Law of Return, page 5
Unfortunately, by the time he returned with the report, Captain Rodríguez had moved on to a new grievance. It was intolerable, the captain complained, for the Guardia to be so lax with regard to parolees. While Lieutenant Tejada and his men had been busily offending a prominent citizen, they had let a dangerous subversive slip through their fingers unnoticed. Lieutenant Tejada’s time might be better spent dealing with criminals than harassing innocent citizens. Tejada, who was by this time feeling the effects of his interrupted sleep, swallowed his rage with some difficulty.
By the time Tejada was free to return to the parolees’ files it was nearly noon, and he was thoroughly exhausted and annoyed. To his disgust, they were completely shuffled out of order. Sergeant Hernández, following orders, had alphabetized them, and the files that Tejada recalled from the previous day were scattered among utterly unfamiliar ones. The lieutenant spent nearly an hour shuffling through the files trying to remember which names were familiar, and then gave up, and pulled the petitioners’ folders out from the stack. He began to read Arroyo’s with more care, making some attempt to put it into a comprehensible order as he went along.
The information was not terribly enlightening. Much of it seemed to consist of calendars of parole dates (all of them scrupulously met until yesterday’s), and handwritten notes saying things like, “M.A. visited by H.F. 22:26 Monday Dec. 30 re:
Negrín symp???” He finally found a typewritten form giving Arroyo’s address, date of birth, marital status, and current employer. Tejada noted, with mild interest, that Arroyo’s employer was listed as one Eduardo Crespo, doctor of jurisprudence, and wondered in what capacity the former professor was now employed. Doctor Crespo was a bold man to hire Arroyo in the teeth of the Guardia Civil. A cutting from some legal journal had been paperclipped to the form. It contained a brief biography of Manuel Arroyo Díaz: “A native Salmantino, Arroyo received his doctorate from the University of Salamanca in 1889. He has studied abroad in France and Germany, and is author of numerous articles, and books including, The Retroactive Mandate; a Possible Role for the League of Nations in Cuba and Hispaniola and A Study of the Taxation of Foreign Nationals with Accounts in Spain. Arroyo currently holds a chair on the legal faculty at the University of Salamanca, where he pursues his interest in the intersection of law and economics.” Tejada sighed, and wondered what the chances were that an elderly academic had somehow managed to slip across the border and risk a transatlantic crossing to Cuba—or Hispaniola. It did not seem likely.
When he was satisfied that the Arroyo file was in order, Tejada turned his attention to the folders dedicated to Rivera and Velázquez. As he had expected, the two folders were not organized enough to be cross-referenced, but contained considerable redundant information. Twenty years separated the two doctors, but Rivera was clearly a protégé of Velázquez, and their careers had run parallel for the last decade: research interests in neurology, a flirtation with Viennese psychoanalytic theory, a string of publications in French and German periodicals, and then a sudden drop into professional obscurity in 1936. Velázquez, at sixty-five, was listed as “retired.” He was a widower who lived with a married daughter. Rivera was married and the father of three. He was employed in an unspecified capacity by a firm listed as Quiñones and Sons. Tejada, noting Doctor Rivera’s relative youth, decided that he had probably been led astray by his old mentor. It was unlikely, given the generation gap, that he had been a moving force among his elders.
Unfortunately, neither file contained the slightest reference to any connection the professors might have had to Manuel Arroyo Díaz. Tejada gritted his teeth, and glanced at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock and the first of the day’s parolees would be coming in less than an hour. He began to skim Guillermo Fernández’s file with one eye on the time. Somewhat to his surprise, Fernández had a prison record. He shuffled impatiently through the folder trying to find out why the classics professor had been imprisoned while his colleagues had been allowed to go free, but found nothing. Annoyed, he sent for Hernández and demanded an explanation.
“It does seem a bit arbitrary, sir,” the sergeant agreed. “But as I understand it, Fernández was thought to be a ringleader. Because he was a personal friend of the rector’s, you see. And we wanted to set an example for the others, and then of course there was the whole issue of family connections.”
“The Oteros,” the lieutenant said dryly. “Do Rivera and Velázquez have those kind of connections, by the way?”
