore the broken glass and weeds underfoot. This was what Arroyo believed in, he thought with an admixture of pity and anger that was infinitely worse than disgust. The Republic! The People! The people, who had destroyed his home because they were too stupid to realize that he was one of them. God, if the poor bastard was here to see this it’d almost be punishment enough.
Tejada stepped into the garden and accidentally kicked something half-hidden in the tall grass. As it rolled away, he saw that it was an old soccer ball, half-flat and stained with time. He wondered idly if Arroyo had played ball as well as been a sailor. It was a shame, in a way, that the professor and his wife had not had children. This garden would have been a paradise for them. If Elena saw this, the lieutenant thought, she’d understand why the war was necessary. Why the Movement is necessary. But she hasn’t, thank God, because it doesn’t look as if Arroyo has been here recently, and she has nothing to do with him anyway, except for being in San Sebastián now. Purely a coincidence.
He had received almost immediate confirmation of Elena’s arrival in San Sebastián without even asking. Captain Alfanador, with an efficiency that Tejada envied, had pointed him to the records of summer arrivals in San Sebastián, neatly catalogued by province of origin. About fifteen Salmantinos had checked into hotels in San Sebastián in the last month. The most recent arrival was listed as “Fernández Ríos, Elena. HOTEL MARIA CRISTINA.” Tejada had noted the name with inexplicable anxiety and had similarly noted the absence of Arroyo’s. “Of course, that’s just the hotels,” Alfanador had said, a little apologetically. “It’s harder to keep tabs on people if they’re visiting friends or if they own property here. But if you want, take a look at Arroyo’s house.”
Now Arroyo’s house appeared to be a dead end also. Tejada wondered if it would be worthwhile to try to find out if Arroyo had friends in San Sebastián, when he heard footsteps behind him and turned. “There’s no sign of life upstairs, Lieutenant. But Espinal found this.” One of the guardias held out a scarred metal strongbox with a rusty lock.
Tejada took the box and tested its weight. It was light, so light that it might well have been empty. But why bother to lock an empty box? “Where was it?” he asked.
“Back of the closet, sir. Top shelf.”
The lieutenant gave the box a thoughtful shake. Something rattled within. “Let’s go,” he ordered, tucking the box under one arm.
Tejada left the ruined house with a strong sense of relief. As he and his escort headed down the mountain toward the post, there was a shout above their heads. “Guardia!”
The lieutenant looked upward, shading his eyes with one hand. He located a man standing on the ornamental front balcony of a neighboring house, leaning down toward him with one hand raised to wave. He felt a flicker of interest. “Can we help you, Señor?”
“I wondered about the house you just left.” The man’s voice was a little hesitant. “Do you know if it will stay vacant long?”
“Very likely,” Tejada said.
“I see,” the man frowned. “Will it be up for sale, do you think?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Tejada replied, with perfect honesty.
