Authors: Rebecca Pawel
“That sounds right to me, sir,” Hernández agreed, still looking at the lieutenant as if he had suddenly grown two heads. “Do you know any of the others?”
Tejada glanced at the names again. “Not offhand. What did they teach?”
The sergeant frowned for a moment. “Arroyo’s the only lawyer. The others were all in the medical school, I think . . . Or, no, no, wait . . . Fernández was philosophy and letters . . . classics, I think.”
“Then I wouldn’t know them,” Tejada said, fairly sure that he was speaking the truth. Something about a classics professor named Fernández fluttered in the peripheral vision of his mind’s eye, but he was unable to focus on it. He had probably simply seen the name listed in a catalogue at some point. Or else he was thinking of someone else. “Guillermo” didn’t ring a bell, and Fernández was a common surname, after all. He looked at the pile of remaining folders. “What time is the first appointment?”
Hernández responded to the change in his superior’s tone, “Juan Benítez, fourteen hundred hours, Lieutenant.”
Tejada checked his watch. “Fine. Send him in when he comes. Dismissed.”
The sergeant coughed. “Err . . . yes, sir. When he comes, sir? At two?”
Tejada looked up, surprised. “Yes, that gives me a few hours to go through these, so that I know who I’m seeing when they show up. If I get caught up in something I’ll let you know so you can tell him to wait.”
“Yes, sir,” Hernández looked embarrassed. “Only . . . well, two o’clock’s lunchtime.”
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t schedule the appointment,” he pointed out.
“Errr . . . no, sir. But, well . . . Captain Rodríguez always said it didn’t hurt them to keep them waiting.”
It was on the tip of Tejada’s tongue to retort that judging from the state of the files, the captain must have taken long and frequent lunch hours, but he contented himself with replying gently, “And he’s quite right. However, I’m afraid that I’m not as efficient as the captain. I’ve found that I generally fall far enough behind schedule to keep people waiting without going to lunch.”
Sergeant Hernández swallowed a smile and matched his commanding officer’s gravity. “Understood, Lieutenant. But we’re a quiet little post here. After all,” he grinned suddenly, “
this isn’t Madrid
.”
Tejada snorted. “Dismissed, Sergeant. I’ll call you at fourteen hundred hours.”
When the door had closed behind Hernández he applied himself to the files. The folders were in a sad state of disorganization. Handwritten memos had been randomly slipped in among lists of parole dates met, photographs of the subjects, and copies of court transcripts and official documents. The lieutenant painstakingly organized the first couple of folders and then gave up, and began to skim the others rapidly, making a mental note to spend more time cataloging them at a later date. His task was not made easier by the total lack of common elements among the files. Juan Benítez had been a known Socialist sympathizer before the war. His more recent loudly proclaimed Falangist sympathies had spared him a prison term or worse, but the Guardia Civil had received a tip six months ago that his conversion was not genuine. Benítez was currently unemployed. Before the war, he had worked for the post office. Julián Vargas was the brother-in-law of a man who had been executed as a union leader during the war. Daniel Ortíz had just been released from prison for smuggling. The smuggling was merely the latest in a series of petty offenses, all of them of a nonpolitical nature. The earliest record of his arrest was dated 1932, and his antagonistic relationship with the law had been maintained through several governments. The list went on: family members of men who were imprisoned or dead, owners of businesses who had dealt with the Reds during the war, authors of articles or pamphlets deemed subversive, members of outlawed political parties, thieves, and delinquents. The lieutenant found himself stunned by the range and quantity of minor offenses it was possible for the people of a town of “good, decent, law-abiding citizens” to commit.
