The Sands of Time (22 page)

What’s wrong with me? I’m on my way. Rubio will get over me soon enough. He’ll find someone else.

Then she remembered the look in his eyes when he had said,
“I want to marry you. In all my life, I have never said that to another woman.”

Damn the man,
she thought.
Well, he’s not my problem.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

T
he news media were in a feeding frenzy. The headlines tumbled over one another. There was the attack on the convent, the wholesale arrest of the nuns for sheltering terrorists, the escape of four nuns, the shooting of five soldiers by one of the nuns before she was shot and killed. The international news wires were on fire.

Reporters had arrived in Madrid from all over the world, and Prime Minister Leopoldo Martinez, in an effort to cool things down, had agreed to a press conference. Almost four dozen reporters from all over the world were gathered in his office. Colonels Ramón Acoca and Fal Sostelo were at his side. The prime minister had seen that afternoon’s headline in the London
Times:
TERRORISTS AND NUNS EVADE SPAIN’S ARMY AND POLICE
.

A reporter from
Paris Match
was asking, “Mr. Prime Minister, do you have any idea where the missing nuns are now?”

Prime Minister Martinez replied, “Colonel Acoca is in charge of the search operation. I will let him answer that.”

Acoca said, “We have reason to believe that they are in the hands of the Basque terrorists. I’m also sorry to say there is evidence to indicate that the nuns are collaborating with the terrorists.”

The reporters were scribbling feverishly.

“What about the shooting of Sister Teresa and the soldiers?”

“We have information that Sister Teresa was working with Jaime Miró. Under the pretext of helping us find Miró, she went into an army camp and shot five soldiers before she could be stopped. I can assure you that the army and the GOE are bending every effort to bring the criminals to justice.”

“And the nuns who were arrested and taken to Madrid?”

“They are being interrogated,” Acoca said.

The prime minister was anxious to end the meeting. It was difficult for him to keep his temper in check. The failure to locate the nuns or capture the terrorists made his government—and himself—look inept and foolish, and the press was taking full advantage of the situation.

“Can you tell us anything about the backgrounds of the four nuns who escaped, Prime Minister?” asked a reporter from
Oggi.

“I’m sorry. I can give you no further information. I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, the government is doing everything in its power to find the nuns.”

“Prime Minister, there have been reports about the brutality of the attack on the convent at Ávila. Would you respond to that?”

It was a sore point with Martinez because it was true. Colonel Acoca had grossly exceeded his authority. But he would deal with the colonel later. This was the time for a show of unity.

He turned to the colonel and said smoothly, “Colonel Acoca can respond to that.”

Acoca said, “I too have heard those unfounded reports. The facts are simple. We received reliable information that the terrorist Jaime Miró and a dozen of his men were hiding in the Cistercian convent and that they were heavily armed. By the time we raided the convent, they had fled.”

“Colonel, we heard that some of your men molested—”

“That is an outrageous accusation.”

Prime Minister Martinez said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That will be all. You will be informed of any further developments.”

When the reporters had left, the prime minister turned to Colonels Acoca and Sostelo. “They’re making us look like savages in the eyes of the world.”

Acoca had not the slightest interest in the prime minister’s opinion. What concerned him was a telephone call he had received in the middle of the night.

“Colonel Acoca?”

It was a voice he was all too familiar with. He was instantly wide awake.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re disappointed in you. We had hoped to see some results before this.”

“Sir, I’m closing in on them.” He found that he was perspiring heavily. “I ask that you be a little more patient. I won’t disappoint you.” He held his breath, waiting for a response.

“You’re running out of time.”

The line went dead.

Colonel Acoca replaced the receiver and sat there, frustrated.
Where is that bastard Miró?

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

I’
m going to kill her,
Ricardo Mellado thought.
I could strangle her with my bare hands, throw her off the mountain, or simply shoot her. No, I think strangling her would give me the greatest pleasure.

Sister Graciela was the most exasperating human being he had ever encountered. She was impossible. In the beginning, when Jaime Miró had assigned him to escort her, Ricardo Mellado had been pleased. True, she was a nun, but she was also the most ravishing beauty he had ever laid eyes on. He was determined to get to know her, to find out why she had decided to lock up all that exquisite beauty behind convent walls for the rest of her life. Under the skirt and blouse she was wearing, he could discern the rich, nubile curves of a woman.
It’s going to be a very interesting trip,
Ricardo had decided.

But things had taken a totally unexpected turn. The problem was that Sister Graciela refused to speak to him. She had not said one word since their journey began, and what completely baffled Ricardo was that she did not appear to be angry, frightened, or upset. Not at all. She simply retreated into some remote part of herself and appeared totally uninterested in him and in what was going on around her. They had traveled at a good pace, walking along hot, dusty side roads, past fields of wheat, rippling golden in the sunlight, and fields of barley, oats, and grapevines. They skirted the little villages along the way and went by fields of sunflowers with their wide yellow faces following the sun.

When they crossed the Moros River, Ricardo asked, “Would you like to rest awhile, Sister?”

Silence.

