“Did you finish dusting?” the man asked gravely.
Aleja still had a headache, but it was receding now and no longer made her eyes swim when she opened them. She was able to focus more on the man’s face. It did not seem like a scary face. She wondered why she had been frightened, for a moment, when she had first seen him. “Someone knocked on the door,” she said slowly.
“What happened then?” The man had a red collar, and a khaki coat.
Something bad had happened, something to do with Tío Gonzalo, but Aleja stared at the khaki coat, and knew that she could not tell him about Tío Gonzalo, without knowing why. “I—I’m thirsty,” she said, because it was true.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” The man stood up. Standing, he was very tall, and she saw that his coat and trousers matched, and that he was wearing a cartridge belt, and pistol.
The past came roaring back to Aleja, and as she remembered what had happened to her, she recognized the man’s uniform, and began to scream.
For a moment, Tejada had hoped that Aleja would be able to make sense of her situation for him. Then, at the crucial point in the story, she suddenly became hysterical. The sergeant was surprised, and somewhat concerned, by her transformation. She had been confused, and a bit wary before. Now she was clearly terrified and hostile. The maddening thing was that he had the feeling that she could have told him something, but that she was no longer willing to. After unsuccessfully trying to comfort her for a few nightmare minutes when he was unable to hear himself think, Tejada decided that she might need a doctor after all. He was, he realized, unsure of the way to the nearest hospital, and unwilling to leave Aleja alone to search for it. The idea of wandering through the labyrinthine streets carrying a screaming child to an uncertain destination was not attractive. It would be simpler to take her back to the post and telephone for a doctor from there.
Tejada realized, as soon as he scooped Aleja up, that he had been wrong to think he would have to negotiate the winding streets carrying a screaming child. He was going to have to negotiate them carrying a screaming and kicking and scratching child. With a definite sense of distaste, and a fervent wish that he had thought to bring along a subordinate, the sergeant started down the stairs, doing his best to cradle Aleja’s injured head in one elbow and keep his other arm clamped under her knees. She was too large to carry this way easily, but Tejada had a feeling that other means of transporting children involved their active cooperation.
A number of people were on their way home for the siesta and Tejada caught a few startled glances from them. The glances always darted away as soon as he was aware of them. Walking was tiring. Aleja was not much heavier than the regulation backpack of a guardia civil on mountain patrol but Tejada’s grip on her was awkward, and backpacks neither squirmed nor screamed. The streetcar on the way down the Calle de Toledo looked like the answer to the sergeant’s prayers. He hailed it, and shoved his way on board. It was crowded, but the other riders melted into each other to give him and his noisy bundle room. The stares here were more concentrated, and Tejada began to feel as if he were standing in a very bright spotlight, surrounded by accusing eyes. He could feel the expressions of sympathy being muttered under the cover of Aleja’s sobbing. “Poor little thing.” “It’s a real shame.” “She looks hurt.” “Poor dear.” He found himself wanting to catch someone’s—anyone’s—eye and say confidentially (but loudly enough to be heard by everyone around him), “I found her with this bump on her head. I’m taking her to the doctor.” But no one met his eyes and he faced row upon row of faces as shuttered as the city’s stores.
Tejada reached the post with relief. Aleja’s protests had subsided to dry, moaning sobs by this time. The sergeant found himself wondering how long children could scream before they went hoarse. Apparently quite a long time. Moscoso and a young man Tejada did not recognize were on guard duty. They saluted smartly when they saw Tejada and eyed the sergeant’s armful with some curiosity.
“Here.” Tejada thrust the child at Moscoso. “Be careful of her head. And follow me.”
“B-but, sir—” Moscoso stammered, and then clutched desperately at Aleja, who had revived enough to kick savagely while being transferred. “She seems kind of upset. Don’t you think maybe a woman would be . . . ow! . . . maybe better?”
“No doubt,” said the sergeant, heading for the infirmary. “But I don’t see one available, and I’ve carried her all the way from Tres Peces. She won’t hurt you, Guardia.”
