Watcher in the Pine (10 page)

Elena sat up and rubbed sleep out of her eyes. “Give me a minute to get up and dressed.”

“Of course. It will wait for breakfast.” He was looking so pleased with himself that Elena hurried more than she would have otherwise.

She discovered that two mugs were already sitting on the table, along with a loaf of bread, and turned to her husband, smiling. “You got breakfast? Thank you.”

“Not
just
breakfast,” Tejada said, enjoying watching her face. “I meant to do this yesterday, but then I overslept. Look!” He produced a tin from behind his back with a flourish.

Elena took the tin and inspected it, bewildered. “Milk?”

“We’re in dairy country.” Tejada looked smug. “I talked to one of the farmers at the fair on Monday. Of course, technically, he shouldn’t be selling anything above the ration price, but it’s only a liter a day, and since we’re neighbors—”

“A liter a
day?
” Elena interrupted, stupefied. “What on earth for?”

“For you.” The lieutenant looked wounded. “To drink,” he amplified, since she was still staring at him openmouthed.

“You can’t have gotten involved in the black market for this!”

“It’s not
really
the black market.” Tejada shifted, uncomfortable. “I told you, it’s practically extra. And it’s good for you. For the baby, I mean.”

“But I don’t
like
milk,” Elena protested.

Tejada, who had been disappointed by her reaction, suddenly remembered his wife’s lamentable upbringing. “This is
fresh
milk,” he said encouragingly. “It’s not like what you get in the city. Trust me. Just try it.”

Elena sat down, gingerly poured the foamy white liquid into a mug, and raised it dubiously, with an expression of distaste. Then she sipped. It was as cool as the morning air, and tasted almost as thick as honey. She waited, her mouth braced for the faint sour aftertaste that she remembered from the milk of her childhood. The taste did not change. She drank again, more deeply.

“If you’re not going to finish that, I’ll drink it,” Tejada said.

Elena glared at him. “
You’re
not having a baby,” she pointed out.

He grinned. “I told you you’d like it.”

Elena did not bother replying. She drank and was content. Carlos
had
spoken to someone. It was a start. Tejada watched her in silence for a few minutes, pleased that his gift had worked as planned. “What are you doing today?” he asked finally.

“I thought I’d try to find Father Bernardo, and talk to him about Simón Álvarez.”

“You think the kid is bright enough for a scholarship?” Tejada asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think it’s a shame there’s no school in Potes. There are enough children. Señora Santos said she felt the same way. I wanted to talk to him about it. Maybe if he sent a letter to Devastated Regions . . .”

Tejada laughed and stood up. “For God’s sake don’t confuse them,” he advised. “Rosas has enough on his plate right now with that fairy-tale plaza.”

“You want the baby to go to school?”

“You want the baby to have a permanent place to live?”

Elena frowned. “You think I shouldn’t then?”

“No.” Tejada was putting on his cloak. “I think it’s a good idea. But why not ask the good father if the diocese has any plans for a school before you go pestering the civil authorities.” He kissed Elena on the cheek and hurried out before she could begin one of their endless debates about secular education.

Márquez greeted him at the post with the news that the post at Santander had called to say that intelligence reports about recent guerrilla activity were on their way, that the Devastated Regions engineer was expected back within the hour, and that Guardia Torres had the flu and was unable to go out on a two-day patrol. Tejada sighed. “Great. Put Ortíz with Battista. One of us will have to go with Carvallo.” He hesitated. “I’d rather stick close to the phone in case something comes up. Would you mind patrol duty?”

“Of course not. If I hurry I should be able to interview the prisoners Rosas has put in charge of work crews before I leave. Then if you talk to what’s-his-name—the engineer—we’ll have covered everyone, and—” The sergeant stopped suddenly. “I mean, at your orders, Lieutenant.”

Tejada smiled at him. “Relax, Márquez. You weren’t out of line. It’s a good idea. Go talk to the prisoners and I’ll interview Señor—” he glanced at the folder—“Señor Ladislao Oquendo as soon as he returns.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted and disappeared.

Tejada walked over to the Torre del Infantado and announced that he intended to wait for the chief engineer. He was in luck. Ladislao Oquendo arrived within fifteen minutes. Their interview was brief and to the point. Yes, the engineer had keys to all the offices in the tower and also to the storage areas of the barracks. Yes, he carried them on his person at all times. No, he lent them to no one. If one of the skilled prisoners needed materials, he went with the man to the storeroom and unlocked the door for him. Yes, he was aware of the possibility of theft and had been very annoyed by the disappearance of the dynamite. Oquendo was careful not to criticize Señor Rosas directly, but his tone of voice was eloquent as he said, “
I
have always believed in an
organized
construction site.” Tejada, listening to the precise and almost obsessional answers, mentally absolved the engineer of carelessness. The lieutenant wondered, with a flicker of amusement, how the pragmatic engineer got along with the ideologue Martin. Of course, it was possible that the precise Ladislao was also precisely stealing from his organization. Tejada turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “How long have you worked for Devastated Regions, Señor Oquendo?”