They were approaching Segovia before heading northeast to the snow-capped Guadarrama mountains. Ricardo kept trying to make polite conversation, but it was completely hopeless.

“We will be at Segovia soon, Sister.”

No reaction.

What could I have done to offend her?
“Are you hungry, Sister?”

Nothing.

It was as though he were not there. He had never felt so frustrated in his life.
Perhaps the woman is retarded,
he thought.
That must be the answer. God gave her an unearthly beauty and then cursed her with a feeble mind.
But he did not believe it.

When they reached the outskirts of Segovia, Ricardo noted that the town was crowded, which meant that the Guardia Civil would be even more alert than usual.

As they approached the Plaza del Conde de Cheste, he saw soldiers strolling in their direction. He whispered, “Hold my hand, Sister. We must look like two lovers out for a stroll.”

She ignored him.

Jesus,
Ricardo thought.
Maybe she’s deaf and dumb.

He reached over and took her hand in his, and her sudden fierce resistance surprised him. She pulled away as if she had been stung.

The guards were getting closer.

Ricardo leaned toward Graciela. “You mustn’t be angry,” he said loudly. “My sister feels the same way. After dinner last night when she put the children to bed she was saying that it would be much better if we men didn’t sit around together smoking smelly cigars and telling stories while you women went off by yourselves. I’ll bet—”

The guards had passed. Ricardo turned to look at Graciela. Her face was expressionless. Mentally, Ricardo began to curse Jaime, wishing he had given him one of the other nuns. This one was made of stone, and there was no chisel hard enough to penetrate that cold exterior.

In all modesty, Ricardo Mellado knew that he was attractive to women. Enough of them had told him so. He was light-complexioned, tall, and well built, with a patrician nose, an intelligent face, and perfect white teeth. He came from one of the most prominent Basque families. His father was a banker in the Basque country in the north and had seen to it that Ricardo was well educated. He had gone to the University of Salamanca, and his father had looked forward to his son joining him in the family business.

When Ricardo returned home from college, he dutifully went to work at the bank, but within a short period of time he became involved with the problems of his people. He attended meetings and rallies and protests against the government and soon became one of the leaders of ETA. His father, after learning about his son’s activities, called him into his huge, paneled office and lectured him.

“I am a Basque too, Ricardo, but I am also a businessman. We cannot foul our own nest by encouraging a revolution in the country where we make our living.”

“None of us is trying to overthrow the government, Father. All we’re demanding is freedom. The government’s oppression of the Basques and the Catalans is intolerable.”

The senior Mellado leaned back in his chair and studied his son. “My good friend the mayor had a quiet word with me yesterday. He suggested it would be to your benefit not to attend any more rallies. It would be better if you expended your energy on bank business.”

“Father—”

“Listen to me, Ricardo. When I was young, my blood ran hot too. But there are other ways to cool it off. You’re engaged to a lovely girl. I hope you will have many children.” He waved his hand at their surroundings. “And you have much to look forward to in your future.”

“But don’t you see—?”

“I see more clearly than you, my son. Your prospective father-in-law is also unhappy with your activities. I would not want anything to happen that would prevent the wedding. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

The following Saturday Ricardo Mellado was arrested while leading a Basque rally in an auditorium in Barcelona. He refused to let his father bail him out unless he also bailed out the other demonstrators who had been arrested. His father refused. Ricardo’s career was ended and so was his engagement. That had been five years earlier. Five years of danger and narrow escapes. Five years filled with the excitement of fighting for a cause he passionately believed in. Now he was on the run, a fugitive from the police, escorting a retarded and mute nun across Spain.

“We’ll go this way,” he said to Sister Graciela. He was careful not to touch her arm.

They turned off the main street onto the Calle de San Valentin. On the corner was a store that sold musical instruments.

Ricardo said, “I have an idea. Wait here, Sister. I’ll be right back.”

He entered the store and walked up to a young clerk standing behind the counter.

“
Buenos días.
May I help you?”

“Yes. I would like to buy two guitars.”

The clerk smiled. “Ah, you are in luck. We just got in some Ramirezes. They are the best.”

“Perhaps something of not such a high quality. My friend and I are only amateurs.”

“As you wish,
señor.
What about these?” The clerk walked over to a section of the store where a dozen guitars were on display. “I can let you have two Konos for five thousand pesetas apiece.”

“I think not.” Ricardo selected two inexpensive guitars. “These will do nicely,” he said.

A few moments later Ricardo walked back out to the street, carrying the two guitars. He had half hoped Sister Graciela would be gone, but she was standing there, patiently waiting.

Ricardo opened the strap on one of the guitars and held out the instrument to her. “Here, Sister. Put this over your shoulder.”

She stared at him.

“It isn’t necessary for you to play it,” Ricardo said patiently. “It is only for effect.”

He shoved the guitar at her, and she reluctantly took it. They walked along the winding streets of Segovia under the enormous viaduct built by the Romans centuries earlier.

Ricardo decided to try again. “You see this viaduct, Sister? There is no cement between the stones. Legend has it that it was built by the devil two thousand years ago, stone piled on stone, with nothing but the devil’s magic to hold it together.” He looked at her for some reaction.

