Mercedes was still standing in the rain when Serrano shut the barn doors. She was ashamed to feel relief that they’d caught Tarta and not Pedro. The relief only lasted for a moment, though. Tarta knew where Pedro was. And he knew all about her and the doctor.
He knew everything.
Mercedes was surprised her feet found the way back to the kitchen. The others were chopping vegetables for the soup they would serve the murderers. Is my brother still alive? she kept asking herself as she joined them to cut roots and parsley. And how about the others? Were they all dead in the woods, their blood mixing with the rain? No! She told herself. No, Mercedes, they wouldn’t have kept Tarta alive if they’d killed them all.
Slowly, as if her fingers belonged to someone else, she cut another root into pale slices with her apron knife. All she saw was the knife’s sharp blade. What was happening in the barn? It took all her strength to prevent her thoughts from going back to the wide-eyed boy and imagining what they would do to him.
Mariana was watching her, her round face lined by life. “That’s plenty, dear,” she said when Mercedes pushed the chopped vegetables over the table and reached for another root. Which line was life drawing right now onto their faces? So many lines, of fear, of grief . . . Mercedes was surprised she was still beautiful.
Mariana held up a tray of food she’d prepared for Ofelia and her mother. “Shall I take this upstairs?” Mariana didn’t have loved ones in the woods, but she had two sons of almost the same age as Tarta.
“I’ll do it,” Mercedes said, taking the tray from her hands—anything to prevent her imagination from running wild, but it didn’t work. What has happened to Pedro? The question repeated itself at every step she took up the stairs. What is Tarta telling them?
Dr. Ferreira was with Ofelia’s mother. He looked up from the glass of medicine he was preparing when Mercedes walked in. Do you remember Tarta? she wanted to ask him. How he can’t read the newspaper fast enough for the others? Now he can give us all away if they make him talk.
Ofelia didn’t notice Mercedes’s fear.
She was too happy to notice. Her mother felt well enough today to play cards and when Dr Ferreira handed her the glass with medicine she shook her head.
“I don’t think I need it, Doctor,” she said. “I feel so much better.”
“That’s why I’m giving you only half the dose, and yes, you’re much better,” Dr. Ferreira replied with a smile. “I don’t understand why, but I’m glad.”
Ofelia knew. She looked at the jug of fresh milk Mercedes had brought. The mandrake would soon need it. Along with a few drops of blood. All would be well even though she’d disobeyed the Faun and caused the death of his Fairies. She still heard their screams in her dreams, but her mother was smiling again and, after all, she had fulfilled the second task and brought back the Pale Man’s dagger.
Yes, the Faun would understand.
In her heart Ofelia knew that he wouldn’t, but she was too happy to allow those worries to cast a shadow.
25
Tarta
Vidal was taking his time. To question a prisoner was a complex process. It resembled a dance, one slow step back, then a fast one forward, and back again. Slow, fast, slow.
His prisoner was shaking and his face was streaked with sweat, though they had only roughed him up a little. His fear was doing most of the work so far, the fear of what was going to come. It would be easy to break him.
“Damn, this cigarette is good. Real tobacco. Hard to find.” Vidal held the cigarette so close to the boy’s face he felt the heat of the burning tobacco.
Tarta tilted his head back when his captor pressed the cigarette to his trembling lips.
“G-g-go to hell.”
“Can you believe it, Garces?” Vidal turned to his officer. “We catch one and he turns out to be a stutterer. We’ll be here all night.”
“As long as it takes,” Garces replied.
Tarta could tell this officer didn’t enjoy the situation as much as his capitán, who was the kind of uniform-wearing devil Tarta had always dreaded meeting. He was in their hands and he knew what those hands would do. If you’re ever caught, think of someone you need to protect, Pedro had taught him, when they’d practiced how to stay silent even under torture. Someone for whom you’d die. It may not help, but it doesn’t matter. Think of someone, Tarta. Who? Maybe his mother. Yes. Though thinking of her might make it worse as he could just imagine how she would cry if she lost him.
Tarta lowered his head. If only his limbs would stop shaking. Even if Pedro’s advice could help his mind escape, his body betrayed his fear.
“Garces is right,” the capitán said. “As long as it takes.”
He opened his shirt, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Tarta wondered whether he’d take it off to not ruin it with his blood. “You’d do better to tell us everything. But to make sure you do, I brought along a few tools. Just things you pick up along the way.”
Vidal picked up a hammer. He had lined up his tools very orderly on an old wooden table.
Shaking. Didn’t people say one could die from fear? Tarta wished he knew how to make his fear kill himself.
“At first I won’t be able to trust you.” The Devil weighed the hammer in his hand. He was clearly proud of his torturing skills. “But after I use this, you’ll own up to a few things. Once we get to these—” He picked up a pair of pliers. “We’ll have developed . . . how can I put this . . . ?”
Tarta detected a hint of discomfort, maybe even compassion on the other officer’s face. He had the same mustache as Tarta’s father.
“Let’s say it this way.” The Devil opened and closed the pliers. “We’ll have grown much closer by then . . . like . . . brothers. And when we get to this one—” He held up a screwdriver. “I’ll believe anything you tell me.”
Tarta started sobbing. He tried so hard not to, but there was so much fear in him, so much loneliness and despair. It all had to take some kind of shape, even if it was just tears.
His captor took another satisfied puff from his cigarette and put the screwdriver back on the table. Then he picked up the hammer again and approached Tarta.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, pressing the hammer’s heavy head against Tarta’s trembling shoulder. “If you can count to three without stuttering, you can go.”
Tarta lifted his head to look at his torturer even though he knew his eyes would give away how desperately his terrorized heart wished for a glimmer of hope. He also looked for it in Garces’s face . . . Garces, yes, that was his name. Tarta was glad the rebels didn’t tell each other their true names; he was too good at remembering them.
Garces’s mustached face was drained of any expression.
“Don’t look at him!” the Devil snapped. “Look at me. Above me there’s no one. Garces?”
“Yes, Capitán.”
“If I say the asshole can leave, would anybody contradict me?”
“No one, Capitán. If you say so, he can leave.” Garces returned the shaking boy’s glance. That’s all I can do for you, his eyes seemed to say. That I don’t look away.