Summer Snow (12 page)

“Did you ever work in a station?” Toño asked, hoping for a train-related story.

“No, I always did rural patrols. I guess the corps figured a mountain-bred boy was best off in the mountains.”

“Were you ever in
our
mountains?” Toño said, interested.

“Sure. I spent a dozen years in Órgiva.”

Toño frowned over the unfamiliar name. “Is that in the Asturias?”

“The Asturias!” Nilo repeated. “No, sir! Right here, in our own Alpujarra. A few hours’ drive. Longer on a horse, of course.” He shot a sidewise glance at the lieutenant. “Never thought I’d meet a Tejada who thought of the Asturias as home!”

“We’ve lived in Cantabria since before he was born,” Tejada excused his son.

Elena sensed her husband’s discomfort and quickly said, “So you spent your whole career in the Alpujarra?”

Nilo shook his head. “No, I did four years in Cuba, first. And that was a hellhole, begging your pardon, Señora. Guerrillas everywhere you turned, and damp that gets into your bones and camps out there. Then, after 1898, I came home and they put me in the Sierra Nevada. And I was there and in the Alpujarra for sixteen years. And loved it.”

“You’re from around here originally?” Elena asked, more for politeness than for information. The man’s accent was unmistakable.

“Yes, Señora. I grew up in the Sierra Nevada. A little town called Acequias. I was lucky to be posted to Órgiva. It’s only a few hours away, so I was able to get home on leave.”

In spite of his travels abroad in his youth, the old man’s attitude was similar to that of many of the residents of Potes, Elena thought. There really wasn’t much worth seeing outside their own mountains. Except, of course, that both the Granadino and the Cantabrians would have denied that they had anything in common. Wondering what had brought him from his mountains to the metropolis on the plain, she asked, “How did you end up in Granada then?”

Nilo’s face darkened. “I had a bit of a run-in with some bandits. It was winter, and I should have known better than to chase them over that road. But I knew it like the back of my hand, and, well, pride goeth before a fall. In my case, pride went before a patch of ice. My horse came down on me.”

Elena’s breath hissed through her teeth and she closed her eyes momentarily, reminding herself that Carlos was a good horseman and that the roads were better than they had been, and that anyway the Guardia used jeeps whenever they could nowadays. Tejada, who had heard and gloried in the story of the moonlight chase many times in his childhood, now found himself interested in a new facet of Nilo’s history. “Did the Guardia sent you to Granada for medical treatment?”

Nilo shook his head. “Oh, no. They picked me up and brought me back to the post, and then the sergeant got the doctor to come take a look at me, but there wasn’t much he could do. The problem was when I healed up I had this limp. I couldn’t ride, and there was no way I was fit for service. So I went home to Acequias and was just set to go crazy with worry when Don Jesús offered to help.”

“Don Jesús?” Elena asked, just as her husband said, “That would be Jesús del Rioseco?”

“That’s right,” Nilo agreed. “He found me a little house in the city and offered me a place here as a porter. And I’ve been here ever since.” Turning to Elena, he added, “The Riosecos own a lot of land up in the Alpujarra. Don Jesús was the head of the family in those days. My family were tenants of his, and he took care of his people. A fine gentleman, Don Jesús.”

“He owned the building where you work?” Elena guessed.

“Yes, and some other properties around the city. His son, Don Ramiro, sold off this one a few years ago, but he told me to come to him if the new owners made any changes. He was like his father.”

There was silence for a moment, as Nilo paid tribute to his patron. Toño began to swing his legs again restlessly. Elena, embarrassed by Nilo’s feudalism, noticed her son’s fidgeting and seized the excuse it offered. “You’ve been very quiet. Would you like to go look at the fountain?” she asked, stroking the boy’s forehead.

Toño agreed enthusiastically and slid out of his seat with a
speed that suggested his mother’s offer had come none too soon. They excused themselves and headed off to explore the plaza. Nilo watched them go, smiling. “Bright kid.”