Moscoso’s grunt of pain as Alejandra bit his hand seemed to contradict his commanding officer but Tejada paid him no attention. The guardia’s last comment had pulled away the dressing on a thought Tejada had been tending like a wound: Elena would know how to deal with her. When they reached the infirmary, Moscoso set the girl down on a cot with relief and backed away. Alejandra, realizing that she was free for the time being, made a spirited attempt to get up and flee. Her legs folded under her and she slid onto the floor. The two guardias civiles watched her from a safe distance.
“Call a doctor, Moscoso,” the sergeant ordered. “Tell him we have a girl, about seven years old, with a slight concussion and a bad case of hysteria. And ask Corporal Ventura if we have anything that will quiet her down.”
“Yes, sir.” Moscoso inspected his hand. A few drops of blood had beaded on it, and the palm bore a set of little teeth marks. “Umm . . . sir?”
“Yes, Guardia?”
“Umm . . . she’s not rabid, is she?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge, Guardia.” Tejada smiled slightly. “I’ll know more when you bring me a doctor.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.” Moscoso made a rapid exit.
Tejada inspected the sobbing lump of misery that composed his main witness to murder and wondered again what had provoked such a sudden and violent reaction. Was it something he had done or some private demon that she had remembered? She was wailing pitifully for her mother now. Where was her mother? Had the reticent Señora Llorente also seen more than was good for her? He was interrupted in his meditations by Corporal Ventura, a balding, cheerful little man, in charge of the post’s rudimentary pharmacy.
“Moscoso says you’ve got a rabid kid there, sir,” he said, pulling on a pair of dark leather gloves that contrasted oddly with the white jacket he wore over his uniform.
“Moscoso exaggerates,” the sergeant said absently, thinking, as he always did, that the white jacket looked silly.
“Oh, well.” Ventura cast a regretful look at the gloves, a sidewise one at the officer, and then left them on. “Anything I can do, Sergeant?”
“Would morphine calm her down?” Tejada asked.
Ventura cast a professional glance at the little girl, and then knelt beside her. “Oh, sure. Put her out like a light. But so would a shot of brandy, probably.” He gently picked up Aleja holding her upright but cradling her head. Tejada realized that it was a much more workable position than the one he had tried to carry her in. “All right, sweetie. All right,” Ventura murmured. “All right, I know. I know you want Mama. You just calm down, honey.” He gently set her down on the cot and this time she remained there, staring up at him, wild-eyed but relatively quiet.
“Well done,” Tejada commented softly.
The corporal shrugged. “She’s about my second boy’s age. Why’d you bring her in, Sergeant?”
“I found her unconscious in an apartment that had been ransacked,” Tejada replied, without mentioning that he had been looking for her. “She’d been given a tap on the head.”
“Mmm.” Ventura prodded one side of Aleja’s head with interest, and she whimpered. “You don’t want to add morphine to this then, sir. Not if you want her to wake up afterward.”
Moscoso returned at a run, managed to slow himself to a quick march, and stamped for decorum’s sake before speaking. “Sorry it took so long, sir. I had to call three posts. Dr. Villalba’s over at Coruña Road. I told him it was an emergency, sir, and he said he’d be here in half
an hour.”
“Thank you, Guardia.” Tejada spoke without the hint of a smile. “Perhaps Ventura can clean your wounds and then you can go back on duty.” He thought a moment. “And send me Jiménez, if he’s on duty.”
“Yes, sir.” Moscoso happily gave himself into Corporal Ventura’s care.
As the corporal left, Alejandra pushed herself onto one elbow and followed him with her eyes. Tejada’s mouth twisted with annoyance. Somehow he was the villain, even though he’d nursed her back to consciousness, and Ventura had become a hero. It didn’t seem logical. The tramp of marching boots distracted his thoughts. “Sir!” Guardia Jiménez’s voice bounced off the walls of the infirmary like a bugle call. “Reporting for duty, sir!” The young guardia’s stamp could have crushed marble to powder beneath his heel. His arm was ramrod straight when he saluted. Even for Jiménez, he was formal.
Tejada turned from Aleja to inspect the young man. “What’s that you’re wearing, Jiménez?” he asked mildly.
