The Watcher in the Pine Page 8

  Elena desperately looked for something to say that would prolong her visit to the warm room, among people who did not seem to hate her. Something to put off the return to the fonda where she would have to face Bárbara Nuñez with her new knowledge. She took a deep breath and met Marta Santos’s eyes. “M-may I come see you again?” she stammered. “I don’t have very much to do in Potes, and I-I might be able to help Simón with geometry or something.”

  “You’ve studied geometry?” Simón interjected hopefully.

  “I used to be a teacher,” Elena explained. “Only of younger children, of course. But I might remember a little math.”

  Simón considered the offer. “Could I show you how to draw a line from an equation?” he offered. “If Papa lets me?”

  Elena smiled. “I’d like that. It’s been a long time since I’ve calculated slope.”

  Simón’s eyes were sparkling. “Can I, Papa? Please?”

  The carpenter looked amused. “I don’t think you know what you’ve let yourself in for, Señora.”

  “I don’t mind,” Elena reassured him. “That is . . . if it won’t be taking Simón away from his chores?”

  Quico Álvarez shook his head. “I can manage without him for a day.”

  “Thank you!” Simón was quivering with impatience. “When can we start?”

  Elena hesitated. Simón’s parents had not issued an invitation, and she was unwilling to push further. Simón’s mother spoke first. “You’re welcome to stay for a little while now,” she said, accurately reading the desires of both her son and her unexpected guest. “The girls have been in a foul mood all day, and it will give me a chance to deal with them.”

  “I’ll get my slate.” Simón made a rapid exit.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Álvarez stood up. Laugh lines deepened around his eyes as he said, “I was going to ask in what order you’d like me to make the furniture, but seeing how well you get along with the boy, I’m guessing you’ll want the bookshelves first.”

  “I guess so.” Elena laughed.

  The carpenter let himself out, and Simón returned with his slate. Elena spent a happy hour dredging her memory for half-forgotten facts and watching with amazement as Simón drank them in like a thirsty sponge. The boy flitted cheerfully from the Pythagorean theorem to what Father Bernardo had told him about classical architecture to how he had heard that if you dammed the Quiviesa all of Santander could have electric lights for practically nothing, and back to the aqueducts of the Romans, practically without pausing for breath.

  Simón was, he admitted, going to be twelve in June, although his reproachful look at this eminently conventional and irrelevant question told Elena that she had sunk in his esteem for asking it. He submitted to her questions and to her idiotic comment that it was a shame that he could not go to school regularly in return for information on more interesting topics. Was it true that everyone had telephones in Salamanca? And indoor bathrooms? Where did the water come from? Was it like in the Roman aqueducts? How fast did trains travel generally? Where did the coal go in the locomotive?

  Elena, faced with a host of questions that she was having some difficulty answering, was grateful for the interruption of Simón’s younger sisters. He introduced them as “the brats” and their mother presented them somewhat more formally as Teresa and Ramonita. The girls had overcome their shyness and wanted a chance to look at the visitor they had ignored earlier. To Simón’s annoyance, Elena politely asked their ages as well.

  Teresa appointed herself spokesperson. “I’m almost eight.

  And she’s only six.”

  “And do you study with Father Bernardo too?”

  “I know how to read already.” Teresa was complacent. “But Father Bernardo says I have to keep coming for catechism until I’m confirmed.”

  Elena smiled, trying to stifle her wave of sadness. It was criminal that this child thought that learning her letters and catechism was the beginning and end of schooling. And Simón was a bright boy. He would have been at the head of his class if a school had been available. “What about you, Ramonita? Are you learning to read too?”

  The child nodded but said nothing. Simón made an impatient noise. “They know enough already,” he said, tired of attention being diverted into social matters. “They’re just girls.”

  “So what?” Elena retorted.

  Simón struggled with this concept for a moment. “If Father Bernardo wasted all his time trying to teach girls, he wouldn’t have time to show me anything,” he offered finally.

