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.