Law of Return, page 25
“You crossed the border? But how? Why did you take such a risk?” Her mother was concerned.
Elena was somewhat steadied by the telling of her trip to France, and her first encounter with Meyer. “So we agreed to rest in a hotel lounge until nightfall,” she finished, feeling her mouth go dry.
“And you crossed on foot? My God, Elena, you poor thing! The professor must be quite a mountaineer.”
Once again, Elena was tempted to let silence stand as the reply. But her childhood habit of total honesty was strong. “No,” she said reluctantly. “As it happened we were found. By . . . by Lieutenant Tejada.”
“Lieutenant who?” María asked, frowning both at the title and her daughter’s tone of voice.
“The officer Papa reports to,” Elena amplified, eyes fixed on the quilt. “Who gave us permission to travel. He said he was in Biarritz on other business.”
María gasped. “The Guardia found you? But you got away? How? Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
Elena twisted her hands in her lap. “He drove us across the border,” she explained unwillingly, wishing that she had simply let her mother think that she and Meyer had crossed the border on foot. “He . . .” she paused as it occurred to her that even if she had not wished to conceal details of her meeting from her parents, she could not think of a plausible motive for Tejada’s help. A memory of his stubborn chauvinism came to her aid. “He said he wouldn’t hand a Spaniard over to foreign authorities. And he didn’t care what we’d done, so long as we weren’t Communists.” She swallowed remembering Meyer’s last words to the lieutenant. “He’s a good man . . . for one of them.”
“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” María repeated, stunned.
“I didn’t want to worry you. You know how Papa is about the Guardia.”
María was quite sure that her daughter had not offered a full explanation, but years of war and surveillance had taught the professor’s wife that the absurdly irrational and wildly implausible were sometimes a daily fact of life. María did not think her daughter was lying. Talking about her encounter with the Guardia Civil clearly made her miserable, but there were many possible reasons for that. María decided that forcing her daughter’s confidence would be unwise. I’ll talk to Guillermo this evening, she thought. And see what Elena’s told him about all this. And give her a chance to recover from the whole business. “Thank God I didn’t know about this at the time,” she said aloud, forcing a smile.
“That was what I thought.” Elena’s smile became more natural as her mother dropped the subject.
To her relief, her parents seemed willing to let sleeping dogs lie. The next few days were tense enough anyway. There were no direct trains to La Coruña, and Elena had been forced to purchase a ticket with a connection in Madrid. Professor Meyer, who spent much of the time pacing the hallway and itching to go outside, accepted the news that he was to leave on Tuesday morning and arrive at La Coruña the following dawn with fatalistic calm. Elena devoted herself to giving the professor intensive Spanish lessons, and doing her best to recall the layout of the Madrid station, so that he would not need to ask for directions when he changed trains. Guillermo, who had pointed out that traveling such a long distance without luggage would probably attract comment, packed a small suitcase for his guest over Professor Meyer’s embarrassed objections. The suitcase was far from full. It contained only an extra suit, a small toilet bag, and a few volumes of Homer. “So you’ll have something to read on the boat,” Guillermo insisted. “I have extra copies anyway.”
Elena and Guillermo said their final good-byes to Professor Meyer early Tuesday morning. They had agreed to leave together, well before him, so that any surveillance would be drawn away from the house. “Good luck,” Guillermo said quietly, shaking hands with his colleague. He smiled a little. “I hope we meet again.”
“Next year in Mexico, perhaps,” the Jew agreed. He turned to Elena. “Thank you for all of your help, Helenka.”
“It was nothing.”
Father and daughter left the house and wandered down to the market, patiently standing in line for bread, glad that they had an excuse to spend so much time away from their home. They returned a little after ten. The house was empty, except for María. “He left around nine-thirty,” the professor’s wife reported.
Guillermo looked at his watch. “His train’s in less than an hour.”
“If all goes well, we won’t hear anything for at least a month,” Elena reminded her father. “Until Hipólito writes.”
“If all goes well,” María agreed.
Chapter 21
We probably won’t hear anything for at least a month,” Hernández said gloomily.
The lieutenant grimaced. “You’re an optimist, Sergeant. We “ probably won’t hear anything at all. The Swiss haven’t gotten rich by releasing information.”
The two men were sitting in Tejada’s office, ostensibly filling out requisitions for ration cards, but actually worrying away at the Arroyo case. Captain Rodríguez, who had thoroughly approved Tejada’s decision to arrest Tomás Rivera, had been indignant when he discovered that the lieutenant had not charged him with murder. “You’ve had the man for three days, Tejada!” he had snapped the previous evening. “That’s long enough to get a confession.”
“I’m not sure if he murdered Professor Arroyo, sir,” Tejada explained.
“Then why are you holding him?” the captain demanded.
“Protective custody, sir,” Tejada replied. “He may well have information about Arroyo’s murderer and we may need him as a witness. I don’t want him to turn up dead also.”
