The Sands of Time (11 page)

The man who called himself Jaime Miró was tall and lean, with fierce black eyes. “They could have been followed here.” He turned to one of the members of his band. “Have a look around.”

“Sí.”

Lucia realized that it was a woman who had answered. She watched her move silently into the trees.

“What are we going to do with them?” Ricardo Mellado asked.

Jaime Miró said, “
Nada.
We leave them and move on.”

One of the men protested, “Jaime—these are little sisters of Jesus.”

“Then let Jesus take care of them,” Jaime Miró said curtly. “We have work to do.”

The nuns were all standing now, waiting. The men were gathered around Jaime, arguing with him.

“We can’t let them get caught. Acoca and his men are searching for them.”

“They’re searching for us too,
amigo.
”

“The sisters will never make it without our help.”

Jaime Miró said firmly, “No. We’re not risking our lives for them. We have problems of our own.”

Felix Carpio, one of his lieutenants, said, “We could escort them part of the way, Jaime. Just until they get away from here.” He turned to the nuns. “Where are you sisters headed?”

Teresa spoke up, the light of God in her eyes. “I have a holy mission. There is a convent at Mendavia that will shelter us.”

Felix Carpio said to Jaime Miró, “We could escort them there. Mendavia’s on our way to San Sebastian.”

Jaime turned on him, furious. “You damned fool! Why don’t you put up a signpost telling everyone where we’re going?”

“I only meant—”

“¡Mierda!”
His voice was filled with disgust. “Now we have no choice. We’ll have to take them with us. If Acoca finds them, he’ll make them talk. They’re going to slow us down and make it that much easier for Acoca and his butchers to track us.”

Lucia was only half listening. The gold cross lay within tempting reach.
But these damned men! You have lousy timing, God, and a weird sense of humor.

“All right,” Jaime Miró was saying. “We’ll have to make the best of it. We’ll take them as far as the convent and drop them, but we can’t all travel together like some bloody circus.” He turned to the nuns. He could not keep the anger out of his voice. “Do any of you even know where Mendavia is?”

The sisters looked at one another.

Graciela said, “Not exactly.”

“Then how the hell did you ever expect to get there?”

“God will lead us,” Sister Teresa said firmly.

Another of the men, Rubio Arzano, grinned. “You’re in luck.” He nodded toward Jaime. “He came down to guide you in person, Sister.”

Jaime silenced him with a look. “We’ll split up. We’ll take three different routes.”

He pulled a map out of a backpack and the men squatted down on the ground, shining flashlights on the map.

“The convent at Mendavia is here, southeast of Logroño. I’ll head north through Valladolid, then up to Burgos.” He ran his fingers along the map and turned to Rubio, a tall, pleasant-looking man. “You take the route to Olmedo up to Peñafiel and Aranda de Duero.”

“Right,
amigo.
”

Jaime Miró was concentrating on the map again. He looked up at Ricardo Mellado, one of the men whose face was bruised. “Ricardo, head for Segovia, then take the mountain route to Cerezo de Abajo, then to Soria. We’ll all meet at Logroño.” He put the map away. “Logroño is two hundred and ten kilometers from here.” He calculated silently. “We’ll meet there in seven days. Keep away from the main roads.”

Felix asked, “Where in Logroño shall we meet?”

Ricardo said, “The Cirque Japon will be playing in Logroño next week.”

“Good. We’ll meet there. The matinee performance.”

Felix Carpio spoke up. “Who are the nuns going to travel with?”

“We’ll split them up.”

It was time to put a stop to this, Lucia decided. “If the soldiers are searching for you,
señor,
then we’d be safer traveling on our own.”

“But
we
wouldn’t be, Sister,” Jaime said. “You know too much about our plans now.”

“Besides,” the man called Rubio added, “you wouldn’t have a chance. We know the country. We’re Basques, and the people up north are our friends. They’ll help us and hide us from the Nationalist soldiers. You’d never get to Mendavia by yourselves.”

I don’t want to get to Mendavia, you idiot.

Jaime Miró was saying, grudgingly, “All right, then, let’s get moving. I want us far away from here by dawn.”

Sister Megan stood quietly listening to the man who was giving orders. He was rude and arrogant, but somehow he seemed to radiate a reassuring sense of power.

Jaime looked over at Teresa and pointed to Tomás Sanjuro and Rubio Arzano. “They will be responsible for you.”

Sister Teresa said, “God is responsible for me.”

“Sure,” Jaime replied drily. “I suppose that’s how you got here in the first place.”

