by Maria Duenas
After we left the fabric to dry in the sun, we went back down to the apartment and filled the stove with coal until we got it working at full power and the kitchen felt like a boiler room. When we calculated that the afternoon sun was beginning to wane, we went back up to the roof and retrieved the twisted material. We stretched out a new towel on the cast iron of the stove and on top of it placed the still-rolled fabric, circled onto itself. Every ten minutes—without ever stretching it out—we turned it over so that the heat from the coals would dry it evenly. Between trips to the kitchen I constructed a belt consisting of a simple layer of lining with a plain thick band of pressed silk, made from the bit of material that hadn’t been used. At five in the afternoon I recovered the twisted fabric from the iron surface and brought it into the workshop. It was like a hot blood sausage: no one could have imagined what I was expecting to do with it in little over an hour.
I stretched it out over the cutting table, and bit by bit, taking the greatest care, I undid the strange creation. And magically—before my very eyes—the silk emerged, pleated and dazzling, beautiful. We hadn’t managed permanent pleats like those on the genuine Fortuny model because we didn’t have the means and we did not know the technique for it, but we’d been able to obtain a similar effect that would last the night at least: a special night for a woman in need of something spectacular. I unfolded the fabric to its full size and left it to cool. Then I cut it into four pieces with which I constructed a kind of narrow cylindrical sheath that would adapt itself to the body like a second skin. I fashioned a simple round neckline and worked the openings for the arms. Without the time for any ornamental flourishes, the fake Delphos was finished in the allotted time: a rushed, homemade version of a model that had revolutionized haute couture. It was an imitation but one with the potential to have an effect on anyone feasting his eyes on the body displaying it.
I was trying out the effect of the belt when the doorbell rang. It was only then that I realized how pitiful my appearance had become. The sweat from the boiling water had messed up my makeup and my thick hair; the heat, the strain of twisting the material, going up and down the stairs to the roof, and all the nonstop work of the afternoon had left me looking as though the whole cavalry of the Indigenous Regular Forces had just galloped over me. I ran to my room while Jamila went to open the door; I changed clothes at full speed, combed my hair, got myself together. The result of the work had been satisfactory, and I needed at least to look up to scratch.
I went out to meet Rosalinda, expecting to find her waiting for me in the living room, but when I passed the door to the workshop I saw her standing at the mannequin. She had her back to me; I couldn’t make out her face. From the door I asked her simply, “Do you like it?”
She turned at once and didn’t reply. She came nimbly to my side, took my hand, and squeezed it hard.
“Thank you, thank you, un millón de thank-yous.”
She had her hair back in a chignon, her natural waves a little more noticeable than usual. Her eyes and cheekbones were discreetly made up; the lipstick on her mouth, however, was much more spectacular. Her high-heeled sandals raised her almost three inches above her natural height. A couple of shining white-gold earrings, broad and stunning, were her only embellishment, and she wore a delicious-smelling perfume. As soon as she had removed her street wear, I helped her put on the dress. The irregular pleating of the tunic fell, blue, rhythmic, and sensual, down her body, delineating her exquisite bone structure, the delicacy of her limbs, shaping and showing off the outlines and curves, elegant and sumptuous. I adjusted the wide strip around her waist and knotted it at the back. We contemplated the result in the mirror without exchanging a word.
“Don’t move,” I said.
I went out into the hall to call Jamila and have her come in. When she saw Rosalinda in her dress she immediately covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from crying out in astonishment and wonder.
“Turn around so she can see you properly. A lot of the work is hers. I could never have managed it without her.”
The Englishwoman smiled at Jamila gratefully and turned around a couple of times, graceful and stylish. The Moorish girl watched her, flustered, shy, and happy.
“And now, hurry. It’s already ten to eight.”
Jamila and I went out to the balcony to watch her leave, the two of us silent, arm in arm and practically crouching in one corner so as not to be seen from the street. It was almost night. I looked down, expecting to see her little red car again, but in its place was an imposing black automobile with little flags on its hood whose colors—at that distance and with barely any light—I wasn’t able to make out. As soon as the silhouette in bluish silk appeared at the front doorway, the headlamps came on and a uniformed man got out of the passenger seat to quickly open the back door. He remained standing in military pose waiting as she emerged, elegant and majestic, taking short light steps onto the street toward the car. With assurance, as though showing herself off, filled with pride and confidence. I couldn’t tell whether there was anyone else in the back seat. As she settled herself in, the man in uniform closed the door and returned hastily to his place. Then the vehicle started up, powerfully, and quickly made its way off into the night, carrying within it a woman filled with hope and the most fraudulent dress in the whole history of falsified haute couture.