Nothing.

To hell with her,
Ricardo Mellado thought.
I give up.

The members of the Guardia Civil were everywhere, and whenever they passed them, Ricardo would pretend to be in earnest conversation with Graciela, always careful to avoid body contact.

The numbers of police and soldiers seemed to be increasing, but Ricardo felt reasonably safe. They would be looking for a nun in robes and a group of Jaime Miró’s men, and they would have no reason to suspect two young tourists carrying guitars.

Ricardo was feeling hungry, and even though Sister Graciela had said nothing, he was sure that she must be hungry also. They came to a small café.

“We’ll stop in here and have a bite to eat, Sister.”

She stood there, watching him.

He sighed. “Right. Suit yourself.”

He walked inside the café. A moment later Graciela followed him.

When they were seated, Ricardo asked, “What would you like to order, Sister?”

There was no response. She was infuriating.

Ricardo said to the waitress, “Two gazpachos and two orders of chorizos.”

When the soup and sausages came, Graciela ate what was put in front of her. He noticed that she ate automatically, without enjoyment, as though fulfilling some duty. The men seated at other tables were staring at her, and Ricardo could not blame them.
It would take the young Goya to capture her beauty,
he thought.

In spite of Graciela’s sullen behavior, Ricardo felt a lump in his throat every time he looked at her, and he cursed himself for a romantic fool. She was an enigma, buried behind some kind of impenetrable wall. Ricardo Mellado had known dozens of beautiful women, but none of them had ever affected him this way. There was something almost mystical about her beauty. The irony was that he had absolutely no idea what lay behind the breathtaking façade. Was she intelligent or stupid? Interesting or dull? Cold-blooded or passionate?
I hope she’s stupid, dull, and cold-blooded,
Ricardo thought,
or I won’t be able to stand losing her. As though I could ever have her. She belongs to God
He looked away, afraid that she might sense what he was thinking.

When it was time to leave, Ricardo paid the check and they rose. During the journey he had noticed that Sister Graciela was limping slightly.
I’ll have to get us some kind of transportation,
he thought.
We still have a long way to go.

They started down the street, and at the far end of town, on the Manzanares el Real, they came upon a gypsy caravan. There were four colorfully decorated wagons in the caravan, pulled by horses. In the backs of the wagons were women and children, all dressed in gypsy costumes.

Ricardo said, “Wait here, Sister. I’m going to try to get us a ride.”

He approached the driver of the lead wagon, a burly man in full gypsy regalia, including earrings.

“
Buenas tardes, señor.
I would consider it a great kindness if you could give my fiancee and me a ride.”

The gypsy looked over to where Graciela was standing. “It is possible. Where are you headed?”

“To the Guadarrama mountains.”

“I can take you as far as Cerezo de Abajo.”

“That would be of great value. Thank you.”

Ricardo shook the gypsy’s hand and put money in it.

“Get in the last wagon.”

“Gracias.”

Ricardo returned to where Graciela was waiting. “The gypsies are going to take us as far as Cerezo de Abajo,” he told her. “We’ll ride in the last wagon.”

For an instant he was sure she was going to refuse. She hesitated, then started toward the wagon.

There were half a dozen gypsies inside and they made room for Ricardo and Graciela. As they climbed aboard, Ricardo started to help the sister up, but the moment he touched her arm, she pushed him away with a fierceness that took him by surprise.
All right, to hell with you.
He caught a glimpse of Graciela’s bare leg as she lifted herself onto the wagon, and he could not help thinking:
She has the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen.

They made themselves as comfortable as possible on the hard wooden floor of the wagon and the long journey began. Graciela sat in a corner, her eyes closed and her lips moving in prayer. Ricardo could not take his eyes off her.

As the day wore on, the sun became a hot furnace beating down on them, baking the earth, and the sky was a deep, cloudless blue. From time to time as the wagon crossed the plains, huge birds soared overhead.
Buitre leonado,
Ricardo thought. The lion-colored griffon vultures.

Late in the afternoon the gypsy caravan came to a stop and the leader approached the last wagon.

“This is as far as we can take you,” he told Ricardo. “We’re headed for Vinvelas.”

Wrong direction.
“This is fine,” Ricardo assured him. “Thank you.”

He started to reach out a hand for Graciela and quickly thought better of it.

Ricardo turned to the leader of the gypsies. “I would consider it a kindness if you would sell some food to my fiancee and me.”

The chief turned to one of the women and said something in a foreign tongue, and a few moments later two packages of food were handed to Ricardo.

“Muchas gracias.”
He pulled out some money.

The gypsy chief studied him for a moment. “You and the sister have already paid for the food.”

You and the sister.
So he knew. Yet Ricardo felt no sense of danger. The gypsies were as oppressed by the government as were the Basques and Catalans.

“Vayan con Dios.”

Ricardo stood there watching the caravan move out of sight, then turned to Graciela. She was watching him, silent, impassive.

“You won’t have to put up with my company much longer,” Ricardo assured her. “Soon we will be in Logroño. You’ll meet your friends there and you’ll be on your way to the convent at Mendavia.”