By two o’clock, Tejada was tired and disgusted. But he was also anxious to begin matching human beings to the files, so he was pleased when Juan Benítez was ushered in. Their interview was brief. Benítez had attended all of his previous interviews promptly, and had no requests to make, other than that the surveillance be dropped. Tejada made a noncommittal reply, and dismissed him. If Benítez was mildly stunned that he had actually been seen at two o’clock, he was wise enough not to show it. Almost all of the interviews were equally short and uneventful. Occasionally, someone was late or requested a new ration card. Tejada checked off names, and made notes to himself with the comfortable feeling that he was actually accomplishing something.
Still, by 4:15 the lieutenant was tired and not sorry that the next parolee appeared to be late for his appointment. He checked the stack of folders. “Who’s next, Hernández, Ana López?”
The sergeant glanced at the list. “No, sir. Actually, she’s at four-thirty. Professor Arroyo’s due now.”
“The petitioner,” Tejada remarked thoughtfully. “Perhaps he’s taking advantage of the academic ten minutes’ grace.”
“Maybe,” the sergeant agreed. “Although he’s usually prompt. Lawyers are well trained by judges, I guess. Do you think he’s likely to recognize you, sir?”
Tejada shook his head. “I doubt it. I was one of a hundred students in a lecture hall a dozen years ago.”
“Just as well.”
Tejada was inclined to agree with the sergeant. The lieutenant had successfully put his student years behind him, and he had no desire to be recognized. But he was somewhat curious to see his former teacher, and to figure out what form of mild insanity had brought a formerly respected academic to such a pass. So it was with some annoyance, as well as a quickened interest, that he noted that Professor Arroyo had still not appeared when Ana López arrived for her appointment. By six o’clock, when the last of the parolees left the post, Arroyo still had not reported.
“Get me Corporal Jiménez,” the lieutenant ordered, as he put the last of the folders back into their dilapidated file cabinet.
“Yes, sir.” Hernández saluted and disappeared.
A few minutes later, Jiménez appeared, looking rather cheerful. The young man was enjoying his promotion—possibly, in Tejada’s opinion, because it did not involve dealing overmuch with Captain Rodríguez. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
“You’re on duty this evening, Jiménez?” Tejada had the Arroyo file open in front of him, and was scribbling something on a pad.
“Yes, sir. Starting at twenty hours, sir.”
“Good, then I have a job for you. We have someone who skipped his parole appointment.” Tejada tore a sheet of paper off his pad and held it out. “Here’s the name and address. Take three men, and visit him tonight. Find out where he is and why he wasn’t here this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir. And if we find him, sir?”
“If he’s home in bed with a broken leg, give him a warning, and tell him to send us word. If he’s not home,” Tejada paused, and glanced at the file, “get his wife to tell you where he is. Arrest her, if you have to.”
“Yes, sir.” Jiménez flushed with pleasure. This was the first time Lieutenant Tejada had actually placed him in charge of a mission. Swelling slightly with importance, and doing his best to sound nonchalant, he added, “Should we take anyone for a walk, sir?”
Tejada winced mentally, and wondered if he had overestimated the corporal’s maturity. It was, he knew, a source of constant grief to Jiménez that he had been too young to take up arms for his country during most of the Civil War. The boy still tended to think of executions as dramatic moonlit affairs, cloaked in the euphemism
We’re going for a walk
. Tejada felt a moment’s compunction about inflicting the zealous corporal on an elderly lady who belonged, he suddenly remembered, to one of Salamanca’s more socially prominent families. “No, Corporal,” he said firmly. “This is not wartime. That will not be necessary. Nor should you arrest Señora Otero de Arroyo unless you see absolutely no other alternative. In that eventuality, you will be polite to the lady, and you will inform her that she is only being brought here to speak with the lieutenant about her husband’s whereabouts. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jiménez agreed, looking deflated.
“Good.” Tejada suppressed a sigh of relief, and dismissed the corporal.