Rubio walked over to Teresa. “Rubio Arzano at your service, Sister. How are you called?”

“I am Sister Teresa.”

Lucia spoke up quickly. “I will travel with Sister Teresa.” There was no way she was going to let them separate her from the gold cross.

Jaime nodded. “All right.” He pointed to Graciela. “Ricardo, you’ll take this one.”

Ricardo Mellado nodded.
“Bueno.”

The woman whom Jaime had sent to reconnoiter had returned to the group. “It’s all clear,” she said.

“Good.” Jaime looked at Megan. “You come with us, Sister.”

Megan nodded. Jaime Miró fascinated her. And there was something intriguing about the woman. She was dark and fierce-looking, with the hawklike features of a predator. Her mouth was a red wound. There was something intensely sexual about her.

The woman walked up to Megan. “I’m Amparo Jirón. Keep your mouth shut, Sister, and there will be no trouble.”

Jaime said to the others, “Let’s get moving. Logroño in seven days. Don’t let the sisters out of your sight.”

Sister Teresa and the man called Rubio Arzano had already started to move down the path. Lucia hurried after them. She had seen the map that Rubio Arzano had put in his backpack.
I’ll take it,
Lucia decided,
when he’s asleep.

Their flight across Spain began.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

M
iguel Carrillo was nervous. In fact, Miguel Carrillo was
very
nervous. It had not been a wonderful day for him. What had started so well in the morning, when he had encountered the four nuns and convinced them that he was a friar, had ended up with him being knocked unconscious, tied hand and foot, and left on the floor of the dress shop.

It was the owner’s wife who had discovered him. She was a heavyset, elderly woman with a moustache and a foul temper. She had looked down at him, trussed up on the floor, and said, “
¡Madre de Dios!
Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Carrillo had turned on all his charm. “Thank heavens you’ve come,
señorita.
” He had never met anyone who was more obviously a
señora.
“I’ve been trying to get out of these straps so I could use your phone to call the police.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

He tried to struggle into a more comfortable position. “The explanation is simple,
señorita.
I am Friar Gonzales. I come from a monastery near Madrid. I was passing by your beautiful store when I saw two young men breaking into it. I felt it was my duty as a man of God to stop them. I followed them inside hoping to persuade them of the errors of their ways, but they overpowered me and tied me up. Now, if you would be good enough to untie me—”

“¡Mierda!”

He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Who are you?”

“I told you, I’m—”

“What you are is the worst liar I’ve ever heard.”

She walked over to the robes that the nuns had discarded.

“What are these?”

“Ah. Those, yes. The two young men were wearing them as disguises, you see, and—”

“There are four outfits here. You said there were two men.”

“Right. The other two joined them later, and—”

She walked over to the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the police.”

“That’s not necessary, I assure you. As soon as you release me, I’m going right to the police station to make a full report.”

The woman looked down at him.

“Your robe is open, Friar.”

The police were even less sympathetic than the woman had been. Carrillo was being questioned by four members of the Guardia Civil. Their green uniforms and eighteenth-century black patent-leather hats were enough to inspire fear throughout Spain, and they certainly worked their magic on Carrillo.

“Are you aware that you answer to the exact description of a man who murdered a priest up north?”

Carrillo sighed. “I am not surprised. I have a twin brother, may heaven punish him. It is because of him that I joined the monastery. Our poor mother—”

“Spare us.”

A giant with a scarred face walked into the room.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Acoca.”

“Is this the man?”

“Yes, Colonel. Because of the nuns’ robes that we found with him in the store, we thought you might be interested in questioning him yourself.”

Colonel Ramón Acoca walked up to the hapless Carrillo. “Yes. I’m very interested.”

Carrillo gave the colonel his most ingratiating smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Colonel. I’m on a mission for my church, and it’s very important that I get to Barcelona as quickly as possible. As I tried to explain to these nice gentlemen, I am a victim of circumstances simply because I tried to be a good Samaritan.”

Colonel Acoca nodded pleasantly. “Since you are in a hurry, I will try not to waste your time.”

Carrillo beamed at him. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“I’m going to ask you a few simple questions. If you answer truthfully, everything will be fine. If you lie to me, it will be very painful for you.” He slipped something into his hand.

Carrillo said righteously, “Men of God do not he.”

“I’m very happy to hear that. Tell me about the four nuns.”

“I don’t know anything about four nu—”

The fist that hit him in the mouth had brass knuckles on it, and blood spurted across the room.

“My God! What are you doing?” Carrillo gasped.

