by Maria Duenas
He didn’t get a chance to reply, for just as he was about to do so an overwhelming presence invaded the room.
“Hang on just a sec, Don Marcus,” the Matutera insisted, raising her hand as though seeking an audience. “Just one little piece of advice I’d like to give you before the two of you are off, if I may.”
Logan looked at me, rather disconcerted.
“She’s a friend,” I explained.
“In that case you can say whatever you want to me.”
Candelaria walked over to him and started talking to him while pretending to remove some nonexistent lint from the front of his jacket.
“You just watch yourself, scribbler, this girl’s already got a lot of misfortunes on her back. So if you make a move on her with your moneyed outsider’s ways, I’m just going to have to come down on you like a ton of bricks, because if you start getting too cocky and harm a single hair of her head, my cousin and I will get someone to do a little number on you before you know what’s what, and one of these fine nights you’ll find yourself taking a blade in one of the streets in the Morería and getting the good side of your face slashed till it’s left like the hide of a piglet, all marked up for the rest of your days, you get me, sweetheart?”
The journalist was unable to reply; fortunately, in spite of his impeccable Spanish, he’d barely been able to understand a word of my business partner’s threatening speech.
“What did she say?” he asked, turning to me with a confused expression.
“Nothing important. Come on, it’s getting late.”
I was struggling to hide my pride as we left. Not at how I looked, or at the attractive man I had beside me, or the celebrated event that was awaiting us that night, but for the unshakable affection of the friends I was leaving behind.
The streets were adorned with red and gold flags, with garlands and posters greeting the distinguished visitor and exalting his brother-in-law. Hundreds of people, Arab and Spanish, were milling about, toward no apparent destination. The balconies, adorned with the Nationalist colors, were full of people, the roof terraces, too. There were young men perched in the most implausible places—on poles, railings, lampposts—trying to find the best spot to witness the action; girls walking arm in arm, their lips newly painted. Children ran around in packs, zigzagging in every direction. The Spanish kids were all combed and smelling of cologne, the boys with their little ties and the girls with satin bows at the end of their plaits; the Moorish children were in their djellabas and tarbooshes, many of them barefoot.
As we made our way toward the Plaza de España, the mass of bodies became denser, the voices louder. It was hot and the light was still intense; we could hear a band tuning up. Temporary wooden bleachers had been set out; the whole space was already occupied to the last inch. Marcus Logan needed to show his invitation several times for them to let us past the security barriers that separated the mob from the areas through which the dignitaries were to pass. We barely spoke as we walked: the hubbub and the constant interruptions to get past some obstacle or other made conversation difficult. Sometimes I had to grab hard on to his arm to prevent us from being separated by the crowd; other times it was he who had to hold firmly on to my shoulders to stop me from being swallowed up by the hungry chaos. It took us a while to get there, but we made it. As we went in through the gate to the High Commission, I felt a jolt of anxiety, then tried to suppress it.
There were several Arab soldiers guarding the entrance, imposing in their dress uniforms, with big turbans and capes flapping in the wind. We crossed the garden, which was adorned with flags and banners, and an adjutant directed us to a large group of guests who were waiting for things to begin, gathered under the white awnings that had been erected for the occasion. Waiting in its shade were peaked caps, gloves and pearls, ties, fans, blue shirts under white jackets with the Falange crest embroidered at the breast, and a decent number of dresses sewn—stitch by stitch—by my own hands. I discreetly gestured a greeting to several clients, pretending not to notice the few stares and hidden whispers that we received from various places—Who is she, Who is he, I could read in the movement of some of their lips. I recognized certain faces, many of which I’d only seen in the photographs Félix had shown me in the preceding days; with others, meanwhile, I had a more personal connection. With Commissioner Vázquez, for example, who masterfully hid his disbelief at seeing me in that setting.
“Well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, moving away from a group and approaching us.
“Good evening, Don Claudio.” I tried hard to sound natural; I don’t know whether I succeeded. “Good to see you.”
“Sure about that?” he asked with an ironic smile.
I couldn’t reply because—to my astonishment—he’d gone straight on to greet my companion.
“Good evening, Mr. Logan. I see you’ve gotten yourself well accustomed to local life.”
“The commissioner called me into his office as soon as I arrived in Tetouan,” the journalist explained as they shook hands. “Formalities for visiting foreigners.”
“Right now he’s not under suspicion for anything, but let me know if you see him acting strangely,” joked the commissioner. “And you, Logan, you take care of Miss Quiroga for me—she’s had a tough year, working nonstop.”
We left the commissioner and continued on our way. At all times the journalist was relaxed and attentive, and I did what I could to avoid feeling like a fish out of water. He hardly knew anyone either, but this didn’t seem to trouble him in the least: he got by with great composure, with an enviable confidence that was probably a result of his occupation. Remembering what Félix had taught me, I discreetly pointed out to him who some of the guests were: that man in a dark suit is José Ignacio Toledano, a rich Jew, the director of the Hassan Bank; that elegant woman with the feathered headdress who’s smoking with a cigarette holder is the Duchess of Guise, a French noblewoman who lives in Larache; the large man whose glass is being refilled is Mariano Bertuchi, the painter. Everything went according to protocol. More guests arrived, then the Spanish civil authorities, and then the soldiers; the Moroccans next, in their exotic outfits. From the coolness of the garden we could hear the clamor from the streets—the shouts, the cheering and applause. He’s arrived, he’s here, we heard again and again. But the guest of honor still took a while to come into view: first he stopped in the crowds, to be acclaimed like a bullfighter or one of those American movie stars who so fascinated my neighbor.