The lieutenant was more cheerful that evening than he had been since his arrival in Salamanca. Keeping the parolees’ files updated and organized was a job of some interest though one that Captain Rodríguez apparently considered too undramatic to bother with. And Arroyo’s absence was an intriguing anomaly. Tejada was inclined to suspect that ill health or accident had prevented the lawyer’s appearance. The former academic was in his seventies, and it was quite possible that he had simply been kept in bed by a cold. It would, of course, be a different matter if Arroyo’s fellow petitioners failed to show up the following day. Velázquez, Rivera, Fernández, Tejada thought. Why do I have the feeling that Fernández is
supposed
to teach classics? I wonder if I knew him through Arroyo? They must all have been friends . . . I wonder why Arroyo didn’t show.
The lieutenant finally turned to other tasks, and dismissed the matter from his mind. Nothing to be done about it until tomorrow anyway, he thought. Although this did turn out to be literally true, it was not perhaps as true as Tejada would have liked.
L
ieutenant! Lieutenant Tejada!” Tejada started awake in total darkness. Someone, he realized, was rapping urgently “ at his door, and calling his name.
“Who’s there?” he called, rolling out of bed. Years of practice had given him the ability to make his voice sound considerably more alert than his brain actually was. The knocking subsided.
“Corporal Jiménez, sir.”
Tejada stubbed his toe as he fumbled for the light switch and suppressed a curse. He found the switch finally, and the glow of a bare bulb lit the little room. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. But I’m afraid if you don’t come I’ll have to wake the captain.” Jiménez sounded plaintive.
Tejada had already started pulling on his clothes. At the mention of Captain Rodríguez he began moving a little faster. He fully sympathized with Jiménez’s desire to avoid finding out if Rodríguez tended to wake up in a bad mood. “Why will you have to wake him?” he asked, opening the door, and then sinking onto the bed to pull on his boots.
Jiménez lingered in the doorway, rifle on his shoulder, looking relieved. “It’s that Professor Arroyo, sir,” he explained. “He’s not at home, and his wife says she hasn’t seen him and doesn’t know where he is.”
Tejada blinked. “That could have waited until morning, Jiménez.”
“Yes, sir.” Jiménez looked miserable. “I know, sir. Only, it’s Señora Otero, sir. I don’t know what to do with her.”
With a sudden sinking feeling, Tejada remembered his last instructions to the corporal. “She’s here?” he asked, pulling on his coat. And then, as the corporal nodded, “You arrested her?”
“Ummm . . . yes, sir. Well, more or less. In a manner of speaking.”
Tejada grabbed his hat, and followed the corporal out of the room and down the hall. “Define ‘in a manner of speaking,’” he said grimly.
“Well,” Jiménez gulped. “I was going to arrest her. I mean . . . you
told
me to if I couldn’t think of anything else to do, sir. B-but then . . .” The young man flushed. “Then she said that if I thought a . . . a bunch of very rude boys could go around waking up decent people at all hours of the night, she wanted to speak to my commanding officer about it right away. And I
wasn’t
rude, sir!” Jiménez added with some indignation. “You
told
me to be polite, and I was!”
Tejada was seized by a sudden premonition. He glanced at his wrist, and saw that he had forgotten his watch. “What time is it?”
Jiménez, somewhat disappointed by the lieutenant’s lack of reaction, looked at his own watch. “Ten of three, sir.”
“And what time did you pay a call on Señora de Arroyo?”
“About an hour ago.” The corporal looked crestfallen. “Why?”
“And you were polite to her?”
“
Yes
, sir.”
Tejada winced. “It didn’t occur to you,” he said, in a carefully colorless tone, “that it might have been polite to visit her at a slightly earlier hour?”
“Ummm . . . no, sir. I thought, I mean, her husband’s a wanted man. And I thought . . . between midnight and three . . . I mean, in training they say . . .”
