Summer Snow (22 page)

Carmen Llorente hesitated a moment and then said quietly, “Of course, Señora. You can drop him off here any time. But . . .”

Elena looked up, hoping that the pause meant she had been recognized. Isaura began to run water over the dishes, and Carmen spoke so that the other maid could not hear. “Can I speak to you alone, Señora? Just for a few minutes. I need to ask you something.”

Elena did not reply immediately. Isaura turned off the faucet. “If you take Toño for the morning, I’ll be back in time for his nap,” Elena said slowly. “But maybe you could help me put him down for his nap after lunch, so you know his routine for next time?”

Carmen let out a silent breath. “That would be fine.” A smile flickered across her face. “Just let me put these away, Señora, and I’ll be ready to take care of the little one.”

Elena nodded. She kissed her son good-bye and left him in the kitchen with an oddly hollow feeling. She had never left Toño with a strange babysitter before. She was proud that he was such an outgoing child, of course, but she had expected that he would be a little more worried about being left behind. Her memories of teaching in Madrid came to her aid. Carmen had been one of many parents who hugged their children tightly and watched with hurt eyes as their children scrambled away to explore their new classroom and meet classmates. Elena had always been slightly insulted by the parents who obviously hated to leave their children in her care. Now she understood perfectly.

She went in search of a city directory. Andrés Tejada provided Elena with one, warning her that it was not up-to-date. There were four Encinases listed in the directory: Enrique, María Isabel, Osvaldo, and Ubaldo. Elena tried to remember the names of Cristina’s parents and siblings. She was fairly sure that Cristina had spoken of an Ubaldo. Consulting a map, she saw that Ubaldo’s address seemed close to the Tejadas’ home. She set off without specifying her destination, after assuring her in-laws that no escort was necessary.

A very few minutes’ walk convinced Elena that she had been wise not to tell the Tejadas where she was going. She found her way back to Puerta Real easily, but as she turned into the sunlight and began to head uphill, the neighborhood changed abruptly. The street was almost a parody of the landscape around Potes. It ran up a narrow valley, so steep as to be almost a gorge, that would have been impressive had it been left in its natural state. But where the bubbling Deva in Potes ran plentifully between unspoiled ledges, the Darro was little more than a trickle among muddy rocks, strewn with garbage from the dilapidated buildings clinging precariously to either side of the cliffs. It had more the appearance of a sewer than a river. A number of the houses clinging to the hillside looked as if they had been damaged by cannon fire. Elena, instinctively glancing upward to see where artillery could have attacked from, saw the yellow bulk of the Alhambra looming above her. From this angle, the ancient fortress looked more menacing than picturesque.

Tiny alleys leading up, away from the river, were darkened by laundry crisscrossing the streets. Something about the shadowy figures lurking in the alleys made Elena avoid eye contact with them.
Paseo de los tristes
, Elena thought.
The path of the grieving.
The street’s well named
. She could feel herself attracting curious stares. She was too well dressed and walked too purposefully to belong in this part of town. She was unwilling to draw more attention to herself by consulting a map, so she contented herself with carefully checking the street numbers and hoping to reach her destination soon.

She was becoming nervous when she saw the number she was looking for on a heavy wooden door in a blank wall on her left unbroken by windows. It was sheer luck that she had not walked past it. Wondering if this had been such a good idea after all, Elena rapped on the uninviting entrance.

Somewhat to her surprise, the door swung open after just a few moments. “Yes? Can I help you?”

For a horrified instant, Elena feared that the woman facing her was Cristina. Then her common sense reasserted itself. War, starvation, and suffering had aged many people prematurely, but the lines bitten into faces that should still have been young were harder and sadder than the gentle wrinkles of the woman who had opened the door. The woman’s hair, caught up in a bun, was still thick, although frosted lightly with age. But the features, build, and coloring all strongly suggested the laughing student Elena had known. She smiled. “Señora de Encinas?”

“Yes?”

