The Time in Between: A Novel

by Maria Duenas

  “You’ll have to supply me with some information, then I’ll cable it to my agency in London. From there they’ll get in touch with Christopher Lance, who’s the person controlling the whole operation.”

  “Who is he?” Rosalinda wanted to know.

  “An English engineer; a veteran of the Great War who’s been settled in Madrid for a number of years. Until the uprising he was working for a Spanish firm with British shares, the Ginés Navarro & Sons civil engineering company, with its headquarters in the Paseo del Prado and branches in Valencia and Alicante. His projects with them have included building roads, bridges, a large dam in Soria, a hydroelectric plant near Grenada, and a mooring mast for zeppelins in Seville. When the war broke out, the Navarros disappeared, I don’t know whether by choice or by force. The workers set up a committee and took control of the company. Lance could have left then, but he didn’t.”

  “Why not?” we asked in unison.

  The journalist shrugged as he took a big swallow of wine.

  “It’s good for the pain,” he said by way of excuse, raising his glass to us to indicate its medicinal effects. “To tell you the truth,” he went on, “I don’t know why Lance didn’t return to England, I’ve never been able to get a reason from him that would really justify what he did. Before the war began, the English who were living in Madrid—like almost all the foreigners—weren’t involved in Spanish politics and watched the situation with indifference, even with a certain amount of ironic detachment. They were aware, naturally, of the tensions that existed between the conservatives and the parties on the left, but saw them as just something typical of the country, a part of the national character. Bullfighting, siestas, garlic, oil, and fraternal hatred, all very picturesque, very Spanish. Until everything exploded—and then they saw how serious things were and started rushing to get out of Madrid as quickly as possible. With a few exceptions, such as Lance, who chose to send his wife home and remain in Spain.”

  “Not very sensible,” I ventured.

  “He’s probably a little crazy, yes,” he said, half joking. “But he’s a good sort and he knows what he’s doing; he’s no reckless adventurer, or an opportunist like the ones who spring up all over the place at times like these.”

  “What is it that he does, exactly?” asked Rosalinda.

  “He gives help to people who need it. He gets people out of Madrid when he can, takes them to some Mediterranean port and from there puts them on any kind of British boat: a warship is as useful to him as a packet boat or a lemon freighter.”

  “Does he charge anything?” I wanted to know.

  “No, nothing. He doesn’t make anything from it. There are people turning a profit from things like this—not him.”

  He was going to explain more to us, but at that moment a young soldier in breeches, shining boots, and his cap under his arm approached our table. He gave a martial salute with a look of concentration on his face and handed an envelope to Rosalinda. She took out a folded sheet of paper, read it, and smiled.

  “I’m truly very sorry, you’ll have to excuse me,” she said, hurriedly putting her cigarette case, her gloves, and the note in her handbag. “Something has come up, something unexpected,” she added, then leaned over toward my ear. “Juan Luis has come back from Seville early,” she whispered impulsively.

  Despite his burst eardrum, the journalist probably heard it, too.

  “You keep talking, you can tell me all about it later,” she added loudly. “Sira, querida, I’ll see you soon. And you, Logan, be ready tomorrow, a car will be here to fetch you at one. You’ll have lunch at my house with the high commissioner and then you’ll have the whole afternoon for your interview.”

  Rosalinda was accompanied to the door by the young soldier and countless brazen pairs of eyes. As soon as she had disappeared from view, I encouraged Logan to resume his explanations.

  “If Lance doesn’t make any money from it, and he isn’t moved by political concerns, why does he do this?”

  He shrugged again, a gesture that apologized for his inability to find any reasonable explanation.

