Tejada knew some of the basics of how to elicit a confession but he had never tried to stop one before. Señorita Fernández’s clear voice rang through the empty street. “You don’t believe me, Sergeant? Viva la República! I’m a member of—” Tejada grabbed her arms and kissed her.

“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?”

She sipped at her drink in silence. He drank silently as well, frowning heavily, and a little of her fear returned. He’s a guardia, Elena thought. Better educated, and maybe brighter than most, but one of Them. They can be human, off duty, even pleasant, but they’re . . Them. She drained her cup and set it down.

The best parts of the past lapped gently around him, like ripples on a summer lake: the park on summer Sundays; his first paycheck; the reading room at the union headquarters, where he had discovered Marx and Dickens and Freud and Galdós, whom he had secretly loved best of all; nights in the plaza, when he and Pedro had flirted with the passing

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.”

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

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

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.

“It wasn’t just a question of expediency,” he justified himself. “I’d been very interested in the Falange’s land redistribution programs for some years. It’s just that they might affect my family quite directly, and. . . .” He paused, uncertain how to explain that he had been unwilling to strain his parents’ patience further by coming home wearing