Summer Snow (21 page)

“First floor. Up the main staircase and you can’t miss it.”

The guard gestured. Tejada thanked him and moved lightly up the broad marble steps. The building was set around a large interior courtyard, and the stairs curled around the court, leading to a covered patio above. A number of students were leaning on the railing, looking down into the courtyard and chatting. A few of them ducked their heads and murmured to each other when they saw the lieutenant making his way through the building. Tejada ignored them.

The library was open, although not crowded. The air inside was warm and had the dry dusty smell of old paper. Tejada made his way to a battered central desk, where a lone man sat at a high swivel chair. Behind him rose a cliff of card catalogues higher than the lieutenant’s head. The man in the chair froze as Tejada approached, as if immobility would grant him invisibility. The lieutenant stood in front of the desk for a moment, waiting for the man to speak. The man stared down at the surface of the desk. Finally, Tejada coughed. “Are you the librarian here?”

“Yes, sir.” The man looked at him with hunted eyes. “I was approved by the director.” He fumbled for a moment and then flipped open a wallet. “See?”

Tejada glanced at the librarian’s ID and noticed that the man had shown him a membership in the Falange, instead of an official identity card.
Lukewarm to the Movement
, the lieutenant thought.
Probably barely kept his job after the war
. “I need information on cyanide,” he said simply. “How can I find it?”

For a moment the librarian blinked stupidly. Then he pulled himself together. “Toxicology? The medical school would have more on that than the general collection, I’m afraid. But we could look it up.” He swiveled in his chair and then stood, lifting one of the card catalogue boxes to shoulder height and placing it on the desk.

“I’m not so interested in the medical aspects,” Tejada said as the librarian began to flip the cards with an impressive combination of delicacy and speed. “I want to know how you find it or make it. I can look under poisons or toxicology while you check there,” he added as the librarian continued his search.

“Yes, sir.” The man obediently swung the drawer around so it was facing the lieutenant. “It’s in alphabetical order, and if you see a book you want you just copy the number in the corner here—”

“I know how a card catalogue works,” Tejada interrupted. “Suppose you look under poisons.” He reached the place he was looking for and added, “Or a good encyclopedia might help.”

“Yes, sir. Are there any cross-references?” The librarian spoke over his shoulder as he pulled out drawers.

“Amyl nitrite, cyanosis, hydrocyanic acid, poisons,” the lieutenant read promptly. “What is amyl nitrite?”

“I don’t know. Just a minute.” A researcher’s curiosity was beginning to override his nervousness. He scurried out from behind the desk to a row of reference volumes along a low shelf on the opposite wall. After a moment, he selected one, and opened it. Tejada, patiently copying titles and call numbers that looked as if they might be useful, ignored him. He was recalled from his work a few minutes later by the librarian’s voice.

“This article might help a little, sir. It says amyl nitrite is the only known antidote for cyanide. But it’s only effective if given immediately.”

“Interesting,” Tejada admitted. “But not what I was looking for. Does it say anything about how an average person might
get
cyanide?”

“Used in electroplating, tanning, and the ‘cyanide process’ of ore extraction,” the librarian read aloud. “Also found naturally in the pits of cherries, apricots, plums, and other plants of the genus
pranus
.”

Tejada abandoned the card catalogue. “Perfect. Let me see that article.”

The librarian rose, leaving the encyclopedia open to the correct page. Tejada sat down and after a few moments took out his notebook and began to copy parts of the article verbatim. The librarian retreated to his desk and replaced the abandoned drawers. The silence descended again, broken only by the scratching of the lieutenant’s pen and the occasional creak of the swivel chair. Half an hour later, Tejada closed the book and stretched, feeling as if he were coming up for air. The librarian looked over at him. “Did you find what you needed, sir?”

“A good start, in any case. Thanks for your help.”

“It was nothing.” If Tejada had not been armed and in uniform, the librarian would have asked him why he wanted the information. Even as it was, he was tempted to crack a joke about wanting to poison someone. But he only smiled and assured the lieutenant that it had been his pleasure to be helpful.