  “There are people like that. They’re called pimpernels. Lance is a rather singular individual, a sort of crusader for lost causes. According to him, there’s nothing political about what he’s doing; the concerns that move him are purely humanitarian. Most likely he’d have done the same for Republicans if he’d found himself in the Nationalist zone. Maybe the inclination comes from being the son of a canon of Wells Cathedral—who knows? The fact is, at the moment of the uprising, the ambassador Sir Henry Chilton and most of his staff moved to San Sebastián to spend the summer, and the embassy in Madrid was left in the control of a civil servant who wasn’t up to the job. Lance, as a veteran in the British colony, quite spontaneously took the reins. As you Spaniards say, ‘Without praying to either God or the Devil,’ he opened the embassy as a refuge for British citizens—barely more than three hundred of them at that time, as I’ve heard. In principle none of them were directly involved in politics, but most were conservatives in sympathy with the right, so they sought out diplomatic protection while they waited to find out how events were unfolding. But what happened was that the situation grew beyond what they’d expected—several hundred other people rushed to the embassy for refuge, too. They claimed to have been born in Gibraltar or on an English ship during a crossing, to have relatives in Great Britain, to have done business with the British Chambers of Commerce; any ruse to get themselves under the protection of the Union Jack, our flag.”

  “Why your embassy in particular?”

  “It wasn’t only ours, far from it. Actually, ours was one of the most reluctant to offer refuge. Everyone did almost exactly the same in the early days: they took in their own citizens, and also some Spaniards in need of protection.”

  “And then?”

  “Some legations continued to offer asylum and get involved directly or indirectly in the transfer of refugees. Chile in particular; France, Argentina, and Norway, too. Others, meanwhile, once the first period of uncertainty had ended, refused to carry on. Lance isn’t acting as a representative of the British government, however; everything he does, he does on his own account. As I said, our embassy was one of the ones that refused to continue to be involved in offering asylum and evacuating refugees. And it isn’t that Lance is dedicated to helping the Nationalist side in the abstract, but people who as individuals need to get out of Madrid. For ideological reasons, for family reasons—whatever the reasons. It’s true that he began by installing himself in the embassy and managed somehow to get them to grant him the post of honorary attaché so that he could arrange the evacuation of the British citizens in the early days of the war, but from then on he’s acted at his own risk. When it’s in his interest—usually to impress the militiamen and sentries at the checkpoints on the roads—he waves about all the diplomatic paraphernalia he can get his hands on: the red, white, and blue armband on his sleeve to identify himself, little flags on the car, and a huge safe-conduct covered in stamps and seals from the embassy, from six or seven trade unions, and the War Office, whatever he can get his hands on. He’s a pretty odd sort, this Lance: pleasant, talkative, always showily dressed, with jackets and ties that pain you to look at. Sometimes I think he exaggerates so much just so that no one takes him too seriously and so they don’t suspect him of anything.”

  “How does he transport people to the coast?”

  “I don’t know exactly; he’s reluctant to give away details. At first I think he started off using vehicles from the embassy and vans from his firm, until these were requisitioned. Lately it would seem he’s been using a Scottish ambulance that has been made available to the Republic. And he’s usually accompanied by Margery Hill, a nurse from the Anglo-American hospital—do you know it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s on Calle Juan Montalvo, near the university, almost right at the front. That’s where they first took me when I was injured, then I was moved
for the operation to the hospital they set up in the Palace Hotel.”

  “A hospital at the Palace?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, a field hospital—you didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea. When I left Madrid the Palace was—along with the Ritz—the most luxurious of the hotels in the city.”

  “Well as you can see, it’s now fulfilling other functions. A lot has changed. I was interned there for a few days, till they decided to evacuate me to London. I already knew Lance before I was interned; the British colony in Madrid was already much diminished in those days. Then he came to see me several times at the Palace; part of his self-imposed humanitarian task is also to help his compatriots who’re facing difficulties. Which is how I learned a bit about the evacuation process, but I only know the details that he chose to tell me. Normally the refugees arrive in the hospital of their own account; sometimes they’re kept awhile so that they can pass for patients, till the next convoy is ready. Usually they both go on all the journeys, Lance and Nurse Hill: apparently she’s unique in her ability to handle officials and militiamen at the checkpoints if things go wrong. And they also usually arrange to bring back to Madrid anything they can get off the Royal Navy ships—medicines, medical equipment, soap, canned food . . .”

