Summer Snow (2 page)

He finally escaped a little after seven that evening by promising to report the matter to his lieutenant and to put a guard around the house. Stuffed olives and fresh bread were waiting for him in the kitchen. He appreciated the attention, although he would have liked the chance to chat with Luisa, the cook’s pretty assistant. She showed up a few minutes later. “Do you need anything else, Sergeant?”

“Are there anchovies?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. We didn’t know you were coming until too late. But there’s shrimp in vinegar or cured ham, if you’d like.”

Rivas considered. “Ham,” he said finally. “If it’s from your own farm.”

“Not ours, Sergeant.” Luisa was apologetic. “But Señor Tejada’s.”

“Good enough.”

Luisa turned toward the pantry without saying anything more, and Sergeant Rivas, who wanted to make conversation, looked for a change of subject. “She’s in a foul mood today, isn’t she?” he remarked.

“Yes, sir.” Even muffled by the pantry door, Luisa’s agreement was heartfelt. “Ever since Señor Tejada left this morning.”

“I’d think a visit from her nephew would cheer her up.”

“She doesn’t get along with his wife, Doña Consuela,” Luisa explained. “Never has, they say.”

Sergeant Rivas nodded, wondering absently if Doña Rosalia got along equally badly with her daughter-in-law, and her own daughter. He’d heard that her bachelor son, Felipe, had absolutely refused to live with his mother. “A shame she doesn’t have any family she’s close to,” he said.

“She’s never had much use for them, I think. Always quarreling with this one or that one, even before Señor Ordoñez passed away and she became so—” The girl stopped abruptly and flushed as she realized that she had been betrayed into an indiscreet comment. The rest of the sentence was unnecessary anyway. Sergeant Rivas knew perfectly well what she was trying to say. “She was in an even worse mood after Señorito Felipe left on Friday,” Luisa finished, embarrassed. The bell in the kitchen suddenly rang violently, and the girl started. “That’s her. I have to go.”

Sergeant Rivas had finished his meal and departed by the time Luisa took a tray up to Doña Rosalia’s room. The old woman greeted her with a mixture of irritation and relief. “What took you so long? I was beginning to think they’d cut the bell cord, so that I couldn’t call for help!”

“I’m sorry, Señora.” Luisa, who was only responsible for bringing Doña Rosalia her meals, wondered as she always did how poor María José managed to deal with the señora all day long.

“Taste it,” Doña Rosalia commanded as Luisa set the tray down.

Luisa sighed. “It’s just come up from the kitchen, Señora. I helped make it myself. And I didn’t meet anyone on the way up.

No one could have tampered with it.”

“Taste it!”

Luisa shrugged and took a bite of everything on the plate, taking perhaps a larger mouthful of the ham Sergeant Rivas had already enjoyed than was strictly necessary. It really was very good, and the taste of meat was still rare enough. Doña Rosalia watched her carefully to be sure that she swallowed everything and then nodded her satisfaction. “All right. Tell María José I don’t want to be disturbed this evening.”

“Yes, Señora.” Luisa left, thankful that nothing worse had happened, and went to find María José.

“She’ll feel better after she eats probably,” Doña Rosalia’s maid said optimistically, when she heard Luisa’s message. “I’ll go up and put her to bed later, and maybe in the morning she’ll be more calm.”

“God willing!” said Luisa emphatically. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“I’ve been with her a long time.” María José’s voice was tolerant. “You don’t remember what she was like before Señorito Ramón died. And in spite of that—in spite of everything—she was good to us during the war. We’ve never gone hungry.”

Luisa, whose private opinion was that it would have been a good thing if the war had rid the country of Doña Rosalia and all her like, nodded obediently, mumbled something like an assent, and said good night.

María José waited until a little after eleven and then went upstairs to Doña Rosalia’s room. She knocked and waited a few moments in silence. No one screeched at her to go away. She pushed open the door, relieved that she had not come too early, and braced herself for Doña Rosalia’s angry cry, “What took you so long?” The silence was unbroken.