Chapter Nineteen
___________
Things returned to normal the following day. In the middle of the afternoon someone rang the doorbell; this was strange, as I hadn’t arranged any appointments. It was Félix. Without a word he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. His behavior surprised me: he never turned up at my house until well into the night. Once he’d escaped from his mother’s indiscreet stares through the spyhole, he spoke quickly, and teasingly.
“Well now, girl, how well we’ve been doing!”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, surprised.
“Because of the heavenly woman I’ve just passed in the doorway.”
“Rosalinda Fox? She came for a fitting. And this morning she also sent me a bouquet of flowers as a thank-you. She was the one I helped out of that sticky situation yesterday.”
“Don’t tell me the skinny blonde I’ve just seen was the one with the Delphos?”
“That was her.”
It took him a few seconds to savor what he had just heard. Then he went on with just a hint of mockery in his voice.
“My, how very interesting. You’ve been able to solve a problem for a woman who is very special, ever so special.”
“Special in what way?”
“Special, my dear, in that your client is probably the woman with the greatest power to resolve any matter in the Protectorate. Apart from issues relating to sewing, of course, which is what she has you for, the empress of forgery.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Félix.”
“Are you telling me you don’t know who Rosalinda Fox is?”
“An Englishwoman who’s spent most of her life in India and has a five-year-old son.”
“And a lover.”
“A German.”
“You’re cold, cold . . .”
“He’s not German?”
“No, my dear. You’re very wrong, ever so wrong.”
“How do you know?”
He gave an evil smile.
“Because everyone in Tetouan knows it. Her lover is someone else.”
“Who?”
“Someone important.”
“Who?” I said again, tugging at his sleeve, unable to contain my curiosity.
He gave another mischievous smile and covered his mouth theatrically as though wanting to divulge a great secret. He whispered in my ear, slowly.
“Your friend is the beloved of the high commissioner.”
“Commissioner Vázquez?” I asked in disbelief.
He replied to my suggestion first with a laugh and then an explanation.
“No, you lunatic, no�
�Claudio Vázquez just deals with the police, keeping the local delinquents in check, not to mention the brainless troop he has in his command. I very much doubt he has free time for extramarital affairs, or at least not to have a regular little friend he puts in a villa with a pool on the Paseo de las Palmeras. Your client, sweetheart, is the lover of Lieutenant Colonel Juan Luis Beigbeder y Atienza, Spain’s high commissioner in Morocco and governor general of the Spanish enclaves. The most important military and administrative post in the whole Protectorate, to be quite clear.”
“Félix, are you sure?” I murmured.
“Let my mother live to eighty fit as a fiddle if I’m lying to you. No one knows how long they’ve been together, she’s been in Tetouan a little over a month: enough, in any case, for everyone to know who she is and what’s going on between them. He’s been high commissioner, officially named by the government in Burgos since not that long ago, though he’s been acting high commissioner since practically the beginning of the war. They say Franco’s delighted with him because he’s endlessly recruiting warlike Moorish boys for him, to send to the front.”
Not in my most elaborate fantasy could I have imagined Rosalinda Fox as the lover of a lieutenant colonel in the Nationalist faction.
“What’s he like?”
The curiosity in my voice made him laugh again delightedly.
“Beigbeder? You don’t know him? The truth is, he hasn’t been seen as much lately—he must spend most of his time shut away in the High Commission—but in the past when he was undersecretary for Indigenous Affairs you could have seen him out on the street at any time. Back then, of course, he could go about unnoticed: he was just a serious, anonymous officer with barely any social life. He was almost always out on his own and didn’t usually attend the soirées at the Hípica Club, the Hotel Nacional, or the Salón Marfil. And he didn’t spend his whole life playing cards like the laid-back Colonel Sáenz de Buruaga, who on the day of the uprising even gave the first orders from the casino terrace. A discreet sort, Beigbeder, rather solitary even.”
“Attractive?”
“Of course he doesn’t do anything for me, but still he does seem to have his appeal to you people—you’re ever so strange, you women.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Tall, thin, stern looking. Dark, his hair combed back. With round glasses, mustache, something intellectual about him. In spite of his post and the way times are right now, he usually goes about dressed in civvies, with exceptionally boring dark suits.”
“Married?”
“Probably, though it would seem that while he’s been here he’s always lived alone. But it’s not unusual among soldiers that they don’t take their families everywhere they go.”
“Age?”