Colonel Acoca repeated his question. “Tell me about the four nuns.”

“I don’t—”

The fist slammed into Carrillo’s mouth again, breaking teeth.

Carrillo was choking on his blood. “Don’t. I—”

“Tell me about the four nuns.” Acoca’s voice was soft and reasonable.

“I—” He saw the fist being raised. “Yes! I—I—” The words came tumbling out. “They were in Villacastín, running away from their convent. Please don’t hit me again.”

“Go on.”

“I—I told them I would help them. They needed to change clothes.”

“So you broke into the store…”

“No. I—yes. I—they stole some clothes and then they knocked me out and left me.”

“Did they say where they were headed?”

A peculiar sense of dignity suddenly took possession of Carrillo. “No.” His not mentioning Mendavia had nothing to do with protecting the nuns. Carrillo did not give a damn about them. It was because the colonel had ruined his face. It was going to be very difficult to make a living after he was released from prison.

Colonel Acoca turned to the members of the Guardia Civil.

“See what a little friendly persuasion can do? Send him to Madrid and hold him for murder.”

Lucia, Sister Teresa, Rubio Arzano, and Tomás Sanjuro walked northwest, heading toward Olmedo, stayi?? away from the main roads and walking through fields of grain. They passed flocks of sheep and goats, and the innocence of the pastoral countryside was an ironic contrast to the grave danger they were all in. They walked through the night, and at dawn they headed for a secluded spot in the hills.

Rubio Arzano said, “The town of Olmedo is just ahead. We’ll stop here until nightfall. You both look as though you could use some sleep.”

Sister Teresa was physically exhausted. But something was happening to her emotionally that was far more disturbing. She felt she was losing touch with reality. It had begun with the disappearance of her precious rosary. Had she lost it—or had someone stolen it? She was not sure. It had been her solace for more years than she could remember. How many thousands of Hail Marys and how many Our Fathers and how many Hail, Holy Queens? It had become a part of her, her security, and now it was missing.

Had she lost it in the convent during the attack? And had there really been an attack? It seemed so unreal now. She was no longer sure what was real and what was imaginary. The baby she had seen. Was it Monique’s baby? Or was God playing tricks on her? It was all so confusing. When she was young, everything had been so simple. When she was young…

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Èze, France

1924

W
hen she was only eight years old, most of the happiness in Teresa De Fosse’s life came from the church. It was like a sacred flame drawing her to its warmth. She visited the Chapelle des Pénitents Blancs, and prayed at the cathedral in Monaco and Notre Dame Bon Voyage in Cannes, but most frequently she attended services at the church in Èze.

Teresa lived in a chateau on a mountain above the medieval village of Èze, near Monte Carlo, overlooking the Côte d’Azur. The village was perched high on a rock and it seemed to Teresa that she could look down upon the whole world. There was a monastery at the top, with rows of houses cascading down the side of the mountain to the blue Mediterranean below.

Monique, a year younger than Teresa, was the beauty in the family. Even when she was a child, one could see that she would grow up to be an exquisite woman. She had fine-boned features, sparkling blue eyes, and an easy self-assurance that suited her looks.

Teresa was the ugly duckling. The truth was that the De Fosses were embarrassed by their elder daughter. If Teresa had been conventionally ugly, they might have sent her to a plastic surgeon and had her nose shortened, or her chin brought forward, or her eyes fixed. But the problem was that all of Teresa’s features were just slightly askew. Everything seemed out of place, as though she were a comedienne who had donned her face for laughter.

But if God had cheated her in the matter of looks, He had compensated for it by blessing her with a remarkable gift. Teresa had the voice of an angel. It had been noticed the first time she sang in the church choir. The parishioners listened in astonishment to the pure, clear tones that came from the young child. And as Teresa grew older, her voice grew even more beautiful. She was given all the solos to sing in church. There, she felt as though she belonged. But away from church, Teresa was inordinately shy, self-conscious of her appearance.

At school it was Monique who had all the friends. Boys and girls alike flocked to her side. They wanted to play with her, be seen with her. She was invited to all the parties. Teresa was invited also, but always as an afterthought, the fulfilling of a social obligation, and Teresa was painfully aware of it.

“Now, Renée. You can’t invite one of the De Fosse children without the other. It would be bad manners.”

Monique was ashamed to have an ugly sister. She felt that it was somehow a reflection on her.

Their parents behaved properly toward their elder daughter. They fulfilled their parental duty punctiliously, but it was obvious that it was Monique they adored. The one ingredient that Teresa longed for was missing: love.

