Free Constancia and Other Stories for Virgins by Carlos Fuentes

gray walls and its high ceiling crisscrossed by the sort of light you see in a convent or an old courtroom, likewise high and gray; he had one of those mustaches that only the Spanish know how to cultivate: two thin grayish lines that met precisely above his upper lip, like two trains approaching each other head-on. I thought of Constancia and her fantastic story: the trains arrive on time, but no one is aboard. The official had a dog lying at his feet, a huge mastiff, pure gray, which he kept reaching out to, rubbing the back of its head or offering it something to eat—I couldn’t tell what—from his half-open hand.
    The official looked at me sadly, an hidalgo more interested in his own honor than in someone else’s. At least, he was good enough to be specific:
    â€”The people you are interested in, Dr. Hull, came to Spain from Russia in 1929, to escape the political situation there, and then tried to get out of Spain in 1939, to go to America, to flee from our war. Unfortunately, they were detained at the port of Cádiz; Nationalist forces took one look at their Russian passports and decided they had certain political sympathies. The three people—the man, his wife, and the sixteen-month-old child—were murdered in the street by the forces I just mentioned. It was one of the ironies of war.
    â€”They were killed—I repeated stupidly.
    â€”Yes. Forty-nine years ago—said the official, aware that we were both saying the obvious. He shook his head—he seemed to be an intelligent man—and added: —It makes me think of my own family, Dr. Hull. There was no justice to it, the innocent were struck down, the guilty spared.
    â€”Do you at least know where they were buried?
    The lawyer shook his head. The war was so terrible; when you think that in Badajoz alone, two thousand innocent people were killed, herded into the bullring and executed. I saw so many senseless murders, Dr. Hull, the gunshot wound between the eyes, that was the signature of certain groups. Do you know the story of the death of Walter Benjamin, the German writer? He was stuck at the French border and his death there was a mistake caused by bureaucratic apathy and terror. That is the most tragic thing of all, Dr. Hull, the number of lives cut short accidentally, by errors, by …
    He stopped short; he didn’t want to be found guilty of indulging in personal feelings or personal anecdotes.
    â€”The only reason we know what happened to the couple and their child is that the party that won kept their identity cards. That’s why I’m able to give you any information. You must see the irony in their story, I repeat. Just imagine: the family you are interested in had arranged to have their belongings, their trunks and furniture, shipped to America. And all those things made the journey—they left this ancient land of Andalusia, Doctor, and traveled to the new land of America. Here are the documents. Their belongings arrived, but without their owners. I am truly sorry to have to tell you this, it’s such a sad story … and such an old one.
    â€”It doesn’t matter—I said. —I’m grateful to you. You’ve been a big help.
    He waved away my thanks and stood up. —Dr. Hull, so many people tried to get out in time, to escape, to go to America … Some made it, others didn’t … He shrugged. —Too bad your friends did not make it. I’m sincerely sorry.
    He was shivering, as if he felt cold, and I noticed that the purebred dog shivered along with its master.
    â€”Fortunately, times have changed, and we are at your service.
    â€”Where was the furniture shipped to? I broke in to ask. —Pardon me? —The family’s furniture. Where do the documents say that…? —The port of Savannah, Doctor.
    16
    I have to know. I cannot rest. I scrutinize all the signs. I wander the streets of Seville. I go back to all the places we had