  Faced with this perfectly unhypocritical logic, Elena was forced to laugh. “Maybe Father Bernardo could use some help,” she suggested. “That way everyone could learn more.”

  “That would be something to take up with him, Señora.” To Simón’s surprise, his mother entered the conversation. “I know he’s spoken of a school before.”

  “Really?” Elena made a mental note to track down the priest.

  Teresa took a deep breath. “Señora?”

  “Yes?”

  “How—?” The girl gathered her courage in both hands. “How old were you when you stopped playing with dolls?”

  Elena had enough experience to guess the reason for the question. “I don’t remember exactly,” she said gravely. “I played with them less by the time I was Simón’s age. But I know that I still had my favorite doll when I went to university.”

  “See!” Teresa muttered to her sister.

  “I’m sure you’re not too old to play with them,” Elena said encouragingly, suddenly enlightened as to the cause of the fight she had witnessed earlier. “Has someone been telling you that?”

  “No.” Teresa raised her head. “But Nita ruined my Victoria.”

  “She’s not ruined the least littlest bit!” Ramonita protested.

  “She kidnapped her,” Teresa continued implacably. “And then she broke her arm.”

  The smaller girl began to sniffle. “It was an accident!”

  “Well, people break their arms sometimes,” Elena pointed out reasonably. “Maybe Victoria’s arm could be set. You could play you were at a hospital.”

  Teresa looked suddenly hopeful. “Simón, do you think Papa has glue?”

  “He won’t let you use it,” Simón said firmly. “But he might let me fix it for you.”

  “Would you? You’re good at fixing things.” Teresa looked appealingly at her older brother.

  “I’ll get it.” Simón slid out of his chair and hurried down the stairs.

  Teresa disappeared briefly and returned, carrying a beautifully carved wooden doll in one arm and a snapped-off forearm in her free hand. “This is Victoria.” She made a face at her cowering little sister and added in a whisper, “Kidnapper!”

  Elena had taught in wartime, and wounds and amputations had been grim realities for too many of her students. During recess periods her classroom had at times been filled with “wounded” dolls, some of them actually broken for verisimilitude by their frightened and enraged owners. She was an expert at supervising doll hospitals. By the time Simón returned with glue, Victoria had been laid out on a rag bed, and Teresa was vigorously persuading her to swallow imaginary morphine. Forgetting his disdain for girlish matters, Simón was persuaded to act as a surgeon. The operation was successful, and the hospital administrator was smothered in thanks, not only from the three children but from Marta Santos. “I don’t know what I’d have done if Teresa and Nita had stayed at each other’s throats,” she added in an undertone. “I imagine their father would have fixed Victoria eventually, but they’re happy this way. I hate it when it’s too cold for them to play out-of-doors properly.”

  Elena modestly disclaimed thanks, and silently thought that she would have to actively pursue the unknown Father Bernardo about starting a school. She remained, playing with the children and chatting with their mother, until striking church bells made her start up. “I should go,” she said regretfully. “I’ve taken up far too much of your a
fternoon. And my husband will be wondering where I am.”

  Marta politely said that she had not noticed the time at all, and the children unanimously agreed that her visit had been a pleasure. The carpenter’s wife saw her to the door. “It was nice to meet you, Señora Fernández,” she said, holding out her hand. “Come again.”

  “Thank you.” Elena set out for home happier than she had been since her arrival in Potes. The sun was already low behind the mountains, and the path was more uphill than she remembered, but she felt like singing as she hurried along, her breath making little steam puffs in the evening air. Friends, she thought happily. People to talk to. And I’ll find Father Bernardo and ask him about the school. And we’ll have shelves soon.

  She came around a curve in the road and saw the familiar silhouette of cloak and tricorn coming toward her. For a moment she was troubled, remembering what she had learned of the late Lieutenant Calero. Then her sense of contentment reappeared. She raised one arm and waved, saw her husband wave back, and hurried forward to meet him and tell him about her afternoon.