“Old enough to be her father.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, that’s your problem. If you worked less and went out more, I’m sure you’d run into him sooner or later and then you’d be able to confirm what I’m telling you with your own eyes. He still goes for a walk from time to time, though now he’s always accompanied by a couple of escorts. They say he’s an extremely cultured gentleman who speaks several languages and has lived outside Spain for many years; completely different to begin with from the national heroes we’re used to having in these parts, though of course his position indicates that he is on their side. Perhaps he and your client met abroad somewhere; maybe she’ll explain it to you sometime and then you will tell me. You know how fascinated I am by these romantic affaires. Well, I’ll leave you, girl—I’m taking the witch to the cinema. A double bill: Hermana San Sulpicio and Don Quintin the Bitter; I’ve really got quite an afternoon of glamour awaiting me. With the chaos of this war, we haven’t had a single decent film come over here in nearly a year. How I’d love to see a good American musical. You remember Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Top Hat? ‘I just got an invitation through the mails: “Your presence requested this evening, it’s formal—top hat, white tie, and tails.’ ”
He went out crooning away to himself, and I shut the door behind him. This time it wasn’t his mother watching indiscreetly through the peephole, but me. I observed him, as with that little tune still in his mouth he tinklingly drew his keys from his pocket, found his latchkey, and inserted it into the lock. When he disappeared I went back into the workshop and resumed my work, still struggling to believe what I had just heard. I tried to keep working for a while longer but could feel myself lacking the will. Or the strength. Or both. I remembered the turbulent activity of the previous day and decided to allow myself the rest of the afternoon off. I considered copying Félix and his mother and going to the cinema, since I deserved a bit of distraction. With that in mind I left the house, but inexplicably my steps took me in a different direction, leading me to the Plaza de España instead.
I was met by the beds of flowers and the palm trees, the colored pebbles on the ground and the white buildings surrounding the square. The stone benches, as on any other afternoon, were filled with couples and groups of girls. A pleasant smell of savories was wafting from the little cafés nearby. I crossed the square toward the High Commission, which I’d seen so many times since my arrival and which had aroused so little curiosity in me before now. Very close to the caliph’s palace, the large white colonial-style building surrounded by leafy gardens housed the main seat of the Spanish administration. Through the vegetation it was possible to make out the two main stories and a third shorter one, the turrets at the corners, the green shutters and the orange tiles that finished it off. Imposing-looking Arab soldiers, stoic under their turbans and broad cloaks, stood guard at the large iron gate. Imperious high-ranking officers of the Spanish army in Africa wearing chickpea-colored uniforms went in and out of a small side door, looking impeccable in their breeches and well-shined boots. There were also native soldiers swarming around, moving from one side to the other, with European-style military jackets, wide trousers, and some kind of brownish bands around their calves. The bicolor national flag was waving against a blue sky that already seemed to announce the arrival of summer. I stood there watching that incessant movement of men in uniform until I noticed how many stares my immobility was attracting. Flustered and uncomfortable, I turned and went back to the square. What was I looking for outside the High Commission, what was I expecting to find, why had I gone there? No reason, probably; at least, no concrete reason except to get a closer look at the habitat of my client’s unexpected lover.
Chapter Twenty
___________
Spring was turning to a gentle summer of luminous nights, and I went on sharing my earnings from the workshop with Candelaria. The bundle of pounds sterling at the bottom of the chest grew till it was almost large enough to pay the amount due; there wasn’t long to go before the deadline for me to repay the debt to the Continental. I took comfort in knowing that I’d be able to do it, that I would at last be able to buy my freedom. As ever, news of the war continued to come in on the radio and in the press. General Mola died, the battle of Brunete began. Félix continued his nighttime forays, and Jamila remained always by my side, developing her sweet, strange Spanish, starting to help me out with a few small jobs: a loose piece of tacking, a button, a fastening. There was almost nothing to interrupt the monotony of the days in the workshop, only the sounds of domestic chores and snatches of distant conversations in the neighboring apartments that drifted in through the open windows of the building’s central courtyard. That, and the constant commotion of the children upstairs who were already on holiday from school, going out to play on the road, sometimes en masse, sometimes one at a time. None of those noises bothered me. Quite the contrary: they kept me company, they managed to make me feel less alone.
One afternoon in mid-July, however, the noises and voices were louder, the running more hurried.
“They’ve arrived, they’ve arrived!” Then more voices, shouts and slamming of doors, names repeated between loud sobs: Concha, Concha! Carmela—my
sister! Esperanza, at last, at last!