فصل سیزدهم

13

The Tailor’s Wife

Vidal hated the rain almost as much as he hated the forest. It touched his body, his hair, and his clothes and made him feel vulnerable. Human.

He had lined up his soldiers nearly an hour ago, but his guests were all late and his men looked like dripping scarecrows. Yes. Vidal stared at his watch. They were late. Its broken face told him that and other things—that he was in the wrong place, that his father’s shadow still made him as invisible as the men he was hunting, that the rain and the forest would beat him.

No. He stared over the yard, where the waxing moon was reflecting in the puddles. No, although the rain stained his immaculate uniform and covered his polished boots with mud, he wouldn’t let this place beat him. It felt like an answer from a grim god who liked men as lost and twisted as Vidal, when the headlights of two cars pierced the night. His men rushed forward to shield the passengers with umbrellas. They had all come, everyone who considered himself important in this wretched place: the general and one of his commanding officers; the mayor and his wife; a rich widow, who had been a member of the Fascist party since 1935; the priest; and Dr. Ferreira. Yes, Vidal had invited the good doctor too. Not without reason. He offered his umbrella to the mayor’s wife and led her into the house.

Mercedes had brought Ofelia’s mother down in her wheelchair. Carmen reminded Mercedes of a girl who’d been taught to not offend her father and now did the same for her husband, making herself small, even when she wasn’t in the wheelchair.

“Have you checked for her in the garden?” Carmen muttered as Mercedes pushed her into the room, which the maids had transformed once again from a war room into a dining room.

“Yes, Señora.”

Mercedes had checked everywhere for Ofelia, in the barn, in the stables, even at the old labyrinth. She saw fear in the other woman’s eyes, but not for her child, no. She was afraid to upset her new husband. Everyone at the mill was sure Vidal had only married her for the unborn child. Mercedes saw the same belief on the faces of his guests.

“May I introduce you all to my wife, Carmen?”

Vidal couldn’t hide that he was ashamed of her. The women among his guests were far better dressed, and their jewelry made the earrings that Ofelia’s mother wore resemble a child’s cheap play jewelry. The mayor’s wife hid her contempt behind a bright smile, but the widow didn’t make that effort. Look at her, her face said. Where did he find her? She’s a little Cinderella, isn’t she?

Dr. Ferreira exchanged a glance with Mercedes before he sat down at the table. He was afraid, she could read it in his face. Afraid that he’d been invited to this dinner, because Vidal knew and Mercedes prayed that his fear wouldn’t give them both away. She didn’t know to whom she prayed now, to the forest, to the night, to the moon . . . ? It was for sure not the god the men who were taking their seats at the table prayed to. He had deserted her too often.

“Only one?” The priest took a voucher from the stack Vidal handed to him and passed the others on.

“I am not sure that is enough, Capitán,” the mayor said. “We meet a lot of dissatisfaction caused by the continuous shortages of even the most basic foods.” “If people are careful,” the priest said, hastily coming to Vidal’s aid, “one voucher should be plenty.” The priest liked to please the military. The other maids who still went to church every Sunday had told Mercedes how he sang the praises of obedience and order from the pulpit and condemned the men in the woods as pagans and communists in his sermons, no better than the devil.

“We have of course plenty of food now,” Vidal said, “but we have to make sure no one gets enough to feed the rebels. They’re losing ground and one of them is wounded.” Dr. Ferreira hid the slight tremble of his lips by wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Wounded?” he asked in a casual voice. “How can you be so sure, Capitán?” “Because we almost got them today. And we found this.” Vidal held up one of the vials they had found in the forest.

Mercedes caught another glance from Ferreira. She straightened her back and tried her best to give him confidence by banning any expression of worry from her face, though she tasted her own fear like vinegar in her mouth.

“May God save their lost souls. What happens to their bodies hardly matters to Him.” The priest sank his fork into a roasted potato.

“We’ll help you in any way we can, Capitán,” the mayor said. “We know you’re not here by choice.” Vidal straightened up in his chair. It was his usual gesture when something offended him. Getting ready for attack.

“But you’re wrong, sir,” he said with a stiff smile. “I choose to be here because I want my son to be born in a new, clean Spain. Our enemies”—he paused to look at his guests, one after the other—“hold the mistaken belief that we’re all created equal. But there’s a big difference: They lost this war. We won. And if we need to kill each and every one of them to make that clear, then that’s what we’ll do. Each and every one of them.” He raised his wineglass. “To choice!” His guests raised their glasses. Dr. Ferreira joined them, clenching his glass firmly.

“To choice!” the voices echoed through the room. Mercedes was glad she didn’t hear them anymore when she slipped out of the door and returned to the kitchen.

“Put the coffee on,” she ordered the other maids. “I’ll get some more firewood,” she added, grabbing her jacket from the hook by the kitchen door.

They all watched her silently when she lit a lantern—the match in her hand visibly shaking—and stepped out into the rain.

She walked past the cars and the soldiers guarding them, with her head down, hoping to be invisible to them as usual, just a maid. But it was so hard to not hasten her steps. Because we almost got them today.