  “How do they actually make the trip?” I was trying to predict my mother’s journey, to have some idea of what her adventure would consist of.

  “I know they leave early in the morning. Lance is already familiar with all the checkpoints, and there are more than thirty; sometimes it takes them more than twelve hours to make the journey. He has, however, become something of a specialist in the psychology of the militiamen: he gets out of the car, talks to them, calls them his comrades, shows them his impressive safe-conduct, offers them tobacco, shares a joke, and takes his leave with a “Long Live Russia!” or a “Death to the Fascists!”: anything that’ll allow him to get back on his way. The only thing he never does is bribe them: he set himself that principle and as far as I know he’s always kept to it. He’s also extremely scrupulous in following the Republic’s laws—he never disobeys them. And naturally at all times he avoids provoking any incidents that might harm our embassy. Even though he isn’t a diplomat except on an honorary basis, he nonetheless follows the diplomatic code of ethics extremely rigorously.”

  No sooner had he finished his answer than I was ready to fire off the next question, evidence that I’d been an apt pupil in acquiring Commissioner Vázquez’s interrogation techniques.

  “Which port do they take the refugees to?”

  “To Valencia, to Alicante, to Denia—it depends. He studies the situation, designs a plan for the route, and finally, one way or other, arranges to dispatch his cargo.”

  “But have these people got papers? Permits? Safe-conducts?”

  “To get themselves around Spain, yes, usually. To go abroad, probably not. That’s why the operation to get them embarked is usually the most complicated part: Lance needs to outmaneuver checkpoints, get onto the docks and pass unnoticed among sentries, negotiate with the ships’ officers, slip the refugees on board, and hide them in case there’s a search. All this has to be done carefully, without arousing any suspicion. It’s an extremely delicate business; he’s risking ending up in prison. But for now he’s always managed to make it work.”

  We finished our dinner. Logan had struggled to use his cutlery; his left arm wasn’t working a hundred percent. Even so, he’d been thorough in his dealings with the chicken, the large dishes of custard, and several glasses of wine. I, meanwhile, absorbed in listening to him, had barely tasted the sole and hadn’t ordered any dessert.

  “Do you want a coffee?” he asked.

  “Yes—thank you.”

  The truth was that I never drank coffee after dinner except when I needed to stay up working late. But that night I had two good reasons to accept his offer: to prolong the conversation as much as possible, and to stay sharp so as not to miss out on the slightest detail.

  “Tell me about Madrid,” I asked him then. My voice came out muted; perhaps I was already guessing that I wasn’t going to like what I heard.

  He looked at me hard before answering.

  “You don’t know anything about the situation there, do you?”

  I dropped my gaze to the tablecloth and shook my head. Learning the details of my mother’s forthcoming evacuation had relaxed me: I was no longer nervous. In spite of his crushed body, Marcus Logan had managed to calm me with his solid, reassuring presence. The relaxation didn’t bring happiness with it, however, but a heavy sadness about everything I’d heard. For my mother, for Madrid, for my country. Immediately I felt a terrible weakness and tears beginning to spring to my eyes.

  “The city’s in a very bad way, and there are shortages of basic goods. The situation isn’t good, but everyone finds ways to get through it as best they can,” he said, summing up his reply with a handful of vague platitudes. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?” he added.

  “Ask me anything you want,” I replied, my gaze still set on the table. My mother’s future was in his hands—how could I refuse?

  “Look, the arrangements have been made, and I can assure you that they’re going to take care of your mother as they’ve promised me they would; you needn’t worry on that score.” He was talking more quietly, more closely. “But to make it work, however, I’ve had to—let’s say—invent a scenario, and I’m not sure how much it corresponds to reality. I’ve had to say that she’s in a high-risk situation and needs evacuating urgently; I didn’t need to give any more details than that. But I’d like to know how much I was correct and how much I was lying. So if you wouldn’t mind, would you tell me what your mother’s situation really is? Do you think she’s in real danger in Madrid?”