When Tejada returned to the post, he found that Sergeant Rivas was still interrogating Alberto Cordero. “He was being difficult, Lieutenant,” Guardia Medina explained, in response to Tejada’s question. “If you know what I mean.”

Tejada looked at Medina’s leer with dislike. “Knows how to keep his mouth shut, does he?” he said shortly, reflecting that if Guardia Medina had known how to keep his own mouth shut, Doña Rosalia’s death would never have given rise to a long distance phone call to Potes.

“He doesn’t have too many teeth left,” Medina confided. “But don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’ll get a confession out of him.”

“Interrogate a lot of guerrillas, do you?” Tejada asked, with the irrational feeling that he was being patronized. He was torn between a desire to say that the guerrillas in Potes were far tougher and better organized than anything in the south and a feeling that this particular boast might reflect poorly on his own skills as a commander.

“Not too many,” Medina conceded. Because he was a more accomplished boaster than the lieutenant, he added, “They know what happens when we catch them here, so there aren’t too many.”

The clocks began to strike the hour. Tejada was not anxious to go home, but he had no desire to remain in Medina’s company, and he could not shake the nagging feeling that Alberto Cordero’s ties to the Reds were irrelevant. On the other hand, if one member of Doña Rosalia’s household had been sympathetic to the Reds, another might be as well.

“Anything the sergeant finds out about the bandits in the Alpujarra is all to the good,” he said. “But let’s try to remember the point here.”

Medina was instantly grave. “Yes, sir. We all want to find out who killed your lady aunt, sir.”

“Tell Sergeant Rivas to check the family connections of all the rest of her household,” the lieutenant ordered. “You never know.”

Swelling with importance, Medina promised to deliver this order to the sergeant. Tejada waited for him to leave the office, and then wrote a note to Rivas, giving the same order, in more detail, in case Medina messed it up. He put the note on the sergeant’s desk where he was sure to see it and then left the post with the satisfaction of a job well done. His feeling of accomplishment peaked as he stepped out of the post, ending the day’s work. Unfortunately, it waned steadily as he walked back to his parents’ house. As he reached their home, it occurred to him that he was going to have to face his father across the dinner table. He would almost have been willing to change places with Alberto Cordero for the evening. But not quite.

Chapter 12

T
ejada’s precipitous departure that morning had left his wife the pleasure of a solitary breakfast with her in-laws. The evening with Nilo had put Elena in a good mood, though, and she was able to answer with smiling calm when Doña Consuela asked if Elena wanted her to babysit for Toño for the morning. “You must want to go shopping, dear,” her mother-in-law added. “I’d be happy to take care of him.”

“It depends on what Toño wants to do,” Elena said sweetly. “He’s not used to being left without me. But I
would
like to look up an old friend here.” She was certain that her mother-in-law had intended a veiled reference to her wardrobe, and she managed to take a certain pleasure in blunting Doña Consuela’s attack, although she knew that any acquaintance she admitted to having exposed a new flank to the enemy.

“Surely you’ll want Carlos to go along if you’re visiting friends.” Doña Consuela was bland.

“I try never to interfere with his work,” Elena lied politely. “And Cristina is my friend, not his. If you have a directory of the city, perhaps I could borrow it? I’m sure I can find my way.”

Doña Consuela frowned. “If you have to see this . . .
person
”— her tone made it clear that she thought Elena was lying about the gender of her acquaintance—“Juan Andrés will accompany you. It’s not appropriate for you to be wandering around the city by yourself.”

Juan Andrés looked up, not at all pleased. “I can’t, I have business today, Mother.” It occurred to him that this was an ungracious comment and he added to his sister-in-law, “Of course I can show you the way, if you can find your way back.”

Elena nodded at him and smiled, acknowledging but excusing his rudeness. Relieved, he smiled back.

“If this person lives in a safe neighborhood,” Doña Consuela interjected, pursing her lips. “Elena doesn’t know the city. She could easily find herself in a bad part of town.”

“What would
you
like, Toño?” Elena spoke quickly, determined to avoid leaving her son to his grandmother’s tender mercies.