Sergeant Hernández looked sympathetic. “I don’t think so, sir, but that wasn’t quite what I meant. Fernández had some very dubious family connections.”
“Oh?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.
“His son’s a Red,” Hernández explained. “Hipólito, his name is. He slipped through our lines during the war and fought on the other side.”
“Did he survive the war?” The lieutenant was already searching through folders looking for another labeled Fernández.
“Yes, sir, so far as we know. He’s an inactive file though.”
“Why? Executed?”
“No, sir. He made it across the border sometime last year, we think. He’s in Mexico now.”
“How do we know that?”
“Professor Fernández has been getting letters from him,” the sergeant said simply. “I think there’s a copy of the first one somewhere in the file, sir. From August of ’39 or thereabouts.”
Tejada wrinkled his nose. “Hipólito Fernández must be an expert runner,” he commented with some distaste. “Through our lines, over the border, all the way to Mexico.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tejada considered for a moment. “Are we sure it’s Mexico, and not Cuba or the Dominican Republic?”
Sergeant Hernández blinked. “As sure as we can be, sir. I don’t think anyone thought it was important. Why?”
Tejada shook his head. “Probably no reason. It was just a thought.” He bent his head over the Fernández file again. There was the usual list of parole dates, each one neatly checked off, except for the last. He inspected the sheet more closely. “Why didn’t you tell me that Fernández missed his last parole date?” he demanded, his voice suddenly sharp.
“What?” The sergeant looked startled. “What do you mean?”
“Here,” Tejada pointed. “June fourteenth. That was last Friday and it’s not checked off.”
“It should be, sir.” Hernández sounded uncertain. “At least, I think it should be. I remember seeing Fernández.”
“Are you sure?” Tejada asked.
“Fairly sure, yes, sir. He always comes with an old maid daughter of his. I remember seeing her last week.”
“Are you sure it was last week?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant was frowning, troubled. “It must have been. The captain was a bit short-tempered, and he was annoyed that I’d let Fernández’s daughter in with him. He made some comment about it being the last time he’d have to deal with the . . . er . . . the girl as well as the old man, something like that.”
“The girl?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.
Hernández looked half-abashed and half-amused. “Well, the bitch, if you’ll pardon my language, sir.”
Tejada smiled slightly. “Understood, Hernández. Do you think the captain’s annoyance might have made him careless about noting the date?”
The sergeant immediately became wooden. “It’s not my place to say, sir.”
“I agree.” The lieutenant was bland. “But I’m grateful for your powers of observation, Sergeant.” He picked up a pen, and checked off the June fourteenth date. “So, if none of them have missed any of their parole dates before, what do you think has happened to Arroyo this week?”
“I have no idea, sir.” Hernández’s tone was genuine, and apologetic now. He glanced at his watch and added, “The first of the parolees should be coming in any minute, sir. Should I let them wait?”
Tejada was tempted to continue examining the Fernández file, and even more tempted to take a nap, but a determination to upset the routines of Captain Rodríguez made him say. “No, show them in as they arrive. That way we’ll finish with them on time.”
Tejada’s interviews with the first half-dozen parolees were uneventful. They were all more or less on time, and none of them had any special demands. The lieutenant, preoccupied with the problem of Arroyo Díaz’s disappearance, was pleased to recognize the name of one of the petitioners as next on the list. “Is Guillermo Fernández here?” he asked the sergeant, half expecting (and half hoping) that Hernández would say that the professor was late.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied readily. “He’s in the waiting room, with his daughter. Should I show them in?”
“Please.” Hernández left, and Tejada bent his head over the Fernández file, scrupulously checking off the appropriate date to avoid further confusion. He wondered idly why the professor was always accompanied by his daughter. Perhaps she was unusually fond of him. Perhaps he was afraid of entering the post alone. Perhaps they merely liked annoying Captain Rodríguez.
The lieutenant was shuffling through the file, searching for useful information, and wondering what kind of a man would bestow on his only son the archaic name of Hipólito, when Sergeant Hernández returned. “Guillermo Fernández, sir,” he announced.