And finally he arrived, the man so long awaited, so desired, El Caudillo’s brother-in-law, and long live Spain. He wore a black suit and looked serious, stiff, extremely thin, and tremendously handsome with his almost white hair combed back. His expression was resolute, as the Falange anthem said, with those intelligent cat’s eyes and his thirty-seven somewhat ill-worn years.
I must have been one of the few people without the slightest curiosity to see him up close or to shake his hand, but all the same I didn’t look away. It wasn’t Serrano who interested me, but someone who was very close to him and whom I hadn’t yet seen in person: Juan Luis Beigbeder. My client and friend’s lover turned out to be a tall man, thin but not too thin, somewhere around fifty. He wore a dress uniform with a broad sash tied around his waist and a peaked cap and carried a light cane, a sort of riding crop. His nose was thin and prominent: beneath it, a dark mustache; above it, round-framed glasses, two perfect circles through which it was possible to make out a pair of intelligent eyes that followed everything that was happening around him. He seemed an odd man, perhaps a little quaint. In spite of his attire, he didn’t have a martial bearing at all: far from it. There was something in the way he moved that was a little theatrical, which nonetheless didn’t seem to be a pretense: his gestures were refined and opulent at the same time, his laugh expansive, his voice quick and resonant. He moved around among the guests nonstop, greeting people effusively, distributing hugs, pats on the back, and prolonged handshakes; he smiled as he talked to pe
ople, to Moors, Christians, Jews, and then back to the beginning again. Perhaps in his free time he let out the intellectual romantic that according to Rosalinda he had inside him, but at that moment the only thing he displayed to his audience was an extraordinary gift for public relations.
He seemed to have tied Serrano Suñer to him with an invisible rope; sometimes he allowed him to move away just a little, gave him some freedom of movement to greet people and have little chats with them himself, to allow him to be adored. And yet he would then immediately reel him back to his vicinity: he’d explain something to him, introduce him to someone, put his arm around his shoulders, say a few words into his ear, give a laugh, and then let him go again.
I tried repeatedly to find Rosalinda, but I couldn’t. Not at the side of her dear Juan Luis, nor far from him.
“Have you seen Señora Fox anywhere?” I asked Logan when he finished exchanging a few words in English with someone from Tangiers to whom he introduced me and whose name and position I forgot instantly.
“No, I haven’t seen her,” he replied simply, focusing his attention on the group that was forming around Serrano. “Do you know who they are?” he said, gesturing toward them with a discreet movement of his chin.
“The Germans,” I replied.
There was the demanding Frau Langenheim, in the magnificent outfit of violet shantung that I’d sewn for her; Frau Heinz, who’d been my first client, dressed in black and white like a harlequin; Bernhardt’s wife, who had an Argentine accent and this time was not premiering an outfit; and one other I didn’t know. All of them accompanied by their husbands, all of them fêting the In-law-ísimo while he dispensed smiles in the midst of the tight group of Germans. This time, however, Beigbeder didn’t interrupt their conversation and allowed him to stay where he was, unaccompanied, for a long time.
Chapter Thirty
___________
As night began to fall, they lit lamps as though it were an open-air dance. The atmosphere was lively without being loud, the music soothing, and Rosalinda was still absent. The group of Germans remained firmly surrounding the guest of honor, but at a certain moment the women had disengaged themselves from their partners’ sides, leaving just five foreign men and the Spanish dignitary. They seemed engrossed in conversation and passed something from hand to hand, bringing their heads closer, pointing, making comments. I noticed that my companion hadn’t stopped covertly watching them.
“You seem to find the Germans interesting.”
“Fascinating,” he said, ironically, “but I have my hands tied.”
I replied with a questioning raise of my eyebrows, not understanding what he meant. He didn’t clarify it for me, but changed the course of the conversation to territory that seemed completely unrelated.
“Would it be very cheeky of me if I were to ask you a favor?”
He tossed the question out casually, just as a few minutes earlier he’d asked me if I wanted a cigarette or a fruit cup.
“That depends,” I replied, likewise feigning nonchalance. Although the evening was turning out to be reasonably relaxed, I still wasn’t at ease, unable to enjoy this party that had absolutely nothing to do with my world. Besides, I was worried about Rosalinda’s absence; it was very strange that she hadn’t been seen once. The last thing I needed now was for Marcus Logan to ask me for another awkward favor: I’d already done enough by agreeing to attend the event with him.
“It’s something very simple,” he explained. “I’m curious to know what it is that the Germans are showing Serrano that they’re all looking at so attentively.”
“And is this personal or professional curiosity?”
“Both. But I can’t approach him: you know how little they think of us English.”