“Since the winter of 1938, shortly after it was founded.”

“And before that?”

“I worked for a private firm in Bilbao until the war broke out. Then I slipped across the Red lines to Vitoria in August of 1936.”

“Quick work,” Tejada commented.

Oquendo’s face showed distaste. “I had some . . . family experience with the Reds.”

Tejada glanced at the beginning of his notes, where he had written the engineer’s full name: Ladislao Oquendo Pavlov. “Your mother was a White Russian?” he suggested.

“That is correct, Lieutenant.” Oquendo pursed his lips and then added, “My father is a Spaniard. And I was born in this country. I consider myself thoroughly Spanish.”

“There’s no need to be defensive,” Tejada said mildly. “You’ve devoted your career to rebuilding our country.”

The engineer smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I find that many people automatically associate Russia with the Reds.

And since my given name is somewhat conspicuous—”

“Understood,” Tejada said, mentally crossing Ladislao Oquendo off his list of suspects for the theft of dynamite. “It must be doubly irritating to be suspected of being a Red, and to have suffered at their hands.”

He ended the interview and returned to the post to find Sergeant Márquez just on the verge of starting off on patrol with Guardia Carvallo. “The reports on the interviews are on your desk sir,” Márquez said as he saddled one of the Guardia’s mounts. “I was in a hurry, so they’re not formal, but if there’s anything you don’t understand, jot it down, and I’ll answer it as soon as I get back. And the intelligence reports from Santander came today, too.”

“Good.” Tejada nodded, satisfied. “Anything interesting come up in your interviews with the prisoners?”

“They all deny everything, of course,” Márquez snorted. “What did you expect?”

Tejada laughed. “Well, it’s what I expected, but I was
hoping
for something a little more useful.”

Guardia Carvallo led his horse out into the plaza and swung himself into the saddle. Márquez checked to be sure that the packs on his mount were secure, and then prepared to follow. “See you in two days, sir.”

Tejada nodded, and then, against his better judgment, said quickly, “Márquez?”

“Sir?” The sergeant half-turned.

“What did you think would be awkward?” Tejada asked, wishing that he had raised the subject in a more casual and graceful way.

Márquez looked blank. “Awkward?” he repeated.

“You said yesterday, ‘It could be awkward if—’” Tejada prompted. Then, seeing that the sergeant still looked puzzled, “We were discussing Madrid.”

The sergeant thought for a moment and then he laughed. “Oh, I was only going to say that it would be a bit awkward if Devastated Regions transferred Herrera here,” he said cheerfully. “But I don’t think we need to worry about that. I think he’s in a crew in Valencia somewhere.”

Tejada, who had been half-worried that Márquez had discovered something utterly damning in Elena’s file, was relieved but also puzzled. “Who’s Herrera?” he asked.

Márquez had already mounted. He raised his eyebrows and looked down at his commander. “You didn’t know about him?” he asked. “I assumed your wife had told you about her connection with him during the war. But, as I say, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about now.” He waited a moment for Tejada to reply and then said, “Tell Torres I hope he feels better so that I don’t have to freeze my tail off for another two days. And have fun with the reports from Santander, sir. Come on, Carvallo.”

The two guardias spurred their horses and started out of town. Tejada watched them with a certain sympathy for Márquez’s light bay. He felt rather as if the sergeant had just kicked him in the stomach as well.

Chapter 8

L
ike much of Potes, the church of San Vicente was in poor repair. But unlike much of the town, the church had a stone roof, so it had been undamaged by fire. The oldest part of the church dated from the fourteenth century, and had been built without wide and smashable windows, so its exterior had been largely spared by the war. Everything breakable or burnable had been broken or burned at the outbreak of the war, however, so the inside was a dark, cavernous space.

There were no signs outside the building to state the hours of mass and confession, much less where the priest was to be found. Elena pushed open the heavy door a little hesitantly. She had never seen the church in the middle of the week before. It was unlit, except for a few guttering candles, and, coming from the bright daylight outside, her eyes took a few moments to adjust. The smell was an odd mixture of old fires and new incense. She took a few steps forward, her shoes echoing in the dark silence. “Hello? Is anyone there?” No one answered, and she turned to leave.

Her hand was already on the door when she heard a clunk in the darkness behind her. She froze, heart pounding with irrational terror for a moment, and then a reassuringly normal voice said, “Sorry, I was in the sacristy. Were you looking for me?”