“Thank you.” Tejada closed the file, looked up, and met a pair of wide, dark eyes set in a white, stricken face that he remembered only too well. Classics! he thought. Oh, shit. So that’s how I knew the name. And then, somewhat unfairly, Old maid? I’m going to kill Hernández for that bit of misleading information.
Elena looked as if she were going to faint. Tejada stood rapidly, gauging the possibility of catching her if she fell, and overturned his chair with an embarrassingly loud crash.
Guillermo Fernández jumped slightly as the chair fell. “Err . . . good afternoon, Lieutenant,” he stammered. “Is the captain . . . ?”
Tejada stooped, and attempted to pick up his chair by one arm while still keeping his eyes on Elena. Since the chair was a heavy, wheeled affair, it was impossible to set it upright one-handed, and his efforts were rewarded by a series of loud thumps, followed by another crash as the chair hit the floor again. Red-faced, the lieutenant dropped his eyes, wrenched the recalcitrant piece of furniture upright, and held out his hand to the man standing across from his desk, trying to pretend that he had only intended to shake hands in the first place. “How do you do, Professor Fernández,” he said shortly. “The captain has transferred the duty of interviewing parolees to me. I will be in charge of your files in the future.”
“Oh.” The professor took the proffered hand, looking a little nonplussed. No guardia civil had ever offered to shake hands with him before, and it was unusual for a guardia to explain his actions so freely as well. “How do you do?” He became aware that Elena was still clinging to his arm, and added, since the lieutenant was so unusually well mannered, “This is my daughter.”
Tejada looked hastily at Elena, waiting for some cue. She held out one hand mutely. He took it, wondering wildly if he should say something of their former acquaintance. They shook hands in mutually miserable silence. Do something, Tejada wanted to shout at the old man. Say something. Offer her a chair, damn you. Can’t you see she’s upset?
The lieutenant had given a good deal of thought to what he wanted to say to Guillermo Fernández, and had carefully planned out an interrogation, touching on the professor’s relationship to Arroyo, to the other petitioners, and to his absent son, but he found himself tongue-tied. It was difficult to cross-examine someone properly when you had the nagging feeling that he might cross-examine you about your intentions at any moment. I wonder if he knows my name? Tejada thought. No, probably not, or he’d have guessed why Elena was upset. But what did she tell them about Madrid? She must have said something. Perhaps she only mentioned the little girl, her pupil, but not me. He took a deep breath. “Your . . . your political beliefs, Professor. I would appreciate it if you would state them for me.” Even as he spoke he remembered Elena’s voice, shaking with barely controlled hysteria, incriminating herself: “I’m a Socialist, Sergeant!” He stared at Professor Fernández to avoid her eyes.
Guillermo shuddered slightly and stared at the ground. The question was a familiar one, and somehow the strange lieutenant, who politely used the formal “you” and shook hands before interrogating, was far more menacing than the blustery, openly insulting Captain Rodríguez. “I’m a professor of humanities, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “Politics aren’t my business.”
“They were your business in ’36, though.” Tejada looked down at the desk, remembering Elena’s voice, as relaxed as he had ever heard it: “My father is a very devoted admirer of the classics.”
“No.” Guillermo was aware of the quaver in his voice and hated it. No violence, he thought, remembering the blue-shirted youths who had dragged him to prison. Please, God, no violence. Not in front of Elena. “No, I was a friend of Don Miguel’s. I acted only as his friend.”
“And your son? Is he also apolitical?” (I never knew she had a brother. Of course, she wouldn’t have told me.)
“I haven’t seen my son since ’36.” (And is that an excuse for me to cling to my daughter? Why did I let her come with me?)
“What about your fellow petitioners?” Tejada asked abruptly, his mind only half on the question. (“I haven’t seen my parents since the beginning of the war,” she told me. God, and I wondered why she feared me.) “When was the last time you saw Arturo Velázquez?”
“I don’t know. A while ago.” Guillermo frowned. (Why does he want to know this?)
“Tomás Rivera?” Tejada felt the awkwardness of the question. (Stupid way to go about this! But since you’ve started, you might as well continue.)