  Chapter 7

  Tejada relaxed as he came near enough to see Elena clearly. Her face was red with cold, and the wind at her back was whipping little tendrils of hair out from her scarf and plastering them against her cheeks. But her eyes were glowing and there was a laugh in her voice as she hailed him and gave him a quick hug. She’s settling in, he thought with relief. I suppose it is an adjustment to come here if you’ve only lived in cities.

  “You look good,” he said, when they had exchanged greetings. “Although I’m not at all sure it’s normal for women in your condition to wander off into the snow.”

  “You know I like to travel on my own.” Her voice was teasing.

  “A habit I’ve frequently deplored. But in this instance no harm done. What took you to Tama?”

  “Furniture. I ordered bookshelves. And a table, and cradle.” Elena hastily summarized the business of the afternoon.

  “Sounds like you got a lot done,” Tejada said, guessing that her good humor was as much a result of a productive day as his own. “But it’s after seven. You must have started late.”

  Elena shrugged. “I ended up visiting with Señora Santos and her children a bit.”

  “Good,” Tejada approved. “I told you it would be a good idea to have some female friends. Although I wish you had found some nearer to home!”

  Elena made a noncommittal noise, unhappily reminded of Bárbara Nuñez. “How was your meeting with the mayor?” she asked, to distract him.

  Tejada, who had almost lost track of the morning’s meeting in the wake of subsequent events, shook his head. “We didn’t get anything out of him. But I talked to Rosas again.”

  “Was he helpful?” Elena asked, conscientiously trying to hope that her husband’s plans for incarcerating their neighbors had been advanced.

  “I suppose so. But in the meantime he’s dropped a nice little crisis into our laps.”

  “Not another escape?” Elena exclaimed. She was unsure whether to be pleased or worried. She knew that the Guardia was still making an effort to capture the escaped Valencians, but she also guessed that the men were well out of Liébana and on their way home by now, and that Carlos was not wasting too much effort on their case. A more recent escape meant a chance at freedom for more men, but it also meant that Carlos would be instrumental in trying to track them down, and Elena found herself hoping that no strain would be placed on her loyalties.

  “I wish!” Tejada shook his head. “Most of the prisoners just head home and the Guardia picks them up when they get there. But Rosas has misplaced a shipment of dynamite.”

  “Misplaced?” Elena raised her eyebrows.

  “Left totally unguarded in countryside crawling with bandits,” Tejada said with disgust.

  Elena winced. “I suppose you’re worried the guerrillas might use it for sabotage?”

  “The war’s over,” Tejada said, a little annoyed. “So they’re not guerrillas. They’re just thugs.”

  “Who blow up military targets.”

  “They kill innocent people, Elena!”

  “All right, all right,” Elena sighed. “You have to get it back. When did it go missing?”

  “Just over three weeks ago. That’s the problem.”

  Because he was still nervous about the missing dynamite, Tejada ended up rehashing most of his day with his wife. He did his best to talk about other subjects during dinner, because he felt that it was inconsiderate to inflict too much of his work on Elena. He tried to listen attentively to his wife’s description of her afternoon, but he was preoccupied, and it was a relief when the plates were cleared away and Elena settled into an armchair, dug out the baby sweater she had been knitting, and let silence fall. Tejada stretched, and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, and some of the frustrations of the day began to seep out of him with the smoke. It was good to be warm and fed and home. He glanced over at Elena, and saw that she looked happy and maternal and domestic. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and closed his eyes. “The thing is,” he said meditatively. “We’re so shorthanded. I have to keep sending Ortíz and Carvallo out on routine patrols or we’d have no one covering the entire district. And really Battista and Torres should be out also. And Márquez and I should do patrol duty once every two weeks at a minimum. But if I do that, then we have no one who can investigate the thefts from Devastated Regions, or do surveillance. And if I divert men into surveillance or investigation, then we lose the information we pick up through routine patrols.”

  “You could ask for reinforcements,” Elena suggested.