Elena hesitated, uncertain how to introduce herself, although she was now sure that she had found the right address. “My name is Elena Fernández. I was a student in Madrid, in the early thirties. In the school of education.”

Cristina’s mother smiled. “You’re a teacher then? Come in.” She stepped back, welcoming Elena with a gesture. Elena followed her into a tiled courtyard with a practical-looking well in the center. A stone bench had been set under a lime tree. Señora de Encinas led her guest through the
carmen
into a sitting room open to the courtyard. The room contained a pair of easy chairs, a low table, and an ironing board in one corner. “Please, sit.” Elena’s host indicated a chair and moved toward a cabinet along one wall. “It’s so good of Ubaldo’s friends to remember him.”

“I was interested in Señor Encinas’s work,” Elena said. “But actually I was a friend of Cristina’s. I was in Granada and I thought I’d look her up.”

“Oh!” Señora de Encinas had drawn a tray out of the cabinet drawer and had apparently been rummaging for something to put on it. Now she left the tray sitting on the cabinet and turned around, her face completely expressionless.

Elena recognized the woman’s set look. With a sinking feeling that was all too familiar she said, “Cristina and I lost touch a few years after we graduated. I didn’t know if she was . . . still here. But I wanted . . .” She said nothing, hoping that Cristina’s mother would offer some information. The older woman said nothing, but her eyes shut for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Elena whispered.

“Thank you, dear.” Señora de Encinas was obviously a woman of grace and control. Her voice was steady as she took the chair opposite Elena. “There was no way for you to know. Cristina . . . passed away nine years ago.”

The war and its aftermath had given Elena enough experience with the need for unexpected condolences to enable her to match her hostess’s self-control. She apologized for the intrusion and offered her sympathy with a fluency born of agonizing practice. The rules for the situation were clear: you did not ask for any information about the cause, or time, or place of death, in case dwelling on such details was shameful or dangerous for the family; you did not mention your own losses; and, above all, you did not cry, because once your tears started they might never stop.

Señora de Encinas was unwilling to speak of her daughter, but she was warmly, almost eagerly polite to Elena. She spoke willingly about her son, Félix, and his wife, and about her grandchildren. Then she asked about Elena’s connection with Cristina. She seemed almost desperate to hear stories of the girls’ years at the university. Elena found herself digging out old memories of exams and classes, of heated political debates and hopeful ambitions. When she mentioned that Cristina had spoken of her father’s work as a teacher, her hostess looked pained for a moment. “Ubaldo was the commissioner of public education for two years,” she said quietly. “But his life’s work was really the Home.”

“The home?”

“The Home for Indigent Children of the Albaicín,” the older woman explained. “It wasn’t just an orphanage. It was a place for abandoned children as well and a free school for the poorest. Ubaldo was so proud that it was the first of its kind that wasn’t run by the church.”

“It sounds like a wonderful idea.” Elena’s voice was gentle.

“We provided vocational training for the older ones and a clinic.” Señora de Encinas spoke with obvious pride. “We were just expanding into basic health care for the community.”

“You were involved with Señor Encinas’s work as well?”

“I’m a trained nurse.” The older woman smiled. “I was the director of the clinic.”

Elena felt a slight catch in her throat at this unexpected vision of marriage. It was partly envy of the easy equality that Señora de Encinas seemed to share with her husband that made her cruel enough to say, “Was Cristina—?”

“No,” Señora de Encinas shook her head. “We would have loved to pass along the clinic to Cristina, but she was a surgeon. She had just earned a post at the university hospital here. Ubaldo was sorry she wasn’t interested in the home, I think, but I was so proud of her. I’d wanted to be a doctor, but when I was a girl it wasn’t possible. . . .” She trailed off, her eyes tear bright.

