Law of Return, page 26
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?”
“Errr . . . no.” Tejada shook hands with the professor, and then stood, facing him, uncertain how to continue. After a moment, Guillermo resumed his seat. Tejada gulped. “I wanted to inform you . . . to ask you . . . that is, I realize this must be a somewhat unexpected question . . .” Only his pride prevented him from turning to Elena for help. She took his hand and squeezed it encouragingly. “A startling question,” Tejada repeated, more strongly. “After all, you don’t know me, or my family, but . . .”
“I am sure that they are honorable people.” Guillermo’s voice, slightly amused, filled the awkward silence. “And,” for an instant his smile was bitter, “at the moment you are far better able to support Elena than I am.” Tejada gasped. Guillermo stood and held out his hand. “I don’t know that I have reason to like you, Lieutenant, but I have excellent reason to trust you. And Elena seems to have made her choice already. In Biarritz.”
“You knew?” Tejada and Elena spoke at the same time, in identical tones of outraged embarrassment.
“And you said—?” the lieutenant choked.
“And you didn’t say—” Elena stammered.
“Professor Meyer and I have been friends for a long time,” Guillermo said mildly. “We had a chat the evening before he left.” The professor smiled at his daughter. “He was worried about you, Elenita.”
Elena made an embarrassed noise, somewhere between a groan and a giggle. Tejada absently folded one arm around her shoulders. “Well,” he said, almost dizzy with relief, “that makes my next question much easier, then.”
Chapter 22
The Roman bridge over the river Tormes had been a favorite spot of the university’s old rector. He had frequently crossed it, sometimes spent half hours staring down into the sluggish water, and had even made it a part of his novels. Guillermo had avoided the bridge since his old colleague’s disgrace and death. It belonged to a world that no longer existed. So it was with a little shock of recognition that he turned a corner and saw the Roman arches once more, as if he were coming face-to-face with his own past.
It was the middle of the siesta and the bridge was deserted. Guillermo moved toward it hesitantly and placed a tentative hand on the sunbaked stones before starting across. They were almost unpleasantly warm against his bare skin. He leaned on the ancient wall and squinted down into the courtyard of the Church of Santiago, situated in the little park by the river. The brightness of the sun on the flagstones almost blinded him and he turned his head toward the yellowed grasses that clung to the dusty bank and the slow, greenish water beyond them. The river was low at this season. The paths through the park were dusty, and the scrubby bushes and crabgrass that grew in the shade of the ancient arches were coated with a fine golden grit. It was breathlessly hot. No whisper of wind touched the sweat pooling on Guillermo’s forehead, or disturbed the footprints along the path by the river that wound into the welcome shade and continued on by the water’s edge. No women scrubbed clothes on the opposite shore. No children splashed in the shallows. The relentless sun had driven everyone indoors.
A rhythmic tap on the cobblestones of the street behind him interrupted Guillermo’s thoughts. It was regular but not quite symmetrical. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. He turned, looked up and shaded his eyes with one hand, and the taps resolved themselves into measured footsteps and the click of a silver-handled walking stick. “Professor Fernández?”
Guillermo nodded. “Good afternoon. It was kind of you to meet me here.”
“Not at all.” The voice was hearty, self-assured, not low or furtive in the least.
I hope he’s the right one, Guillermo thought, with a trace of nervousness. He doesn’t seem worried. Aloud he said simply, “I thought you might prefer it. I am known to the Guardia Civil. People are sometimes reluctant to associate with me too publicly.”
“What a shame.” The words were a social reflex. To the professor’s relief his companion brought the conversation to the point. “Why, exactly, did you wish to consult with me?”
Guillermo considered what to say for a moment. “I was a friend of Manuel Arroyo’s,” he said finally. “He and I . . . had certain interests in common. I understand that you had his complete confidence. And now, in his absence, I wished to ask your advice.”
“It’s kind of you to say that Professor Arroyo trusted me. And certainly I hope it’s true. I’m at your disposal, Professor Fernández.”
Guillermo bowed slightly. “Thank you. I merely wanted to know if you were the other signer on Arroyo’s second account.”
“What?” The question was startlingly, unnecessarily loud. Guillermo glanced around involuntarily, although the area was obviously empty. His companion caught Guillermo’s sign of nervousness, but did not lower his voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Arroyo’s other Swiss account,” Guillermo explained, keeping his voice low. “I held the number for one of them, but I know there was another, and I thought that now that he was dead, it was important to have the number for it as well.”
Guillermo’s companion frowned. “What makes you think I would lend myself to such an illegal enterprise?” His voice was still loud, but it was no longer hearty.
Guillermo looked apologetic. “Because Arroyo mentioned to me that you had similar investments. A few days before his unfortunate demise.”
Tap-tap-tap. The cane bounced thoughtfully on the stones. “I am afraid that I can’t help you, Professor Fernández. But I think it might be a good idea if you provided me with the number of Arroyo’s account.”
“Why?” Guillermo demanded, startled.
The other man smiled. “You do realize, Professor, that you have just provided yourself with an excellent motive for Arroyo’s murder? After all, now that he’s dead, you are presumably the only person who can access his wealth. And, as you say, you are already known to the Guardia Civil.”
The professor looked apologetic. “Well, yes. But on the other hand, if I were arrested, I would certainly tell the Guardia all that I knew about Arroyo’s investments and yours.”
“Are you attempting to blackmail me, Professor?” The words were amused.
“Blackmail is an ugly word,” Guillermo said gently. “Why don’t we call it an exchange of mutually profitable information? I can tell you the account number that I know and you can tell me the number that you know. Or the numbers.”
To Guillermo’s surprise, his companion actually laughed. “And what would my clients say about my sharing such private information? I’m sorry Professor, but one account number isn’t enough mutual benefit—no matter how much Arroyo had squirreled away.”
