He shook his head. “The trouble with Madrid is that it’s in the middle of goddamn nowhere.” Gonzalo stiffened at the insult to his home. He knew what the man meant, of course, but it made more sense to say that Portugal and France were nowhere. Madrid was the center of things.

“He was the greatest poet of his generation,” the miliciano said, a little defiantly. “Agreed.” “And your side killed him.” “A regrettable mistake. Accidents happen in wartime.” Tejada was busy with the clutch. “The way Viviana was a mistake?” Gonzalo asked. “How many mistakes do you allow yourself, Sergeant?”

Señorita Fernández’s eyes widened. “Coffee!” she repeated, stunned. “Really?” “It’s a flexible term,” Tejada admitted with a smile. “But one can’t say to a guest after dinner, ‘hot brown liquid?’” Elena laughed. “If you will drink also.”

And if she has any relatives, tell them to feed her up. She’s suffering from malnutrition.” Tejada wondered briefly if medical training had the unintentional side effect of divorcing doctors’ brains from their external surroundings. Since Villalba was a superior officer, he did not point out that most children in Madrid were probably suffering from

Gonzalo realized, as he told his story, that he had just robbed a man at gunpoint, and was ready to laugh with joy at the results. Some feeble prewar self hammered at the ice crystal that imprisoned it, and tried to protest this immoral behavior but its cries and gesticulations remained safely locked away. Carmen, as she listened to the story,

Tejada had seen a few women who had been raped but they had all been dead or unconscious. He had never before dealt with a victim of attempted rape. He had the vague idea that women were supposed to cry, or faint, or have hysterics in such a situation. He had not expected this brittle hostility. By rights, it should have irritated him. But he had

“Some people will do anything for money,” the Communist sneered, with the fine scorn of someone who would do anything for a cause.

The only men she would have met in Madrid would have been the Reds, who did not marry their women anyway, and the liberal apologists for the Republic. It was inconceivable that she would have lived in sin with some grubby miliciano, and as for the so-called better classes—Cowards, Tejada thought. Pasty little half-men like that Herrera. Probably

Surely he could not have been impressed by the Falange’s pretended concern for peasant laborers? If he were a little brighter he might have turned into a Socialist, she thought. She looked at the uniform in front of her and brushed away the idea. It was ridiculous. He was simply a gentleman who enjoyed playing at being a policeman.