  “I won’t get them. And anyway, where would we put them?” her husband said sardonically. “Besides, it’s a question of shutting stable doors. Rosas claims that the dynamite was always under lock and key or heavily guarded. But it disappeared over a Sunday, and I’ll bet Rosas wasn’t in to check then. And probably those clowns in the Policía Armada took the day off, too.”

  “The prisoners hear mass Sunday, don’t they?” Elena pointed out. “So if the dynamite disappeared then, they have an alibi for part of the day.”

  Tejada nodded, and took a thoughtful drag on the cigarette. “There’s a chaplain who comes down from the monastery to hear confessions and then give the service. But it’s over by four. And so is the mass at San Vicente, in town.”

  “You think someone from town made contact with a prisoner Sunday afternoon then?” Elena asked.

  “No.” Tejada shook his head. “The prisoners are all from other provinces. They don’t have local visitors. And according to Rosas’s assistant none of them had any visits that Sunday.” He made an annoyed noise. “None of them even went out that Sunday. It was cold, and they kept to their rooms.”

  Elena reflected that the prisoners’ barracks were probably cold in the best of circumstances. “Then you don’t think they helped steal the dynamite,” she said, glad that the guardias would not have a chance to vent their frustration on a captive.

  “No. I think the key time is Sunday morning, when everyone is in church. If they knew what they were looking for, a small group of men could have easily gotten into the Devastated Regions compound, taken what they wanted, and been up in the hills before anyone knew they’d been there.”

  “Wouldn’t they have been missed in church?” Elena asked.

  Tejada smiled. “Not if they’ve been up in the hills for the last six months. I went through the files with Márquez. We have a number of local boys playing hide-and-seek.”

  “For six months?” Elena protested.

  “Longer than that, in some cases. A couple are going on two years now. And then there are the more recent ones. Our landlord, for instance.” Elena’s knitting needles froze in midair. The lieutenant looked at her with concern. “What’s the matter?”

  Elena paused before replying, and deliberately resumed her work. “You think Anselmo Montalbán has taken to the hills then?”

  Tejada shrugged. “Face th
e facts, Elena. He’s not here. It’s been a week since we asked that he report to the post. He’s a wanted man.”

  “And you think we should still stay here?” Elena’s voice was troubled.

  Tejada considered his sense of well-being. “I don’t think we’re in any danger from Montalbán. The contrary, actually, since he’d be doubly responsible if anything happened to us here. And I’m sick of moving. Aren’t you? Once we get furniture we’ll be nicely settled.”

  Elena came to the end of a row. “What about Montalbán’s wife?” She pretended to count stitches so that she could look down.

  Tejada sighed. “I’m sorry if she’s been giving you the cold shoulder. But you mustn’t let her bother you.”

  “What about us bothering her?” Elena demanded, furious. “How do you think she feels about having a guardia in her home?”

  “We’re paying her,” Tejada said. “And times are hard. I’d think she’d be glad of the extra cash. And I don’t think we’re difficult tenants.”

  “But how do you think she’ll feel about having to share her house with a man who’s declared her husband a bandit?” To her dismay, Elena heard a treacherous crack in her voice. “How do you think it feels to see the uniform of the Guardia every day and be reminded of the man who murdered her son?”

  Tejada sat up straight. When Elena sounded on the verge of tears, there was usually a reason. “Her son was tried and executed by a military court in Santander,” he said, curious to see if he would be contradicted.

  “But he was denounced by a guardia!”

  “Back up,” the lieutenant commanded. “I don’t know any details. Tell the story from the beginning.”

  Elena drew a hiccuping breath, and then poured out what she had learned that afternoon about Lieutenant Calero and Jesulín Montalbán. Tejada was frowning heavily by the time she finished. “You don’t know that’s true,” he said.

  “Why would they lie to me?”

  Tejada drew his chair next to hers and put one arm around her shoulders. “I didn’t mean they were lying,” he said gently. “But they live in Tama, not Potes. Suppose it was just a story that they’d heard reported thirdhand. They might have believed it was true.”