Not surprisingly, the captain had seized on Tejada’s last statement as proof that the lieutenant did in fact know who had killed Arroyo, and demanded that the felon be arrested immediately. Tejada had attempted to explain that while Rivera’s evidence provided a clear motive, the doctor had not mentioned a specific person, but the captain had been unwilling to listen to him. “I want an arrest by the end of the week, Lieutenant,” he’d snapped at the end of an increasingly tense interview. “Or I’ll move ahead with charges against Rivera.” Tejada had saluted stiffly and marched out, wishing that the post had a firing range so that he could relieve his feelings.
Now, in spite of Hernández’s sympathy, the lieutenant was depressed. He had written to the address listed for Adolf Vogel in Arroyo’s address book, politely requesting information about more recent clients from Salamanca, probably referred by the professor. But he knew that the threat of the Guardia Civil would be blunted in Zurich. Even Spanish banks were reluctant to release information to the Guardia. The Swiss, with nothing to lose, were not even likely to bother with a flat refusal.
“Do you think it would have been better to find out what bank this Vogel worked for, and then written to them?” Hernández asked.
Tejada shrugged. “I was in a hurry. And I thought that a man might be easier to deal with than an institution.”
The sergeant nodded. “Looks like Rivera’s in for it then,” he commented.
The lieutenant sighed. “We’ve done all we can.” He spoke as much to himself as to Hernández.
“I know it,” Hernández agreed. He made a dismissive gesture. “At least it’s one less file to keep track of.”
Tejada made an affirmative noise, and returned to the memo he had been drafting. For a little while the only sounds in the office were the sharp clatter of typewriter keys and the scratch-ings of Hernández’s pen. Tejada finished typing and pulled the sheet from the machine. “Anything happening with the other petitioners?” he asked abruptly.
“Nope.” To his relief, Sergeant Hernández seemed uninterested. “We might think about dropping surveillance on them as well soon. There are only the two of them left, after all, and they’re not likely to get into much mischief.”
“Something to think about,” Tejada agreed, and dropped the subject, relieved that the idea had come from Hernández and not from him.
The lieutenant spent the next few days taking care of paperwork. He had more than enough to do and managed to think very little about Manuel Arroyo and his murderer. His faint twinges of conscience grew slightly stronger as the end of the week approached. Captain Rodríguez would probably bring formal charges against Tomás Rivera on Monday. I’ve done all I can, he reminded himself. Rivera’s a Red, even if he didn’t kill Arroyo. Most men wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. And it’s not as if I have nothing else to do. The necessity of keeping the interview appointments of all the other parolees on Thursday and Friday was a relief. They made it impossible for Tejada to worry about anything else.
Sergeant Hernández had neatly rescheduled the appointments so that there was no longer a hole where Manuel Arroyo’s had been. Tejada had succeeded in pushing almost every thought of the petitioners out of his mind by Friday afternoon when Guillermo Fernández showed up for his appointment.
Tejada nodded at the professor and asked a few desultory questions. Fernández was alone. The preceding week the lieutenant had feared that Elena might once more accompany her father to the post, and had reproached himself for his idiocy in fearing such a thing as soon as Guillermo had entered his office unaccompanied. Of course Elena would do anything to avoid him now. Tejada, who had carefully read the reports of the Fernández surveillance for the previous week, and noted with infinite relief that none of them contained any reference to a mysterious guest, hurried through his interview with the professor, anxious to get Fernández out of his sight.
The lieutenant was too preoccupied to notice that his parolee was nervous. It was not until Tejada issued a curt dismissal that he realized that Guillermo Fernández seemed to have something on his mind. Instead of scuttling for the door, the professor coughed, turned his hat in his hands, and hesitated slightly. “Lieutenant?”
Tejada, who had returned his attention to the folder on his desk, forced himself to meet Professor Fernández’s eyes. “Yes? Was there something else?”
“I wanted to thank you.” Fernández sounded embarrassed. “I understand my daughter’s trip north wouldn’t have been possible without your help.”
Tejada tensed, as a series of wild speculations raced across his brain at lightning speed. Elena must have told them something about crossing the border, he reminded himself, deliberately trying to unclench the muscles in his neck. That’s all he means. He was proud of how steady his voice was as he said, “A permission to travel was the least I could do. I hope Señorita Fernández enjoyed her vacation.”
The professor nodded, and Tejada reflected that he had never seen the older man smile before. “My wife and I are of course glad that she returned safely,” Fernández said.
Tejada nodded. “There’s really no need to thank me.” His voice was held steady by the bitter knowledge that the professor almost certainly would have had a great deal more to say had he known the full circumstances of Elena’s encounter with him in France.
“I wanted you to know that your kindness was noted.” Professor Fernández spoke with a kind of gentle dignity. “I hope Elena thanked you as well,” he added.
“She was very gracious.” Tejada’s voice was slightly strangled, but the professor seemed relieved by his reply.
“I’m glad,” he said simply. “She normally remembers her manners, but she can be temperamental sometimes. Like her mother.”
“I didn’t notice that,” Tejada managed. I don’t deserve this, he thought.