“A sweater, sir!” Jiménez stood rigidly at attention.
“At ease. May I ask why?”
Jiménez obediently clasped his hands behind his back but he could not have been said to be at ease. “I was told your orders were to report immediately, sir. I have just returned from leave, sir.”
Tejada inspected the recruit. The boy was wearing dark and unremarkable trousers and a rather baggy sweater, knit according to the most basic pattern possible. The front and back panels were a yellow wool that would have been loud under any circumstances. In contrast with bright red sleeves, they were an abomination. Jiménez looked like a walking fire engine.
“I see,” Tejada said, expressionless.
“The sweater was a gift from my grandmother, sir.” Jiménez’ face matched his sleeves.
“I see.” Tejada’s face and voice were absolutely serious. Mentally, he thanked his patron saints personally and by name that his own grandmothers limited themselves to crocheting lace.
“It’s supposed to be a Spanish flag, sir,” Jiménez explained, with a hint of pleading in his tone. “She’s very patriotic.”
Tejada nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Fortunately, there was an interruption at this point. “The Spanish flag has purple, too.” The sergeant realized, to his amazement, that Aleja had spoken. “But it’s a pretty sweater,” she added politely.
Jiménez gasped with relief, and turned to the little girl. “Who’s this, sir?” he asked, smiling. “She’s young to be a Red.”
Tejada smiled, but did not risk laughter, afraid that Jiménez would misinterpret—or rather, interpret correctly—the cause of his amusement. “Let her tell you herself.”
Jiménez squatted, to be at eye level with the cot. “What’s your name?”
Aleja stared past him to Tejada, eyes brimming with terror. She said nothing. Tejada leaned over Jiménez’s shoulder, concerned. “Don’t you remember? You told me this morning.” Aleja slid sideways and put out one hand to grab Jiménez’s sweater with a little squeak of unhappiness.
The guardia glanced up over his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid of the sergeant, sweetheart. He won’t hurt you.”
Aleja’s lip trembled, but she remained stubbornly silent. She is young to be a Red, Tejada thought. But she’s tough. In ten years she’ll be able to withstand torture, I bet. The Reds start training their young ones early. The sergeant looked down at Jiménez’s brilliant sweater, and suddenly remembered Ventura’s white coat. “Jiménez,” he said, “leave her alone for a moment.” When they had withdrawn a few paces, the sergeant said quietly, “Do you have any other civilian clothes?”
“No, sir.” Jiménez looked puzzled. “Well, not a complete outfit anyway. Why?”
Tejada inspected the guardia narrowly, and without particular enthusiasm. They were about the same height and build although Jiménez still retained traces of a gawky adolescence. “Then I’d like to borrow those. You should be in uniform now, anyway.”
“Sir?” Jiménez was not unwilling, but he was amazed. Sergeant Tejada was the only person on the post who had not grinned broadly at the sight of his sweater. This, in Adolfo Jiménez’s opinion, merely showed that Tejada was a kind and considerate gentleman. Sergeant Tejada was, in Jiménez’s opinion, as close to a perfect officer as it was possible to be. But this request was a test of faith.
“I think she’s frightened of the uniform,” Tejada explained. “And I need to ask her some questions without having her too scared to answer. Call Ventura, tell him to sit with her until I get back, and then bring me your clothes, when you’ve changed.”
“Yes, sir.” Jiménez beamed, pleased at being taken into the sergeant’s confidence, and once again convinced of Tejada’s judgment and sanity.
“Oh, and Jiménez—” The sergeant’s voice was casual.
“Sir?”
“Your . . . grandmother’s gift is a personal keepsake. I understand it must have great sentimental value. There’s no need to lend it to me.”
“Understood, sir,” Jiménez agreed. Then, because he was grateful for the sergeant’s tact, he added, “I have a jacket that might fit you, sir. I’ll bring that instead.”
Tejada waited until Corporal Ventura was settled beside Aleja, ordered him not to leave her under any circumstances, and went to change his clothes.