Her son was unenthusiastic about both plans. “If you went out, would you come back soon?” he asked, with a glance at his grandmother.

“I don’t have to go,” Elena said hastily. “Or you could come with me.”

“To the toy store?” Toño asked.

“If you want. And there’s a lady I used to know whom I’d like to see.”

The little boy wrinkled his nose. “I’ll stay here. You can go visit the lady. Unless you
want
me to come,” he added generously.

“No, no, we can both stay here,” Elena reassured him, resigning herself to another interminable day with her mother-in-law. She would have liked the chance to talk to Cristina and find out what had become of the funny, unconventional girl she had known, but it was not fair to drag Toño on expeditions he did not enjoy, and she was not going to leave him with Doña Consuela.

“Maybe I could stay with Alejandra?” Toño suggested. “I like Alejandra.”

“I think she is in school now,” Elena pointed out gently.

Unexpectedly, Elena’s sister-in-law spoke up. “What about Alejandra’s mother, Carmen? She used to take Marta and Paco out to the park when they were little. She could take Toño for you for a few hours.”

Doña Consuela glared at her elder son’s wife. “Rosa, most women don’t like to leave their children with people who aren’t family.”

Rosa glared back at Doña Consuela, solidarity with a fellow daughter-in-law temporarily overriding her dislike and distrust of Carlos’s wife. “I thought Elena might like to know that there’s someone trustworthy to take care of her son,” she shot back, emphasizing the word
trustworthy
a little more than necessary.

“I don’t have to go visiting today,” Elena said, in a vain attempt to keep the peace. “I can take Toño out to the park myself, but I’ll introduce him to Señora . . . err . . . Carmen after breakfast so he’ll know her for another time.”

She drained her coffee, willing Toño to eat quickly so that she could escape from the breakfast table. Rosa, with renewed helpfulness, volunteered that Carmen could be found in the kitchen and Elena hurried her son out of the room with the excuse of going to meet Alejandra’s mother.

The kitchen was a narrow, stuffy room with an enormous black stove in one corner, noisy with the clatter of plates. Isaura, the Tejadas’ maid, was dumping used breakfast dishes in the sink as they arrived. At the far corner by the stove, a squarely built woman wearing an apron was polishing a set of silver. Both women looked up as Elena and Toño entered and stopped what they were doing. Isaura spoke first. “Señora Fernández? How can we help you?”

Elena felt awkward. “I wondered if”—she hesitated, uncertain what to call the quiet woman in the corner—“if Carmen—Señora Llorente—would be willing to look after my son for a few hours when she’s free. Rosa—my brother-in-law’s wife—suggested it.”

Carmen set down the sugar bowl she was holding, wiped her hands on her apron, and came forward. “Of course, Señora. It would be a pleasure.” She squatted to be at eye level with Toño and added, “Hello, Señorito. I’m sure we’ll have a good time together.”

Elena looked down at the kneeling woman and saw threads of gray in the straggling hair. A memory rose in her throat like bile: a chestnut-haired mother, kneeling in the school playground on a golden September morning and tightly hugging her little girl, saying cheerfully, “I’m sure you’ll have a good time in second grade, Aleja.”

Toño inspected Carmen. “Are you Alejandra’s mama?”

(Elena had memorized the class list the night before and she had been able to smile at the shy little girl and say, “You’re María Alejandra, aren’t you? And this must be your mama?”)

“Yes, Señorito. It’s Carlos Antonio, isn’t it?”

(“Yes, Señorita Fernández. I’m Carmen Llorente.)

“Mostly people call me Toño.”

(“My name is Aleja, Señorita.”)

Elena closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Carmen had risen and was facing her with no trace of recognition.
I’m sorry
, the lieutenant’s wife thought, longing to say the words aloud.
I didn’t think it would turn out like this
. But she was no longer a young teacher in a public school in wartime Madrid, and the omnipresent smell of burning buildings and sound of distant cannon fire no longer made even strangers confide in each other like friends. “Do you think you could take care of Toño this morning?” she asked.