The professor looked slightly amused. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, Lieutenant, when you marry, you will find that all women can be temperamental. I wouldn’t have said my wife was, when I first met her. And then, before our son was born sometimes I wondered what had happened to the woman I’d married. When she was carrying Elena, too, although at least by that time I was prepared.” Professor Fernández was startled out of his reminiscences by the look on Tejada’s face. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
“Fine, thanks,” Tejada lied automatically. “Professor . . . I need to meet with your daughter.”
The parolee drew back slightly, looking anxious. “She’s not under suspicion of anything, is she?”
“No!” Tejada took a deep breath, and made sure that his voice was steady enough not to betray him before continuing. “No. I . . . I have . . . a question—some questions, for her. But there’s no need for her to come to the post. If I could meet with her briefly at your home . . . this evening perhaps? I would be . . . very grateful.”
“We will be at home.” The professor spoke with gentle irony. “And I take it that you know the address.”
“Yes,” Tejada nodded, unhappily. “Until this evening, then.”
Tejada saw the rest of the parolees in a daze, and responded absentmindedly to Hernández’s questions about patrol routes for the following week. He began clearing his desk a few minutes before eight o’clock. He was locking the office door before the church bells in the square had finished tolling the hour. Corporal Méndez hailed him as he left his room a few minutes later. “Sir! I’m glad I’ve found you. Estrada and Gómez are scheduled for patrol in the north sector, but Estrada’s due for leave and he says that if they do the north route he won’t get back until—”
“Talk to Hernández,” Tejada interrupted. “I’m off duty.”
“I couldn’t find him, sir. And the schedule—”
“Can wait until tomorrow,” the lieutenant finished without breaking stride. “I’m busy.”
It was still hot, and rays of the afternoon sun hung in the dusty streets, nearly as palpable as the folds of a shawl. Tejada paced through the warmth aware only of a cold knot in his stomach. Elena could not be pregnant. Or, more accurately, she could be but it had never occurred to him that she might be because . . . because it had never occurred to him. But if she was, regardless of how she felt about him, he had to see her. Her contemptuous words echoed in his ears. “I imagine rubbing my parents’ nose in it will be your favorite part.” Tejada winced. He emphatically did not want to explain his relationship with Elena to the anxious, grateful, gentlemanly Professor Fernández. But the professor was owed some explanation. The walk to the Fernández’s house was both too long and too short.
Somewhat to the lieutenant’s surprise, Guillermo Fernández himself opened the door to his home. “My wife is bedridden, due to an injury,” he explained, in answer to the lieutenant’s raised eyebrows. “And we have no servants.” Then, seeing that Tejada seemed disinclined to respond, Guillermo added, “I believe Elena is upstairs. The second door on the right.”
“Thank you.” For the first time, Tejada blessed the professor’s liberal opinions. He had not been able to think of a way of tactfully asking to speak to Elena without the presence of a chaperone and he was grateful that he would not be required to do so. Still, when he knocked on the door the professor had indicated and pushed it open, he was surprised to realize that he was standing on the threshold of Elena’s bedroom.
She was curled up on a window seat at the far edge of the room, her hands clasping her knees, her forehead resting against the panes of glass. She would have looked like a child if it were not for the waves of hair piled loosely on her head. She did not turn her head as the door opened. “Go away.” Her voice was weary.
Tejada cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Your father said I’d find you here. I’m sorry to intrude.”
Elena whirled around at the sound of his voice and was on her feet more quickly than he would have believed possible. “What are you doing here?”
Tejada had taken a few steps towards the window seat as he spoke. Now he hastily retreated to the doorway. “I had to see you.”
“This is my room.” Elena spoke indignantly and then turned crimson as she realized that she could hardly expect the lieutenant to be as awed by this fact as most men.
“I . . . I’m sorry to intrude,” Tejada repeated, flushing also. The setting had already made him uncomfortable without Elena’s reminder. The room had clearly belonged to her as a child. The row of girl’s novels on the top bookshelf, the slightly dusty dollhouse in one corner, and the garishly painted jewelry box below the mirror on the dresser were things no man should ever see. He was out of place here, a toy soldier carelessly dropped among a little girl’s treasured possessions. His gaze slid over to the narrow bed in one corner, and hastily looked away; a brown-eyed doll resting against the headboard seemed to be staring at him reproachfully.
“What do you want?” Elena’s first wave of surprise and anger was over. Her voice was quiet, but it trembled a little. She was standing still and straight, with her hands at her sides.
“I wanted to be sure that you were all right.” Tejada spoke hoarsely.
“I’m fine.” She hardly opened her lips.
“Oh. Good.” The lieutenant hardly knew what he was saying. “Also . . . I wanted . . . to ask . . .” He took a deep breath, prepared to ask her about the suspicion that Guillermo Fernández had innocently raised, and found himself saying incoherently, “What you said that night in Biarritz . . . Was it because of Meyer? Because you thought that I would . . . if you didn’t . . .”
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?”