Perhaps fortunately for Jiménez, the two of them had reached the main civilian waiting area of the post. The benches were empty, except for three guardias, who the lieutenant guessed to be Jiménez’s companions, and a gray-haired lady of about seventy. She was dressed in black, and the fact that her hat was slightly askew was the only hint that she had not dressed with perfect composure. Tejada correctly surmised that she had ordered the guardias to withdraw and wait until she made herself presentable before leaving her home with them. She rose to confront him and the three guardias stumbled awkwardly to their feet around her. She reached only the collarbone of the shortest. “Are you responsible for this outrage, young man?” she demanded, as Tejada stepped forward and bowed. The other guardias cringed slightly.
“Good evening, Señora.”
The lieutenant suddenly remembered, with the preternatural clarity of someone jerked from sleep, that one of his textbooks on civil law had been written by a Judge Otero Martínez. Probably a father or brother of Arroyo’s wife. He spared a moment to hope that Judge Otero was either deceased or shared the political convictions of Manuel Arroyo. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“I would think,” said Señora de Arroyo icily, “that the trouble is obvious. It is bad enough that my husband has to submit to the indignity of having his movements recorded like a common criminal. But until now the Guardia Civil have always maintained at least a pretense of common courtesy.”
Jiménez made a choking noise, and the lieutenant swiftly forestalled any comment. “Until now,” he said coolly, “your husband has cooperated fully with the Guardia Civil, as do all law-abiding citizens. His absence this afternoon occasioned our visit to your home. I am sorry if this was the outrage that you referred to earlier, but it was an unavoidable if unpleasant part of our duty.”
“Your duty does not involve waking the entire street in the small hours of the morning, and threatening defenseless women at gunpoint, Sergeant!” she snapped.
“
Lieutenant
,” Tejada said softly, wondering how much Señora Otero was exaggerating about waking the entire street, and kicking himself for entrusting Jiménez with anything.
Señora Otero de Arroyo drew a deep breath. Tejada met her eyes steadily. “You are new to Salamanca, aren’t you, Lieutenant?” she said quietly.
The words were a threat. Tejada remembered Jiménez’s unwillingness to wake the captain, and wished that he knew whether the lady was bluffing. He went on the offensive before she could continue. “Where is your husband, Señora?”
The words hit home. She paused for a few moments before replying, and then said, “I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She pursed her lips for a moment. “Is it necessary to do this
now
, Lieutenant?” Some of the bravado had gone out of her. “I’m an old woman, and I tire easily.”
Tejada would have liked nothing better than to go back to bed, but he knew perfectly well that now, while she was tired, was the time to question the professor’s wife. “Why don’t you sit down, Señora?” He ushered her to one of the benches. She sank onto it, still avoiding his eyes. Jiménez and the other guardias hovered silently, occasionally coughing or shifting from foot to foot.
“Am I being detained, Lieutenant?” Her voice was cold.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, at the moment,” Tejada replied cautiously. “But . . .”
“In that case, kindly show me to the nearest telephone.” Arroyo’s wife was apparently gaining a second wind. “I would like to call my brother, and inform him of my whereabouts.”
Tejada thought rapidly. “Give the number to Guardia Molina,” he suggested. “He can telephone your brother while we talk, and ask Judge Otero to send someone to pick you up.”
Tejada caught the quick smile on Señora Otero’s face as he called her brother “judge.” The guess had been good then. She willingly gave the telephone number, and added with only a touch of acid, “And please apologize on
my
behalf for waking him.”
“And on behalf of the Guardia Civil,” Tejada added to Molina’s retreating figure. He turned back to face his unwilling guest. “Would you like some coffee, Señora?”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Her voice was almost gracious.
“Jiménez.” Tejada jerked his head in the direction of the mess hall.
Jiménez looked unhappy. “But, sir,” he began doubtfully. “she’s a pris—”
“Coffee, Corporal.
Now
,” Tejada interrupted firmly.
Jiménez disappeared, and Tejada risked an apology to the professor’s wife. “I am sorry for the inconvenience, Señora. They’re new.”
“
That
is obvious. I certainly intend to lodge a complaint against them with Captain Rodríguez in the morning.”