  A waiter arrived with the coffees and we stirred in our sugar, the spoons clinking against the porcelain in a measured rhythm. After a few seconds, I raised my gaze and looked right at him.

  “You want to know the truth? The truth is that I don’t think her life is in danger, but I’m the only thing my mother has in the world, and she’s the only thing I have. We’ve always lived alone, the two of us together struggling to get by: we’re just two working women. But there was a day when I made a mistake, and I let her down. And now the only thing I want is to get her back. You told me before that your friend Lance doesn’t do things for political motivations, that he’s only moved by humanitarian concerns. You decide whether or not reuniting a mother without means with her only daughter is a humanitarian reason—I don’t know.”

  I couldn’t say any more, I knew my tears were about to start pouring out.

  “I have to go, tomorrow I’ve got to be up early, I have a lot of work to do, thank you for the dinner, for everything . . .”

  The phrases tumbled out, my voice hoarse, as I stood and picked up my handbag. I tried not to look up, so as not to let him see the damp streaks running down my cheeks.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, getting up, hiding the pain.

  “There’s no need, thank you: I live very close, just around the corner.”

  I turned and began to walk toward the exit. I’d barely gone a few steps when I felt his hand brush against my elbow.

  “Lucky that you live nearby, that way I won’t have to walk so much. Let’s go.”

  With a gesture he asked the maître d’ to charge the bill to his room, and we left. He didn’t speak to me or try to calm me; he didn’t say a word about what he’d just heard. He simply remained beside me in silence and let me recover my composure. The moment we’d set foot on the street, he stopped dead. Leaning on his walking stick, he looked up at the starry sky and breathed in longingly.

  “Morocco smells good.”

  “There’s the mountain nearby, and the sea, too,” I replied, already somewhat calmer. “I suppose that must be why.”

  We walked slowly; he asked me how long I’d been in the Protectorate, what life was like in such a place. />
  “We’ll meet again, I’ll keep you informed whenever I get any new information,” he said when I indicated that we’d arrived at my door. “And rest assured, you can count on the fact that they’ll be doing whatever they can to help her.”

  “Thank you very much—truly—and sorry about the way I reacted. Sometimes I find it hard to keep myself in check. These aren’t easy times,” I whispered a bit shyly.

  He tried to smile, but only half succeeded.

  “I understand perfectly, don’t worry.”

  This time there were no tears; the worst of it had passed. We just held each other’s gaze, said good night, and I began my walk up the stairs thinking how little this Marcus Logan resembled the threatening opportunist Rosalinda and I had been expecting.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ___________

  Beigbeder and Rosalinda were delighted with the following day’s interview. She told me later that everything had taken place in a relaxed atmosphere, the two men sitting on one of the terraces of the old villa on Paseo de las Palmeras, drinking brandy and soda opposite the Río Martín plain and the slopes of the imposing Ghorgiz, where the Rif Mountains began. At the start, the three of them were all there together: the critical eye of the Englishwoman needed to gauge her compatriot’s level of trustworthiness before leaving him alone with her beloved Juan Luis. Bedouie, the Arab cook, prepared a lamb tajine for them, which was served accompanied by a grand cru burgundy. After the desserts and coffee, Rosalinda retired and the two men settled into wicker chairs to smoke cigars as they immersed themselves in their conversation.

  I learned that it was almost eight in the evening when the journalist returned to the hotel following the interview, that he didn’t have any dinner that night and only asked that some fruit be brought up to his room. I learned that the following morning he headed over to the High Commission as soon as he was done with his breakfast. I also learned which streets he walked down and what time he returned; about all his comings and goings that day, and the following day, and the next as well. I was given detailed information; I discovered what he’d eaten, what he’d drunk, what newspapers he leafed through, and the color of his ties. Work had kept me busy all day, but I was aware of his every move, thanks to the efficient work of a couple of collaborators. Jamila took charge of trailing him the whole day; for a small tip, a young bellhop at the hotel informed me with equal precision what time Logan retired at night; for a little bit extra he even recalled what the journalist had eaten for his dinners, what clothes he had sent to be laundered, and what time he turned out his lights.