Doña Rosalia was sitting at her writing desk, her head tilted away from the door, her arms slack. The dinner tray had been pushed to one side, most of its contents eaten. María José, who knew that her lady hated being caught asleep by anyone, stepped forward loudly, clearing her throat, so that the old woman would have time to wake up and pretend that she had not been sleeping. Then María saw that a wineglass was lying on the writing desk, with a few drops of red liquid still caught in the bulb. Afraid that they might spill, she advanced more quickly and then gasped.

The wineglass had clearly been at least half full. Wine had soaked Doña Rosalia’s papers and made a dark stain on the wood before dripping into her lap to make a wet spot on her dress. Doña Rosalia’s mouth and eyes were open. A little fearfully, María José reached out to touch the old woman’s shoulder. Then she crossed the room, picked up a mirror, and held it against the open mouth.

There was a telephone in the living room. But María José had been Doña Rosalia’s maid for many years, and habit—or respect for her wishes—died hard. She ran out of the room and down the hallway, crying breathlessly, “Alberto! Alberto, get the Guardia!” Only after she had shooed a reluctant Alberto off to find Sergeant Rivas again did she go to the telephone to call the doctor. It seemed a secondary concern. Rosalia de Ordoñez was clearly past his help.

Chapter 2

“‘. . .W
ho knows, someday you may be able to eat breakfast in Barcelona and lunch in Madrid. After all, who could have imagined that Barcelona and Madrid would be little more than a day’s journey apart a hundred years ago?’ The end.” Carlos Tejada closed the book.

“Again,” his son demanded.

“I don’t think we have time tonight, Toño.”

“A-gain,” Toño repeated, with a little rhythmic bounce to emphasize his request.

“It will be past your bedtime by the time we finish,” his father protested.

“Only by five minutes.”

“But you
know
the book already. Maybe we could read something else.”

“Read this one again.” Toño craned his neck backward to stare soulfully up into his father’s face. “Please? Only one more time?
Please
.”

“Maybe Mama could read it,” his father began cravenly.

“Mama read
Trains, Planes, and Automobiles
eight times this morning.” Toño’s mother spoke from the rocking chair in the corner of the room, with a slight edge to her voice.

Carlos Tejada sighed again, relaxed onto the pillows piled at the head of his son’s bed, and then opened
A Child’s History of
the Spanish Railway
for the third time that evening. “After this you’ll go
right
to bed,” he said.

“Promise,” Toño agreed.

“
Trains are a common sight today
.” Tejada’s voice was quiet and even. “
And you’re probably used to seeing them and riding them. It’s
hard to believe that there were no trains at all in Spain less than a century
ago. . . .
”

A few paragraphs later a knock on the apartment door broke the peace of the moment. Unconsciously, Toño cast an appealing glance at his mother, which (though he did not know it) was made more effective by being identical in timing and expression to his father’s more conscious look. She pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll get it. You finish reading.”

“Thanks, Elena.” The elder of the readers felt it necessary to express his gratitude. The younger simply assumed that this was what mothers were for. “Where were we?”

They had read only a few sentences when the bedroom door opened again. “I’m sorry, Carlos.” His wife stood in the doorway. “There’s a long distance call for you.”

Toño felt his father’s body tense. “I’m sorry, Toño. Mama will finish reading the story.” Tejada left the little room reluctantly.

He could still hear his wife’s voice, muffled by the door, in the foyer where his jacket was hanging. Extensive experience with the book made him fairly sure of what she was reading as he shrugged his coat on. “
The first Spanish rail line opened in 1849.
” He glanced at his tricorn, the hat that proclaimed his profession, then left it on its hook.
Spain’s special narrow-gauge track was built
to prevent easy access in case of a French invasion
, he repeated silently as he headed down the stairs, hoping devoutly that this phone call would not be like the last long distance call he had received.

That one had come nearly six months earlier, on a balmy May evening. He had gone outside at sunset to kick a ball around with Toño, who was just learning to dribble. He was crouched in front of an imaginary goal as the little boy prepared for a penalty kick when a voice from across the square in front of the Guardia Civil post startled him. “Lieutenant!”