Chapter 16
Gonzalo, hurrying north with a hat pulled over his face, was extremely grateful he had eaten a large dinner the night before. At least he was feeling rested and relatively strong. He realized that he had no idea what to do or where to spend the next eight hours. Manuela had specifically said not to get to the cathedral until the afternoon. Wandering aimlessly was a sure way to attract attention and probably to encounter more people who would know him. The trick was to look purposeful. Where could he go?
He had headed toward the center of the city unthinkingly, the way an injured animal seeks its den. He could not have said whether this was the wisest or the most foolish place to go. But it was likely to be the most crowded place, and all of his instincts and experience told Gonzalo that safety lay in crowds. He deliberately took the little streets, where the houses leaned against each other like wounded comrades, avoiding the broad avenues where bombs had opened holes between the buildings.
He stopped when he reached the Puerta del Sol, no longer sure where to hurry. This was the center of the labyrinth: the heart of Madrid. But the labyrinth had been penetrated. The balconies of the buildings were draped with the red and yellow flags of the Nationalists and the red and black of the Falange. The city’s heart was pierced. Gonzalo, staring across the expanse, remembered why he had avoided the Puerta del Sol until now. The gaping hole in the cobblestones where a German bomb had ripped an obscene parody of a building’s foundation was still there. It still hurt to look at it. He had seen the hole for the first time with Viviana on his arm. It was the first time he had seen her cry. My love, my dear one, my precious, how could they have done this to you? And how could I have let them? He did not know if the lament was addressed to his lover or his city. Perhaps both.
On the other side of the square, a battered metal signpost proclaimed the entrance to the Metro. Gonzalo looked at the proud blue Minside the red and white diamond, and the sign above it: OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. No one had bothered to take the signs down, although there was no longer any need for bomb shelters. The Metro had sheltered madrileños throughout the war. It could shelter him now. He fumbled in his pocket for the bills Carmen had given him. Perhaps one would still be good for a ticket.
The stench of sweat and urine hit Gonzalo like a slap as he descended into the Metro, and with the smell came the memories of the last time he taken the train. He had kissed Viviana and squeezed onto a train that was ready to burst at the seams. And voices had been roaring the Internationale, and he had tried to roar it too, although his face was practically smashed into someone else’s armpit. And thank God it had been a short ride because he wouldn’t have been able to stand the smell
much longer. It was a good thing the front wasn’t more than ten minutes away. But no, that was not actually the last time he had taken the Metro. He vaguely remembered Jorge yelling, “Shit, Gonzalo, are you hit? Medic! Medic!” and then being lifted onto a stretcher with a jolt, and swimming in and out of consciousness as he was bumped down an endless stairwell, filled with curses. “Goddamn it, watch him, he’s slipping. Move it, move it, there’s a train coming to evacuate them. . . . I don’t fucking care if this train’s full, he’s been fucking gut shot, he needs to be moved now!” He did not remember the last ride back, in the hospital train, and he was grateful that he did not.
There were a pair of guardias civiles at the foot of the staircase, apparently on patrol. Gonzalo caught sight of them and almost stopped. If he were caught passing the Republic’s money he might well be asked for an identity card. Admitting that he didn’t have one would be fatal. But he could not enter the Metro without a ticket and to turn around and go back up the stairs now that the guardias had seen him would invite attention. He walked slowly toward the ticket counter, trying to decide what to do. He could fumble in his pocket, and then say something like, “Oh, sorry, I thought I had my wallet. Drat, I’ll have to go back and get it.” But even that would mean passing by the guardias a second time. And what if they—or the ticket agent—were solicitous? “Check your other pockets, Señor,” they might suggest. And then how would he explain the presence of the carbinero’s weapon?
Heart thudding in his throat, Gonzalo approached the ticket counter. There was no line at this early morning hour. “One. Round-trip. To Cuatro Caminos, please,” he managed, picking the station farthest away. He had meant to make his voice sound imperious, or at least absentminded, but it sounded pathetically choked and guilty to his own ears.
“Five centimos,” the girl behind the grill said.
“Sorry, I don’t have change.” He handed her a bill at random, hoping that she would not inspect it any more closely than he had.
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