politics,” he offered worrriedly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have hired him. The only reason I did was because of the kids. I mean, Cristina’s just sixteen this winter, and he’s got two younger ones, and they’re my sister’s children as well as his, after all.” The contractor talked himself to a standstill.
“That was very generous of you.”
Quiñones flushed painfully under the lieutenant’s impassive stare. “He couldn’t work anywhere else. I did the best I could for him,” he muttered. “I mean, you’ve got to have a job to get ration coupons, so that was something. And honest to God, Lieutenant, he never did any real harm . He’s never been a Communist, or anything like that.”
Tejada reflected that Quiñones seemed unsure whether to apologize for not doing enough for his brother-in-law or for helping him at all. Randomized guilt, the lieutenant decided, definitely made people much easier to interview. “Of course,” he said, meaninglessly. “I’d like to speak to Doctor Rivera now, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Señor Quiñones led the guardia civil into a cluttered and windowless office, crammed with three desks and an ancient filing cabinet. Although the cabinet looked as if a slight breeze would make it collapse in a heap of rust, and the desks were chipped and scarred, the room was scrupulously neat. The stack of papers beside a typewriter had been squared off with mathematical precision, and even the telephone on the wall had been carefully hung in the exact center above the filing cabinet. A female secretary was seated at the desk with the typewriter. Two men occupied the other desks, and Tejada recognized one of them as the fourth of the petitioners. Quiñones wove his way between the desks and murmured something in his brother-in-law’s ear. It was a useless piece of discretion. His other employees were openly staring at the guardia civil.
Doctor Rivera wordlessly closed the ledger on his desk, capped his pen, and made his way to where the lieutenant stood waiting. “You wanted to see me, sir?” His voice was dull, and he kept his eyes on the ground.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Tejada glanced at Quiñones, who was hovering at his brother-in-law’s elbow. “In private, if possible.”
“I’ll take you into my office,” the contractor said hastily. As they moved toward the door the typist raised her voice. “Tomás! I-I meant to tell you. I’ll take that recipe over to Cristina at lunch today.”
“Thanks.” Rivera’s smile came and went so quickly that Tejada missed it completely. But the lieutenant suddenly understood that Rivera’s normal expression was terribly sad.
Tejada patiently asked Rivera the same questions he had asked Velázquez. As he had expected, the answers were not substantially different. Rivera thought that he had been introduced to Guillermo Fernández by Doctor Velázquez. Or they might have met casually elsewhere. It had all been years ago. He had only met Manuel Arroyo in 1936, when they had cosigned the petition. No, the petition had not been his idea. No, he had not seen Professor Arroyo in years and had no idea where he might be. “We’ve never been close,” Rivera explained, in the weary monotone he used throughout the interview. “He belongs to a different generation, a different profession . . . a different class.” For the first time there was a faint edge in the doctor’s voice.
“Oh?” Tejada asked, pursuing the edge with some interest.
Rivera shrugged, once more indifferent. “My father was a tailor, Lieutenant. I was the first of my family to graduate from a university. And Arroyo . . .”
“I’ve met his wife,” Tejada offered helpfully.
Doctor Rivera looked up, and met the lieutenant’s eyes for the first time during the interview. “Well, then, you can see.”
“Yes.” Tejada considered mentioning that the aristocratic
“That was very generous of you.”
Quiñones flushed painfully under the lieutenant’s impassive stare. “He couldn’t work anywhere else. I did the best I could for him,” he muttered. “I mean, you’ve got to have a job to get ration coupons, so that was something. And honest to God, Lieutenant, he never did any real harm . He’s never been a Communist, or anything like that.”
Tejada reflected that Quiñones seemed unsure whether to apologize for not doing enough for his brother-in-law or for helping him at all. Randomized guilt, the lieutenant decided, definitely made people much easier to interview. “Of course,” he said, meaninglessly. “I’d like to speak to Doctor Rivera now, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Señor Quiñones led the guardia civil into a cluttered and windowless office, crammed with three desks and an ancient filing cabinet. Although the cabinet looked as if a slight breeze would make it collapse in a heap of rust, and the desks were chipped and scarred, the room was scrupulously neat. The stack of papers beside a typewriter had been squared off with mathematical precision, and even the telephone on the wall had been carefully hung in the exact center above the filing cabinet. A female secretary was seated at the desk with the typewriter. Two men occupied the other desks, and Tejada recognized one of them as the fourth of the petitioners. Quiñones wove his way between the desks and murmured something in his brother-in-law’s ear. It was a useless piece of discretion. His other employees were openly staring at the guardia civil.
Doctor Rivera wordlessly closed the ledger on his desk, capped his pen, and made his way to where the lieutenant stood waiting. “You wanted to see me, sir?” His voice was dull, and he kept his eyes on the ground.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Tejada glanced at Quiñones, who was hovering at his brother-in-law’s elbow. “In private, if possible.”
“I’ll take you into my office,” the contractor said hastily. As they moved toward the door the typist raised her voice. “Tomás! I-I meant to tell you. I’ll take that recipe over to Cristina at lunch today.”
“Thanks.” Rivera’s smile came and went so quickly that Tejada missed it completely. But the lieutenant suddenly understood that Rivera’s normal expression was terribly sad.
Tejada patiently asked Rivera the same questions he had asked Velázquez. As he had expected, the answers were not substantially different. Rivera thought that he had been introduced to Guillermo Fernández by Doctor Velázquez. Or they might have met casually elsewhere. It had all been years ago. He had only met Manuel Arroyo in 1936, when they had cosigned the petition. No, the petition had not been his idea. No, he had not seen Professor Arroyo in years and had no idea where he might be. “We’ve never been close,” Rivera explained, in the weary monotone he used throughout the interview. “He belongs to a different generation, a different profession . . . a different class.” For the first time there was a faint edge in the doctor’s voice.
“Oh?” Tejada asked, pursuing the edge with some interest.
Rivera shrugged, once more indifferent. “My father was a tailor, Lieutenant. I was the first of my family to graduate from a university. And Arroyo . . .”
“I’ve met his wife,” Tejada offered helpfully.
Doctor Rivera looked up, and met the lieutenant’s eyes for the first time during the interview. “Well, then, you can see.”
“Yes.” Tejada considered mentioning that the aristocratic
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