She was an obedient child, willing and eager to please, a good student who loved music, history, and foreign languages and worked hard in school. Her teachers, the servants, and the townspeople felt sorry for her. As a tradesman said one day when Teresa left his shop, “God wasn’t paying attention when He made her.”

The only place Teresa found love was in the church. The priest loved her, and Jesus loved her. She went to mass every morning and made the fourteen stations of the cross. Kneeling in the cool, vaulted church, she felt God’s presence. When she sang there, Teresa was filled with a sense of hope, and of expectation. She felt as though something wonderful were about to happen to her. It was the only thing that made her life bearable.

Teresa never confided her unhappiness to her parents or her sister, for she did not want to burden them, and she kept to herself the secret of how much God loved her and how much she loved God.

Teresa adored her sister. They played together in the estate grounds surrounding their château, and she let Monique win the games they played. They went exploring together, down the steep stone steps cut into the mountain to Èze Village below, and wandered down the narrow streets of shops to watch the artists in front selling their wares.

As the girls grew into their teens, the predictions of the villagers came true. Monique grew more beautiful and the boys came flocking around her, while Teresa had few friends and stayed at home sewing or reading or went shopping in the village.

As Teresa passed the drawing room one day, she heard her mother and father having a discussion about her.

“She’s going to be an old maid. We’re going to have her on our hands all our lives.”

“Teresa will find someone. She has a very sweet disposition.”

“That’s not what the young men of today are after. They want someone they can enjoy having in their bed.”

Teresa fled.

Teresa still sang in church on Sundays, and because of that an event occurred that promised to change her life. In the congregation was a Madame Neff, the aunt of a radio-station director in Nice.

She stopped to speak to Teresa one Sunday morning.

“You’re wasting your life here, my dear. You have an extraordinary voice. You should be using it.”

“I am using it. I—”

“I’m not talking about”—she looked around the church—“
this.
I’m talking about your using your voice professionally. I pride myself on knowing talent when I hear it. I want you to sing for my nephew. He can put you on the radio. Are you interested?”

“I—I don’t know.” The very thought of it terrified Teresa.

“Talk it over with your family.”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Teresa’s mother said.

“It could be a good thing for you,” her father agreed.

It was Monique who had reservations about it. “You’re not a professional,” she said. “You could make a fool of yourself.” Which had nothing to do with Monique’s reasons for trying to discourage her sister. What Monique was afraid of was that Teresa would
succeed.
Monique was the one who had always been in the limelight.
It’s not fair,
she thought,
that God should have given Teresa a voice like that What if she should become famous? I would be left out, ignored.

And so Monique tried to persuade her sister not to audition.

But the following Sunday at church, Madame Neff stopped Teresa and said, “I’ve talked to my nephew. He is willing to give you an audition. He’s expecting you on Wednesday at three o’clock.”

And so it was that the following Wednesday a very nervous Teresa appeared at the radio station in Nice and met the director.

“I’m Louis Bonnet,” he said curtly. “I can give you five minutes.”

Teresa’s physical appearance only confirmed his worst fears. His aunt had sent him talent before.

I should tell her to stick to her kitchen.
But he knew that he would not. The problem was that his aunt was very rich, and he was her only heir.

Teresa followed Louis Bonnet down a narrow hallway into a small broadcast studio.

“Have you ever sung professionally?”

“No, sir.” Her blouse was soaked with perspiration.
Why did I ever let myself get talked into this?
Teresa wondered. She was in a panic, ready to flee.

Bonnet placed her in front of a microphone. “I don’t have a piano player around today, so you’re going to have to sing a cappella. Do you know what a cappella means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wonderful.” He wondered, not for the first time, if his aunt was rich enough to make all these stupid auditions worthwhile.

“I’ll be in the control booth. You’ll have time for one song.”

“Sir—what shall I—?”

He was gone. Teresa was alone in the room staring at the microphone in front of her. She had no idea what she was going to sing. “Just go and meet him,” his aunt had said. “The station has a musical program every Saturday evening and…”

I’ve got to get out of here.

Louis’s voice came out of nowhere. “I don’t have all day.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t—”

But the director was determined to punish her for wasting his time.