Elena silently watched her grief, remembering a friend—had it been Cristina or someone else?—from her years at the university saying exultantly, “Nowadays we can do anything!” Cristina’s mother took a deep breath and spoke almost steadily. “After—the government changed—we thought maybe it was for the best. The church had never liked our work, but we thought, since Cristina wasn’t involved with the home, they’d have nothing against
her
. We’d hoped . . .” She closed her eyes and remembered that she was speaking to a stranger, albeit a sympathetic one. “We’ve been very lucky,” she finished piously. “Ubaldo is up for parole soon. He has friends who’ve interceded for him. And Félix and his family are doing well.”

Parole
, Elena thought. Ubaldo Encinas must be nearly seventy. If he had been arrested at the outbreak of the war as a city official, which seemed likely, he had spent nearly ten years in prison.
And they’re the lucky ones
. Señora de Encinas was asking her now about her own life, with kind courtesy. Elena was accustomed to embarrassment about her husband’s profession, but now she found herself admitting to the bare fact of marriage and motherhood almost regretfully.
We were going to do so much
more,
she thought.
To
be
so much more
. Horrified at her own disloyalty to Toño and Carlos, she crushed her thoughts and began looking for a graceful way to end the visit.

Elena had just risen to her feet and begun her farewells when the door to the courtyard opened and a boy of about sixteen came toward them with hurried steps. Señora de Encinas presented him. “My grandson, Baldo. This is Elena Fernández. She was a friend of your aunt’s in Madrid.”

Baldo supported the introduction as well as could be expected for a shy adolescent. His grandmother explained that he was currently employed as a delivery boy and messenger for
El Ideal
. “And he hopes to be a reporter soon.” His presence delayed Elena’s departure, but only by a few minutes. When she again began to leave, Baldo spoke up, a bit nervously. “I could go with you a little ways, Señora. Since you’re new to the city. And maybe show you some of the sites. This is a very old neighborhood. Very historic.”

Elena had no particular desire for an escort, and her visit to the Encinas family had depressed her, but she did not want to hurt Baldo’s feelings, or injure his grandmother’s. She accepted with as good a grace as possible and set out with Baldo by her side.

The boy was silent as they left his home, and Elena was beginning to think that he was going to be too shy to make good his promise of showing her the sites when he coughed and said, in a slightly furtive tone, “Señora Fernández, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Elena liked children, even older ones, and she smiled at him encouragingly.

He gulped and fell into step beside her. “You—you said you were a friend of Tía Cristina’s?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you—” The boy turned a deep shade of red. “Do you know anything about her? About what happened to her?”

“Only what your grandmother told me.” Elena was puzzled.

“What did she say?” His voice was sharp.

“She didn’t tell me much.” Elena frowned, seeking a gentle way to remind the boy that asking for details was against the unwritten code.

Baldo hesitated. “Could . . . could you help me find out what happened to her?”

“Surely your family—” Elena began.

“
They
all say she’s dead,” the boy interrupted. “But
I
know she’s not.” Seeing that Elena looked skeptical, he plunged on. “Look, there wasn’t ever a funeral or anything. No body. No news from the police.”

Elena opened her mouth to explain to him that all over Spain people were waiting for a body or official notification that would never come and found she had no words to tell a grieving boy the truth. “Sometimes in wartime—” she began, seeking for one of her husband’s phrases.

“It wasn’t
like
that!” There was almost a sob in Baldo’s voice. “Look, I know you mean you think she was shot up by the cemetery walls, like Julián’s dad and the mayor and all those others, but listen, she
knew
they were coming. The night she left, I woke up because I
heard
my parents and my grandparents arguing about it. And Grandpa was saying she hadn’t done anything wrong and she shouldn’t run, and Grandma was crying, and I wanted to get up and get a drink of water, because I hoped they would stop yelling. But I was too scared to get out of bed. And then the door opened.” Baldo closed his eyes, as if reliving the scene. “And Tía Cristina was there. She was dressed like she was going out to make a house call. And she just stood there in the doorway for a second, outlined, and I sat up in bed. And then she came over and hugged me and said she had to go away for a little while but that I should be a good boy and she would come back. Then she left.” Baldo swallowed. “And they didn’t arrive looking for her until a few hours later. So I
know
she got away.”