Mercedes stopped when she reached the edge of the forest. She cast one more glance over her shoulder, making sure branches were shielding her from the guards’ view, then she raised the lantern and moved her hand up and down over the light—once, twice, three times. So far, this signal had always worked. Her brother usually had a man watching the mill in case she had a message or news for them. Only when Mercedes lowered the lantern and turned to walk back to the house did she notice a small figure between the trees. So small and trembling in her wet clothes.

“Ofelia?”

The girl’s body was as cold as ice and her dark eyes were wide with worry. But there was something else in them: a pride and strength her mother lacked. Ofelia was clutching something in her hand, but Mercedes didn’t ask what it was or where the girl had been. Who knew better than her about secrets that are best kept inside? She put her arm around Ofelia’s shivering shoulders and led her back to the mill, hoping the girl’s secrets were not as dangerous as her own.

“So how did you two meet?” The mayor’s wife smiled and Ofelia’s mother forgot the contempt on the other guests’ faces. She should have known better. It’s so much safer to stay silent and invisible when you feel weak and small. But this was her fairy tale and Carmen wished so hard for it to end well.

“Ofelia’s father used to make the capitán’s uniforms.”

“Oh, I see!”

Carmen didn’t realize that was all the mayor’s wife needed to know. A tailor’s wife . . . a previously married woman. The faces around the table stiffened. But Ofelia’s mother was still lost in her fairy tale. Once upon a time . . .

She rested her hand tenderly on Vidal’s. “After my husband died, I went to work at the shop, on my own . . .” The other women looked down at their plates. What a confession! In their world a woman only worked if she was poor and had to support a family. But Ofelia’s mother still believed the prince had saved her from all that: the poverty, the shame, the helplessness . . . She looked at Vidal, her eyes bright with love.

“And then, a little more than a year ago”—she still had her hand on his—“we met again.”

“How curious.” The pearls the mayor’s wife wore around her neck shimmered as if she’d stolen a few stars from the sky. “Finding each other again like that . . .” There was a hint of warmth in her voice. The tailor’s wife and the soldier . . . everyone loves a fairy tale.

“Curious. Oh yes, yes, very curious,” the rich widow said, curling her lips. She only believed in fairy tales where a hero brings home heaps of gold.

“Please forgive my wife.” Vidal freed his hand and picked up his glass. “She thinks these silly stories are interesting to others.” Carmen Cardoso stared down at her plate in embarrassment. There were fairy tales describing dinners like this. Maybe her daughter should have warned her that she had mistaken a Bluebeard for a prince?

Mercedes saw Carmen’s sunken shoulders as she walked back into the room, and she was glad it was good news she whispered into Carmen’s ear.

“Please excuse me,” Carmen Cardoso murmured. “My daughter, she is . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

Nobody looked at her when Mercedes pulled her wheelchair from the table.

“Did I tell you that I knew your father, Capitán?” the general asked as Mercedes pushed the wheelchair toward the door. “We both fought in Morocco. I knew him only briefly, but he left a great impression.” “Really? I had no idea.”

Mercedes could hear in Vidal’s voice that he didn’t like the question.

“His soldiers said,” the general continued, “that when General Vidal died on the battlefield, he smashed his silver pocket watch on a rock to make sure his son would know the exact hour and minute of his death. And to show him how a brave man dies.” “Nonsense!” Vidal said. “My father never owned a pocket watch.”

Mercedes longed to pull the pocket watch out of his jacket to show them all what a broken, lying thing he was. But instead she pushed the wheelchair out of the room. The girl was waiting. Mercedes had left Ofelia upstairs taking a hot bath to drive the cold away and she’d tried to wash the dress, but it was ruined.

Ofelia evaded her mother’s eyes when Mercedes pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom. There was still that hint of pride on the girl’s face and a rebelliousness Mercedes hadn’t noticed before. She liked it much better than the sadness, which had followed Ofelia like a shadow when she arrived at the mill. Her mother didn’t feel that way. She picked the ruined dress up from the tile floor and ran her hand over the stained fabrics.

“What you’ve done hurts me, Ofelia.”

Mercedes left them alone and Ofelia let herself sink deeper into the hot water. She could still feel the woodlice crawling on her arms and legs, but she had fulfilled the Faun’s first task. Nothing else mattered, not even her mother’s upset face.

“When you’ve finished your bath, you’ll go to bed without supper, Ofelia,” she heard her say. “Are you listening? Sometimes I think you’ll never learn to behave.” Ofelia still didn’t look at her. The foam on the water showed her reflection in a thousand shimmering bubbles. Princess Moanna.

“You’re disappointing me, Ofelia. And your father, too.”

The wheelchair didn’t turn easily on the tiles. When Ofelia lifted her head, her mother was already at the door.

Her father . . . Ofelia smiled. Her father was a tailor. And a king.

She heard the soft flutter of wings the moment her mother closed the bathroom door behind her. The Fairy landed on the bathtub edge. She was wearing her insect body again.

“I’ve got the key!” Ofelia whispered. “Take me to the labyrinth!”