Tejada wished that he had thought to demand two coffees from Jiménez. At least, he thought glumly, she had thus far excluded him from the complaint. But if she knew Rodríguez by name, there was a good chance that she would make good on her threat. The memory of the captain’s voice sounded menacingly in his ears. “
You will confine yourself to following orders
.” He did his best to smile conciliatingly. “This must be very difficult for you, Señora. Especially since I believe you said you don’t know your husband’s whereabouts. When did you say you had seen him last?”
She cast him a look of withering scorn, and he unhappily remembered that she was the wife, the sister, and probably the daughter of lawyers. She would be adept at avoiding questions. “I didn’t say. However, since you ask, I will tell you that I have not seen him for over a week, and that I have no idea where he is at the moment.”
“A week!” Tejada repeated, startled. “But why didn’t you alert anyone earlier?”
“I am not in the habit of reporting my family’s business to the authorities.”
There was something wrong with the supercilious statement, and had Tejada been fully awake, he would have realized what it was. Since he was not really alert, he only said, “What family business would that be, Señora?”
She did not reply immediately, and he was distracted by the return of the corporal, bearing a cup of coffee, and Guardia Molina, who expressionlessly reported that His Honor, Judge Otero Martínez y Arias, was very sorry to hear of his sister’s ordeal, and was sending someone to pick her up immediately. Because he was a compassionate man, Molina did not add that Judge Otero had been quite upset by the phone call, and had threatened to call the minister of defense, whom he had referred to as Fidel.
An automobile arrived within minutes for Señora Otero de Arroyo. Tejada saw her out, apologized as gracefully as possible for disturbing her, and then returned to Jiménez and his men. The lieutenant dismissed the guardias, and then herded Jiménez into his office. “Sit down, Corporal,” he ordered, taking a seat behind the desk, and rubbing his eyes wearily.
“Errr . . . I’m very sorry, sir,” Jiménez ventured. “But you did say that . . .”
Tejada wished again that he had managed to get ahold of a cup of coffee. His head hurt, and all he wanted to do was go back to bed. He glanced automatically at his bare wrist again, wondering how many hours he had before he officially went back on duty. Then he reached for a pad and pen. “I’d like your report on your visit to the Arroyo house now, Corporal.”
“I told you—”
“Your official report,” Tejada interrupted. “Including the names of your men, your exact time of arrival, who you met at the house, etcetera. As if you were writing it up.”
“Well, all right.” Jiménez was puzzled. He had planned to write all of it down immediately anyway. It was odd that Tejada wanted it in oral form instead. He made his report, as Tejada scribbled notes, and wondered a little resentfully why the lieutenant was unwilling to let him write his own report. Tejada interrupted him a few times to ask questions, and then scribbled some more.
“All right,” the lieutenant said finally. “Thank you. Dismissed, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir.” Jiménez saluted. To his surprise, the lieutenant opened one drawer of the desk, and drew out a sheet of carbon paper. Then he stood, crossed the room to the table where the typewriter sat, and began taking off the machine’s lid. Curiosity got the better of formality. “What are you doing, sir?”
“Typing this up.” The lieutenant glanced at his wrist again, and made a face. “What time is it?”
“A little after four A.M. sir.”
“Shit.” The lieutenant inserted the sheet carefully into the typewriter, and dragged a chair over. “Well, at least I should get it done before dawn.”
“I could do it, sir,” Jiménez offered. “I mean, you’re not really on duty.”
“No, that’s all right, thank you.” It took all of Tejada’s self-control to refrain from making an acid comment about the tone the corporal’s report was likely to take. If, as seemed likely, the report was going to be scrutinized by Captain Rodríguez, and possibly by higher officials, Tejada felt more comfortable writing it himself. He dismissed Jiménez, and began to pound away at his composition, carefully balancing respect for the Otero Martínez family, with insistence on the justice of the Guardia’s actions in the case.