“You’re suggesting I go over and take a look?” I asked in disbelief.
“Without it being too obvious, if possible.”
I was ready to laugh.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“Entirely. That’s what my job is: I try to find information, and the means of getting hold of it.”
“And now that you can’t get hold of this information for yourself, you want me to be the means?”
“But I don’t wish to take advantage of you, I promise you that. It’s a simple proposition, you have no obligation to accept it. Just think about it.”
I looked at him, wordless. He seemed sincere and trustworthy, but as Félix had predicted, he probably wasn’t. At the end of the day it was all a question of personal interests.
“Very well, I’ll do it.”
He tried to say something, perhaps to thank me in advance. I didn’t let him.
“But I want something in exchange,” I added.
“What?” he asked, surprised. He didn’t expect my action to come at a price.
“Find out where Señora Fox is.”
“How?”
“You’ll know how to do it, that’s why you’re a journalist.”
I didn’t wait for his reply; I turned on my heel immediately and walked away, asking myself how the hell I could approach the German group without being too brazen.
The solution presented itself to me in the form of the compact that Candelaria had given me a few minutes before I left home. I took it out of my handbag and opened it. As I walked, I pretended to look at a tiny part of my face in it, anticipating a visit to the toilettes. Except that while I was concentrating on the mirror I veered slightly off my path and instead of making my way through the clear gaps, instead—what bad luck!—I bumped into the back of the German consul.
My collision stopped the group’s conversation abruptly and knocked the compact to the ground.
“I’m so very sorry, forgive me, I just wasn’t paying attention . . . ,” I said, my voice loaded with fake embarrassment.
Four of the men immediately made as if to bend down and retrieve my compact, but one was faster than the rest. The thinnest of them all, the one with the near-white hair combed back. The only Spaniard. The one with the cat’s eyes.
“I think the mirror’s broken,” he said as he straightened up. “Look.”
I looked. But before fixing my eyes on the cracked mirror I tried quickly to make out what else he was holding in his so-slender fingers.
“Yes, seems to be broken,” I murmured, delicately running my index finger over the splintered surface that he still held in his hands. My just-painted nails were reflected in it a hundred times.
We were shoulder to shoulder, our heads close together, both of us bending over the little object. I could see the fair skin on his face from just inches away, his delicate features and the white at his temples, the dark eyebrows, the fine mustache.
“Careful, you’ll cut yourself,” he said softly.
I lingered a few seconds longer, checking that the tablet of powder was in one piece, that the powder puff was still in place. And in the process I took another look at what he was still holding between his fingers, what just a few minutes earlier had passed from hand to hand between them. Photographs. It was a few photographs. I could only see the first one: people I didn’t recognize, making up a tight little group of anonymous faces and bodies.
“Yes, probably better to close it,” I said at last.
“Here you are, then.”
I brought the two parts together with a loud click.
“It’s a shame; it’s a very beautiful compact. Almost as beautiful as its owner,” he added.
I accepted the compliment with a flirtatious expression and my most dazzling smile.
“Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it, really.”
“It’s been a pleasure, señorita,” he said, holding out his hand. I noticed it weighed almost nothing.
“Likewise, Señor Serrano,” I replied with a blink. “My apologies again for the interruption. Good evening, gentlemen,” I added, sweeping my gaze over the rest of the group. Each one had a swastika on his lapel.
“Good evening,” the Germans repeated in ch
orus.
I resumed my path, making my walk as graceful as I possibly could. When I sensed they could no longer see me, I took a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, downed it in one gulp, and tossed it empty into the rosebushes.
I cursed Marcus Logan for having set me onto that idiotic adventure, and I cursed myself for having accepted. I’d got much closer to Serrano Suñer than any of the other guests—his face had been practically touching mine, our fingers had brushed against each other’s, I’d heard his voice in my ear with a closeness almost bordering on intimacy. I’d shown myself to him as a frivolous, scatterbrained woman, glad to be the object of the attention of this distinguished personage for a few moments, while the truth was that I hadn’t been the least bit interested in meeting him. And it had all been for nothing; just to discover that the group had been looking at a handful of photographs in which I wasn’t able to make out a single person I recognized.
I dragged my irritation all the way across the garden till I reached the door to the main building of the High Commission. I needed to find a bathroom—use the lavatory, wash my hands, get away from it all for a few minutes and calm myself down before meeting up with Marcus Logan again. I followed the directions that someone gave me: I went down an entrance hall decorated with metopes and portraits of officers in uniform, turned right and went along a broad corridor. Third door on the left, they’d told me. Before I reached it, some voices alerted me to what was going on at my destination; just a few seconds later I saw it with my own eyes. The floor was soaked, water seemed to be gushing from somewhere inside, probably from a burst tank. Two ladies were angrily complaining about the damage it was doing to their shoes, and three soldiers were dragging themselves across the floor on their knees, working away with rags and towels, trying to stem the flow of the water, which was already beginning to invade the tiled corridor. I remained still, watching the scene as reinforcements arrived with arms full of rags—it looked like they’d even brought some bedsheets. The lady guests moved away, complaining and grumbling, then someone offered to escort me to the other bathroom.