“I can’t remember. We were never close.” The professor felt himself sliding into the familiar pattern of interrogation. He stared fixedly at the stack of manila folders on the desk, knowing that he probably would not have the courage to ask the strange lieutenant for permission to travel. (I’ve already mailed the letter to Meyer. It’s too late. Why do they want to know now? I shouldn’t have written. I shouldn’t have let Elena know about this . . . I can ask next week. Next week I won’t let her come with me.)
“Manuel Arroyo Díaz?” Tejada risked a glance at Elena. She was staring at him, very straight-backed and white-faced. (Vouch for him, Tejada silently willed her. Tell me if he’s telling the truth.)
“I don’t know. Five or six months ago, maybe.”
“Are you aware that Professor Arroyo is suspected of subversive activity?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Tejada managed to jerk out a few more unrelated questions, and then closed the interview with relief. He sent for Hernández automatically.
“Well?” the sergeant asked, interested in his superior’s impressions of Professor Fernández. “Do you think he knows anything about Arroyo?”
Tejada shrugged. “Probably not. But have someone follow him home, and keep an eye on his movements for the next couple of days, until we know what’s going on.”
“Yes, sir.” Hernández, Tejada noted approvingly, carefully wrote the order on a small pad. “Just Fernández, sir, or the wife and daughter also?”
“Just Fernández,” the lieutenant said hastily, and then recollected that it would have been wiser to ask if Hernández had a reason for wanting surveillance of the rest of the family. He swallowed. “Unless you think El . . . the girl knows something.”
The sergeant shook his head. “No, it’s not worth wasting a man on. Just checking, sir.”
“Fine.” Tejada heaved a sigh of relief. “Is the next parolee here yet?”
Hernández glanced at the list. “Ernesto Cárdenas? Yes, sir. I’ll send him in.”
“Thanks.” Tejada pulled Cárdenas’s file from the stack, returning to familiar routine with infinite relief. He devoutly hoped that he would not meet any more parolees’ relatives he knew in the course of the afternoon. One was quite enough.
Chapter 6
Elena walked home through the slanting afternoon sunlight blind to the buildings around her, and very nearly deaf to her father’s voice. “I suppose I should have asked about traveling,” Guillermo was saying, a little anxiously. “But overall, I don’t think that went too badly. Of course, the lieutenant asked a lot of questions, but that’s probably just because he’s new, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Elena had no idea what she was agreeing to.
“I was nervous there for a bit.” In fact, Guillermo was calm enough to realize that his daughter was upset, and he spoke now in an effort to draw her out. “But I think it will be all right. What did you think of the lieutenant? He struck me as a bright man, for a guardia.”
Elena nodded slowly. “Yes, he is bright.” Now, she knew, was the time to tell him, before her silence became guilty. Logically, it should not have been difficult. Her father would not think of blaming her if she said casually, “Actually, I was too startled to mention it earlier, but we’ve met before, right after the war ended. He was investigating a murder in Madrid that involved one of my students. He asked me for some information.” She tried to imagine the turn the conversation would take next. “No, no, I wasn’t a suspect. Nothing like that. He was very kind. He’s not bad as the guardia go.” That was all that was necessary to say. Surely her father would not press her for more details. He would be concerned, but not overly curious.
Elena knew that she was lying to herself. Her parents would certainly be worried enough to ask other questions about her encounter with the Guardia Civil in Madrid. In fact, she would be able to set their minds at rest regarding her brush with a murder investigation. She might have to admit that Tejada had been very kind to her—he had fed her when she was starving—but even that would not be so terrible. The awful part would be explaining her last encounter with him. She had rehearsed the words a thousand times: “I had dinner with Sergeant Tejada and then I went home. A couple of soldiers tried to get fresh. They were drunk, and, well, you can imagine the sort of thing. It could have been unpleasant if Sergeant Tejada hadn’t been there. He followed me because he was worried about me. Very gallant—and very helpful as it turned out.” She could practically hear her own lighthearted laugh, and see the casual shrug that would (of course) allay her parents’ fears. “I would have told you earlier, but I didn’t want to worry you. No harm done, after all.”