Tejada bowed his head, pleased. “Thanks. He can’t sit still, though.”

“Mine couldn’t either at that age. But he’s a good boy. Like his father.” Nilo continued, “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“All right, I suppose.”

“No, I mean it.” Nilo looked out the window, to watch Toño clambering up the sides of the fountain, while Elena offered him a helping hand. “Becoming a lieutenant. Marrying a pretty, well-educated girl like that. A healthy son. You’re a lucky man.”

It occurred to Tejada that he had never heard Nilo mention his family. Perhaps the former guardia was a widower.
How did
he support his children after he was wounded
? Tejada wondered.
The
pension wouldn’t have been enough.
He thrust away the unpleasant thought. His parents might dislike Elena, but they would see to it that no grandchild of theirs ever starved. “I didn’t know you had children,” he said aloud.

“Four girls. All married now, up in the Sierra. And my little Paquito.”

“Your son?”

“He would have been about ten years older than you are. He died when he was six. Fever.”

“I’m sorry.” Tejada cast an involuntary glance toward the window and was reassured by the sight of Toño scampering among the flower sellers, hearty and healthy.

Nilo followed his gaze. “God’s will. Probably wouldn’t happen nowadays, with all these new medicines.”

Tejada nodded absently, still watching Toño. “I’m more blessed than I deserve,” he said.

“You are.” Nilo looked the lieutenant squarely in the face. “So what are you doing here?”

Tejada blinked, caught off balance, and did not immediately reply. “It’s none of my business, of course,” Nilo went on. “But it must be more than fifteen years since you last came to visit Don Pablo. What’s happening? You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?”

“Trouble? No, of course not.” Tejada was not sure if his voice sounded as decided as he hoped. “I’m just here visiting family.”

Nilo nodded. “That’s good, then. Your parents must be glad you’re home. And I’ll bet they’re proud of their grandson.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Why didn’t you bring him to visit Don Pablo? I’m sure he’d be tickled pink to meet the boy.”

“I might, if I get a chance. But I wanted to see Don Pablo on business,” Tejada replied absently before he remembered that he had just claimed the purpose of his trip was to visit family.

Nilo raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing. There was silence. Tejada recognized a professional’s technique for eliciting a confession. He was an expert at it himself. But it did not seem worth the effort to resist Nilo’s curiosity. “My father’s aunt Rosalia died a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “That’s actually why I’m here.”

The old man nodded. “I wondered if that was it.”

“What?”

“There’s not going to be any need to drag the family into court over the will, is there?” Nilo spoke with concern.

“What—?” Tejada reframed the question. “
How
did you know that there was . . . any controversy?”

“I didn’t really,” Nilo said apologetically. “But Don Pablo was her lawyer, you know, and a couple of weeks ago she came in all steamed up, muttering about changing her will. She was always coming to Don Pablo with one thing or another, but that last time she was hissing and spitting about disowning this one and punishing that one. And then when I heard she’d gone so suddenly, I thought there’d be trouble. So when you came to see Don Pablo, I put two and two together.”

“You know she made a will?” Tejada demanded, suddenly intent.

“Not
a
will,” Nilo laughed. “At least half a dozen since her husband passed away, poor lady.”

Tejada stiffened. How had Pablo Almeida described Rosalia’s will? “Some of the bequests are a bit . . . inequitable.” And now Nilo was offering confirmation. Then why had his father said that Doña Rosalia died intestate? Perhaps his father was simply mistaken and had assumed the old lady had left no will because if there had been one he should have been summoned to a reading of the document. If there was a will, why had it not been read and published?
Maybe one of the potential heirs she disinherited
took the will and is hoping he’ll receive a share according to the law if
she’s presumed intestate
, Tejada thought. With something like horror, he recalled that the only person who had insisted Doña Rosalia was intestate was his own father.
No
. Instinctively he searched for ways to discredit the half-formed accusation. “You don’t mean to say she confided in
you
about her will?” he demanded harshly.