He looked up and allowed Toño to score a goal. Guardia Torres advanced and saluted. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, sir, but Colonel Suárez is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

Tejada sighed. “All right. You’d better get home, Toño.”

“Talk fast,” Toño urged. “So you’ll be done before it gets dark.”

The boy sighed and picked up his ball with such a woebegone expression that Guardia Torres was moved to add, “I can stay with you for a little while, Toño, if your father doesn’t object.”

Tejada briefly thanked his subordinate and moved toward the post. The last thing he heard as the door closed behind him was Guardia Torres saying good-naturedly, “Can’t have you out of training for the Oviedo selection, kid.”

The lieutenant picked up the phone, smiling. “Guardia Civil, Tejada.”

The clipped voice of his commanding officer banished his good mood. “We’re pulling twenty men, Lieutenant. Transports should arrive in a few hours.” There were only twenty-four men under his command and all were fully occupied.

“But, sir,” he exclaimed. “With all due respect—”

“If you’re going to tell me that there’s guerrilla activity in the mountains around Potes, I already know,” Suárez snapped. “It’s the only reason you’re not going, along with
all
your men.” The connection was static-riddled as always, but it sounded as if the colonel in Santander was raising his voice against slammed doors and shouted commands.

“Yes, sir,” Tejada said, recognizing that it would be futile to argue. Yet he was stunned enough to add, “But
why
?”

Stress was starting to tell on the colonel. He broke protocol and gave his subordinate unnecessary information. “All avail- able men are needed at the border,” he explained. “The army and the Policía Armada are being sent up as well, as fast as possible, just in case.”

“In case what?”

The colonel’s voice was ragged with strain. “Invasion. The Germans are finished. The Reds are in Berlin. And if the Allies decide to push south . . . we’ll need to be on high alert.”

“I’ll make sure the men are ready for the transports,” Tejada said, shaken. A good deal more than “high alert” would be needed if the awesome wealth and manpower of the Allied war machine turned toward Spain next.

The transports arrived late that evening. That night, after Toño went to bed, Elena turned on the radio. She had listened to the BBC with increasing defiance and frequency as the war progressed, and for the first time Tejada sat beside her and listened to the hysterical joy in London as intently as she.

Then had come tense months of waiting and wondering. The Allies had turned toward Asia. Guerrillas poured south over the French border, but they were still only the once-defeated remnants of the Spanish Communists, weakened now by years of resistance fighting in France. They were not joined by the French, or the English, or Americans. Some of the men under Tejada’s command were returned to Potes, and the lieutenant had allowed himself to relax a little and to hope that the Japanese would provide the Allies with a lengthy distraction.

And then, one breathlessly hot August afternoon, word had come: Japan had surrendered, completely and unconditionally. The world was at peace, and the world’s rulers had declared their hostility to the Spanish government. Tejada braced himself for the worst. He had bet too much of his life on General Franco’s government to retreat from his country or his ideals. But he swallowed his pride and wrote secretly to his brother-in-law in Mexico, asking if Elena and Toño would be welcome there if war broke out. “Come and trade places with me, if you like,” his brother-in-law had written back maliciously. “At any rate, you’ll eat well here. But I think Elena will be happier in Spain once we get things properly settled there.” Tejada received the letter a few days after the proclamation of a limited pardon for political prisoners of the Civil War that had ended six years earlier. The knowledge that his brother-in-law was now absolutely free to return to Spain did not provide him with much comfort. Still no invasion came.

The BBC was reassuringly anti-Communist. Tejada took his family on vacation to Santander for a week at the end of August, where they met Elena’s parents. The newspapers in Santander were encouraging, and he became calmer as he watched Toño alternate between the beach and the train station like a blissful little metronome. And still there was no invasion. The leaves turned and the nights grew cool, and no more urgent phone calls came from Colonel Suárez.
Until now
, the lieutenant thought, as he reached his office.