Elena spun around and saw that the voice was attached to a shadowy figure who appeared to be holding an electric flashlight. The figure moved toward her, and she made out the swish of a priest’s cassock. “Father Bernardo?”

“That’s right.” The priest reached her and held out his right hand, the flashlight in his left. “Do you wish to confess, daughter?”

“N-no, thank you.” Elena shook his hand. “I wanted to speak to you about an issue I was told you were interested in.”

“Then we had better go over to the parish house,” said Father Bernardo, opening the door and holding it for her. “It’s warmer, and better lit.”

Elena inspected the priest as they emerged into the sunlight. He was a fair, thin man, a few years shy of forty. He peered with frank curiosity at his guest through wire-rimmed glasses. “Forgive me. I believe you must be the new lieutenant’s wife but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

Elena introduced herself. “And I’m Bernardo Peña,” the priest said, bending his neck in a way that suggested a full bow. “A pleasure.”

He led her along the riverbank to a long, low-lying building with smoke coming from the chimney. “I work here in the winters,” he explained, unlocking the door and ushering her across the hall. “Most of the parish knows to search for me here if I’m not in the church. But I should put a sign up for newcomers. Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

Elena sat down in the armchair he was indicating, and inspected her surroundings. She was in a square, low-ceilinged room, with a woodstove against one wall. The room was furnished as a study, with a desk near the stove and a semicircle of chairs arranged around a rug on which stood a reading table. Lead-paned windows looked out on the river, and there were bookcases with glass doors opposite the fireplace. Elena fought the urge to get up and inspect the books. She had always believed that a person’s library was a sure index to character. As far as she could tell from her seat, the books were mostly full series: encyclopedias, and Alianza’s Castilian Classics and World Classics. The complete works of Augustine and Aquinas.

Father Bernardo took the seat behind the desk and opened a drawer. “If you’ll just wait a moment.” He drew out a diary, made an extended note, and then closed it and put it away again. “I’m at your disposal, Señora.”

Elena had been considering the best way to broach the subject. “I understand that you have been teaching the local children, in the absence of a regular school in Potes,” she said, and waited for his response.

He nodded. “Yes. Of course, most of the children here are shepherds’ or farmers’ sons. They don’t have the time or the need for real schooling. But I do my best to teach them to read and write and the simple arithmetic they need for business. These days even a shepherd needs to know how to sign his name. And when the boys go away to do their military service they can write home. It’s wonderful what a comfort that is to them and to their families. And then of course there’s . . . ,” he paused, looking a little embarrassed. “There are several advantages, I believe,” he finished. “But I shouldn’t bore you with this, Señora.”

“Oh, no,” Elena spoke eagerly. “No, I think you’re absolutely right. It would be wonderful to have a school in Potes.”

Father Bernardo sighed. “I have taken the matter up with my superiors,” he confided. “But we’re not a wealthy parish, and many people don’t see the need. Of course, if we were to have a larger force of guardias stationed here, and
they
brought children, it would be a different story.” He looked hopefully at Elena. “The government might take an interest then, you see.”

“My husband told me that I shouldn’t pester the government to take on the church’s responsibility.” Elena laughed, and the priest laughed with her, guessing the end of her sentence before she finished it.

“It
should
be the church’s responsibility,” Father Bernardo said, still smiling, but serious. “But unfortunately none of the teaching orders are here. And in these times no one thinks of the young.”

“But there’s still legislation mandating compulsory primary education, isn’t there?” Elena protested. “Surely someone
has
to take an interest?”

“You’re the first person who has,” the priest said. “That is, if this was what you wished to speak to me about?”

Elena nodded vigorously. “Yes. I thought it was a shame that there was no school here, and someone suggested that I take it up with you. But I don’t quite understand. There was a school here before the war, wasn’t there?”

Father Bernardo frowned and nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately, the teacher was tried as a Red in ’38. There was no one to fill the post afterward.”

Elena gulped, remembering that in 1938 she had been teaching in a school that undoubtedly would have been categorized as Red. “I can see where that might discourage applicants!”

“Señor Benigno had a proper trial!” the priest reassured her a little defensively. “He wasn’t–er–removed from prison by militias, or anything like that. Lieutenant Calero made sure everything was legal.”

“I’m sure that was a comfort to him.” Elena was unable to keep her voice completely free of sarcasm.

The priest took her seriously. “I believe it was. I was with him at the end and he seemed calm. And, of course, that way his family was able to give him a decent burial, which was a blessing to the whole town, really. The Románs were well liked, even though they weren’t from around here.”

Elena felt her throat muscles working as she fought nausea. She knew that the Regime regarded teachers as automatically suspect, but she had managed to ignore what might have happened to her if she had not met Carlos. She wondered how many of her former colleagues were dead or in prison, and if the ones who were dead had been “lucky” enough to have legal trials. “It’s a shame there’s a shortage of qualified teachers,” she said, keeping her voice soft so that it would not scream an accusation.