“Just a few notes,” he insisted. Enough so he could report to his aunt what a fool the girl had made of herself. Perhaps that would persuade her to stop sending him her protégés.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

He leaned back in his chair and lit a Gitane. Four more hours to go. Yvette would be waiting for him. He would have time to stop off at her apartment before he went home to his wife. Maybe there would even be time to—

He heard it then, and he could not believe it. It was a voice so pure and so sweet that it sent chills down his spine. It was a voice filled with longing and desire, a voice that sang of loneliness and despair, of lost loves and dead dreams, and it brought tears to his eyes. It stirred emotions in him that he had thought were long since dead. All he could say to himself was,
Jesus Christ! Where has she been?

An engineer had wandered into the control booth, and he stood there listening, mesmerized. The door was open and others began to come in, drawn by the voice. They stood there silently listening to the poignant sound of a heart desperately crying out for love, and there was not another sound in the room.

When the song ended, there was a long silence, and one of the women said, “Whoever she is, don’t let her get away.”

Louis Bonnet hurried out of the room into the broadcast studio. Teresa was getting ready to leave.

“I’m sorry I took too long. You see, I’ve never—”

“Sit down, Maria.”

“Teresa.”

“Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “We do a musical radio broadcast every Saturday night.”

“I know. I listen to it.”

“How would you like to be on it?”

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. “You mean—you want to
hire
me?”

“Beginning this week. We’ll start you at the minimum. It will be a great showcase for you.”

It was almost too good to be true.
They’re going to pay me to sing.

“Pay you? How much?” Monique asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”
The important thing is that somebody wants me,
she almost said, but she stopped herself.

“That’s wonderful news. So you’re going to be on the radio!” her father said.

Her mother was already making plans. “We’ll see that all our friends listen, and we’ll have them send in letters saying how good you are.”

Teresa looked at Monique, waiting for her to say, “You don’t have to do that. Teresa is good.”

But Monique said nothing.
It will blow over quickly,
was what she was thinking.

She was wrong.

Saturday night at the broadcast station, Teresa was in a panic.

“Believe me,” Louis Bonnet assured her. “It’s perfectly natural. All artists go through this.”

They were seated in the small green room used by performers.

“You’re going to be a sensation.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“There’s no time. You’re on in two minutes.”

Teresa had rehearsed that afternoon with the small orchestra that was going to accompany her. The rehearsal had been extraordinary. The stage from which they broadcast was crowded with station personnel who had heard about the young girl with the incredible voice. They listened in awed silence as Teresa rehearsed the songs she was going to sing on the air. There was no question in any of their minds but that they were witnessing the birth of an important star.

“It’s too bad she’s not better-looking,” a stage manager commented, “but in radio who can tell the difference?”

Teresa’s performance that evening was superb. She was aware that she had never sung better. And who knew where this could lead? She might become famous and have men at her feet, begging her to marry them. As they begged Monique.

As though reading her thoughts, Monique said, “I’m really happy for you, Sis, but don’t let yourself get carried away by all this. These things never last.”

This will,
Teresa thought happily.
I’m finally a person. I’m somebody.

Monday morning, there was a long-distance telephone call for Teresa.

“It’s probably somebody’s idea of a joke,” her father warned her. “He says he’s Jacques Raimu.”

The most important stage director in France.
Teresa picked up the telephone, wary. “Hello?”

“Miss De Fosse?”

“Yes.”

“Teresa De Fosse?”

“Yes.”

“This is Jacques Raimu. I heard your radio program Saturday night. You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“I’m staging a play at the Comédie Française, a musical. I start rehearsals next week. I’ve been searching for someone with a voice like yours. To tell you the truth, there is no one with a voice like yours. Who is your agent?”

“Agent? I—I have no agent.”

“Then I’ll drive down there and we’ll work out a deal between us.”

“Monsieur Raimu—I—I’m not very pretty.” It was painful for her to say the words, but she knew that it was necessary.
He mustn’t have any false expectations.

He laughed. “You will be when I get through with you. Theater is make-believe. Stage makeup can do all kinds of incredible magic.”

“But—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It was a dream on top of a fantasy. To be starring in a play by Raimu!

“I’ll work out the contract with him,” Teresa’s father said. “You must be careful when you deal with theater people.”

“We must get you a new dress,” her mother said. “And I’ll invite him to dinner.”

Monique said nothing. What was happening was unbearable. It was unthinkable that her sister was going to become a star. Perhaps there was a way…

Monique saw to it that she was the first one downstairs when Jacques Raimu arrived at the De Fosse villa that afternoon. He was greeted by a young girl so beautiful that his heart jumped. She was dressed in a simple white afternoon frock that set off her figure to perfection.

My God,
he thought.
Those looks and that voicel She’s perfect She’s going to be an enormous star.