“Not about details,” the old man admitted. “But she passed the time of day with me when she came in. Maybe she talked a bit more freely than she should have. But she was angry and upset that last time, and Don Pablo’s a busy man, so he didn’t always have enough time for her.” Nilo coughed deprecatingly. “We old folks keep each other company sometimes.”

Tejada sighed, defeated. Doña Rosalia had been anything but discreet, especially when she was angry. He could picture Don Pablo tactfully ushering her out of the office, still in midcry, ready to vent her annoyance on whoever happened to be within earshot. “What did she tell you?” he asked.

“She’d fought with Señorita Dani. I don’t know what about,” Nilo answered. Tejada took a moment to translate “Señorita Dani” into the deceased’s daughter, his father’s cousin Daniela, more commonly known since her marriage as the Condesa de Almagro. Nilo continued. “They were always quarreling, but nothing serious. Just the way mothers and daughters do. But she was
really
angry with Señorito Felipe. She said he’d disgraced the family and was worse than a Red.”

Tejada blinked. Although they were actually first cousins once removed, he had always known Doña Rosalia’s youngest son as “Tío Felipe.” Only fifteen years separated Felipe Ordoñez from the lieutenant whose older brother was even closer to him in age. Tío Felipe had been the good-natured playmate of their childhood and sympathetic counselor of their adolescence. The lieutenant remembered Tío Felipe as a lazily cheerful man, who delighted in shocking the female members of the family by his determined refusal to marry and settle down. Felipe had inherited a controlling share in a profitable sugar refinery from one of his paternal uncles, but he never seemed interested in business. In his youth he had written some poetry, which he freely admitted was terrible but published at his own expense anyway. Although Tejada’s mother, along with Doña Rosalia, had delighted in calling Felipe “irresponsible,” the charge was not really justified. He lived comfortably but not extravagantly, well within his income, and without being a burden on his family. Although his mother had nagged him from time to time, it was always with considerable affection. He was her youngest child, and he had mastered the art of being lovable. “She was angry at
Felipe?
” Tejada said, disbelieving. “
Why?
”

Nilo shrugged. “I couldn’t really figure it out. She had the usual complaints about him.” He hesitated. “But she was more. . . more
vicious
the last time. I mean, she always said he was irresponsible and needed to learn that the world wasn’t there for his own amusement but . . .”

“She enjoyed saying that,” Tejada confirmed.

The old man nodded. “That’s right. But this time she was really angry. She was raving about how men like him would bring down the country with their immorality.”

Tejada experienced a faint twinge of guilt as he remembered his last meeting with his Tío Felipe. He had been twenty-one and preparing to enter the Guardia. Newly imbued with the ideals of the Falange, he had eagerly preached them to his cousin. Felipe had laughed at him, making a light response about wine, women, and song. With his boy’s offended dignity Tejada had flared: “It’s people with your attitude who are responsible for the Republic! You’ll drink and dance while this country goes to the dogs, and you don’t even have the decency to
care
about it!” Annoyed, but still with a pretense of laughter, Felipe had told him to take himself less seriously. They had parted in anger. Now, hearing the echo of his own words in Doña Rosalia’s, and able to imagine his own reaction to the certainties of an arrogant youth, it occurred to Tejada that he had been cruel to his uncle. “You think she cut Felipe out of her will?” he asked, finding himself feeling sorry for his cousin.

Nilo nodded. “Absolutely certain. But there was more than that.” He lowered his voice. “She was saying she ought to report Felipe to the Guardia.” He looked at Tejada and his voice was pleading. “She didn’t do that, did she, Lieutenant? I’ve met Señorito Felipe a time or two, and he’s a nice gentleman. He wouldn’t do anything wrong.”

Tejada took a deep breath and silently thanked God that Rosalia had died before expanding her wild accusations about Reds from her servants to her children. “No,” he said. “No, of course not. And even if she had . . . well, the Guardia knew that she was an elderly lady who got a little confused sometimes.”