“Yes.” The priest turned a pen around in his hands. “Of course, entrusting the instruction of the young to anyone without the proper moral qualifications is . . . well, a risk, if not actually a sin. But it’s been extremely difficult to find someone of good moral and political character who is able to teach school here. And willing to, on what my esteemed cousin will pay,” he finished with a touch of acid.

“Your cousin?” Elena asked, momentarily bewildered.

“The mayor is my aunt’s son,” Father Bernardo explained. “I have spoken to him repeatedly about the desirability of a school in Potes. But he insists the town’s finances will not permit it.”

Elena remembered her husband’s not always printable comments about the mayor, and felt some sympathy for Father Bernardo. But if the mayor had based his major opposition to the school on the expense of a salary, she could outwit him. “How many children do you have?” she asked, already thinking about how to get around the lack of materials, and wondering whether reasonable classroom space could be prepared by the following autumn.

“Anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. It varies. At the moment I’m working only with this spring’s communicants. Then in the summer the kids are needed at home. I expect I’ll have about twenty-five in the fall.”

“And how old are they?”

“Usually between six and twelve.” Gratified by the unexpected interest, Father Bernardo added, “Sometimes I have a little class for girls, too. Of course, that means only doing the morning session for the boys.”

Elena’s jaw dropped. ‘
A little class for girls
, too!’ she thought, stunned.
So that’s all Teresa and Nita have. Just a few odds and ends!
And he’d have
room
for girls in the regular session if he tried
! Father Bernardo misread her horrified expression and shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. “I know a woman would be better fitted for the job. But there’s no one in the Liébana who could teach the girls. They need to learn doctrine and catechism anyway. And I don’t believe it corrupts their essential natures. I’m sure you yourself learned to read, Señora. . . .”

“I have a degree from the Madrid Complutense,” Elena said in a strangled voice. “And I taught primary school for five years. That was why I wanted to see you.”

“Oh!” The priest relaxed visibly. “How wonderful! I take it you would be interested in any efforts to start a regular primary school in Potes, then?”

“With girls equally included,” Elena said firmly.

“Ideally, yes,” Father Bernardo agreed cautiously. “I’ve thought for a while that the best thing would be to have an advisory committee made up of parishioners, who could petition the diocese for the necessary resources, and perhaps oversee the hiring of teachers. I’d spoken to the secretary of the Falange in Cillorigo, and the head of the Women’s Auxiliary, but they weren’t very interested. Given your qualifications, I’d be extremely grateful if you chaired the committee. Would you be willing?”

“To chair a committee?” Elena said, disbelieving.

Father Bernardo turned his pen in his hands again, and blinked behind his glasses. “I’m sorry.” He sounded embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. Of course, you’d have to discuss it with Lieutenant Tejada. But would you consider the position provided he didn’t object?”

It was on the tip of Elena’s tongue to say that Carlos could put up with her profession as she put up with his, but she had the sense to suppress this retort. “I don’t see the need for a committee, Father,” she said carefully. “I’m fully qualified to teach all primary subjects. If the diocese can provide space, it would be my pleasure to take the open position at whatever salary the municipality sees fit to provide.”

“B-but . . .” The priest’s blush was faint but widespread. He was pale pink from forehead to collar. “You couldn’t possibly
teach
. I-I mean, you’re . . . obviously a married woman.”

“I imagine no arrangements would be made until the following autumn at the earliest,” Elena said. “And by then I’ll be . . .less obvious, I suppose.”

“But your child—,” Father Bernardo protested. “You couldn’t
leave
it.”

“Only for a few hours a day,” Elena argued, “no more than I would if I was expected to pay morning visits or lunch with friends. I’m sure that I could arrange for a babysitter.”

Father Bernardo shook his head. “You can’t have considered this sufficiently. What would your husband say to this scheme? And what kind of example do you suppose it would set for the girls? It would hardly prepare them for marriage and motherhood!”

Elena sighed, and fought down disappointment. She had known that the priest would disapprove of her idea, and she had a reluctant suspicion that Carlos would as well. But her afternoon with the Álvarez children had thrown her boredom and loneliness and sheer misery in Potes into stark contrast. For a few moments Father Bernardo’s unexpected sympathy had made her hope that she would be able to shrug off the stifling burden of being the lieutenant’s wife, and be simply herself: Elena Fernández, teacher. “You’re right, of course,” she conceded, folding her hands over her stomach, and absently tapping her wedding ring with one finger. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were happy as a teacher,” Father Bernardo said, shrewdly but not unkindly.

“Yes.” Elena avoided his eyes and wondered if she had irreparably damaged her chances of teaching again or if her tactical error could be overcome, given time and strategy.