The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (71 page)

It
was
a
strange
and
unsettling
feeling
to
read
about
his
war
after
seeing
him
in
the
summer.
He
didn’t
tell
me
half
the
things
he’d
been
through,
and
I
wish
now
that
he
had.
I
have
asked
all
the
people
I
can
find
if
they
have
information
that
may
lead
to
us
finding
him.
I
even
went
to
Francisco’s
house;
he
was
most
helpful
and
asked
after
all
your
family
with
genuine
affection.
He
told
me
that
all
was
not
lost
with
regards
to
Pedro,
as
the
republican
government
hadn’t
sent
an
official
letter
to
your
family
(he
told
me
it
was
standard
procedure
to
report
a
soldier’s
death
in
this
way),
and
that
until
we
did
receive
news
to
the
contrary,
we
should
remain
hopeful
that
Pedro
is
alive.
You
could
have
no
idea,
María,
how
much
better
I
felt
after
speaking
to
him.

Our
young
Valencia
men
have
all
but
disappeared,
and
even
though
life
doesn’t
seem
to
have
changed
that
much,
it
is
apparent
to
me
that
it
has.
Numerous
obituaries
and
notices
with
lists
of
names
are
plastered
all
over
the
walls
of
the
hospital
and
in
the
centre
of
the
city.
The
dead
and
missing
are
not
forgotten
here,
and
I
join
all
the
other
families
in
the
belief
that
although
nothing
can
be
done
for
the
dead,
the
missing
still
deserve
our
prayers,
hope,
and
unwavering
belief
that
they
will
eventually
be
found
alive
and
well.

Before
the
war,
Pedro
described
La
Glorieta
to
me
in
detail,
so
I
feel
I
should
tell
you
that
it
has
been
altered
beyond
recognition.
It
is
in
one
piece
structurally,
but
it
has
been
taken
over
by
socialist
committees
and
Russian
communist
advisors
who
are
frantically
dishing
up
pieces
of
your
land
to
the
local
people.
It’s
called
collectivising.
The
harvests
have
not
suffered
because
of
this
action,
but
I
dread
to
think
just
how
much
of
your
lands
have
been
confiscated
and
how
little
is
left.
Still,
it
is
all
for
the
good
of
the
republic,
and
I’m
sure
your
father
would
rather
lose
some
land
than
lose
freedom
under
a
fascist
government.

I
am
pleased
to
say
that
I
spoke
with
Ramón
yesterday.
He
sends
you
all
his
love
and,
like
me,
wonders
if
you
might
not
be
better
off
coming
back
here
to
your
home.
There
are
always
places
for
good
nurses,
and
you
have
had
more
nursing
experience
in
the
last
year
than
most
qualified
nurses
in
a
civilian
hospital
have
ever
had.
I
also
asked,
on
your
behalf,
if
he
had
received
any
news
from
Carlos.
He
said
that
he
hadn’t
but
that
he
was
sure
he
was
safe,
and
he
told
me
to
tell
you
not
to
worry
about
him
(as
if
anything
could
stop
you
from
worrying).
Anyway,
think
about
coming
home,
María,
and
let
me
know
your
decision
so
that
I
can
make
arrangements
at
La
Glorieta.
I
am
giving
this
letter
to
a
young
man
who
leaves
for
the
Madrid
front
tomorrow.
He
kindly
offered
to
find
you
at
the
hospital.
Write
soon.

Love,

Lucia

She looked up. Carlos stood before her, and her heart leapt at the sight of him.

“Where have you been? she whispered when he pulled her into his arms. “My God, Carlos, where have you been? I’ve been beside myself with worry. I thought I’d go insane not knowing if you were alive or dead…”

“Hush, darling. I’m here now, and I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how much.” He smiled. “I expected you to be angry; you have every right to be.”

“How can I be angry, you silly man, when I’m so happy?” María said through her tears.

Carlos drank in the sight of her, and she bathed in the love shining from his eyes. She knew he loved her, but until today, she never realised just how much.

“Carlos, you’re freezing,” she told him. “Have some coffee.”

“No, not yet. Come with me, María. We need to talk in private, not here. I want to explain a few things to you.”

María looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot, tired, and filled with pain. He looked nervous, and those eyes darted across the room, settling on the doorway as though he expecting someone or dreading someone. As she stood up, she felt her legs shaking uncontrollably. Leaning on Carlos for support, she allowed him to lead her into the street.

He took her to the same little hotel as before and led her up to the room without asking for the key; it had all been arranged. She took off her coat and ran into his arms. He said nothing as she snuggled into his chest, but she felt the beating of his heart, strong and fast.

“María, I love you… I’m so sorry,” he whispered repeatedly.

“Carlos, kiss me and make me forget everything.”

When he made love to her, it was with an urgency and passion that showed, without words, that his feelings for her were stronger than ever. His lips, his tongue, and his hands found every part of her body, discovering it anew. She whimpered in ecstasy and with an overwhelming certainty that Carlos was hers and only hers. She would never doubt his love again, and she now wondered why she ever had. The war couldn’t steal him from her heart; war had not killed their love. She smiled and, for a fraction of a second, saw Jack McFadden in her mind’s eye. She felt no guilt, no remorse. Instead, she smiled again. This was real. This was right, and Jack would have told her that too.

Later, in the moonlight, she watched Carlos sleep. She stroked his hair and drew the outline of his lips with her fingertips before caressing his cheeks with the back of her hand. He was deep inside a dream that made his eyes flicker and his mouth and body flinch. She continued to watch him in the same way she’d watched over soldiers, dying, bleeding, and looking exactly the same way he did now. How many terrible things was he seeing? she wondered.

She couldn’t sleep. Her own mind was filled with the words and stories he had told her earlier. He’d given nothing away intentionally, but she’d read between the lines and was now convinced beyond a doubt that he was a spy for the communists. She had remained silent, neither judging him nor admonishing his actions, as he admitted with frankness and honesty that he could have seen her before now, written to her even, but had chosen not to.

She replayed their conversation in her mind, recounting his every word, and she felt even more confused and troubled than before.